Caught

by Kristin Hardy

  But when he brought the connections page back up, the network didn’t show.

  “What’s happened to it?”

  “Who knows? A glitch maybe. Or maybe the server or the broadcast unit has been turned off altogether.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s twelve-thirty. Maybe whoever was working this weekend has gone home.”

  “So that’s it? It’s just gone? Check again,” she demanded. “It could have come back.”

  It hadn’t, though, nor had it five minutes later. Or ten. Or fifteen.

  “We can keep checking,” Alex said, “but we might as well give it up for now.” He gave her a level look. “We can’t get out.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Julia fumed, staring at the screen as though the power of vision would make the network reappear. Then she blinked and leaned forward. “Huh. Well, that’s weird.”

  Alex followed her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  “The e-mail messages that came in while we were connected. The top one, the one from Egypt. It’s…” She frowned at the preview pane.

  “Full sentences, Julia. Help me out here.”

  “Oh. Never mind,” she said dismissively. “It’s just spam. I got confused for a second—his e-mail looks different from mine. The message is from sphinxnet, and there’s an antiquities dealer in Cairo who’s known as ‘the Sphinx.’”

  “So?”

  “He’s reputed to have a somewhat…flexible code of ethics.”

  “Meaning he deals in stolen goods?”

  “Meaning he deals in anything at all if the price is right.”

  Alex flicked a glance at the screen. “Well, considering the subject line is Hot and Horny Teens, I’m thinking you’re right about the spam. Unless they’re talking about museum-quality implants.”

  “You’re a regular laugh riot.”

  “Well, speaking of spam, we came in here looking for food. Let’s find some.”

  “We should really shut down his computer, Alex, or at least close down his e-mail.”

  “Conscience getting you?”

  “It’s private. How would you like someone reading your messages? You should close it down.”

  “No way. If that network comes back up, I don’t want to miss it. I’ll turn up the volume nice and loud.” He fiddled with some menus and suddenly the computer emitted the loud ring of an old-fashioned telephone. “There. That’s what we’ll hear anytime a new message comes in. You hear that ring, get that delicious fanny of yours in here because it means we’re back online. Now, about that food…”

  ALLARD WALKED ALONG the low stone wall of Battery Park, looking out at the Hudson River beyond. He stared at the cell phone in his hand. Secure, they’d assured him, an automatic link to the man he was working for. He’d tried without success to get it to display the number it was calling, but then it was unlikely that whatever number it was calling was in any way traceable to his very elusive client.

  So he pressed the Send button and listened to it ring in his ear as another phone was ringing on a faraway continent.

  “Allô?”

  “You know who this is,” Allard said. There were few in the world who could call Henri Renouf. A more foolish man would, perhaps, be flattered. Allard was not. It did not matter to him that Renouf could have bought any building on the Champs Elysées thrice over. It did not matter to him that Renouf could force almost any owner to sell. All that mattered was that Renouf was a customer and Jean had the product. The only product. And if Renouf was not willing to buy, Jean could find another buyer.

  There was only one White Star.

  “Yes, I know who this is.” Renouf’s voice was cold, emotionless, the voice of a reptile. “What I do not know is why you are not even now before me, completing your task.”

  “There have been…complications,” Allard replied.

  “You were recommended to me as a master of your craft. You were brought in expressly so there would be no complications.”

  “You did not tell me when you hired me that the prize was so coveted,” Allard said silkily. “I have come to understand more since. Much more.”

  “You were told what you needed to know to accomplish your job.”

  “And I accomplished it.”

  “Did you? Do I see you here now? Do I hold it in my hand? I grow impatient.”

  “Perhaps if you showed more gratitude, monsieur.” Allard’s voice turned hard, like the iron of the ornate black benches he passed.

  “More gratitude?” The words were icy.

  “We both know the price is inadequate.” Allard watched two gulls battle over the same piece of fish, fighting and tearing at it with their sharp beaks. “This prize is worth far more than the pitiful sum you offered.”

  “You forget yourself.”

  “I am not the one with the empty hands, monsieur. There are always other buyers, but there is only one of what you seek.”

  “What do you want?” Renouf asked, grinding out the words.

  Allard thought of the feel of the ivory in his hand. How very little he wanted to give her up. It would take money, a great deal of it, to ease the hold she had on his mind. “Double the fee.”

  “You are mad.”

  “Very well, monsieur. Au revoi—”

  “Wait.” The word almost leaped out of the phone.

  Allard smiled slowly. “Oui?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Allard watched a ferry chug its way to Staten Island. “One and a half times the fee,” Renouf said finally.

  It only amused him. Such a weak attempt, an admission that Renouf would do what was necessary. An admission that Renouf wanted. “I do not negotiate, monsieur. If you do not want it, very well. Someone else will.”

  “Be careful. It is a foolish man who is overconfident.”

  “Why should I not be confident? I control the prize, do I not? Our feet do not even stand on the same continent.”

  “There are airplanes.”

  “Indeed, monsieur, there are. Coming and going.”

  Renouf blew out a breath. “D’accord. You will have your money.”

  And Allard felt the surge of triumph. He smiled broadly. “Very well. When the bank in Switzerland confirms the deposit, I will deliver it.”

  “In person.”

  “But of course, monsieur. And until then, I will keep her very, very safe.”

  “If it is harmed in any way, your life will become unpleasant in ways you cannot imagine.”

  “She will be treated with only the utmost tenderness.”

  “There have been those who have attempted to trifle with me in the past,” Renouf said thinly. “They did not fare well. You may wish to keep that in mind.”

  Something in the words raised the hackles on the back of his neck. Empty threats, he reminded himself. “Monsieur, I have only the greatest respect for you.”

  “You will find the money in your account Monday. I will expect you then.”

  “And both of us will be the happier, monsieur. Au revoir.” Before Renouf could respond, Allard hung up. Staring out at the water, he chuckled in satisfaction. Two million euros. Two million. A man could live like a king on such a sum. Extravagant wines. Lavish meals. And women, the women he would have.

  Starting now.

  HE SAT, MOTIONLESS, his knuckles still clenched tightly around the telephone receiver. Beyond the windows lay the blue of the French Mediterranean. Finally, he rose and walked through the glass door and onto the deck, crossing to the railing that overlooked the rocks and the seething ocean below.

  The setting sun sent shadows slanting across the cedar. Dragonflies whisked around in the light offshore breeze, hovering on the fragile transparent traceries of their wings. The cries of seabirds sounded far below. The air smelled of salt water.

  All his, the lavish villa, the white yacht bobbing at anchor, the rugged coastline, the sea view beyond.

  And the White Star.

  Like a flash, his hand snapped out and snatched one of the dragonfl
ies out of midair. For a moment he caged it loosely, savoring its frantic fluttering, feeling the soft brush of it against his palm. Then his fingers closed on it convulsively, crushing the wings. He made no sound. Nothing in his expression changed.

  Almost as an afterthought, he opened his hand and tilted it over, sending the crumpled remains of the lace wings tumbling down to the foaming sea below.

  He turned to the two hard-faced men who’d followed him outside. “Find him. Take the amulet.” He dusted off his hands. “And kill him.”

  14

  Saturday, 4:00 p.m.

  “I’M BEGINNING TO FIND your compulsions fascinating.” Julia leaned back in one of the wheeled chairs in the main laboratory, watching Alex kick around a wad of paper and tape as though it were a soccer ball. As incongruous as he appeared in dress slacks and T-shirt, he still moved with the economical grace of an athlete. There was an energy about him that made it impossible for her to look away.

  His motions were practiced, natural. If he’d been in the outside world, it was entirely possible he’d be doing it with a real ball. He might belong to a league, even. She didn’t know how he spent his days, she realized; she’d only been a part of his nights.

  “So what do you do with your weekends in the outside world?” she asked, turning herself idly back and forth with one toe.

  “Depends on the weather.” Alex caught the ball with his foot and did something complicated to redirect it. “Usually, I’ll bike or run in the park or hit the gym. I belong to a city-league basketball team, so we have a game on Sunday. Sometimes I take my kid sister to brunch. Catch the Cubs game if I can. You know, hang.” He glanced up. “How about you?”

  “It depends on the weather. If it’s nice, I’ll walk in the park or take a drive up the Hudson or into Connecticut to go antiquing. Sometimes I’ll go to an estate sale. Catch a movie, or read, relax.” She smiled briefly. “You know, hang.”

  He missed the ball and it rolled under the table with the mummy. “See? Perfect match. We’re meant for each other.” He ducked under the table to retrieve the ball and then straightened, standing by the table. “What’s that?” he asked, looking down, and appeared to listen for a moment. “Oh, right, okay.” He looked up at Julia. “Felix thinks so, too.”

  She looked askance at him. “You want me to take dating advice from a thirty-five-hundred-year-old mummy?”

  “Hey, have some respect. Felix has been around a while. He knows a thing or two.”

  “I’m not sure I want to go there,” Julia said, rising. When she saw the flicker of desire in Alex’s eyes, it brought a flush to her cheeks. She smoothed down the tails of the shirt, feeling the warmth of her palms through the fabric.

  “It doesn’t work,” Alex said. “I can’t not see you, Julia, and you can’t not see me.”

  “I can go concentrate on something else, though,” she said firmly and headed for the book repository.

  “Really? What are you going to work on?”

  “The chronicles.”

  “Planning to pick up a little French, are we?”

  She gave him the countess look. “They’re not all in French, remember? Besides, when I get to the French parts, all I have to do is look for the word white and bring it to my translator.” She stopped, with her hand on the door to the book repository. “Assuming you’re still willing.”

  “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?” Alex asked, bouncing the wad of paper from foot to foot, then kicking it up and into his hands.

  “Angling for my share of Paul’s protein bars?”

  “I was hoping for a more concrete demonstration of your appreciation.”

  She leaned against the doorway. “My, my, my, hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?”

  “I could do some more pull-ups, if that’ll inspire you,” he offered.

  Julia eyed him. “How about if you just put it on my tab?”

  THE SOUND OF Miles Davis’s mournful trumpet played quietly in the room, drifting out of Alex’s cell-phone jukebox. Julia scanned the printed summary page that had been tucked into the front of the volume of the chronology she was working on. Next to her, Alex bent over a book of his own.

  The song ended and he picked up the phone, fiddled with it and set it back down. After a moment, “Strangers in the Night” flowed out into the room.

  Julia raised her eyebrows. “Frank Sinatra?”

  “It’s the last of the slow stuff. After that we’re on to Green Day and Franz Ferdinand.”

  “Nice to know you’ve got eclectic tastes.”

  “In music. In women, I’m much more single-minded.”

  His gaze made her warm, and very conscious of the fact that his shirt did little to cover her legs when she was sitting. “Yes, well, focus is important.”

  His teeth gleamed. “That’s what I always say.”

  Julia paged through the volume she was working on—Latin, mercifully—searching for mentions of the White Star. They’d stumbled over the book in the inventory, finding out where the amulet was. Now, she was mostly finding out where it wasn’t.

  Frank Sinatra sang about doing it his way as she worked her way through the year 1282, reading of land deals and politics, harvests and storms. Frank gave way to Coldplay then matchbox 20 then P.J. Harvey. Julia stretched her arms lazily into the air, then leaned her head back and rubbed her neck.

  Suddenly, Alex straightened. “Julia.” Urgency vibrated in his tone.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  “When?”

  “From 1211. It’s written by the abbess of the time. She was the chronicler at this point.”

  “Another smart woman.”

  “Can’t get enough of them. Pretty sloppy penmanship for a nun, though,” he noted. “So, they found one of the sisters with a precious object on her person, which was a pretty big deal given that they took vows of poverty when they joined the order. Not only that, the object was pagan.”

  “Let me guess, an ivory star that appeared very old.”

  “Bingo. The abbess took it away from the sister and punished her. Listen to this.” Alex scanned the writing until he’d found his spot. “Let’s see…‘May the Lord bless Soeur Marie-Thérèse and forgive her her transgressions. For she came to us as a new widow these four years ago, seeking sanctuary. She had no children and wished no part of the material world, but thought to pass her remaining days far from her previous home, quietly, in prayer and contemplation. Her father, Barthélemy, Vicomte de Calfours, made to us a generous gift for her safekeeping, and so all seemed well. She was unfailingly solemn but kind, and devoted herself to the order, relinquishing all worldly things, so we thought.

  “‘It was thus all the worse to find her with an object so clearly pagan. She appeared at my cell after her punishments, admitting her fault but still desiring its return. She wept piteously, falling to the flagstones before me when I refused.

  “‘It was her only memento of her husband, Étienne le Brun, baronet and Crusader, she said. They had been but new married when he took the cross and left for the great Crusade, to deliver the Holy Land back unto the Christians. Ah, the Crusade. Many and fearful are the tales we have heard from Constantinople, of the death of Christians by Christians, of fire and chaos.”

  Julia frowned. “Wait a minute. I thought the Crusades were fought over Jerusalem.”

  Alex gave a humorless laugh. “Toward the end, the Crusades were fought over whatever seemed politically expedient. The Fourth Crusade started out well-intentioned, actually. It only got corrupted later.”

  “How?”

  “Basically, the knights all headed out to Venice, where they were supposed to take boats to the Holy Land. But the Venetians didn’t care about high ideals. They were only interested in cash and carry, and the Crusaders didn’t have the money.”

  “So, what happened?” Julia asked.

  “The heir to the throne of Byzantium, whose father had been usurped and imprisoned by his br
other, offered them a deal—he’d pay for the boats if they’d stop off at Constantinople on their way south and take his throne back for him. He’d get them the money from the treasury once he was restored to power.”

  “‘I will gladly pay you on Tuesday for a hamburger today,’” Julia quoted.

  A grin flashed over his face. “You got it. And it went about the way you’d expect.”

  “So how do you know all this?” And how was it he was talking so casually about obscure historic details, this man she’d always dismissed as an intellectual lightweight?

  “I did my senior project on Constantinople and Byzantium, remember?”

  “Interesting choice. Why not Greece or Rome or Austria?”

  “Why didn’t you specialize in Flemish art?” he countered. “Everyone was doing Greece and Rome and Austria. I wanted to do something different. And I wanted a chance to make more of an impact.”

  “And did you?”

  “I aced the class and the project, if that’s what you’re asking. It was fun. Had me thinking about a graduate degree in history for a while.”

  “Are you sure you’re the Alex Spencer we all know and love?” she said lightly.

  His gaze hardened a little. “Maybe that’s the Alex Spencer you all seem dead set on having me be.”

  It felt like a reproach and she lifted her chin. “I see. Well, since you’re such an expert, just what did happen in the Fourth Crusade?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “It wound up getting really ugly,” he said finally. “The people of the city didn’t want the prince back, but the knights were hell-bent on restoring him to the throne, which made none of them very popular. And, of course, once they did, he didn’t have the money to pay anyone.”

  “Big surprise there,” Julia commented.

  “Big surprise for the prince. New taxes, lots of fighting and rabble-rousing. And in the middle of all that, another usuper showed up and deposed him. Then the Crusaders decided to establish discipline and they sacked the city. Easter week, no less. Wound up killing thousands, Muslims, Christians, they didn’t care. Burned half the city to the ground and looted what they didn’t.”