The Black Madonna (37 page)

E
MMA WOKE TO THE JARRING
chime of Storm's cell phone. She rolled over and groaned in cadence with her body's complaints. The act of crawling to Storm's backpack required several more groans. She flipped open the phone and said, “What?”

Muriel Lang asked, “Storm?”

“It's Emma.” She glanced at the motionless form beside her. “Storm is out for the count.”

“I just heard from Storm's double at the auction in Basel. The item comes up for auction in two hours. Perhaps less.”

Emma confirmed, shut the phone, and eased to her feet in careful stages. Gradually her tendons and ligaments and muscles reknit themselves into something that resembled a body. The mist had vanished while she slept. The air held an odd mix of snow chill and sunlit warmth. The pine needles glowed softly where they caught the light. Other than Storm and herself, the glade was empty. Eric and the Poles had vanished. All according to Storm's plan.

She drained her water canister and ate her last PowerBar. She resisted the urge to sit back down. The temptation to let the forest roots bind her to the earth was too great.

Besides which, there was something that needed doing.

Emma opened the cell phone, then held it to her chest, testing her resolve. She stared at the sunlight lancing through the boughs overhead, wondering if she really had anything of value to say. The only response came from the wind and the surrounding trees, whispering softly that she must hurry.

When Harry answered the phone, Emma launched straight in with, “You're the first man I've ever known who's made me feel like it's okay to be me.”

“You're better than okay, Emma. You're the best there is.”

Harry's voice still carried that same breathless quality, but he sounded fully alert now. Fully there. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He puffed a breath, then added, “It's actually been a good thing, being forced to lie here and let others take care of me. Not easy, but good. I needed to learn what it meant to be weak. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Yes, in a scary way.”

“I am and always will be a treasure dog. But I also know you have changed me forever. I love you, Emma. And we need to be together.”

Emma swiped at her face. “There you go again. Taking the words right from my own heart.”

“Marry me, Emma.”

The words came as easy as releasing the breath she had been holding. For her entire lifetime. “I want that, Harry. So very much.”

“Wow. Easy as that.”

“Nothing about this has been easy, except saying yes to you.” Emma realized Storm was sitting up and watching her. “The rest has to wait.”

Harry did not insist. “Go save the world, lady. It's what you're best at.”

E
MMA AND STORM FOLLOWED ERIC'S
final directions and emerged from the forest exactly where he had planned. Emma set down her end of the crate and took a long look around. “I suppose there's a word for a man who brings us over a mountain pass and through a forest and lands us square in front of our destination.”

Storm was glad for the chance to rest. Despite the crate's light weight, carrying it through the woods had required a good deal of maneuvering. Not to mention the fact that she was still seriously exhausted.

The forest was as precisely trimmed as everything else about this land. It bordered a highway, and the highway ran alongside a rushing stream. To Storm's right rose the perfectly ordered rooftops of Zuoz. Fifteen kilometers farther southwest stood the villages of Samedan and St. Moritz. The Engadine Valley floor was a windswept patchwork of silver-green fields. The surrounding mountains gleamed white in the late-afternoon light.

A steep-sided knoll rose directly across the stream from where they stood. A tree-lined drive veered off from the highway in front of them, crossed the rushing stream, and circled around the back of the knoll. The flat crest covered perhaps
five acres and was rimmed by a high stone wall. A landing strip flanked the stream and the highway. A small jet and a two-man helicopter were stationed where the strip met the drive.

Emma asked, “Only one family lives here?”

“For one month each year, assuming our man spends the same amount of time in every house,” Storm replied.

They crossed the highway and started down the lane. The bridge over the stream was a fanciful blend of stone arches and Art Deco lights that draped like flowers. Storm and Emma were both huffing by the time they climbed the slope and settled the crate down before the main entrance. The double gates were handwrought iron, a latticework of fairies and flowers. The manor within the walls was massive. A turret rose from each of the manor's four corners. Storm rubbed feeling back into her hands and studied the empty forecourt.

Emma said, “What kind of guy lives in a pink palace?”

Actually, the shade was more a dusky rose. And it was not just the manor. The inside of the wall, the outbuildings, even the paving stones framing the gravel drive were all tinted with the same pastel shade. Storm guessed, “He did it for his daughter.”

“Then we've come to the right place.” Emma pointed to a pair of cameras that whirred around and focused upon them. “We're being watched.”

“Good.” Storm moved to the crate. “We don't have much time.”

THE CRATE HAD A PAIR
of latches, and the latches were sealed with tape. They pried the latches loose and opened the crate's front and unwrapped the layers of padding. Emma said, “Whoa.”

Storm lifted the icon. “Shut the case.”

“This is a fake?”

Sunlight caught the icon's silver frame and did not so much shine as pierce. “Stand it on the top of the case,” Storm said. “No, aim it toward the cameras.”

“I hope you know what you're doing. My professional training would suggest a little more caution is in order, seeing as how this man is the Russian who had Raphael shot.”

“Now show them your badge.”

Storm steadied the icon as Emma flashed her badge at the camera.

“I need to be ready for the call,” Storm said. “Can you hold this by yourself?”

“I'm good.” Emma pocketed her badge and took a firmer grip on the icon's frame. “You were right about Tanya and Muriel, by the way. Those ladies are totally stand-up. I was doubting me. Not them.”

“Forget it. That was two eternities ago.” Her cryptophone rang. “This is Storm.”

Muriel Lang said, “I have your double on the line.”

“Are you ready with the other connection?”

“Just give me the word. I have a secure phone service in Basel on hold. If Sir Julius traces your call, he will see the Basel auction area as your location.”

“Okay. Put my double through.”

After a series of clicks, the woman playing Storm said, “The item is coming up next.”

The woman's Swiss-German accent was strong enough to overpower the cryptophone's metallic rasp. Storm asked, “What is the opening bid?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“Dollars?”

“Euros.”

“Okay. Don't bid yet. I'll be right with you.” Storm opened her other phone and hit the speed dial. Muriel answered instantly. Storm said, “Do it.”

Storm stepped to where she could stand directly beneath the camera on the gate. She said into the cryptophone, “Where are we now?”

Her double replied, “Bidding is at three hundred and fifty. The auctioneer is asking for four hundred.”

“How many bidders?”

“Four in the hall. One on the phone.”

“Hold one moment.” In her other ear, she heard Sir Julius bark his version of hello. Storm said, “The reliquary is up. Bidding is at four hundred thousand euros and rising in increments of fifty thousand. We have company. Four in the house and one on the line.”

“Have you bid?”

“Not yet. But there is no reason not to enter. Everyone knows why we're here.”

“How is that?”

“Aaron Rausch made a scene yesterday.”

“Did he indeed. Very well. You may begin.”

Storm received the bidding process in her left ear and reported it to her right. The cryptophone was clear enough, but its harsh edge helped Storm keep track of who was where. Storm felt the wind whip about her, a sudden gust strong enough to rattle the cell phone's mouthpiece. Sir Julius demanded, “What is that infernal racket?”

“Perhaps there is interference at your end.”

“It sounds like wind.”

“They are now at one point six, Julius. As your appointed dealer, I should point out that no reliquary is worth—”

“Keep bidding.”

Storm was about to pass on the instructions when the manor's front door opened.

The six men who emerged did not look like thugs. They did not look like killers. They looked exactly like what they were. Consummate professionals. They wore matching beige jackets and brown slacks and earpieces. They flanked a man talking on
his cell phone. He stood a trace under six feet. He had once been huge. But no longer. Kiril Temerko's skin draped like a suit designed to hold two of him.

The woman told Storm, “All but Rausch have now dropped out. The auctioneer is asking me for one point eight.”

Storm watched Kiril Temerko shuffle across the graveled forecourt. She could hear the pebbles clicking as his feet scraped the earth.

Lord Julius demanded, “What is happening?”

Storm said, “The bidding is down to you and Aaron Rausch. He is at one point seven. Rising in hundred-thousand-euro increments.”

“Keep on.”

Temerko halted on the other side of the iron gate. Storm heard him say, “Have them bring the chest down for another look.” His accent was heavy, his English precise. “For one point nine million euros, they can all wait.”

Storm did not need to wait for her double to report, “Aaron Rausch has just requested another inspection, Sir Julius.”

“Tell them to hurry things along!”

“It is within his rights—”

“Oh, never mind. The pilot informs me we are about to take off. I will be landing in Basel in ninety minutes. I expect you at planeside, young lady.”

“You're coming to Switzerland?”

“Did I not just say precisely that? I have urgent business with the government.”

“What about the reliquary?”

“Let Rausch's man have it. This time, young lady, you had best be on time.”

Storm relayed the instructions to her double, then she watched as a moment later the man on the far side of the gates gave a cadaver's parody of a smile.

Kiril Temerko had the palest eyes she had ever seen. He shut his phone and said, “I have won.”

Storm dismissed her double, stowed both phones away, and replied, “Sir Julius didn't care about the reliquary. He just wanted to make sure I wasn't standing here. Talking with you.”

“You think holding this fake Madonna makes you safe? I can send my men out, they will take this icon, and they will make you disappear.” He glanced at Emma. “You too, lady with a badge.”

“You might have been that person once,” Storm replied. “But not now. Not today.”

“You know nothing about me. Nothing.”

“I know you love your daughter so much her illness is killing you.”

“I know things too. I know you are nothing but a second-rate dealer hunting scraps from a rich man's table. I could bury you in my cellar and fly away.”

One of his men smirked.

Emma said, “Pay attention to what she's about to tell you, Kiril. Offers like this don't grow on trees.”

Storm related what Father Gregor had shared with her at the monastery. “Last year Putin wanted the Ukraine to pay more for their Russian gas, even though they had a twenty-year contract. Putin asked you to shut down the pipeline. You control thirty percent of all natural gas used by France. Forty percent for Germany and Italy. Even more for the Baltic states and Poland. When you did as Putin asked, the world panicked. Shutting off the flow of natural gas threatened the world's economy. The governments you've been bidding against for these items want to make sure you never do anything like this again.”

Perhaps his face was incapable of expression. Maybe the mixture of old woes and fresh grief was too much for one face to wear. “Why do you waste my time, telling me things the whole world knows?”

“You know how they trap a tiger? They dig a hole and cover it with brush and tether a goat as bait. I'm tired of being the bait, Kiril.” Storm gestured at where Emma held the icon. “The CIA
and the British secret service know about you, they know about your daughter. They know the Russian who arranged to copy the Black Madonna for you. Your counterfeiter, Wadi Haddad, is now in the U.S. under government protection. Sir Julius, who orchestrated the bidding against you, is on his way to Basel as we speak. I assume to inform the Swiss government of your actions and request a warrant to be issued and held until the need arises.”