“Really?”
“My guess is she intends getting back into your good graces.”
“Well, at least I have this to look forward to, don’t I?”
Bedev gave one of his rare smiles.
“Anything else you wish to go over tonight?” he asked. “If not, I’ll—”
“Actually, there is, Pavel. First thing tomorrow I want you to start building a file on Manning’s wife. Her complete history—education, background, likes, dislikes—the whole package. Use whatever investigative means are required. And also start keeping track of their daily activities. There’s a time element involved here, so it will have to be done quickly. My understanding is they’ll only be in Corfu for another week or so. Perhaps two at most.”
“Consider it done.”
With Bedev’s exit, Talanov let several minutes pass before finally leaving his private study. It allowed adequate time for his anticipation to slowly build. If his associate was right—and he usually was—Alena was waiting in the master suite with open arms, eager to satisfy him in every possible way. Until today, her youth, beauty, and sexual athletics had always proven up to the task. Now, however, he doubted this alone would be enough to totally win back his affections.
Over the course of just one day, his senses had been tweaked to yet another possibility, a tantalizing glimpse of something that went well above and beyond. He couldn’t help but draw parallels between the two women. In comparison to this new revelation, the former appeal of what he now deemed a one-dimensional, insecure child placed inside the body of a supermodel was suddenly somehow diminished. Though he fully intended using Alena tonight to satisfy all of his physical needs, his thoughts were already entirely focused on another.
CHAPTER SIX
On the following morning a relaxed Elizabeth, snuggly wrapped in a soft cotton hotel robe, exited the master suite and took a quick peek into her son’s empty room before joining David on their penthouse terrace. Though mildly curious as to Jake’s whereabouts, she nevertheless poured a cup of tea from the fresh pot on the patio table before inquiring.
“So where’s our boy gotten himself off to so early?”
“Need you ask?”
She smiled as she unwound a towel from her damp hair.
“No, I suppose not. My guess is he and Marko are already down at the main pool, hoping to encounter those girls again.”
“Bingo. And if they’re the same ones Nick and I saw a few days back, I can understand why.” He winked at her. “He’s inherited my good taste. Did you need him for something specific?”
“Not really. He knows we’re all driving down to Benitses after lunch, so I just hope he’s back before then.”
“I’m sure he will be. I reminded him before he wolfed down most of the croissants and darted off.”
She chuckled, seeing how the normally full platter had been duly pilfered.
“You know,” she said, changing the subject, “you really were sort of rude to Talanov last night. After all, we were his invited guests.”
“Not as rude as I could’ve been,” replied David, looking quite unrepentant. “You do appreciate how he was openly flirting with you, right?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “But even so . . .”
“What? He should be given a multi-billionaire’s pass?”
“Of course not. But I doubt you’ve made a new friend.”
“No loss there. Besides, he was beginning to rub me the wrong way.”
If anything, the recollection amused her. It wasn’t often David showed his jealous side—not that she’d ever consciously given him reason. Their bond was simply too deep-seated, their mutual attachment far too intense. Also, she knew his instinctive reaction had been more protective than anything else. And with good cause from his perspective. Truthfully, the oligarch’s blatant attention had begun to ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening.
She sipped at her tea before sampling one of the few surviving rolls.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, “I got a call on my cell just before I showered. It was from Ted Quenton back in Boston. He’s booked a flight here for tomorrow around noon our time.”
“Really? That’s great. Then I take it he’s accepted your offer?”
“In principle, yes. We’ve yet to finalize all the little details, but it appears quite positive.”
David’s smile broadened.
“Then I’m happy for you. For both of us, actually. You’re committed to visiting those two new DeCaylus acquisitions in France and Germany this fall, so can I expect he’ll relieve you of this tedious chore?”
“Definitely—not to mention a multitude of other responsibilities, as well.”
David reached over and squeezed her hand. As he did so she noted the hour on his wristwatch and realized there remained only marginal opportunity to prepare for their afternoon excursion. The trip down to the small coastal town of Benitses promised to be enjoyable. A casual getaway after yesterday’s formalities.
“We’ve still got time left,” she said, “so tell me once again about this marble ‘arm’ that has Nick so intrigued. When you first mentioned it, I confess I really didn’t catch all of it. Is it something that might be significant?”
David shrugged, his expression somewhat ambiguous. “Possibly. Don’t really know, hon. We’ll see once we get there.”
* * * *
Their drive south in David’s rented SUV took them less than thirty minutes to accomplish—the weather ideal, the passing landscape along Corfu’s eastern coast nothing short of spectacular.
Though the picturesque village of Benitses still held a permanent population of only 800 inhabitants, David found it wasn’t quite as quaint as Nick had described or anticipated. In just the past few years since the publication of the saved magazine article in Nick’s pocket, it now appeared the spot had rapidly developed into more of a substantial resort than a traditional fishing port. A variety of cafes, taverns, and gift shops were plentiful, busily serving the needs of foreign and local day-trippers seeking a good time. Despite the recent cosmopolitan flavor, however, the narrow paved streets still held much of the village’s original charm. Adding further to the enjoyment of this growing tourist Mecca was direct access to several beaches for those seeking a refreshing swim in the crystal waters of the Ionian Sea.
The decision to split up for a few hours of exploration satisfied everyone, the women and boys soon heading off in one direction, David and Nick seeking out the local museum that was their main reason for being there. They would meet up again back at the parked van in approximately three hours.
After making only a few inquiries, the men finally located an aged brick building at 14 Achillion St., an unimpressive two-story structure close by the active fishing harbor. No other visitors were inside. The proprietor, an elderly man with a wispy gray beard and sun-weathered features, lead David to suspect he was probably a retired fisherman. As it turned out, he indeed was, currently living alone in the modest overhead apartment and earning a meager living from whatever donations his infrequent clientele chose to provide.
He invited them to browse as much as they wished.
The museum’s wide array of exhibits was truly eclectic, ranging from old rusted anchors, antique naval lanterns, a mix of both ancient and medieval coins—plus everything imaginable in-between, the bulk of which David had little experience and even less knowledge. Save for the locked glass case containing the diverse assortment of coins, all the other items either sat on the floor or were placed haphazardly on plank shelving.
The latter was where they soon came across the large stone arm.
Viewed up close, it was far more impressive than Nick’s photocopy. Twice normal size, with clenched fist turned slightly inward at the wrist, the overall artistry of its creator was instantly obvious—even to David who had no expertise in judging such things. Despite after what was assumed to have been two millennia under water, the once highly polished white marble still showed exquisite details
of the tense musculature and corresponding vein interplay.
All in all, both men were much impressed.
“So what do you think?” asked David in a low voice, the old man far enough away to be beyond hearing. The awed expression on Nick’s face made the question unnecessary. “Does it live up to your expectations?”
“And then some!”
Dropping to one knee, Nick extracted his cell phone from his breast pocket and snapped off several quick pictures from various angles. If the old man cared, it wasn’t immediately apparent.
“Think he’ll mind if we turn it over and do the other side? He’s likely to take offense if we just go ahead and begin—”
“There’s only one polite way to find out.”
David walked over and spoke to the man for a short period, smiling as he finally returned. “Not a problem,” he said, “so long as we’re careful. When we go, we should be generous with our donations. He’s a long time collector, none of the pieces here for sale. I explained your interest by telling him you were an amateur sculptor and quite taken with the piece. That seemed to satisfy him.”
With the additional photos accomplished and several euros dutifully inserted into a glass jar, they eventually took their leave. Once outside, they walked down to the harbor, still having considerable time to kill. The planned rendezvous back at the van remained better than an hour away.
“Still think there’s validity in your theory, Nick?”
“More than ever. I should’ve brought it with me today, but I have a Vatican brochure in my briefcase back at the hotel. It shows a Roman copy of that Myron original I spoke about. I’m now more convinced than ever the arm we just looked at is an exact match of that lost Greek masterpiece.”
“When I spoke to the old fellow,” said David, “he basically confirmed the information in your magazine article. The young local fisherman who sold it to him was someone he knew. His name was Ilias Sanna. All Sanna would say was it came up in his trawling nets at the end of long day. Nothing more. No location, nothing. Where, exactly, remains a complete mystery. And it’s likely to remain so.” He gestured seaward. “Without some type of specific clues, the location could be anywhere.”
Nick sighed, his enthusiasm slightly diminished.
“You’re right, of course; which makes it doubly tragic when Sanna up and disappeared as he did . . . drowning not two days after selling off the piece. A terrible coincidence.”
David didn’t respond, his gaze still held by the wide bay.
He was never a big believer in coincidences, especially when it pivoted on such fatal occurrences. Instead, long experience taught that something sinister was often at play. Since viewing the impressive arm, he now found himself increasingly intrigued by Nick’s theory. It would be a difficult presumption to prove, certainly, but not outside the realm of possibility. And, too, perhaps he’d been a bit hasty when he surmised the location could be anywhere out there with no chance of rediscovery. If the old man’s recollection of the young fisherman’s words were accurate, just maybe Sanna had unintentionally given away a vital clue. It would require considerable more thought on his part.
One step at a time . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
July 14, 2008.
The foul stench permeating his iron-walled enclosure was more than enough to persuade Ilias Sanna his imprisonment was in the lower hold of an old dredging barge. After regular episodes of intense questioning, he was always left gagged and blindfolded, his legs and arms bound to a metal chair. Kept in complete darkness during these lengthy periods, he’d become solely reliant on his sense of smell and hearing to sustain him.
It was damn little to hang onto, but it kept him sane.
Or at least marginally so . . .
How much actual time had elapsed since his capture, he could no longer judge. Two days? Maybe three? Given no nourishment beyond an occasional cup of water, he’d lost track of its passage, for in his weakened condition and growing despair the last vestiges of any internal clock had abandoned him—as had all hope of his surviving this ordeal.
Despite the vague promises, this grim conclusion seemed inevitable.
The sudden metallic squeak of the heavy door being pulled open roused him once more from his anguished half-slumber. Only when it clanged shut did he raise his chin off his sweat-drenched chest. The room’s single overhead light was snapped on prior to the removal of his thick blindfold. Suspended close to his face, the bulb’s bright glare was painful to his unprepared eyes. When he finally managed to focus, it came as no surprise to see the same man as usual standing before him. Nor was his lean interrogator alone. With him was the man called Ivan, the sadistic bastard with a scarred right hand whose presence Ilias had come to most dread—the one who had systematically inflicted uncounted cuts to his swollen face and badly mangled fingers.
Was he now to endure more of the same repetitive questions?
Apparently not. Today struck him as being somehow different, for Ivan casually positioned himself directly behind the trembling fisherman’s chair, leaving the gag firmly in place. This alone was a decidedly ominous signal to his subconscious. While this transpired the familiar face of his interrogator studied Ilias for several long moments before speaking. When he eventually did his tone was equally alarming.
“Well, Mr. Sanna, I believe our time together has about come to an end. Everything you’ve told me over the past few days has been checked out and verified to my satisfaction. I no longer have reason to doubt your story. You should be pleased. By being completely honest with me, you’ve spared yourself a very unpleasant alternative—far more painful, if you can imagine, than what you’ve so far endured.” He paused. “In this respect, at least, you were fortunate. As for the end result, however . . .”
Ilias instinctively foresaw what was about to happen. His earlier dire conclusion as to any chance of survival was correct after all. Tipped off by a sudden movement behind his chair, he forced his head down and forward—but not near fast enough to avoid the wire garrote that encircled his throat.
Helpless, he thrashed in panic, but all to no avail.
It was over within mere seconds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Present.
Upon returning from Benitses, Maria took both boys sightseeing while David, Nick, and Elizabeth spent the majority of the evening huddled over the laptop seeing what they could piece together regarding the small museum’s enigmatic marble arm.
It wasn’t the easy task they’d first hoped it might be.
While David’s laptop was considered state-of-the-art, it did lack the CAD 3D modeling software necessary to properly rotate and analyze the downloaded, lower quality, digital images off Nick’s phone camera. Without this feature it was near impossible to make a definitive comparison to the single photo of the ancient Roman copy housed in the Vatican. Despite this frustrating limitation, however, what they eventually accomplished through painstaking trial and error was still somewhat heartening. Not only did the overall measurements of the arm appear to correspond, but also the subtle muscular proportions and reflected tensions seemed remarkably similar. By itself, this was hardly evidence the marble artifact came from the lost original Myron masterpiece, yet it made for a very favorable start in their investigation. Equally promising, they saw no visual contradictions to gainsay such a real possibility.
As fascinated as Elizabeth was by Nick’s theory, by 8:30 pm she reluctantly called it a night. With the scheduled arrival of Ted Quenton on the following day, she needed her sleep. The meeting was far too important. Everything else would simply have to wait.
Before retiring, however, she offered David a potential means for both men to further pursue their evaluation while right here in Corfu. Though there were no guarantees, she would contact Ted immediately and explain the potential significance of what they were attempting to do, asking him to bring along whatever programs he felt might conceivably assist in their investigation.
Pleased by t
he prospect of perhaps being able to delve even deeper into this mystery before Nick’s necessary return to Salonika in a few days, David poured two congratulatory drinks at the suite’s wet bar, handing one to his friend.
“Here’s hoping Ted comes through for us,” he said, glancing at his wrist. “The time difference between here and Boston should work in our favor. I only regret not thinking of it earlier on my own. I got so carried away with downloading and finagling those photos that I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. As you saw, even Elizabeth is now absorbed by the possibility.”
Nick sipped his drink.
“Well,” he said, “it would be great if this Quenton fellow can help us nail down whether or not the arm is an actual match to the Vatican copy. In fact, it will be incredibly satisfying to have that particular hurdle out of the way before I leave. It wouldn’t answer the overall premise of my theory, but it sure as hell would be a nice reinforcement to take home with me.” He paused, his face becoming a wide grin. “The only thing better, of course, would be if we could somehow manage to pull off a miracle and locate the spot where the arm got snagged in Sanna’s trawling net—and we both know just how damn unlikely that’s ever going to be, right?”
David’s immediate reaction wasn’t quite the amused response Nick expected. Rather, he altered the subject of their conversation to encompass several things that had been progressively rattling about in his mind throughout the afternoon. It helped to use his friend as a sounding board to now express them.
“Mind you, this is only doing a little speculative thinking on my part, but I wonder if you’ve considered the strong likelihood that just perhaps there’s far more than just one statue to be recovered from that unknown location?”
A long pause.
“I don’t quite follow where—”
“It’s actually a logical assumption if you really stop and think about it. If your theory is correct—and let’s assume for the moment that the arm indeed came off Myron’s original statue now lying at the bottom of the sea—then what’s to say it’s alone down there?”
The Ionian Paradigm Page 4