Gold of Kings (29 page)

T
HE COMMANDANT CAME BACK INTO
his office and pretended to search his desk for something. He left once more and did not return. The money remained planted under the ashtray. Harry did not know whether to take this as a good sign or not, until the lieutenant entered, handed back their IDs, and said, “I take you now.”

Everyone they passed showed a careful determination not to even see them. The back of the lieutenant's shirt was black with sweat. When they were out in the sunlight and walking the track away from the main entrance, Harry asked, “How much did the commandant take from you?”

“All but one hundred. I'm restricted to base for six months.” He gave Harry the stink eye. “You make too much trouble for too little money.”

The base was shaped like a rough triangle, with the main gates at the pinnacle. The border to Harry's left was formed by a copse of hard-woods. Through the trunks he saw a flicker of blue, where the cliff dropped away and the sky joined with the sea. They passed the officers' quarters, a trio of barracks, squads drilling and snapping rifles to their shoulders, trundling military vehicles, all the bits of a life Harry missed not at all. Where the road curved right and inland, the lieutenant took an unmarked path that aimed straight at the trees. Harry waited until
he could see the ruins to say, “Okay, we'll take it from here. Stay here in the shade. We won't be long.”

The lieutenant made sure they were unseen. “I want more.”

“Look—”

He chopped the air. “Forget the deal. I owe much money.”

Harry stepped in close enough for his bulk to shadow the lieutenant. “You stay here. You stay alert. You take us back to the front gate. We make it out, you get another two.”

Harry turned away. “Let's go, Storm.”

When they were well into the trees, she asked, “Are we safe?”

“He's got two hundred good reasons to make sure. But we need to hurry.”

The monastery was perched on a promontory that pushed seaward until they were surrounded on three sides by the Med. The monastery was not directly on the cliff's edge, but not far off either. Harry walked over to the ledge. One glance was enough to explain why this region had seen no tourism. There was no beach whatsoever. The rock face fell sheer to the sea, a drop of seven or eight hundred feet. The cliff face extended to his left until it faded into a bluish grey horizon. To his right, the cliff joined the mountains forming the island's northern spine. The peaks marched eastward and melted with the heat and the dust. Harry turned back to the ruins. Something about the setting bothered him. He gave it a few minutes, but came up with nothing.

Storm jumped at the sound of repeated bangs. “What's that?”

“Rifle range. Let's get to work.”

A single Corinthian column marked the entrance to a dusty enclosure. The interior walls were bitten down to shoulder-high chunks. The lower halves of narrow windows framed white-capped waves. The wind rustled and moaned about the ruins. Harry made a slow sweep. “Touch of paint, a good cleaning, and we could move right in.”

The monastery ruins were a series of interlocking rooms that revolved around a central courtyard. The monks' chapel was the largest chamber and contained space for what once had been a door to the outside. Harry had twice gone after early religious relics. Some of the oldest monasteries had developed from religious communes. There was probably some fancy name for them, but commune worked
for him. Families lived together and shared everything. They made up the core group. But there was also outreach. But new believers and their families weren't just invited in. Harry had read how this interim period could last anywhere up to three years. During that period, newcomers could enter the church but nowhere else. It wasn't until the fifth or sixth century that most of these original communities turned celibate. And even then, many kept to the habit of opening their daily services to outsiders. So these old chapels had their own entrance.

Harry asked, “Did the colonel say where the crypt was located?”

“Not a word.”

Harry headed for the front of the chapel. The nave was marked by an oblong stone frame the size of a dinner table. The sanctuary faced east, back away from the sea. The front wall was three-sided and rose to cup the lower remains of windows. The view was over mountains rising out of the sea. Harry could think of worse ways to start the day than this view. He turned away and started kicking the earth floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Most tombs are located under the altar. So the dead remain part of the service, and they're prayed over by the brethren. Why don't you work your way around the left walls.”

Harry found the mausoleum by tripping over the lid.

A lid that should not have been there.

“Now this is interesting.”

“What?” She stepped over beside him.

Harry kicked the metal plate. “Give me a hand with this thing.”

The steel lid was three feet square and over half an inch thick and weighed a ton. No way could they ever actually lift it. Harry found a length of rusting pipe and Storm grabbed a tree limb. Together they managed to shift it about a foot. Harry pulled one of the flashlights from his pack and shone it down the hole. Far in the distance gleamed a rocky base. “What do you know.”

Storm broke her limb and Harry's pipe bent like a question mark. The lid still covered more than half the opening. Harry drew the coiled rope from his pack and knotted it around one corner of the lid. “Walk over there and keep tension on the rope.”

He made sure the rope didn't slip until Storm was in place. Then he joined her. “We're not going to pull straight back. If we do the rope will slip off. We walk to our right.”

“Unscrew the lid.”

“That's the idea. Ready? Okay, pull.”

Harry had to refit the rope three times before the lid was over far enough for them to slip past. He looped the rope around one stumpy outcrop growing from the nave, tested it, then said, “Don't rely on this thing unless you have to.”

Storm peered into the dark. “Does Cyprus have snakes?”

“I guess that means I'll go first.”

The opening was scarcely broader than Harry's shoulders and descended at an angle somewhere between stairs and a rock ladder. He made sure he had a fresh grip with the hand not holding the flashlight before each step. The chapel floor was maybe five feet thick. When his head finally cleared the ledge, he saw he was descending a rock outcropping carved from one wall.

“Shine your light over my shoulder. No, lay down and extend your arm in here. Yeah, that's it.” Harry slipped his own light into his pocket and kept going. “Okay, I'm down.”

“What have you found?”

He retrieved his light and flashed it about the chamber. “Come down and see for yourself.”

Harry kept his light on Storm's next step and his other hand extended toward her leading leg. She slipped down lightly beside him. “You go right, I'll take left.”

The chamber's side walls were lined by floor-to-ceiling tiers. The room was fifty feet long and thirty wide, the stone ceiling curved into a high arch. The rear of the chamber held a dozen stone coffins. The shelves were filled with a jumble of bones.

The front of the chamber held a smaller replica of the main chapel's nave—same stubby legs of a vanished stone table, same curved front wall facing east. Harry knew the place would have been used as a second chapel, both for funerals and for nighttime prayer vigils. The early folk had not kept bereavement at arm's length. Death was too close.

Storm traced her hand over the scarred front wall and moaned.

“It's not so bad.”

“Don't you dare patronize me.”

“I'm serious.”

Storm's light made an angry sweep of the room. “There's nothing here!” Her voice echoed through the looted chamber. “They took
everything.
”

“Pretty much.” Harry walked to the back and peered into the stone coffins. They were all empty. “I figure these coffins were for bishops and the shelves held the common folk. The bishops were probably buried in their robes, maybe with a cross or a ring, and the coffin lids were carved. Which is why they've been looted.”

She dropped to her hands and knees and ran her fingers over the stone floor. “I can see shadows where the mosaics used to be.”

Harry walked over and squatted beside her. “Here's what I think probably happened. The commandant heard about the crypt. My guess is one of his enlisted men got caught pilfering. So he came in and did a professional job on the remains. Probably made a killing.”

“Which may be how Sean wound up with the chalice.”

“Makes sense.” Harry's light played across walls where the rocks were scarred with fresh chisel marks. “The monks probably had a secret compartment in the stone altar there at the front. They could have brought the chalice out for special occasions, maybe a once-in-a-lifetime thing, like when they inducted a new bishop. That commandant might actually have done us a favor.”

Storm's head raised in stages as his words sunk in. “What?”

“Think about it. We've got a peeved British colonel with no ax to grind except a desire to get back here for another look. And nobody else knew about this place, from the sound of things. So the commandant loots this place, finds the chalice, Sean buys it off some black-market dealer, and look where we wind up.”

“You're saying the treasure is still here?”

“Maybe. For sure the commandant didn't get it. Otherwise he'd be poolside in Aruba.”

“What do we do?”

Harry rose to his feet. “Let's go see if the lieutenant stayed bought long enough to get us out of here.”

 

WHEN THEY EMERGED FROM THE
trees, the lieutenant was nowhere to be found. The road was empty, the rifle range silent. Even the wind seemed to have been defeated by the day. They walked a barren road, past silent buildings.

They rounded the commandant's office. The main gates were fronted by a traffic circle holding a half dozen flagpoles. The flags hung limp, hot, defeated.

On the other side of the traffic circle stood a squad of armed soldiers. The commandant and the lieutenant stood in the gatehouse's shade.

Harry said, “If he stops us, I'll argue. You run.”

“There's no way I'm leaving you.”

“Do like I'm telling you.” At a signal from the lieutenant, the soldiers started forward. “Here we go. Watch for my signal.”

But there was no chance of her running anywhere. A phalanx of soldiers remained by the barrier while the rest split and came around both sides of the circle. The commandant walked forward with his lieutenant in tow. The lieutenant's uniform was more sweat than cloth. “The commandant asks if you found what you sought.”

“Just more rocks and weeds.”

“The commandant asks if you care to join him for more tea.”

“Hey, you know we'd love to stay and chat.” Harry pointed to where Emma stood by the main barrier, her arms crossed, her legs planted, her stance shouting anger. “But the federal agent over there needs to return and make her report.”

Storm corrected, “Interpol.”

“Whatever.”

The lieutenant stiffened. The commandant snipped off a quick question. The lieutenant translated. Both men turned and looked at Emma.

The commandant asked the lieutenant, “Interpol?”

Harry said, “You tell him whatever it is you need to, get us through those gates, meet me at the café tonight and you'll still have your cash.” He raised his voice and said, “The commandant here wants to see your badge!”

Emma had them ready. She flipped both open and raised them over her head, one in each hand. “Tell him to take his pick!”

The lieutenant asked, “Is it true, she is agent?”

“The American government and Interpol both wanted to make sure this
extremely important
lady with me here had a proper welcome. Please tell the commandant we're grateful for his hospitality. But we're walking out those gates right now.” He took hold of Storm's arm. “Let's go.”

Harry felt the itch of two dozen soldiers taking aim at his back. They walked around the barrier's tip, on the entrance's side opposite the guardhouse. Storm puffed tight little breaths but stayed steady, even when the soldiers fronting the barrier shouted something, whether for Harry to stop or for the commandant to give orders, he had no idea. “Keep moving.”

Emma came around to Storm's other side and walked in lockstep back to the car. Not saying a word. Just moving with them. A stroll across the lot. Into the car. Harry had a little trouble getting the keys into the ignition and the car in gear. But he managed. The soldiers watched but did not move.

None of them drew a decent breath until they rounded the first corner.

B
ACK IN KYRENIA, HARRY WORKED
out two shopping lists. He took the longer for himself and left with Storm, a fistful of Sean's money, and a plan to rendezvous in two hours. They had just started down the line of shops fronting the main harbor road when Storm's phone rang.

“Hello, Storm. It's me.” Claudia sounded beyond drained, as if the life had been sucked out of her days ago and she just kept going, a husk without the energy to lie down and quit. “What is that noise?”

“You caught me on a street.” Storm stepped into the entrance to a block of apartments and cupped the phone. “What's going on?”

“A lot. Where are you?”

Storm hesitated a long moment, then decided: “Outside Paris.” By about fifteen hundred miles.

“You've found a job in France?”

“Actually, I'm looking for a possible new find.”

“Who for?”

Storm had to shout against the roar of passing motorbikes. “Me.”

“You're opening up your own shop?”

“Thinking about it.”

“With what?”

“I have the Dürer, remember?”

“One painting doesn't make a shop, no matter how special. Why not use it as an entré into a big house?”

“What do you have against my going into the business for myself, Claudia?”

“I'm concerned about your future. That's all.”

“Is that why you called?”

“No.” The silence thundered louder than the road. Then, “I've sold Syrrell's.”

“Don't.”

“It's done, Storm. The papers are signed. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Who will run things?”

This pause was the hardest of all to bear. Claudia finally replied, “That's still under negotiation.”

Storm realized the afternoon light had become somewhat blurred. “Traitor.”

 

THEIR PREPARATIONS TOOK THEM THROUGH
the rest of the day and well into the night. But Cyprus ran by Mediterranean time, which meant none of the shops Harry needed to hit closed before midnight. Emma endured the Kyrenia rental agent's scathing comments and traded in the damaged car for a Suzuki four-wheel drive. They all returned to the cottage well and truly spent. They ate a cold supper on the patio. Overhead the clouds clustered about the peaks, while below them the lights of Kyrenia sparked a promise of what lay ahead.

After dinner Storm hugged Harry good night and declared, “You're the best.”

“You did okay back there yourself.”

She hugged him harder still. “Only because you were there.”

Emma fitted herself into the space Storm left vacant. She held him less tightly, but more completely. When Storm could be heard moving about inside the cottage, she asked, “Do you think there will ever be a time for us?”

“Count on it.”

She kissed him, then moved back far enough to inspect him with
star-flecked eyes. Her tongue touched her lips, like she was tasting him. She kissed him again. Then slipped away.

The next morning, Harry started an hour or so earlier than he would have liked, drawn awake by a thousand urgent tasks. He rose and brewed a pot and took his mug out front. Their supplies were crammed into the back of the Suzuki. He heard the women stirring and returned to the kitchen. “One small backpack each. Dress for a hot day. Bring extra layers for warmth, in case.”

Storm did not look over. “You told us that already.”

“Twice,” Emma said.

They left twenty minutes later. They went to the fishing port and parked down from a shop advertising Jet Skis for rent. Harry didn't go looking for a boat because he didn't want the hassle. This close to smuggling routes, boats were carefully monitored. Jet Skis were considered tourist toys. Even so, the only way they obtained two for an overnight adventure was by flashing money. “We'll need two sets of diving gear. Tanks, fins, suits, spearguns, weight belts. And sleds to carry the stuff around.”

“One of the ladies does not join you?”

“They'll switch around. We need to keep one person up top, remember?”

“You are going to much trouble for this privacy.” The guy was both young and darkly handsome, and possessed an easy manner from feasting on tourist dollars and women. “Why you not come on my diving tour? We take nice boat. I know many beautiful places only I can show you.”

“It's our vacation and we like to do things our way.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. You want private beach. Do private things.”

Harry heard Emma's chair creak and figured she was about three seconds from handing this guy his head, one tiny piece at a time. “How much?”

They dickered over price for a while, then longer over the deposit, which wound up being almost enough to buy the two Jet Skis outright. They slipped across the street and tucked themselves well back in a harbor restaurant, lone Westerners surrounded by rattling backgammon dice and bubbling hookahs and men. They ate a shank of lamb and rice and salad and sketched plans on the paper tablecloth until the dock-hand came to say their Jet Skis were ready.

They loaded the gear onto the sleds and lashed it tight with bungee cords. Jet Ski sleds were built both to haul and to act as dive platforms, and were remarkably stable so long as they remained attached to a machine. The shop owner stood and watched and did not lift a finger to help. “You have dived the Med before?”

“Many times.”

“Is very lovely, the waters here. Very romantic. I have favorite place.” He made solemn eyes at Storm. “I show you, make the other lady happy.”

Harry covered the ladies' growl by revving his engine. “See you tomorrow.”

The sleds dragged heavy against the Jet Skis' desire to kick in and fly. The wind was light, the waves a gentle onshore wash. Harry increased the speed at a gradual pace, pulling past the fort and the main Kyrenia harbor, watching to make sure Storm could handle the other machine. The city sprawled across the seafront lowlands, the cranes marking where new tourist developments began to scale the first ridges. High overhead, the tallest peak was crowned by the remnants of Hilarion Castle, one of three mountain fortresses built by King Richard the Lionhearted. They left the tourist mania behind, passing small seaside villages and exchanging waves with coastal fishermen. The engines churned, the spray flew. Emma tightened her grip about his waist, her warmth a sharp contrast to the water's chill. The sun baked them with sea salt for spice.

They rounded Cape Korucam, with its medieval stone lighthouse and emerald pastures, shepherds watching them from the point. The mountains closed in, spilling in timeless grace down to the sea, their crowns lost to clouds. The hills marched in stolid certainty into the lavender distance, joining finally with the sea and the sky. Harry moved in closer to shore, the cliffs a looming wall blocking the east.

He knew they had arrived because the ledge upon which the monastery sat was a solitary hook of rock, extending at a jagged angle from the main cliff face. Harry pulled a bit farther offshore, checked the current to ensure they were safe for a dive, then cut his engine. After two hours of whining engines, the silence was achingly strong.

Emma slipped back a notch. It seemed to Harry that the lady might have been a bit reluctant to release her grip. He patted her arm, unable to come up with words quite as fine as that sentiment. She seemed to
understand, because she kissed the sun-splashed back of his neck before finally letting go.

Storm called over, “I saw that.”

Emma said, “Stick around, you might learn something.”

Harry said, “I wish.”

Storm's quip was cut off by a ringing from Emma's backpack. Emma said, “I don't believe it.”

“The military base up on the cliff must have its own cell-phone tower,” Harry said.

Storm asked, “Do you have to answer?”

Emma slipped agilely onto the sled. She pulled the phone from her pack, checked the readout, and hit the button. “Agent Webb.”

“Business,” Harry said.

Storm sighed.

Emma's tone went steel hard. “What I need to hear from you, sir, is the history and whereabouts for Yves Boucaud.”

Storm turned in her seat. As intent now as Emma.

Harry swung one leg over the center console. He kept a hand on the controls, balanced against any movement from Emma. Waves lapped against the windward side of his Jet Ski. The woman's face grew as hard as the cliffs overhead.

Emma fumbled inside the backpack and came up with pad and pen. The light was Aegean clear, a luminosity so brilliant Harry saw what he had missed up until then. Emma Webb was in fact two people. There was a woman strong enough to be soft with him. And this other person. A federal agent. Hard and cold and utterly professional. He studied her with the sadness of knowing she was locked into a world from which he was forever barred.

Emma cut the connection. The wraparound shades clung to a face more stone than flesh. “Washington's come through. I need to let Hakim know.”

Storm asked, “Can you tell us first?”

Harry replied, “No. Make the call.”

“Thanks.”

He watched her so intently he only half heard her side of the conversation. Her tone held him, though, clipped and terse, chopping each word off with a sniper's precision. The question Harry had to work through
was, could he handle having less than 100 percent of this lady? Because he was certain there would always be places she went without him.

He gripped the Jet Ski's rubber handle and looked over the side, down into the waiting depths. Down into his world. He looked back to the sled. As Emma talked about the bad guys, she left his world behind. Harry knew this would be a lifelong pattern. It left him a little sad, but not much. Because he felt what was really happening was a whole lot bigger than just one shift in his perception. Like he'd taken some giant leap of his own. Adding another mystery to the world.

Finally Emma shut the phone, put away her notepad, zipped up the backpack, said, “Okay. Here's what we know. Yves Boucaud was born Robert Montalband in Marseilles to
pied noir
parents.
Pied noir
translates as blackfoot. It was intended as a semiderogatory way of describing Europeans cast out of Algeria after France lost the civil war, but the families apparently use it to describe themselves to this day, and with pride. They are very close-knit. Some are involved with crime lords inside the Arab world. Ten years ago, Boucaud became a principal conduit for clandestine arms shipments to US allies. In the lead-up to the second Gulf war, Boucaud was the largest supplier to Kurdish rebels in north Iraq.”

Storm asked, “Why the name change?”

“You see that sometimes. Maybe he stiffed the wrong partner. Or maybe he moved up in the world and wanted to break from his past. In any case, the US recently discovered that our boy had started using his ally status to sell arms wherever he could find a buyer. The US government has been playing it low-key, hoping threats would bring him around and allow them to avoid a major publicity nightmare.”

Harry said, “He's fronting for terrorists.”

Emma shrugged a maybe. “As of yesterday, Homeland Security has officially put Boucaud on their watch list and has frozen any further business.”

Storm said, “That's it?”

“My guy claims they have no concrete evidence to take it any further.”

“In other words, they still aren't looking very hard.”

Emma did not respond.

Harry let the water lap against the hulls for a time, then said, “Let's get wet.”

 

STORM HELPED THEM SUIT UP
and fit on the tanks. She declined Harry's offer for her first-ever diving lesson, said she'd be happy to snorkel when they were done. She watched them slip over the sled's edge and gave it a full twenty minutes. Harry had lashed the two Jet Skis together so Storm could easily hold them both offshore. She waited until their air bubbles had shifted so far south of the boat that she could no longer make them out from the waves and the sun. Then she shifted to the other machine, climbed onto the sled, and reached into Emma's backpack.

Emma's notepad and pen were in the same side pocket as her phone and the Interpol badge. Storm scouted about, half expecting to see Emma rise from the waves and hurtle accusations. But she was alone on the calm waters, save for a distant boat and a pair of gulls floating overhead. Storm opened the Interpol ID, the leather wallet so new it creaked. Emma looked out at her with a steel-hard gaze, the total pro. Storm ran her finger down the edge of the cover. The night before, in the darkness of their shared bedroom, Storm had asked her how it felt to be a federal agent. Emma had replied sleepily that it was the best job in the world, but only if you could put up with the sexist hassles, the lack of stick-around men, and parents who urge you to get psychiatric help. For some reason, Storm had felt sad for them both.

Right then, she wished for a bit more of Emma's hard-core strength.

Storm put down the wallet and opened Emma's notebook to the last page. Yves Boucaud's telephone number stood out clearly because it was the only thing not written in Emma's personal shorthand. Storm unzipped the backpack's other pocket and drew out her own cell phone. The signal was down to a single bar. Storm dialed the number.

After three rings, a man's voice came on. “Speak now.”

The shock of hearing the voice behind Sean's murder felt as sharp as an ice dagger. “My name is Storm Syrrell. I am calling to ask you for a job.”

She slapped the phone shut and clenched both hands between her thighs, rocking slightly until the body tremors eased.