by Dana Cameron
It sounded like a fair description of Dmitri. “You don’t need to tell me. I’m only asking for Danny.” I took a sip of my beer to hide my fear she’d say no.
Jenny put down her empty glass and fidgeted. “Officially I have never wanted a cigarette as much as I do this moment. Thank you for that, Zoe.”
Jenny had spent her life making up for her father’s trade as a dealer in stolen art and antiquities, a life that he intended she continue after he was gone. She had gone in exactly the opposite direction, making her subspecialty the study of archaeological law and ethics, working to protect antiquities around the world. It was only to be expected that her exacting standards of professional behavior might not make exceptions for me and our friendship.
I shoved my own second, untouched beer across the table.
Jenny frowned. “You can’t bribe me with alcohol, Zoe. It’s a long time since my postdoc in Boston.”
“I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m trying to make up for making you want a smoke.” There was no lightening the moment. “Jenny. You know what Danny means to me. This situation requires whatever I can do to fix it.”
Jenny sighed, then reached for the pint. “Are you absolutely certain?”
“I’m here in London. Yesterday I was going to drive to New York City maybe.”
“I don’t like it. I hate it, as a matter of fact. But I can’t think of anything else that might work. If I do this, you may be able to save your cousin.” She took a deep breath. “So I will help you.”
“Thank you.”
“Only because I know these people. If you go to the police…” Jenny drained her beer. “Which one is it you think can help you?”
“Someone named Rupert Grayling.”
The glass paused on its way back to the table; she clearly recognized the name. She set the glass down very carefully and took a deep breath.
“You’re in luck, only in that I know him, and I believe he knows me. You’re out of luck, because the only person I know less obsessed, less dangerous than Grayling is this Dmitri character, if you’ve described him correctly. Zoe, are you sure?”
“No. But I have to do it.”
“Come along, then. The offices will have cleared out. No one will see us while I mortgage our souls.”
Jenny’s office was lined with bookshelves that were stacked to the top and overflowing. There were mugs and an electric kettle in the corner. The place smelled of floor wax, paper, and stewed tea.
I showed her the figurine from the museum.
“I think it’s some kind of souvenir, right?” I said as she examined it under a lighted magnifying glass. “The sort of thing they sold back in the day when rich people were going on grand tours and seeing the world?”
“You’re right, it looks mold-made, so there could have been a lot of them, but I don’t see any seams.” Jenny shook her head, turning the figurine around. “No, it’s definitely much older than that.”
“Well then, a votive figure, maybe? An offering to the gods?”
“No, I suspect not. If it’s not just a toy—and I wonder how many ‘ritual objects’ in the world are nothing more than toys a potter made for his kids—I’m betting it was a decoration, possibly for a ceramic vessel. See how the figure’s body is somewhat curved? A series of them might have adorned the neck or waist of a pot.” She thought for a moment, then turned to her computer, typed briefly, until an image appeared. “This is one like it, from the Metropolitan Museum. An unusual form, but not unheard of.”
I glanced at it and nodded. Eighteen inches high, with a flared, angled mouth, almost no neck, and a bulbous body, the pot was different from anything I’d ever seen before. It was made of terra-cotta, pale whitish over red, and there was a flange around the waist with dozens of holes. Although the decorations on this museum piece had pegs beneath their feet to fit into the band around the pot, I could see some similarity to my figurines.
“Not identical, of course, but I just have one of those feelings.” She made a face. “I hate that. I know there should be a good reason why I’m thinking of this piece, but sometimes you just end up saying ‘I just know that’s what it is.’”
I nodded. She was the expert, and I trusted her gut instincts. Besides, I was starting to get the idea—for another reason—that my figurines weren’t mass-produced, the same way she “just knew.”
“And—wait! There is an article, just came out, with a reference to one.” She dug around, tossed me a copy. “Take it. I have an offprint. Some reference to a decorated pot in one of those letters from the Roman fort of Vindolanda; Professor Carl Schulz in Berlin ran it past me. He might be able to help with identification. He’s the one who taught me—but of course, identification’s not your problem, is it?”
I shook my head. Mine was not the usual academic puzzle.
“This plan of yours,” Jenny said while flipping through her Rolodex—she wouldn’t trust this address to her computer. “Contacting Grayling and hoping for some sort of cooperation? It’s full of assumption and hopefulness, Zoe.”
I shrugged. “I’m open to other suggestions.”
Jenny seemed to struggle with something. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to call Grayling. I’m going to arrange a meeting for you.”
I froze. I almost said, “I can’t let you do that,” but the truth was I needed whatever help I could get. I’d been on thin ice hoping Jenny might know Grayling or how I could appeal to him. I never really considered my friend might actually lend me the credibility of her father’s dishonorable name.
I nodded and bit my lip. “Thank you. Jenny, I mean it.”
Jenny scowled. “I won’t have your death on my conscience. But there are conditions.”
I nodded, not quite crossing my fingers under the desk.
“This is a one-time deal, and I’m telling Grayling so. It’s for your own good.”
“OK.”
“He will get nasty if he thinks his goodwill is being abused. Never for a minute underestimate the viciousness of these people.”
I tried not to let my dismay show. This was a side of Jenny I’d never seen before. To be fair, she’d devoted her life to concealing it, and I had asked, but now…I was getting scared.
Then I remembered: Grayling had better not underestimate my hidden viciousness.
“Next: Anyone besides Grayling asks you anything about me, my family, anything, you lie your head off. The story is you’d never be so self-involved as to ask this favor of me, and even if you were, I’m too much of a stickler to admit such a thing was possible. I’m just thinking of my kids and Lawrence, here. You understand.”
I nodded. Who was being cold-blooded now?
“Lastly: You mustn’t get hurt.”
“I won’t.” I shrugged.
“I’m serious. I’m reluctant to give you this introduction because it is so dangerous. And I’m afraid if I do, it will only get you in out of your depth. But if I don’t, you may be in worse trouble. If you get hurt or killed or sold or something else dreadful, I’d have to work very hard to remember the blame is on you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No,” she said with the same tone she’d used on Lawrence. “Promise me you’ll do more than your best.”
I nodded. “I promise. Now may I have Grayling’s number?”
“Oh no. This has to come from me. And that means a walk to King’s Cross.”
“Why on earth—oh.” Jenny didn’t want the call being traced back to either her mobile or her office line.
Jenny arched her brow. “Exactly.”
Chapter 10
The meeting was set for late that night. I had assumed that it would either be in a really ratty part of the city or the most expensive. Instead, Jenny told me to take the Tube to Islington, an upscale but unremarkable borough of streets lined with row houses. I would meet Grayling at a nearby restaurant.
“He lives somewhere on the South Bank,” Jenny explained. “But he can’t afford to be se
en doing business there.”
Grayling didn’t look like anything at all. If I hadn’t known what to look for, I’d have thought he was an old-age pensioner, sitting alone in the back room as on a thousand other, identical nights. Portly, with wisps of curly graying hair, jowls sagging to dewlaps, and owlish eyebrows. He had soup and a glass of wine in front of him, making a racket when he slurped either of them. There was a stain on his tie that looked like the same tomato soup, only from a month ago.
“Mr. Grayling?”
“Miss Miller?”
I nodded, and he gestured to the chair opposite. “Please sit down.” He didn’t offer a hand, so I didn’t either.
“Forgive me if I eat while we talk,” he said. “If I don’t eat when I remember to…”
I wasn’t sure I bought his frail old man act. The waiter came over; I ordered a glass of wine.
I waited until Grayling pushed his plate of soup away, not half-finished. He nodded at the waiter. “Would you heat this up, please?” The waiter took the plate and disappeared into the kitchen.
“So I’m told that you’re interested in…archaeology,” he said.
“Yes.” “Don’t say much, do you?” he grunted. “That’s fine, that’s fine. I was very surprised to get a call from…our friend. About this sort of thing.”
I shrugged.
He wiped his mouth, returned the napkin to his lap. “I am very interested in seeing this piece you claim to have.”
“But not here.”
“Not here.” He wasn’t done vetting me, not by a long shot, I knew. “You know our friend…how?”
I wasn’t going to say more about Jenny than necessary. “We have mutual interests.”
Just then he held up a hand. “A moment.” He turned, gestured, and placed his napkin on the table.
A short, thin man, nearly as old as Grayling, had shuffled to our table. Dressed in a soiled jacket and a threadbare shirt, he waited at Grayling’s side until Grayling nodded. “Marco.”
“Evening, Grayling.” The old guy didn’t exactly tug his fore-lock, but his respect was close to obsequiousness. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, nearly as dirty as his fingernails, and slid it under the napkin.
Grayling cocked his head. “I hope that’s everything.”
“Absolutely…” Marco tried a game smile. “…very nearly. Only, I need an extra day or two—”
The waiter returned with the soup. “Careful with that. Shall I get another setting?”
“He’s not staying,” Grayling answered, never taking his eyes off Marco.
When the waiter left, Marco said, “It’s been a bad week, that’s all. I can have the rest in two days, three tops.”
Grayling nodded. “Absolutely. As long as you can add on the extra interest.”
Marco crumpled then. “I…I can’t. I can’t keep going on like this. I’m an old man, and I don’t earn like I used to. And…with this hand…” He held up his right hand, recently bandaged, the only thing on him that wasn’t greasy or worn. “Grayling. It’s been ten years, after all. Can’t you this once—?”
“I’ll be dead soon, and then you’ll be done, just as we said. Two days, with a point.”
“I can’t—”
Before Marco could finish, Grayling stood up and patted his shoulder. Then he slid his hand over Marco’s mouth, took his bandaged hand, and jammed it into the plate of steaming soup. Marco’s scream was muffled, barely.
“Hey!” I tried to get up, but my chair was so close to the wall, I was trapped. The Beast paced in its cage, but I couldn’t give in, not now…I needed this bastard. I tried to focus.
“Zoe, Marco stole from me and is paying me back. He’s been short twice, if memory serves.” He held up Marco’s hand; the man gasped, tears running down his cheeks. I could see stumps where there had been two fingers. “He pays me back, I don’t go to the police. We had an agreement. Gentlemen honor their agreements, don’t they, Marco?”
“Ye-es.” He swallowed. “Two days, a point.”
The violence past, the Beast was somewhat quieted. But it hurt not to be able to stop what had happened.
“Good.” Grayling sat back down, frowning at the stain on the tablecloth. “Otherwise I have as many kitchen knives as you have digits. Please, Marco, don’t make me. We used to be friends.”
Marco shook his head, backing away and clutching his hand. “I won’t, Grayling. Thank you.” He left with a rapid, unsteady gait that was painful to watch.
Grayling picked up his wine. “Why do you want…this particular piece?”
As if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just heard his threats—
Danny’s life is on the line, Zoe, I thought. Be cool.
I swallowed my protests. Jenny had warned me that the more I lied, the more it would show. I went with the truth.
“I need the piece to save my cousin. I’ve been sent by a man calling himself Dmitri.”
“‘Need’ and ‘save’ are interesting words. Can you tell me why I should help, when I’m sure Dmitri told you I would have nothing to do with him?”
The truth was all I had; why hadn’t Dmitri told me this would be an issue? “Dmitri kidnapped my cousin,” I whispered. “Is…threatening him, unless I can get that piece from you. Maybe he thought I could find a way to…persuade you.” I tried to look like I was open to anything, but the truth was I knew I was sunk.
“And yet he knows I would rather die than see him get something of mine.” He blotted his lips with a crumpled napkin. “I have neither the time nor the interest to help you.”
“I have money,” I said, desperate, thinking of Dmitri’s credit card. “I can pay, whatever you want.”
He frowned, looked ashamed for me. “Money’s not the point. As with Marco, there’s a principle at stake. The doctors give me six months. I can no longer travel, nor work to the level I wish. I am spending what time I have amongst my treasures, as quietly as possible.”
I couldn’t let the conversation end there. I was desperate to keep Grayling engaged until I could figure another angle.
“Show me them.” Maybe, if he was as crazy as Jenny said, it would get my foot in the door.
I knew my instinct was correct as soon as I said it. He hesitated, so I pushed a little more. “I want to see your collection. If you haven’t much time, I may never get another chance to see material like this, all in one place, ever again. If it’s as good as I’ve heard. You know if Jenny made this introduction, I do know the field, I do know what I’ll be seeing.”
Pride and suspicion tore at Grayling. I made myself finish my wine and used every remaining bit of self-control to seem calm. Even if he wouldn’t sell me his figurine, I might learn something else I could use to force him to give me what I needed. I wished there had been more time to learn about my curse and powers, but I had to keep them under control. For now.
The opportunity to show his collection to someone who could properly appreciate it—the rarity, the perfection, the antiquity of it—was too much. Grayling carefully counted out the banknotes for his dinner and pushed his chair back. “Come along.”
I slapped a note on the table and followed him into a cab. We traveled back to King’s Cross station, which looked incredibly seedy at night after rush hour. We took another cab, doubling back somewhat before we crossed the river.
“My habits are too well known these days,” he said, taking my arm. “I like to be careful.”
He’s crazy, I thought. The urge to show off his collection borders on lunacy. Why else take the risk of showing me, a stranger?
We climbed the stairs to a row house on a short block. I turned away discreetly when he entered his alarm code. That I have excellent peripheral vision and make a habit of picking up and remembering information like other people’s alarm codes by their tones, he didn’t need to know. A click, and we were in. Air—cool and dry like a museum’s—washed over me, and I realized he had environmental controls in his house to store his
collection safely.
It wasn’t until after he locked the door behind us that I began to worry whether I’d gotten myself into even more trouble than I’d expected. Than I could manage. Even before the restaurant and Marco, I’d known through Jenny that Grayling was a borderline personality. I knew he was more than half a criminal, given his “profession.” What other plans might he consider to amuse himself at the end of his life? When had I ever gone alone to a stranger’s house like this?
It was for Danny, so I was prepared to risk everything. But Jenny’s reference, and her knowledge that I was with Grayling, suddenly seemed like a very thin sort of protection. The very unreliable powers of the Beast didn’t reassure me, much.
The house held a collector’s dream. I forgot almost everything else at the sight of it all. It was a hodgepodge: Some rooms had been designed to show off one spectacular piece. In others, artifacts were piled up on every flat surface, stacked without regard for their age or provenience.
One room was nearly a shrine—a mosaic floor with a three-dimensional pattern, plaster walls painted with the muses, an apparently genuine Roman table, and in a case, three perfect, beautiful clay bowls with molded patterns. It reminded me of the villas from Pompeii. With a jolt, I realized it was because an entire room had been removed and reconstructed here, if not from Pompeii, then some other site, ravaged for its finds.
In a moment, within arm’s reach of these amazing antiques, no Plexiglas barrier or velvet rope between me and them, I understood exactly what drove Grayling. I understood his impulse to want to touch and to own such things and have them all to himself. I understood what it was to crave something, to remove it from the shared view of the rest of the world.
The stolen figurine in my backpack was testament to that—and why, oh dear God, hadn’t I left that someplace safer?
But in that house, I saw no space for Grayling, no place that was where he lived. For him, it was ownership, or with regards to Dmitri, the denial of that pleasure to someone else. For me, my only instance of unethical archaeological behavior—actually stealing something—had gotten me into serious trouble. I wasn’t built for crime.