Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler)

by Margolin, Phillip

  “If you do not know about the Ottoman Empire, can I assume you’ve never heard of Gennadius or Mark of Ephesus?”

  “You got me,” Dana said before eating a slice of prosciutto.

  “In 1444, the court of Byzantium was desperate for Western assistance against the Turks and it agreed to a union with Rome, yielding on almost all of the important theological issues that divided the East and the West. For example, the unionists agreed to accept the concept of purgatory, which they had previously rejected.”

  “Where is this going, Ms. Laurent?” asked Dana, whose patience was starting to fade.

  “Bear with me. You need to understand the backstory before you can understand why I need your help.”

  Dana shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

  “Mark of Ephesus was concerned about the preservation of the Eastern Orthodox Church. He was the only bishop who refused to sign the union, and he spoke for the average Orthodox churchgoers who gathered around him. George Scholarius was a judge who made several speeches in favor of the union. When he returned to Byzantium, he saw how the lesser clergy and the common people opposed what they saw as the betrayal of their beliefs. He changed his mind and became a strong opponent of the union. When Mark died, on June 23, 1444, George became the leader of the anti-union camp. This brought him into disfavor with the court and he retired to a monastery and took the name Gennadius.

  “In 1453, at the age of twenty-one, Sultan Mehmet II conquered Constantinople and cemented the status of the empire as the preeminent power in southeastern Europe. Mehmet wanted to assure the loyalty of the Greek population so they would not appeal to the West for liberation, which could have set off a new round of Crusades. He needed to find the cleric with the most hostility toward the West to help him cement the loyalty of the Greek populace. Gennadius was the natural choice.

  “After Mehmet took Constantinople, Gennadius was captured by the Turks and sold as a slave. Mehmet’s men found Gennadius in Adrianople and brought him to the sultan on a beautiful horse from the imperial stable adorned with a silver saddle. The sultan received him in his suite while standing. The sultan rarely stood when receiving visitors, so this was a very rare display of respect.

  “Mehmet persuaded Gennadius to be the first Patriarch of Constantinople under Islamic rule and personally gave him a gold, bejeweled scepter as the symbol of his authority. This scepter was immensely valuable, but it was only one of thousands of treasures belonging to the Ottoman sultans. No mention was made of it after Mehmet passed the Byzantine emperor’s symbol of power to the patriarch.”

  Dana was suddenly drawn into Laurent’s tale and forgot about eating. Typically, her meetings with clients were laced with phrases like “cheating bastard” and “malingerer.” Dana couldn’t remember any insurance executive mentioning a silver saddle or a jewel-encrusted golden scepter.

  “My grandfather, Antoine Girard, was a fascinating man,” Laurent said, changing the subject abruptly. “He studied archaeology and history at the Sorbonne and Oxford. He was a soldier of fortune and was involved in a number of famous archaeological digs. In 1922, Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon found the tomb of Tutankhamen in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt.”

  “King Tut’s tomb?” asked Dana.

  “Exactement. Antoine had a very minor role in the expedition, but he was there when the tomb was opened. Then he and Carter argued. My grandfather never revealed the basis of the dispute, but my father thought they might have fought over a woman both men had been seeing in Cairo, because that is where Antoine went after quitting the dig, and that is where he made his startling discovery.”

  The door opened and Victor came in with Dana’s pasta. Laurent fell silent, and Dana, who had lost interest in her food, regretted the intrusion.

  “What discovery?” Dana asked as soon as the door closed behind Victor.

  “Antoine found the Ottoman scepter. An open-air market place in North Africa or the Middle East is called a souk, and the largest souk in Cairo is the Khan-el-Khalili. Have you been to Egypt, Miss Cutler?”

  Dana shook her head. Her only trips outside the U.S. of A. had been chaperoning Jake when he was photographing swimsuit models in Tahiti and a disastrous week with a fellow cop in Acapulco.

  “A pity. Cairo is fascinating, and the Khan-el-Khalili is one of its more exotic attractions. It is a winding maze packed tight with people, restaurants, coffeehouses, and shops selling all sorts of wares. On one of his trips to the souk, Antoine ventured into a shop that purported to sell Egyptian antiquities. Most of them were obvious fakes, but Antoine’s eye fell on an interesting item on a shelf in the back of the store. It was a jet-black scepter with no jewels, but there were indentations where jewels might have been at one time. More important, it resembled a gold scepter adorned with jewels Antoine had seen in a museum in Constantinople. Antoine suspected that the scepter was a copy, but something about it fascinated him. He bought it, along with several other items so the owner would not suspect his interest. When he got back to his hotel, he made a startling discovery.”

  “It was the real deal?” Dana guessed.

  Laurent nodded. “Underneath several layers of black paint was solid gold. But the scepter’s real value had nothing to do with gold. If Antoine had found the scepter that Mehmet gave to Gennadius, it would be priceless. Antoine spent ten years researching the scepter’s provenance and eventually came to the conclusion that it was, as you so charmingly put it, ‘the real deal.’ ”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “During a sojourn in Paris, Antoine married my grandmother, Marie Levêque. Marie was wealthy and had homes in Paris and Bordeaux. They lived together long enough for Antoine to father Pauline Girard, my mother. My family had a collection of letters Antoine wrote to Marie while he was in Turkey. In one of them, he says that he has uncovered documents that convinced him that the scepter was real.

  “Shortly after she received the letter, Marie got word from the French embassy in Constantinople that Antoine had been murdered. Shortly after that, burglars ransacked her villa in Bordeaux, and an attempt was made to break into her home in Paris. Fortunately, the scepter was hidden in a safe in the basement of the Paris mansion.

  “When Hitler came to power, Marie moved to America, where she had relatives. Eventually, Pauline married my father, Pierre Laurent, another wealthy émigré. Marie was highly intelligent and had many well-placed friends in the government. She anticipated Hitler’s invasion and the weakness of the French army and shipped a great deal of art to America before hostilities broke out. One object she included in her cargo was the scepter.

  “While she was living in New York her mansion was burglarized on more than one occasion despite her having alarm systems installed and security guards posted. She could never prove it, but she suspected that the scepter was the object of these home invasions. Then, during a vacation in Europe after the war, Marie was kidnapped and murdered. Another burglary occurred soon after, and an inside job was suspected. Marie had told my mother the history of the scepter and where it was hidden. When she went to the place where Marie had hidden it, the scepter was gone.

  “When I was growing up, I heard many stories about Antoine’s adventures, and the scepter was often mentioned. When I was a teenager, my mother showed me the letters that Antoine had written to Marie. I became fascinated with the scepter and the Ottoman Empire. I majored in history in college and made several attempts to track down the scepter. All of them were unsuccessful.

  “Then I read that a Turkish businessman who had been hard hit by the recession was auctioning off his art collection. Among the items in the catalog was a gold scepter. The picture reminded me of my mother’s description. I traveled to New York for the auction and confronted the head of the house. I showed him my proof that the scepter was stolen property but it wasn’t strong enough and he said the present owner was willing to risk a lawsuit.

  “I hired an attorney but he told me that the scepter had been withdrawn fr
om the auction. Soon after I heard rumors of a private sale. I also learned that Otto Pickering, a professor specializing in art of the Ottoman Empire, had authenticated the scepter. And that is where my trail ran cold.”

  “Did you talk to Pickering?”

  “Despite repeated attempts to set up a meeting, he has refused to see me.”

  “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “I am terrified that the scepter will disappear for good if I do not act quickly. Otto Pickering is a recluse. He lives on an island off the coast of Washington State.”

  Laurent placed the attaché case on the table and opened it. Inside were stacks of cash, a cell phone, and an airline ticket.

  “I have purchased a first-class ticket on a flight to Seattle that leaves at midnight, and I have chartered a boat to take you to the island. Can you leave tonight?”

  “That’s awfully short notice.”

  “Miss Cutler, if we do not act immediately the scepter may disappear forever. The twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer in this attaché case should compensate you for any inconvenience you might suffer.”

  Dana ran through the projects she had on her desk. Most of them would keep. More important, none of them involved Constantinople, French soldiers of fortune, the Khan-el-Khalili in Cairo, and a mysterious golden scepter. It was no contest.

  “I’ll be on the plane,” Dana said.

  Laurent’s shoulders had been hunched from tension and she’d been holding her breath. Now she exhaled and her shoulders sagged.

  “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “How do you want me to report to you?”

  “My number is programmed into the cell phone in the attaché case.”

  Dana stood up. “I’m going home to pack. I’ll give you an update as soon as I talk to Otto Pickering.”

  Chapter Five

  A torrential downpour pummeled the roof of the pilothouse of Emilio Leone’s fishing boat. Violent waves smashed into its hull, and Dana Cutler’s fingers gripped a handhold tightly as she fought to keep down the light meal she’d eaten for breakfast. Earlier on Friday morning, Dana had driven to a dockside café in a seaside town thirty miles north of Seattle. When she walked into the restaurant, Captain Leone was working on a cup of black coffee. He was bundled up in a pea jacket and knit cap. A thick black beard concealed a lot of his face, and a black patch covered his right eye. Dana thought he would have been perfectly at home on a pirate ship. Leone was not enthusiastic about sailing in a storm, but Margo Laurent’s money had changed his mind, if not his surly attitude. The captain spoke only when necessary, and then he communicated in terse sentences or angry grunts.

  Another wave crashed across the bow and the boat fell fast and hard into a trough before miraculously rising. Dana had seen the wave coming and had braced for the shock. It was freezing cold in the pilothouse but a heavy jacket and the wool cap that fit snuggly over her ears helped some. She bent forward and squinted through the sheets of rain that dashed against the window. Outside, massive waves crashed against black rocks that jutted like dinosaur teeth out of the unforgiving sea.

  The captain saw where she was looking. “That’s the island, Isla de Muerta.”

  “The Island of Death?”

  “If a ship busts up on those rocks and a sailor is thrown into these waters, he’s done.”

  Dana shivered as she imagined how it would feel to drown in the freezing, turbulent water.

  Rain and heavy clouds obscured Dana’s view, but the captain did not seem troubled by the lack of visibility. Seconds after Leone guided the boat through a break in the rocks the mist parted and Dana saw boats straining against their anchors as the wind and waves flung them about like toys. Leone steered the boat into a small harbor and secured it to a gray, weathered dock. Dana slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and got off quickly, grateful to be standing on solid ground.

  “I’m staying at the Stanton B&B,” she said. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Walk a quarter mile down the road,” the captain answered, pointing due north. “There’s a sign out front.”

  “How do I get in touch when I need to get back to the mainland?”

  “The Stantons got my number,” Leone said. Then he turned his back on Dana and trudged up the dock.

  Dana followed and found herself on a short main street where the buildings all had a nautical theme. Peeling, sea-blue paint covered most of the stores. Anchors and wooden seagulls were a common decoration. Dana passed a shop that sold bait and other fishing supplies, and a small grocery store. Ahead of her, the captain disappeared into the Safe Harbor Café, which advertised breakfast all day and a halibut special for dinner.

  The rain was hard and cold and Dana walked fast, head down, shoulders hunched, speeding by a store that sold new and used books, an art gallery that displayed seascapes, a clothing store filled with foul-weather gear, and an antique store with brass sextants and an anchor chain in its front window. There were a few people in the café and grocery store but Dana didn’t see any customers in the other shops. She guessed that the townspeople made their nut during the summer and scraped by the rest of the year.

  The B&B was a three-story yellow house with white trim that had been worked hard by the salt air. It was surrounded by a faded white picket fence grimed with moss. The inn had a front porch that wound around the side facing the sea. Dana imagined that the view would be great when the sun was shining. At the moment, she appreciated the shelter from the storm provided by the overhang.

  Moments after she rang the doorbell, a short, plump woman with snowy white hair let her in.

  “You must be Miss Cutler,” she said, smiling broadly.

  “How did you know?”

  The woman laughed. “There was no trick to it. You’re our only guest.”

  Dana smiled. “I guess the island doesn’t get too many tourists this time of year.”

  “Or any other,” the woman answered solemnly. “We’re off the beaten track, so to speak. I’m Mabel Stanton. Let me show you to your room so you can get out of those wet clothes.”

  “I’m here on business,” Dana said as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “I’ll need a car. Is there someplace I can rent one?”

  “Miss Laurent asked about a car when she rented the room for you. You can use one of our cars. It’s all paid for.”

  “Great. Can you tell me where Otto Pickering lives?”

  “Other side of the island, but I don’t know if he’ll talk to you. The professor keeps to himself and I hear he doesn’t like visitors.”

  “I won’t know if he’ll talk to me until I ask him. Can you show me how to get to Professor Pickering’s house?”

  “That’s easy enough. It’s off the main road but you won’t have any trouble finding it. I already drew you a map. Will you be wanting something to eat before you go?”

  Dana realized that she was starving. “That would be great.”

  “I’ve got beef stew, or I can fix you a sandwich.”

  “The stew sounds terrific. And a cup of hot coffee would be deeply appreciated.”

  “I’ll have it waiting for you when you come down,” Mabel said as she opened a door to a spacious room with a view of the sea.

  “There’s fresh towels in the bathroom. Here’s your key. Anything else you need, tell me when you come downstairs.”

  Dana tossed her duffel bag on the bed and stripped off her clothes. She’d take a fast, scalding-hot shower, eat a hearty meal, then drive to the far side of Isla de Muerta to visit Otto Pickering. Her plan sounded simple enough.

  Chapter Six

  Dana could hear rain rattling against the B&B’s windows while she devoured her lunch. She hoped that the downpour would let up by the time she drove to Pickering’s house but she was out of luck. If anything, the rain seemed more violent.

  The main road was two lanes and it circled Isla de Muerta. The trees on the windward side were sparse, stunted, and bent away from the rocky shore. On th
e other side of the road, lightning strikes cast a flickering light over a dense evergreen forest. According to Mabel’s map, Pickering’s house was fifteen miles from the inn and two miles past the intersection of the main road and another road that bisected Isla de Muerta. Dana drove slowly and crossed the island’s other artery twenty minutes after she started. Two miles farther on, Dana turned onto a narrow dirt track that led inland through thick woods. A heavy canopy shielded Dana’s car from a good deal of the rain but it also made the way darker and created an impression that the trees were closing in on her. It took a lot to frighten Dana, but the closeness of the primordial woods made her very uncomfortable.

  Without warning, Pickering’s house appeared. It was old, large, and ungainly and painted a dull brown to blend in with the forest that surrounded it. The central portion was two stories, and it looked as if additions had been slapped on without any rhyme or reason. Some were one story, others two. There was even a three-story tower on the side with the best view of the sea. None of the property looked kept up; the yard was wild and the house was badly in need of a paint job.

  Dana parked and ran under an overhang. There was no bell but a heavy brass lion-head knocker was nailed to the middle of the front door. Dana pulled it back and slammed it forward, hoping that the clang of metal on metal would penetrate the thick oak door and the din created by the storm. She waited a minute, then used the knocker twice more. She was about to try again when she heard a voice yell, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” A minute later, the door creaked open and Dana found herself facing an elderly, balding man with liver-spotted skin. He was stooped with age and clad in a white shirt, a blue polka-dot bow tie, a brown tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and loose-fitting green slacks that did not match his jacket. The pants were held up by suspenders.

  “No solicitors,” Otto Pickering said brusquely.

  “I’m not selling anything, Professor.”

  “Then why are you here?”