The Black Madonna (17 page)

The interior quad held a small shop, tables, and a protected area surrounding a tree planted by Pope John Paul II when he had made his own pilgrimage. Emma bought a soft drink, moved under the awning that protected the gift-book counter, and scouted. The watchers were still on duty, which meant they hadn't found Harry either.

She finished her drink and returned to the basilica. She entered a candlelit alcove filled with the fragrance of incense and lilacs. The air was cool. Emma slipped into the rear pew. A puff
of wind entered the basilica with the next busload, a hot and dusty reminder of the threats that waited outside with the heat.

Emma smelled him before she saw him. The scent was almost bestial. She kept her eyes forward as the wheelchair's tires squeaked over the tiled floor. She saw a pair of woven leather sandals emerging from a djellaba so filthy she could not even name its color.

He managed to breathe the word, spoken so softly it would have sounded like an old man's sigh to anyone but her.

“Emma?”

She rose silently from her pew.

Emma gripped the wheelchair's arms and slowly swung it around. As she pushed him from the alcove, Harry reached across and grazed two fingers over her hand.

T
HE LIGHT AS THEY EXITED
was blinding. Emma focused upon the top of Harry's head and the stone walkway in front of his chair as she waited for her eyes to adjust. She was almost giddy when she realized they had passed the first pair of watchers unchallenged.

The wheelchair had a squeaky right wheel. The noise acted like an amplifier to her tension. Harry's head lolled slightly to the left so that his bandages and head-kerchief kept the exposed side of his face concealed. The walkway back to the parking lot was so steep she had to brake with both feet. Emma had a tough time getting the chair over the curb between the walk and the parking lot. The two guards observed her but made no offer to help.

There were over two dozen buses now, gaily painted giants shimmering in the afternoon heat. Emma chose the most direct course back to the car, straight through the flanking buses. When the shadows surrounded her but her vision did not clear, Emma realized she was releasing silent tears.

Harry repeated his earlier action, reaching across with his left fingers to touch her right hand. Only this time he grunted with pain and did not complete the gesture.

“Are you hurt?” Then she had to laugh. “Sorry. Silly question.”

“A couple of cracked ribs. Maybe three. My face got singed, but it's getting better.” A moment, then, “Emma, I just want you to know—”

“Don't. If you finish that sentence I'll break down right here and howl.”

“Where are we headed?”

“There's a vintage Mercedes at the bottom of the parking lot. I hope.”

“I'm not sure I can wait that long. There's a lot I need to say.”

The watcher chose that moment to round the bus.

Emma should have seen it coming. They had been scouting the parking lot all day. But she had spent what felt like a lifetime waiting for the chance to be this close to Harry again. The shadows had granted her a false sense of security. Whatever the reason, she had let her awareness slip.

The watcher's eyes were shielded by the sunglasses, and perhaps there was a hint of confusion caused by peering into the shadows. But the frown grew steadily larger as he realized what he saw—a woman in Arab garb pushing an Arab-looking man in a wheelchair, both of them speaking English with American accents.

The watcher slipped one hand under his jacket and inflated his lungs to shout.

Emma was already rushing around the wheelchair. Straight from calm tears to raging lioness in half a heartbeat. Raphael Danton's jet had nothing on her launch.

The watcher gaped at the black-garbed animal who sprang at his throat.

Emma chopped
the man's neck, cutting off the unspoken alarm. Her second blow was straight to the man's solar plexus. He emitted a foul stench of stale cigarettes and old coffee and folded to his knees, his rapidly swelling throat hacking desperately for breath.

The man's partner was caught totally unawares by the sight of an attacking woman in traditional garb, and was slow on the uptake. Emma heard herself emit a feral growl, the snarl of a beast that would die before even considering defeat. The man must have heard it as well, for his face reflected genuine shock.

Emma leapt over the crouching man, her black robes flying outward like the wings of a bird of prey. She kicked down and hit the second man hard in the chest.

The man bounced so hard off the bus's hood his head cracked a light. He fell hard to the tarmac.

Only then did Emma realize she was holding the first guard's pistol.

She skittered the gun under the nearest bus. She returned to Harry, gripped the chair arms, and steered him around the prone attackers.

Saleem sat frozen, gaping at her through the open window. Emma helped Harry into the rear seat, then rapped on the roof. “Pop the trunk, Saleem.”

She stowed the chair, slipped in beside Harry, and said, so calmly the voice must have belonged to another woman, “Let's go, Saleem. We're all done here.”

Harry's injuries did not dim his smile one iota. “That's my girl.”

T
HE DINING HALL ADJACENT TO
the Cirencester auction served a full English tea all afternoon long. Storm stood beside a stained-glass family coat of arms, drank from her cup, and felt a languid fatigue as fine as that from any drug. Raphael called as she finished. The man was off on some high-powered errand in Budapest. Jacob Rausch chose that moment to saunter past, surrounded by allies who shunned her with overloud laughter. Storm refused to let them disturb her pleasure and simply turned away.

She then phoned Claudia and said, “I hope I've taken you away from something really superb.”

“Absolutely. Warmed-over lunch and an
I Love Lucy
rerun.”

“That won't do. I need you to tell me a mysterious stranger came into the shop, paid asking price for our most expensive item, then swept you off to the Fontainebleau in Miami for champagne.”

“Excuse me. I thought I was speaking with my niece, who has been lost in some gloomy swamp for months. Obviously I was mistaken.”

Storm announced, “I just earned us another ninety thousand
pounds' commission.” Claudia's silence was as sweet a response as she had ever known. “One hundred and forty thousand dollars. Added to the fifty-five thousand from three days ago, that gives us . . . how much?”

Claudia said, “Enough to clear almost half our debts.”

“Forget clearing anything. I'm about to go back inside a panic-stricken hall and buy.” Storm decided the grin she saw reflected in the window could not possibly have been any wider. “Have money, will shop.”

“I'd say be careful, but I seriously doubt you'd hear me.”

“Listen to this. I'm surrounded by dealers whose showrooms are jammed to the gills with items they bought when they thought prices couldn't go any lower. And now they're being offered better stuff at half what they paid.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Wait, there's more. I've just watched a Victorian countess's jewelry collection go under the hammer for barely the price of the gold. Early Impressionist oils selling for prices that wouldn't have covered the sales commission last year. And the dealers here can't buy anything. They don't have the cash. Or the space. Or the buyers.”

Claudia's chuckle was rich enough to bring back memories of better times. “I believe my job at this point is to tell you to go have fun.”

Storm heard the chime signaling an incoming call. “Your personal shopper bids you good day.” She connected to the new caller and said, “This is Storm.”

“Curtis here. I have a line on your item.”

“That was fast.”

“No need to sit on any potential new business, not in this market. Where can I pick you up?”

“But . . .” Storm waved a hand at the unseen auction. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not. The seller is available and hinted she had been approached by another buyer.”

Storm turned and searched the dining hall. Jacob Rausch was nowhere to be found. “Did she say who?”

“My dear young lady, there are certain questions that dealers on this green isle simply may not ask.”

“I'll meet you on the main drive in front of Cirencester College.”

“That's more like it. I'm forty-five minutes out and closing fast.”

AS STORM DESCENDED THE MANOR'S
front steps, people broke off their conversations and observed her passage in respectful silence. She walked down the line of cars toward the college's main avenue. The tree-shaded lane was separated from the auction hall by a broad swath of perfectly tended green. The setting sun burnished the surrounding elms with an impossible shade of mint and gold. The shadows grew to where they knitted together, soft as the whispering wind and the mockingbird's song. The highway noise was a distant hum, not much louder than the bees floating above sunset-dappled flowers.

Storm halted by the curb, took a long breath of springtime air, and opened her catalogue to the next day's schedule. There was a bone-deep satisfaction in marking the items, not to dream but to acquire.

The car that approached her was as far removed from peril as a four-wheeled vehicle could possibly get. A boxy seventies-vintage Rolls-Royce drove slowly up the lane toward her. The car looked like a Chevy, except for its immaculate condition and distinctive grille and the winged angel adorning the hood.

The Rolls halted beside her. The driver alighted and opened the rear door. A distinctly gracious masculine voice said, “I say, madame, might I please trouble you for a moment?”

The man rising from the rear seat was properly dressed for a wealthy arts patron of advancing years. The three-piece suit
looked tailored, if slightly seedy. The gold watch chain dangling across his vest sparkled in the fading light. His tie was narrow and dark, his hair mostly white. He approached Storm in a slightly awkward gait, as though his old bones had settled from sitting too long.

Storm asked, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I most sincerely hope so.” He leaned heavily upon a silver-topped cane as he approached.

Storm found it odd how the driver remained motionless by the rear door, his face averted. The old gentleman stooped so far over his cane that his face remained in shadows. “Might I ask, are you by chance Storm Syrrell?”

“How did you get my name?”

“Through a most remarkable set of coincidences, really.”

As the man limped closer, a ray of setting sun illuminated the face beneath the silver mane. Storm realized the man was not old at all.

She started to back away. But the man's cane was already moving. A flick of the wrist, an easy upward strike so swift and sudden it was unlikely anyone by the manor entrance would have noticed, even if they were looking Storm's way.

The cane's silver tip caught Storm's temple with a glancing blow. Stars exploded with the pain.

Storm waved her arms, a combination of blocking another blow and trying to clear her head. But the man revealed the dexterity of a fencing master, flicking his cane up and through her hands, so fast she saw nothing until another galaxy exploded inside her head.

She started to slump, but the man caught her. He walked back toward the vehicle, holding her in such a way that to an onlooker it might have appeared that she supported him. “Oh, that is too kind.”

As the open door swam into focus, Storm tried to push away. The cane rose in another swift blur, another tap. “Shush now, my dear. It will all be over soon.”

Her legs were of no use anymore. The man simply tossed her inside, or so it seemed to Storm. The driver guided her fall into the carpeted footrest.