Book of Stolen Tales (32 page)

Madison ambled slowly with his head down, unaware of the danger, jerking his head up only when the heavyset man got ten feet or so away. Before he had a chance to react, the pistol was in the man's hand. A look of horror crossed Madison's face. He turned on a dime and ran. It wasn't enough. That close, even an amateur couldn't miss.

Madison took the shot square in the back.

The force of the shot propelled his body forward several feet. His foot lifted momentarily as if he were trying to execute a dance step and he crumpled onto the sidewalk. He used his arms to crawl for a few inches then lay still, face down.

The shooter fled, his fat thighs pumping like fury.

Shaheen had made the fatal mistake of training his attention on the spotter in the black coat and noticed the gunman too late. He reached under his jacket for his Ruger LCP-CT and aimed but cars prevented a clear shot. A passerby screamed. The gunman ran into the gap between trams.

Madison lay on his stomach, a hole from the bullet burned into the back of his jacket. Shaheen pocketed his gun and whipped out his phone to call an ambulance. He reached Madison and bent down to turn him face up.

Madison kicked out at him. Shaheen leapt back in surprise. “What the fuck? Are you immortal or something?”

White-faced, Madison turned over. He dragged in a couple of deep breaths and edged himself into a sitting position, clamping his hand to his back. “Shit. That knocked the breath out of me. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Seeing to your protection.” Shaheen laughed. “Are you wearing something under that jacket? Gotta be.” Shaheen stretched out a hand to help Madison up.

“A friend in Paris gave me a Kevlar vest. It seemed wise, under the circumstances. Always be prepared, I guess.”

“Let's get out of here. People are gawking.”

Now that the attack was over, commuters who'd initially scattered at the sound of the shot rushed back. One woman shook her finger at them and yelled something in Flemish. Shaheen cast a glance over to the plaza but both the spotter and the gunman were long gone.

Thirty-Two

S
haheen and Madison crossed the plaza and entered the network of streets beyond to find a place to talk. Madison took his time and walked with some difficulty. Shaheen used his cellphone to call his agent still waiting on the platform. He described the shooter and asked the agent to deal with the police, who'd probably be on scene any minute.

“If two people want you terminated in broad daylight they've got to have a compelling reason,” he said to Madison.

“Two of them? Who was the other one?”

“Old guy with a cane sitting across from me. The one you described in your report to Scotland Yard. He was acting as a spotter. He knew you, at least what you look like, so we can assume the shooter didn't.”

They found a bar just opening for the day, and settling at a table in a dim corner, ordered their drinks.

“My back feels like it's loaded with bird shot.”

“The vest'll stop a bullet but you're going to have serious bruises.” Shaheen reached into his pocket and took out a pill box. “OxyContin. I swear by them. Just take one though because they're powerful. Any more than that and you'll spend the rest of the day in never-never land.”

Madison threw one down and swallowed. “Doesn't sound like such a bad idea. Do you know who the shooter was?”

“Nope. What's that smell? You been standing around a bonfire?” Shaheen asked. “They must have been burning tires.”

“It's from a house fire near my hotel.”

“What are you up to in Ghent?”

“Tracking one of the volumes. And the woman who bought it just died in that fire. I saw her yesterday and she gave me a photocopy of the volume she owned.” He paused and tried to shift into a more comfortable position. “Her name was Katharina Hatzfeld. Lorenzo Mancini's wife.”

Shaheen raised his eyebrows. “You mean the book's real owner?” “The same. He's in town right now.”

“You're a one-man destruction machine, aren't you? Remind me not to invite you over for dinner. I'd wind up dead.”

Madison gave him a grim smile. “I was back in my hotel long before the fire started. You're free to check with the night clerk. The neighbors say it was an accident. I don't believe that. Mancini's desperate to get his hands on all the volumes of Basile's book.”

“Okay, point taken. Where were you when Ewan Fraser was murdered?”

“Trying to get the hell out of Naples. I'd been warned Mancini wanted to kill me too.”

“Too? You're suggesting Mancini killed Fraser?”

“Not directly. Hired muscle. Mancini's got a history of abusing people. He raped a young girl he and his wife took in. He's a total pig.”

“A brunette, longish face, dark eyes?”

“Yes. She's the one who stole the book from Mancini in the first place. How did you know?”

Shaheen thought for a minute. “Saw a photo of her Renwick took. Where's she now?”

Madison shrugged. “On the run, last I heard.”

The waiter brought their drinks. Shaheen extracted a cigarillo from his jacket pocket. Madison chugged down his scotch and ordered a second.

“So what's the real reason the military is interested in me?” “We're checking Renwick's movements. He was in Iraq last August, same as you. And now you're hunting down the book he wanted.”

“I never met Renwick in Iraq. Like I told you before, we've never met at all. I can't see why you'd be interested in him; he was just a fusty English publisher.”

“Last September in Baghdad he met two individuals who encountered some trouble,” Shaheen said. “Americans. People on our side. I need to know what they talked about.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Not at liberty to say. But it's nasty enough.” He tapped his cigarillo absentmindedly over the ashtray as if it were lit. “The fact Renwick's missing sends up a big red flag. And now Ewan Fraser and Mancini's wife are both dead. Seems like the book you're chasing is bad luck—wouldn't you say?”

“
Mancini's
bad luck. The guy's a homicidal maniac. Aren't you going to light that thing?”

“Promised myself I'd quit.”

“You like tempting fate then?”

Shaheen grinned. “Pretty much describes my life.”

“You know something else was stolen from Renwick, right? A circular stone artifact he brought back from Iraq. It was marked with cuneiform writing.”

“Saw a reference to it in the police report on the burglary,” Shaheen said. “How does it fit in, do you think?”

“No idea. Don't even know what it is, but I'm trying to find out. People develop all kinds of wild theories about things. And they get obsessed with proving them.”

“We've been trying to piece together some Iraqi words.
Ersh
and
gal
. Your brother was a specialist in ancient tongues. Do those words mean anything to you?”

“Not offhand,” Madison said. “Is it written down? Maybe that would help.”

Shaheen got out his ballpoint and wrote the two words on a cocktail napkin, turning it around for Madison to see. Madison studied them for a few minutes. “If I'm right, the word should be written like this. Er-esh-ki-gal. Actually, it's not a word, it's a name. The goddess of the Mesopotamian underworld. Associated with Nergal, the male underworld deity and Babylonian god of plague.”

Thirty-Three

S
haheen remained stone-faced despite the bombshell Madison had just dropped on him. Could Renwick have led the scientists to a bioweapon site associated with some ancient plague source? If so, the Iraqis had kept it an ironclad secret. Shaheen couldn't afford to rule out anything at this point. He took back the napkin, scribbled a note, and crammed it into his pocket. “You were heading to Rome?”

“Still am,” Madison said. “And then on to Naples to check out another volume of Basile's anthology. The fourth one.”

“Isn't that Mancini's home base?”

“Yes. I'm hoping he'll remain in Ghent long enough so I can slip in and out of the city before he returns. Maybe you could help keep him here. You'd probably get a lot further checking him out than wasting your time on me.”

Before they parted, Shaheen gave Madison his cell number and wished him luck. As he watched Madison walk away he wondered whether he'd see him alive again. Mancini wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Shaheen had arranged to have Mancini's movements tracked after the interview with Madison in DCI Wilson's office. He knew Mancini flew to Ghent early that morning but until Madison told him, he hadn't learned why because Mancini had cloaked his phone and computer. The conte was booked into the Duke's Palace Hotel in Bruges, twenty-three miles away. An appropriate place, Shaheen thought, for elite customers. He decided to try a face-to-face. The owner, after all, should know everything about his book.

An expensive cab ride took him to the hotel in Bruges. When the registration clerk called the suite, he got no answer. Since Mancini hadn't checked out yet Shaheen assumed he was still busy with the police and fire officials. Or maybe the grieving husband was just out for a long, comforting lunch.

Ten minutes later, through one of the high, elegantly curtained windows, Shaheen spotted a limousine pulling up. Mancini's tall, angular figure strode through the lobby doors, his guard trailing behind. Shaheen stepped forward. “Conte Mancini,” he said, “a word with you? I'm First Lieutenant Shaheen, U.S. Army Special Forces.”

It registered for an instant and vanished just as quickly—a glint of fear in Mancini's tight little eyes. Shaheen noticed it before the guard thrust himself between them.

“My ID,” Shaheen said, holding it up.

The guard, a well-muscled fellow with a white scar on his forehead, waved the card away rudely. “
Lassatece mò!
Do not bother him now.”

Mancini gestured for his guard to back away. He held out his hand for the ID and glanced at it before handing it back. “What is it you want?”

“Just to talk—about the book you reported stolen.”

If Mancini was a man in mourning he didn't look it. His expression spoke, instead, of anger. Rage suppressed, but just barely. Shaheen had seen that look before on insurgents right after they'd been caught. A faint odor of smoke lingered over Mancini's clothes.

Nature had not blessed the conte with good looks. He had a craggy nose, hard eyes, and thin colorless lips. But money could banish a host of imperfections. Shaheen guessed he was a well-preserved mid-fifty. His snow-white helmet of hair contrasted oddly with a wrinkle-free face, the smooth skin likely the product of a surgeon. And his suit, expertly cut to hide a paunch, probably cost thousands.

“Surely the American military has enough to do these days, Lieutenant, without chasing after stolen books. What do you really want?”

“I'll admit it sounds like a stretch. It'll take some time to explain. It concerns an antiquities dealer named John Madison. I think you know of him.” Shaheen gestured toward the bar. “Can we talk over a drink?”