“This artifact is from one of the subterranean villas in ancient Bulla Regia. It’s a fine specimen, thought to be from the Hadrianic era.”
Remi studied it for a few more seconds before continuing around the room, admiring other objects, eventually returning to the mosaic. “I do like this the best. I think it would look perfect in my solarium. How much?”
“One hundred thousand.”
“Dinar?” Remi asked.
“Dollars.”
“U.S.?” Sam asked in mock disbelief. “For a handful of stones set in a chunk of plaster?”
“But I want it,” Remi said.
“Will you take fifty?” Sam asked Karim.
“I’m authorized to go as low as seventy-five.”
“Is it stolen?” Remi asked.
“Madame, I assure you the provenance is without question.”
Remi furrowed her brow. “That’s not what I asked. I need to know how to declare this for Customs.”
“What my wife means is that getting things out of one country and into another, as I’m sure you’re aware, can sometimes be problematic.”
“Of course. With the purchase, we’d be willing to provide a receipt with a separate cash value—and, if need be, a letter of authenticity from one of our local artists, declaring it to be an original reproduction.”
“Hmm …” Remi pretended to study it, then looked at Sam. “What do you think?”
First and foremost, that they’d been there far too long. He looked at his watch. “I’m not the one who wants the thing. Whatever you decide, make it quick. We have a plane to catch.”
Remi smiled at the man. “I’ll take it. How soon can you have it boxed up?”
“As soon as we receive payment. Cash or wire transfer only.”
“Wire,” Sam said.
“If you’ll follow me, I can give you the details for the transfer.” He led them to the front of the store, where the young woman pulled a card from the mahogany desk, holding it out.
Sam took it. “I’ll call my banker and have the money wired over.”
The man beamed at them. “We’ll prepare it for shipment. If you’ll wait here, I won’t be but a few minutes.”
As he returned to the back room, he addressed the young woman. “Please see to our guests while I package their purchase.”
While Remi pretended to be absorbed in the various antiques around the store, Sam texted Selma to make the transfer. Not quite fifteen minutes later, Lazlo texted that two men were approaching, one with a black eye. Sam positioned himself at the front of the shop, staring with presumed disinterest out the window, seeing Remi’s would-be kidnappers about to descend on them.
Sam looked over at the young woman seated at her desk. “We’re on a tight schedule. Do you know how much longer?”
“I’ll check,” she said.
The moment she left, Sam walked over to Remi and drew her behind an antique armoire. “Company,” he said quietly, indicating the front window.
She looked that direction. “What do you suppose they’re doing here?”
“I expect we’re about to find out.”
Sam and Remi edged their way around the armoire as the two men walked into the gallery, then made their way toward the back. The young woman blocked them as they tried to get down the hallway. “Monsieur Karim,” she called out. “Tarek and Hamida are here.” She looked up at Tarek’s bruised face. “What happened to you?”
“None of your business. Karim,” he shouted.
The older man stepped out. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“We’ve decided to remove the mosaic and list it elsewhere,” Tarek said.
“Unfortunately, it’s already sold. Today, in fact.”
That brought the pair up short. “Who bought it?” Hamida asked.
“The couple waiting up front.”
“What couple?”
“They were here a minute ago. Maybe they stepped out. But should you be worried, I sold it for twice the asking price.”
“The nerve,” Remi whispered and elbowed Sam. “We need to do something before we lose that mosaic.”
“Are you kidding? I just paid seventy-five K for that thing.” He pointed to the hallway. “I’ll distract them. You text Lazlo to call the police, then get Echo.”
Remi nodded, walked over, and positioned herself next to the wall, pressing back so she wouldn’t be seen. The moment she was in place, Sam walked toward the shop entrance, calling out, “I’m sorry, were you looking for me?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Do not provoke the anger of a strong man.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
Several thoughts flashed through Tarek’s mind as he looked down the hall and saw Sam Fargo standing in the doorway. First and foremost was that he should have paid more attention to Makao’s warning. The Fargos were far more dangerous than the typical people they were used to bilking and robbing. Second was that he was going to relish wiping that smug, taunting look off Fargo’s face. “After him.”
Fargo slipped out the door, but Hamida hesitated. “Shouldn’t we wait for Ben?”
“Now. Before he gets away.” He pushed Hamida that direction and turned toward Karim. “I’ll be back.”
Still sore from his earlier encounter with Fargo, Tarek followed at a much slower pace, waving to Ben, who was parked in their SUV down the block. Fargo crossed the narrow street, then darted into an alley, Hamida on his heels. By the time Tarek rounded the corner, the two men were faced off. Hamida was built like a bulldozer. He’d have no difficulty taking down Fargo.
A good thing, because it took a moment for Tarek to catch his breath once he caught up with them. “You’re not”—he gulped in air—“taking …”
“Spit it out,” Fargo said. “I’m in a hurry.”
How Fargo wasn’t winded, he had no idea. “Taking that mosaic …”
Fargo edged to his left.
Hamida followed him. “You broke into our office.”
“Feel free to tell the police,” Fargo said. “They should be here any minute.”
Tarek wrapped his fingers around the grip of his holstered pistol.
Fargo closed the distance, driving his fist into Tarek’s stomach. Pain shot through him. He doubled over. Hamida charged, but Fargo sidestepped, pulling Tarek in front of him. Hamida’s fist struck Tarek in the ribs and he dropped to the ground, unable to breathe. When Hamida went for his gun, Fargo grabbed his wrist and spun it around. A sickening crunch sounded as Fargo rammed his shoulder into Hamida’s hyperextended elbow. He fell to the ground, his bloodcurdling scream drowning out the faint sirens heard in the distance.
Ben sped down the alley in the SUV as Fargo grabbed Tarek by the collar, ready to drive his fist home. He heard the screech of tires, looked up, saw the SUV bearing down on them, and let loose of Tarek, jumping out of the way.
Ben skidded to a stop, pointing a gun out the window, as the sirens grew louder.
“Forget him,” Tarek called out. He opened the back door and dragged Hamida to his feet. He shoved the injured man into the car and scrambled in after him. “Go.”
Ben hit the gas, speeding out of the alley past the police cars converging on the street in front of the gallery.
When they were safely past, Tarek sat up, ignoring Hamida as he groaned in pain.
Ben looked back at him. “What now?”
“Find someone who can fix Hamida’s arm. Then kill Fargo.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
A close friend can become a close enemy.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
A pity you couldn’t have held them until the police got there,” Remi said to Sam once they were back at their hotel.
“All it would prove is that they were middlemen in selling a stolen artifact. Proving they’re behind the murder’s going to take more effort. One thing’s clear. Amal’s got some serious explaining to do. She’s already lied to us before. When you saw her out at the ruins our first day here.”
/> “I’d forgotten about that,” Remi said.
“Tarek and his men are playing for keeps. We’re past trying to spare anyone’s feelings.”
Lazlo, who was examining the mosaic of Echo’s face, looked up at them. “I daresay, he has a point.”
Remi started pacing the floor. “I know. And we’ve also got Nasha to think of. Her uncle’s flying in tomorrow to take her home. I’ll feel more comfortable once she’s back in her uncle’s care.”
Sam nodded at the open parcel on the table. “Let’s put it in the safe at the front desk.”
“Maybe,” Remi said as she helped Lazlo repack the mosaic, “we could invite Amal to dinner. It won’t seem so intimidating.”
Sam thought Remi was being far too polite, but he learned long ago that her lighter touch often yielded good results.
She put the phone on speaker and placed the call. “Oh, Mrs. Fargo …” Amal was clearly crying. “Dr. LaBelle was arrested. She … For murder.” She started sobbing.
“We know,” Remi said. “Which is why we need to talk.”
They agreed on a location, and Amal was waiting for them when they arrived later that evening. Her eyes were red, her lids heavy, but she smiled at them as they entered. The four sat in awkward silence until the maître d’ seated them at a table. A waiter brought them drinks and took their orders.
Amal waited until he left. “The police can’t possibly believe that Dr. LaBelle killed anyone?”
“Apparently, they do,” Sam said. “The best way to help her is by telling us anything you know about what’s been going on around here.”
“About what?”
“You can start with the day we saw you out at the ruins, and why you lied about being there when we ran into you at the hospital. Was Warren with you?”
She shook her head. “No, I swear. It was a tour to earn money. I only lied about it because Hank had asked me to stop giving them. He didn’t want strangers around our dig site. I … I thought he might get upset and I didn’t want to add to Dr. LaBelle’s problems.”
“What about the shop at the market?” Remi asked. “I saw you knocking on the same door where the stolen mosaic ended up. You were talking to someone.”
“Oh …” She sank back in her chair. “That was Warren. About him, I mean. When Hank told me that he’d gone there to sell stolen artifacts, I had to see for myself. No one answered. But a man in the shop next door came out. I showed him Warren’s photo.”
“And what’d he say?” Sam asked.
“He recognized him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “You have to understand, Warren was like a father to me. I didn’t want to believe Hank, but when that man at the shop said he’d seen Warren there, that’s when I realized … I was such a fool. He was using me to learn what I knew about the secrets of …” Amal covered her mouth and looked up at the ceiling, trying to compose herself.
Remi slid a glass of water closer to her and she grasped it, taking a sip.
“What secrets?” Remi asked.
“About the Vandal King.” She lowered her glass to the table, her hands wet from the condensation. She stared at them a moment and picked up a napkin, wiping her fingers, then used the white square of cloth to dab at her eyes. “He was using me to find the map.”
Lazlo, who seemed to be only half interested, perked up. “Map? What sort of map?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
There can be no peace without understanding.
– SENEGALESE PROVERB –
According to family legend,” Amal said, “there’s a map leading to the cursed treasure stolen by the last Vandal King.”
Sam wasn’t near the history expert Remi and Lazlo were, but he tended to pay attention when treasure was involved—and the Vandals had accumulated a lot of it during their various raids throughout Europe, including the Sack of Rome. “Wasn’t all that treasure confiscated after the Byzantine Army defeated the Vandals?” Sam asked.
Lazlo, his eyes alight with interest, nodded. “I seem to remember something about the conquered Vandal King and all his amassed wealth and spoils being paraded before the Emperor while he quoted—or misquoted—something from Ecclesiastes, wasn’t it?”
“Vanity of vanities,” Remi said, “all is vanity.” Her knowledge of ancient history far surpassed anything Sam knew, which was why he wasn’t surprised when she added, “If memory serves, the Emperor Justinian returned the Vandal Treasure to Jerusalem.”
Lazlo said, “Why would anyone give up that sort of fortune?”
“He believed the treasure stolen from the temple was cursed and any city that housed it would eventually be destroyed.”
“Guess there was some truth in that,” Sam said as their waiter set a plate of banatages on the table, the scent of the fried meat-filled potato croquettes tempting. “Look at Bulla Regia, flattened by an earthquake.” Once the young man left, Sam turned his attention back to Amal. “So, we’re talking about a completely different treasure?”
“Correct,” Amal said. “Different treasure, different curse.”
Lazlo, suddenly interested again, asked, “A different treasure?”
“Well, not a treasure so much as something that was treasured. A rare scroll, taken about a hundred years before the fall of the Vandal Kingdom. This particular scroll was not to be held by any one man. It was for the people.”
“And the curse?”
“Cast upon the Vandals after the scroll was stolen.”
“Stolen by whom?” Sam asked.
“The Vandal King, Genseric. His army invaded North Africa in 430 A.D., laying siege to Hippo Regius. Of course,” Amal continued, “it varies as to why the scroll was stolen and from whom. One tale is that he stole it from Bishop Augustine’s library, though there were probably far more valuable books to be had. Another is that Genseric sought a way to influence the Moors and gain the upper hand during his invasion of North Africa and so stole the treasured scroll from the Moors, then threatened its destruction if the city didn’t surrender.”
“The scroll?” Sam asked, intrigued. “Was it biblical?”
“No, philosophical. Meant to bring peace and harmony to the world. Beyond that, I have no idea.”
“Parmenides,” Lazlo said. “I knew it rang a bell. The child, Nasha, was chanting bits of it back at the school.”
“Philosophy?” Remi’s brows rose. “I never expected that of you.”
“You’re correct in that respect. It, and the professor who taught it, have haunted me since university. To think I might be rewarded for sitting in that torturous class day after day …”
“Back up a bit,” Sam said. “Who or what is Parmenides?”
“Parmenides,” Remi replied, “was an early sixth century B.C. pre-Socratic philosopher. He’s considered to be the founder of metaphysics, ontology. You know, existence, being—that sort of thing.”
“Eleatic philosopher.” Lazlo rubbed his forehead. “I have a vague recollection of my professor telling me there’d be no Plato if not for Parmenides. Some even suggest the chap contributed to our knowledge of atomic theory.”
Sam was about to comment when Remi said, “But what Parmenides is known for in particular is a poem, ‘On Nature.’ Only fragments of the work have survived.”
“A poem?” Sam said. “You’re trying to tell me that Warren was killed for a poem?”
“Not a poem in the true sense,” Remi said. “Early teachings were done in verse to help with memorization.”
Lazlo looked at Sam in disbelief. “If this missing scroll is this poem ‘On Nature,’ it might well be the complete poem. And if the complete poem has somehow survived the millennia, it’s quite likely to be the only existing copy. I daresay, it explains the inordinate interest in what would normally be a bog-standard archeological dig in the midst of other bog-standard archeological digs.”
“True,” Remi said. “What little is known about Parmenides’ works are from surviving fragments.”
“Quite right. No scholar has e
ver seen the poem in its entirety,” Lazlo continued. “Fragments alone—should they consist of the missing verses—would be worth a lot of dosh. The entire poem? On the black market? I’d say ten, fifteen million at least. And that’s a modest estimate. Anyone who might get his hands on the complete poem would be playing a blinder, in cricket terms.”
“A home run,” Sam said. Which meant those thefts and break-ins had less to do with any curse or random bits of antiquities to sell on the black market and more to do with the value of the Parmenides Scroll. It certainly explained the tenacity of whoever was behind all of this. And possibly why Warren was killed. Sam took his fork and cut one of the banatages in half, watching the steam rise up from the meaty filling. “One question,” he said to Amal. “Is there any chance that Dr. LaBelle knew of any of this?”
“The curse, a scroll, and the map—yes. But Parmenides? It’s the first I’ve even heard of it. And I’m supposed to be the Keeper of the Map.”
“You?” Lazlo said.
“If you believe old wives’ tales, that is.”
“Indeed, I do. Exactly what do you know about this map and curse attached to it?”
“The curse was cast by the High Priestess after King Genseric hid the scroll. Sadly, that’s all I know about it, the part my grandmother taught me, where only one who is of royal blood can return the scroll to its rightful home.”
“What happens,” he asked, “if it’s a non-royal who finds the scroll?”
“Anyone not worthy dies a violent death.”
Remi grinned. “Guess it’s up to you, Fargo.” She gave a conspiratorial wink to Amal. “He’s distantly related to the British Crown.”
Sam laughed. “Far enough down the line we’d need a computer to calculate. Especially with this new bunch of royal grandkids being born.”
“Royal is royal,” Remi replied. She helped herself to one of the appetizers, then passed the plate to Amal. “Where were we?”
“She’s the Keeper of the Map,” Sam reminded her.
“It’s not just the map,” Amal said. “Again, and only if you believe those old legends, I’m the direct descendant of the Priestess/witch who cast that curse.”
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