by Tom Wilde
Mr. Jonas looked more suspicious than relieved. “Indeed? How soon can Mr. Blake be ready to leave for France?”
Never was looking pretty good, but I said instead, “Whenever. I’ll need a few things first.”
Caitlin appeared to have anticipated my acquiescence, as she reached into an open portfolio briefcase next to her and handed me a large, sealed manila envelope. “Here are certified copies of the Napoleonic eagle’s statement of provenance along with the most recent set of photographs.” She smiled as she asked innocently, “Was this all you were going to need?”
I walked around the table and took the envelope from her. “Yeah, pretty much.”
Mr. Jonas checked his watch. “There’s an Air France flight out tonight at 2050 hours. My people will make the arrangements.”
I wondered if by “arrangements” Mr. Jonas was including potential funerals as I checked my own watch and saw that it was approaching 3:00 P.M., leaving over seven hours until the flight. Mr. Singh said, “We will have Blake there in plenty of time.”
“Whoa, hold it,” I interrupted, not caring for the way I was being discussed like I was a commodity. “I’ve still got some questions. Lots of them, in fact.”
Mr. Jonas rose from his chair, leaning on his cane. I caught a glimpse of the gold ring he wore, shaped like a serpent with its tail in its mouth, and wondered what that ominous symbol meant to him as he said, “No doubt, Mr. Blake, but do not concern yourself. We will arrange a briefing for you before your flight. Where can we find you later today?”
“I’m staying at the Algonquin.”
Caitlin closed up the armored briefcase as Jonas said, “Good. Go there directly and we will be in touch as soon as we can.”
Mr. Jonas turned to leave the room as if we had all just ceased to exist to him. I did my best not to act awkward with my newly acquired wife. She, on the other hand, said her farewell with a smile as unfathomable as the Mona Lisa’s. Jonas stopped just shy of the door, then turned to me and said, “Just out of curiosity, Mr. Blake, how did you manage to get that scroll out of Afghanistan?”
“Oh, that was no problem. Once I got to Kabul, I just packaged it up and mailed it home. It was just old birch bark, so there was nothing to trip any security scans.”
Mr. Jonas smiled at me. The effect wasn’t pleasant and left me feeling like I was some sort of acquisition that he got at a bargain rate. Then Jonas and Caitlin left the room. I could hear the ghost of a laugh trailing him down the hall, a sound like a rusty blade drawn across a rough stone.
When the company had gone, I was finally able to vent my feelings. “What the hell, Nick? Since when do we volunteer to help the government? We don’t even pay taxes.”
Nick sat back down with a sigh and said to Mr. Singh, “What’s the current status of the reward money on the Gardner Museum heist?”
Mr. Singh produced his computer pad and entered some data, then said, “Five million dollars for the recovery of the entire collection, payment for partial recovery will be based on the value of individual items recovered. Actual value of the collection is estimated to be worth three hundred million American dollars.”
“There you go, Blake,” Nick said. “We got millions of reasons to be helpful.”
“Ah. I see,” I said. “You’re thinking that if we can find one piece, then we might get a line on the rest?”
“Oh, yeah,” Nick agreed happily. “Rembrandts, Degas, and Vermeers, oh my. And I get dibs on the Chinese bronze.”
By the unwritten law of the Argo Foundation, I get ten percent of the value of all my recoveries, and half a million bucks made a lot of my hesitation evaporate. Along with that was the certain knowledge that whatever I was able to find and bring back for Nick Riley would be one more piece rescued from the dustbin of history. We may be thieves, but at least our crimes lead to an honorable end.
During my musing, I’d turned and faced out the window toward Central Park. Spring was in evidence, but my eyes were drawn toward the monolithic majesty of the misnamed ancient obelisk of Cleopatra’s Needle, dragged here across the Atlantic from Alexandria, Egypt, over a hundred years ago. It was once one of a pair of guardian edifices erected by Tuthmosis the Third in Heliopolis. But in the late 1800s, a greedy Egyptian ruler broke up the family of twins, letting one go to America and her sister to London, all in an effort to curry international political favor. To me, she always looks somewhat sad and forlorn, all alone and far from home. And after the Herculean effort it took to bring her here, we just leave her outside in the cold like some gigantic forgotten toy.
Mr. Singh brought me back to the present by saying, “You had best go and prepare. Doubtless you will want time to ingest some of those poisons you are so fond of.”
Nicholas added, “Three things, Blake: One, after you verify that bronze bird for our newfound friends, find out whatever you can on the rest of the art collection. Two, you need to keep all your little special skills under wraps. It wouldn’t do for the government to know that I train my people better than they do.”
“What if there’s trouble?”
“Run like hell,” Nick said simply. “Or better yet, let that good-looking bodyguard they’re sending you with guard your body.”
“And the third thing?”
“Enjoy your honeymoon!” Nicholas roared. He was still laughing as I left the Rose Room and headed for the elevator to the first floor. I resisted the impulse to detour from the Great Hall for a quick visit to either the Greeks and Romans to my right or the Egyptians to my left, and instead walked through the usual gaggle of tourists and art students to go outside. The weather was nice, and I decided to walk the couple of miles to my hotel. I joined the herd on Fifth Avenue and marched down toward Times Square.
The exercise did me good and allowed me to work off a gnawing feeling of aggression that had been building up inside me, a reaction to being railroaded into my current situation. I was in the perfect mood to be mugged, but no one obliged me in the broad daylight. I was feeling slightly less homicidal by the time I got to the Algonquin, the closest thing I have to a regular address. I love the old hotel, with its rich turn-of-the-last-century décor. And here I never have to drink alone, for when all else fails, I can always hoist one with the ghost of Dorothy Parker.
I went to my room for a quick shower and change of shirt, repacked my battered old Samsonite suitcase for travel, then took it and the packet Caitlin gave me down to the lounge, where I picked up an eighteen-year-old Scotch and found a table away from a group of tourists who were loudly discussing at great length what musical show they should see tonight. I took a bracing sip of my drink and opened the envelope, sliding the contents onto the table.
After reviewing the purported history of the bronze eagle, I could see where this was the one item that was different from all the rest of the stolen art. Based on everything I read, the thing just wasn’t worth very much. The real value of most artifacts lies in the ability to prove that they were somehow connected to famous deceased persons. The documentation on the history of the eagle was spotty, to say the least. Produced in the year 1813, it was an icon of Napoleon’s second coming after escaping from Elba Island, that brief span known as the Hundred Days. This particular eagle was known as a Cent-Jours model, cast in gilt bronze to replace those destroyed during the First Restoration. The eagle was designed to resemble the standard of Imperial Rome, with its beak in profile and wings spread and arched, clutching the thunderbolt of the god Jupiter in its claw. All throughout history, various empires adopted the symbol of the eagle for their standard, the Nazis being just one of many. But to be fair, it should be remembered that Benjamin Franklin was in favor of having the turkey selected to be the national bird of the American Colonies.
Among the documents in the package was information regarding the museum robbery itself. I had just read the part that explained how the thieves simply slashed most of the paintings out of their frames, leaving ragged remnants of precious canvas behind, when I became a
ware that I was being watched. I looked up and saw Caitlin Street staring at me from across the lobby.
She’d changed into a light gray, comfortable-looking jogging suit and had her dark gold hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her delicate face was composed into a serious mask as she walked toward me from the concierge desk. I rose to meet her. “Hello,” I said.
“That’s quite a face you were making,” she replied. “What were you thinking just now?”
In fact, I had just resolved that should I meet with the men who committed such barbarous atrocities against the art world, I was going to deprive them of the use of their hands. I attempted to throw Caitlin off the subject by indicating the burgundy T-shirt she wore, which displayed the seal of a well-known university. “Harvard?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Had I known ahead of time, I would have worn my Miskatonic University shirt.”
“Miskatonic? Wasn’t that an H. P. Lovecraft invention? What are you drinking?”
Her familiarity with my arcane university reference made my estimation of her intelligence take an upswing. “Glenfiddich. May I offer you one? Or would you prefer a vodka martini, shaken or stirred or something?”
“Martini, with a twist, as long as it comes with dinner. That would be lovely.”
It was early enough that we were able to get a small table in the Oak Room. I ordered a grilled fillet of beef, having learned in my business to eat well when I could, and she decided on fettuccini with wild mushroom ragout along with the martini.
Caitlin looked around the gorgeous old Oak Room, the site of the historic Round Table’s fetes, with an appreciative eye, taking in the dark wood paneling and stained glass. “Hard to see how you can afford this on your salary,” she mentioned causally.
“I have an Argo Foundation expense account. But don’t think that entitles you to the really expensive martini.”
“Oh? Which martini is that?”
“Specialty of the house. They take an actual diamond and put it in the glass. It goes for around ten thousand bucks.”
“What a lovely wedding present that would make.”
“Did I mention company expense account?”
She gave me her mysterious smile. “Oh, dear. I seem to have married another cheapskate.”
“Another? You’ve been married before?”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “I’m a widow.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Yes. It was rather sudden.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t buy me the martini I wanted.”
The waiter intervened with the salads, and when he left I asked, “So while we’re on the subject of dead husbands, just what else do you know about me?”
“Not much,” Caitlin replied. “From your tax returns we saw that you list the Argo Foundation’s office as your home address, and that appears to be the only job you’ve ever had. What did you do before you joined the foundation?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Went off in search of myself.”
“And did you? Find yourself?”
“Sure. Turns out I was playing poker in Atlantic City. That’s when I decided I needed a job. Seems I can’t play cards worth a damn.” I needed to get Caitlin off the subject of my past, especially since it was all a fabrication, but I couldn’t help but ask, “So, what else did you discover about me?”
“Only that you have no living relatives, and that you’ve never been married. Until now, of course.”
“Okay, now it’s your turn,” I said. “What’s with your Mr. Jonas? I swear I’ve seen younger-looking mummies.”
“Now, that’s not a kind thing to say about Grandfather.”
“Grandfather?” Grandfather of Assassins, maybe, I thought.
“Yes. Although around my department, there’s a rumor that he used to be presidential advisor to Roosevelt. Both of them.”
I laughed. “You never said which department you work for.”
“That’s true,” she said agreeably. “By the way, this will be our last opportunity to speak openly. The moment we leave here, we’ve got to act our parts and stay in character until this is all over with.”
“So we’re to act as a married couple?”
“Within reason,” she said slyly.
“Last chance for questions, eh? So, is your name really Caitlin Street?”
“Not anymore,” she said blithely. “It’s Mrs. Caitlin Blake now. Says so right on my passport. That reminds me.” She retrieved her purse, and after a moment of perusing inside she said, “Give me your left hand.”
I did. That’s when she slipped a platinum-colored ring on my finger. “There,” she said. “Now you look like a married man.”
“Did I suddenly develop a trapped-animal look?” I asked as I stared at the matrimonial band that felt locked on my finger.
“Not like the look you had when I came in tonight. What were you thinking about then?”
The woman’s curiosity was unshakable. I settled on giving her a different truth. “This whole museum robbery doesn’t make sense,” I complained. “The thieves made quite a haul, but they missed stealing the very valuable Rape of Europa by Titian, and instead took the time and trouble to steal this relatively worthless bronze bird. I thought I spotted a pattern to the whole thing, but my theory falls apart.”
“What pattern?”
“Mythology,” I explained. “The name ‘Children of Cronos’ refers to ancient Greek world creation myth. Zeus, or Jupiter if you prefer, was the primary child of Cronos, and the eagle was one of his symbols. His throne in Olympus was supposed to be a giant eagle. Which ties in with the bronze eagle Napoleon Bonaparte adopted for his battle standard, right down to the ‘thunderbolt of Jupiter’ the eagle holds in its claws.”
“So where does this pattern break down?”
“Right at the Titian painting I mentioned. It depicts the god Zeus, uh, ‘plighting his troth’ with a mortal woman. So if a fascination with all things Zeus was the motive, then why would that painting be left behind in favor of some old bronze bird? What are you smiling about?”
“I was just thinking that this could be like the ‘Maltese Falcon’.”
“Oh, that old thing. Forget it; we found that ages ago. Nick Riley uses it for a paperweight.”
I finally made her laugh, a lovely sound. “I almost hate to tell you,” she said, “but it was actually mythology that led our department to you.”
“How’s that?”
“We ran a deep computer scan on the Children of Cronos. The computer made a connection with the Argo Foundation, based on the Argonaut myth. And that cross-checked with your file and the information Mr. Mohammad gave us about you, and so now here we are, happily married. So you think you can identify the real bronze eagle when you see it?” she asked.
“Probably. The photographs show enough distinctive nicks and scratches, and it helps that all the bronze eagles were individually numbered with their military unit designations. Our bird happens to be Number One, for the emperor’s First Brigade. Problem is, this thing in France could easily be a forgery.”
“Forgery?”
“Sure. Art forgery is the world’s third oldest profession. I’ve got a friend of mine over in Hong Kong who could knock out a perfect copy of this thing. At a discount.”
Caitlin narrowed her eyes and said in a quiet, serious tone, “Then let’s make this simple for you. As long as whoever Vanya sends to collect the bronze thinks it’s genuine, then a charge of attempting to buy stolen artwork can still apply.”
“Even if it’s a fake? That hardly sounds fair.”
“We’re dealing with much bigger issues. Like the possibility of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of fanatics.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I said dryly.
“Good. You know, I was a little worried about you at first.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid you’d actually turn out to be some kind of tomb-ro
bbing crook. It’s nice to see that you’re really a professional antiquarian. I also see you have a real passion for your work. But frankly, you don’t look at all like an antiques kind of guy.”
“Oh? Then what do I look like?”
“A pirate.”
I flatly refuse to believe in things like psychic abilities, but this woman was starting to shake my lack of faith.
Over dinner, we discussed and created our fictitious past together. Turns out we met at the Metropolitan Museum, fell in love, and had a mostly long-distance relationship, since I was out of the country so often. Caitlin then brought our tale of romance to a sad turn. “And here is where the love of a good woman drove you to a life of crime,” she said.
“It did?”
“Oh, yes, definitely. You were contacted by Marcel Troyon, who has offered you ten thousand dollars under the table to come to Paris and authenticate a piece of stolen artwork. You’ve agreed because you love your wife and feel we need the money. Either that, or you wanted to buy me a really expensive martini.”
“Wow. What a nice guy I am. What do we know about this Troyon character?”
“He’s an art thief and fence. He also doesn’t mind making money from informing on other crooks, as long as he doesn’t get caught at it. He’ll be acting as the middleman in this deal. My people are arranging the time for the meeting after we get to Paris. One last thing,” Caitlin said seriously. “This could turn out to be dangerous. But no matter what happens, stick to the cover story and leave everything else to me.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“My job is to try to identify the people who want to buy the eagle, and hopefully use that information to tie all this in to Phillip Vanya. It’s also my responsibility to keep you as safe as possible.”
“Thanks.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said with a smile. “It’s what any good wife would do. Your part is simple, really. We’ll meet with the buyers at Marcel Troyon’s apartment in Paris, you authenticate the bronze eagle as the one from the museum robbery, and then just leave the rest to me.”