Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (99 page)

"You're getting good at figuring out the truthful bits," she said. Too good, sometimes. It was hard to keep the upper hand. "Still, I wish we could go dancing."

He glanced down at the quilt, at their entwined hands, his over hers, fingers laced. "There's a dance at the Legion on Christmas Eve. With a live orchestra and everything. We do it every year. It may not be a big hotel in Denver, or as nice as a club in LA…."

"…I'd love to, darling! That sounds perfect." She flexed her fingers under his, liking the feel of his big hands, the way it stretched the skin between her fingers, sensual in what was surely a perfectly innocent way. Even the most strict Edwardian would be hard pressed to object to persons of mature age holding hands. Especially a person of forty and a person who was just a shade shy of thirty six. Not that ladies had ages. "But I don't suppose the Charleston will shock them."

"Probably not," Mitch said. The set of his shoulders relaxed. Did he really think she'd say she didn't want to go? "Even in Colorado Springs we've seen the Charleston for ten years."

"And you'd like to shock people," she said. Of course he would. Fast cars and fast planes and faster women, or at least the best illusion of the latter she could muster. He could have that back. And she could give it to him. He could be the guy everyone envied, the one that everyone was sure was getting some prime hoochie. The idea came all at once, breathtaking in its simplicity, a full plot completely formed from her enormous brain, like giving birth to a Jazz Age Athena. "Darling, have you ever seen a Danse Apache?"

"Only in the movies," he said. His breath caught a little, and she knew she had him.

"I think we should do one at the American Legion dance," she said, twisting around to see him better.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Women would faint. Dogs would bark. There might be a rain of frogs."

"That would be worth seeing," Stasi said. "Don't you think?" She turned her hand over in his, twisting her fingers between his, her thumbnail sliding across his palm. "And fun."

"We'd have to practice a lot."

"I expect we would," Stasi said innocently. "Hours and hours. We'd have to work out all the steps and practice incessantly. But I imagine it would be worth it."

"I don't mind a little hard work," he said fervently.

"Good," Stasi said. "Because I'm planning to work you."

Chapter Four

New York,

November 25, 1932

T
he one thing that was bad about being in New York was that it was hard to get around. The buses and subways were difficult to manage with his wooden leg, and the cabs were expensive. Sometimes it seemed as though every dime he saved eating at the Horn and Hardart he spent on taxis. He reached for his wallet, but Iskinder was there before him, waving away his attempt to pay. Jerry swallowed his protest — God knew, Iskinder had the money to spare even now — and levered himself out on the sidewalk.

The broad sweep of steps that led to the museum's main entrance were difficult at the best of times, and at the moment it was filled with people descending in the fading light. The museum would be closing soon, and mothers were tugging children toward the bus stop, while young couples dawdled on the steps, stretching out a holiday. Jerry led Iskinder north toward the staff entrance, where the guard admitted him with a nod and laid out the book for him to sign.

"I didn't think anybody would be in today, Dr. Ballard," he said. "And I think you're about the last."

Jerry glanced at the names above his own. Mostly the junior men, as one might expect, plus Professor Yarnold, who came in every day except Sunday, weekday, holiday, or doomsday. Even Yarnold had only stayed a few hours, and Jerry guessed they would have the basement more or less to themselves. "Ras Iskinder is my guest, of course," he said. "I'd like his opinion on a couple of items. I don't expect we'll be long."

"If you stay past closing, you'll have to leave by the park entrance," the guard said, and Jerry nodded.

"Of course."

He led the way through the maze of corridors to the stairs that led to the basement, his cane and wooden leg loud on the tiled floors, and worked his way carefully down, keeping his eye on the worn metal edges. He was aware of Iskinder braced behind him, and spoke without looking back.

"If I fall, you'll just make it worse if you try to catch me."

Iskinder breathed a laugh. "You could let me go first."

"Except you don't know where we're going," Jerry answered. They were at the bottom of the flight anyway, and he straightened, releasing his death grip on the handrail. "This way."

Most of the offices were closed and locked, no lights on behind the pebbled glass of the doors; the Asian workroom was lit, but as they came up to it, the light went out, and Professor Abadie emerged, blinking mildly as he locked the door behind him. "You're here late, Dr. Ballard."

"This was the only time Ras Iskinder was free to consult," Jerry answered, and Abadie nodded.

"Oh, of course. Good night, then."

"Good night," Jerry echoed, and waited as his footsteps receded down the hall.

"My uncle the Marquis of Carabas," Iskinder quoted, with a grin. "I haven't heard you use my title so much since you were trying to get out of the swimming requirement."

Jerry made a face. "Sorry. But I'd rather this seemed normal — and not Ptolemaic."

"You're very certain about this medallion."

Jerry nodded, and fished his keys out of his pocket to unlock his office door. It wasn't large, and the shelves were jammed with folders and cardboard boxes and battered books; there was barely enough room for a desk and two chairs, and the surface of the desk was a narrow strip between cliffs of folders. Iskinder gave it all a skeptical glance, and Jerry sighed.

"It's not all mine — most of it's not mine. This is the room they always give the contract labor." He flipped on the overhead, and switched on the desk lamp as well, letting its warmer light spill across the desk.

"It looks a bit more familiar than that," Iskinder answered.

"It really isn't —" Jerry broke off, shaking his head. "Here, hand me that box, the one with the green tag."

Iskinder scanned the shelves behind him, and lifted the box down to the table. Jerry loosed the string that held it closed, lifted off the lid and sorted through the tissue-wrapped bundles until he found the medallion of Ptolemy Auletes. He left it cushioned in its wrapping and handed it across.

"It's pretty ordinary at first glance, but take a look at the reverse."

Iskinder turned it carefully, and his eyebrows rose. "That is very interesting."

Jerry offered him the magnifying glass. Iskinder took it, peering at the worn images.

"That — it is the Soma."

"I told you." Jerry couldn't help a smile. "And not the usual perspective, either."

"No." Iskinder took a deep breath. "That's — it would be the biggest find since King Tut."

"Bigger," Jerry said. "I want it, Iskinder."

"Who wouldn't?" Iskinder held the medallion closer to the light. "Do you really think this is accurate?"

"There's no way to tell except by looking," Jerry answered. "The way to test it is to look for the Pylon of Isis. If it's where it seems to be on the medallion, then you go for the Soma."

"And if you say you're looking for the Pylon of Isis, you're more likely to get permits from the British," Iskinder said. "But — I hate to say it…"

Jerry nodded, swallowing the familiar pain. "I haven't been in the field in twenty years."

He stopped abruptly, frowning. Somewhere in the distance, a door had closed, heavy and soundless, a pressure in the air. No one else should be here — and there was nothing natural about it, either, this sense of wards falling into place like tumblers in a lock. He could feel the faint pressure of power, directed by an unfamiliar hand, and he looked sharply at Iskinder.

"Yes, I feel it —"

Jerry switched off the desk lamp, and slid the medallion into his jacket pocket. "Come on."

He flicked off the overhead as well and eased open the office door.

"Don't you have anything here?" Iskinder asked softly.

"I share the space," Jerry said. "I told you, most of the things on the shelves aren't even mine. And — I'm trying to be respectable." Which was why he hadn't warded his own work, not that he'd expected to need that sort of protection. And that, of course, was when you generally needed it….

The hallway was empty, dark at the far end where Abadie had absently switched off the lights as he went; the door that led to the gallery stairs was also dark. Jerry flicked off the nearest of the hall lights, cocked his head to listen. There were no sounds, just the heavy weight of the wards, someone sealing this space off from the world outside. They could be after anything, whoever they were; there were plenty of small and valuable objects in the storage room and workshops, things that were common enough that the Met didn't need to display them, but which would fetch a decent price on the antiquities market. And that meant these guys were true professionals, going for things that could profitably be re-sold, not the most intrinsically valuable objects —

"There," Iskinder said, his voice barely a breath in Jerry's ear.

Jerry heard it, too, the steady sound of feet on the tiled floor, not loud except by contrast to the quiet. He reached for his key ring, found the collections key and unlocked the door of the nearest storage room. "In here."

Iskinder slipped past him, and Jerry pulled the door almost closed behind him. As long as the burglars didn't turn on the hall lights, the gap should be invisible. He could see movement now, a shadow that resolved to a man in a plain neat suit, fedora pushed onto the back of his head. He held a flashlight, its lens covered with a handkerchief to cut its light, and he seemed to be checking the names on the doors. Three more shadows moved behind him, more men in suits, and as the leader slowed, Jerry thought he caught the glimpse of a pistol in one of the followers' hands.

Iskinder swore softly, and Jerry eased the door closed a little further. There was no way out of the collections room, and precious little cover behind and between the tall cases with their hundreds of velvet-lined drawers. At least this was the room where the least valuable Egyptian material was kept, probably the thieves wouldn't be coming here.

But they were still coming, the man with the flashlight methodically checking the names and numbers on each of the doors. Which argued that they were looking for something in particular, Jerry thought. That could be either good or bad — and, yes, at least two of them were very definitely carrying pistols. He caught Iskinder's sleeve, pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

"We need glamour — something to keep them away."

Iskinder nodded. "But subtle. They know what they're doing."

They certainly seemed to: the wards were solid, not Jerry's tradition, but something akin to it. He took a breath, centering himself, and made the Kabbalistic cross. "Ateh malkuth ve-gevurah ve-gedulah le-olahm." The familiar still certainty filled him, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the sense of the crowded room. It was all ordinary, everyday objects, nothing that belonged to kings and priests and princes; no gold nor silver nor precious stones, just faience and bone and brass, clay and wood and paint. Nothing of value, nothing that anyone could possibly be seeking, especially not in the dark with guns in hand…. He drew that everyday plainness around them like a cloak, weaving the ordinary to conceal them, dust and bone and dull daily use, the sound of stone on stone and hot stone beneath bare feet, insignificant, uninteresting, unremarkable….

Iskinder breathed a curse, but Jerry finished tying off the glamour, made sure it was solid before he looked. He could see the thieves still through the gap in the door, and his eyebrows rose. They had stopped at the door of his office, the man with the fedora busy first with something that he kept hidden in the palm of his hand, one of the others holding the flashlight, and then with what looked like a set of lockpicks. The door gave way, and the man in the fedora stepped inside, followed by the one with the flashlight. The other two waited in the hall, their guns raised.

"That's your office," Iskindir whispered. "What are they looking for?"

Jerry shook his head. The most valuable things were Rosenthal's ushabtis, someone would probably pay a decent price for a nice matched set like that, but there weren't many collectors who'd hire thieves to steal objects like that, not when there were plenty available on the legitimate market — nor were there many criminals who'd know enough to steal an ushabti rather than a gold necklace or a set of coins. There wasn't anything that would be useful to an occult practitioner, either — given the thieves' expertise with wards that had to be a possibility. He froze, the medallion suddenly heavy in his pocket. Surely that was impossible. If anyone had recognized what the medallion might be, all they had to do was make a private offer to Rosenthal. There was no need for this cloak and dagger play….

The man in the fedora emerged from his office, holding something on a short length of chain, and Jerry felt the spark of connection leap to the medallion in his pocket. He took a quick step back, Iskinder's face changing as he, too, realized what had happened. They were both unarmed, against two men with guns — and I am not giving this up without a fight, Jerry thought. He dropped his cane, fumbling for his set of case keys, and unlocked the case that held faience objects. Second drawer down — yes, there they were, half a row of them, five faience amulets in the shape of the god Anubis. All Ptolemaic, most from around Alexandria, none of them special, but all of them sealed to the god, to the protector. He seized one, handed it to Iskinder, and took another for himself, wrapping his hand around the familiar shape. The god strode forth, jackal-headed, hands fisted at his sides, one leg advanced, battered blue-green pottery no longer than his thumb.