The Wind Dancer (51 page)

"I paid no more than we could afford." Jean Marc sat down on the chair across from his
father. "And Louis needed the livres to pay the American war debt." At least, that was
true enough. Louis's aid to the American revolutionaries along with his other extravagant
expenditures had set France tottering on the edge of bankruptcy. "Where should we put
it? I thought a white Carrara marble pedestal by the window. The sunlight shining on the
gold and emeralds would make it come alive."

"The Wind Dancer
is
alive," his father said gently. "All beauty lives, Jean Marc."

"By the window then?"

"No."

"Where?"

His father's gaze shifted to Jean Marc's face. "You didn't have to do this." He smiled.
"But it fills me with joy that you did."

"What's a few million livres?" Jean Marc asked lightly. "You wanted it."

"No, I have it." Denis Andreas tapped the center of his forehead with his index finger.
"Here. I didn't need this splendid imitation, my son."

Jean Marc went still. "Imitation?"

His father looked again at the statue. "A glorious imitation. Who did it? Balzar?"

Jean Marc was silent a moment before he said hoarsely, "Desedero."

"Ah, a magnificent sculptor when working in gold. I'm surprised he accepted the
commission."

Frustration and despair rose in Jean Marc until he could scarcely bear it. "He was afraid
you would recognize the difference but I felt I had no choice. I offered the king enough to
buy a thousand statues, but Bardot reported that Louis wouldn't consider selling the Wind
Dancer at any price. According to His Majesty, the queen has a particular fondness for
it." His hands closed tightly on the arms of the chair. "But, dammit, it's the same."

Denis Andreas shook his head. "It's a very good copy. But, my son, the Wind Dancer is...
" He shrugged. "I think it has a soul."

"Mother of God, it's only a statue!"

"I can't explain. The Wind Dancer has seen so many centuries pass, seen so many
members of our family born into the world, live out their lives... and die. Perhaps it has
come to be much more than an object, Jean Marc. Perhaps it has become... a dream."

"I failed you."

"No." His father shook his head. "It was a splendid gesture, a loving gesture."

"I failed you. It hurt me to know you couldn't have the one thing you so wished--" Jean
Marc broke off and attempted to steady his voice. "I wanted to give something to you,
something that you'd always wanted."

"You havegiven me something. Don't you see?"

"I've given you disappointment and chicanery and God knows you've had enough of both
in your life." Denis flinched and Jean Marc's lips twisted. "You see, even I hurt you."

"You've always demanded too much of yourself. You've been a good and loyal son." He
looked Jean Marc in the eye. "And I've had a good life. I've been fortunate enough to
have the means to surround myself with treasures, and I have a son who loves me enough
to try to deceive me ever so sweetly." He nodded at the statue. "And now why don't you
take that lovely thing out to the salon and find a place to show it to advantage?"

"You don't want it in here?"

Denis shook his head. "Looking at it would disturb the fine and fragile fabric of the
dream." His gaze drifted to the portrait of Charlotte Andreas over the fireplace. "You
never understood why I did it, did you? You never understood about dreams."

Looking intently at his father, Jean Marc felt pain and sorrow roll over him in a relentless
tide. "No, I suppose I didn't."

"That hurt you. It shouldn't." He once again opened the leather-bound volume he had
closed when Jean Marc came into the study. "There must always be a balance between
the dreamers and the realists. In this world strength may serve a man far better than
dreams."

Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the table on which he had set the statue. "I'll just
get this out of your way. It's almost time for your medicine. You'll be sure to remember
to take it?"

Denis nodded, his gaze on the page of his book. "You must do something about
Catherine, Jean Marc."

"Catherine?"

"She's been a joy to me, but she's only a child of three and ten. She shouldn't be here
when it happens."

Jean Marc opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. It was the first time his
father had indicated he knew the end was near.

"Please do something about our Catherine, Jean Marc."

"I will. I promise you," Jean Marc said thickly.

"Good." Denis looked up. "I'm reading Sanchia's journal, about old Lorenzo Vasaro and
his Caterina."

"Again?" Jean Marc picked up the statue and carried it toward the door. "You must have
read those old family journals a hundred times."

"More. I never tire of them." His father paused and smiled. "Ah, our ancestor believed in
dreams, my son."

With effort Jean Marc smiled. "Like you." He opened the door. "I don't have to return to
Marseilles until evening. Would you like to have dinner on the terrace? The fresh air and
sunshine will be good for you."

But Denis was once more deeply absorbed in the journal and didn't answer.

Jean Marc closed the door and stood a moment, fighting the agony he felt. His father's
last remarks shouldn't have hurt him, for they were true. He was no dreamer; he was a
man of action.

His hand clenched on the base of the statue. Then he squared his shoulders. The pain was
fading. Just as he had known it would. Just as it had so many times before. He strode
across the wide foyer and threw open the door to the salon.

Desedero's gaze was searching. "He knew?"

"Yes." Jean Marc set the statue back on the pedestal. "I'll have my agent in Marseilles
give you a letter of credit to our bank in Venice for the remainder of the money I owe
you."

"I don't wish any more money," Desedero said. "I cheated you."

"Nonsense. You did what you were paid to do." Jean Marc's smile was filled with irony.
"You were given my livres to create a statue, not a dream."

"Ah, yes." Desedero nodded in understanding. "The dream... "

"Well, I'm only a man of business who doesn't understand these idealistic vagaries. It
appears a duplicate won't do, so I will have to get the Wind Dancer for him."

"What will you do?"

"What I should have done in the beginning. Go to Versailles myself and find a way to
persuade the queen to sell the Wind Dancer. I didn't want to leave my father when--" He
broke off, his hands again slowly clenching. "I knew he didn't have much time left."

"But how can you expect to succeed when she's clearly determined to keep it?" Desedero
asked gently.

"Information." Jean Marc's lips twisted in a cynical smile. "I'll find out what she most
desires and give it to her in exchange for the statue. I'll take lodgings in an inn near the
palace and before two weeks are gone I'll know more about the court and Her Majesty
than King Louis does himself, even if I have to bribe every groom and maid in the
palace."

Desedero gestured to the statue on the pedestal. "And this?"

Jean Marc avoided looking at the Pegasus as he strode to the door. "I never want to see it
again. You may sell off the jewels and melt it down." He jerked open the door. "God
knows, I may need the additional gold to tempt Louis into selling the Wind Dancer."

The door slammed behind him.

St. Basil, Switzerland

June 14, 1991

The jeweled eyes of the Wind Dancer, secret, enigmatic, inhumanly patient, gazed out of
the black and white photograph at Alex Karazov.

The uncanny impression that a mysterious sentience exuded from the statue had to be a
trick of light the lens had captured. Alex shook his head. Impossible. But now he could
understand the statue's mystique and the stories that had grown up around it. The book he
held was over sixty years old and the picture probably didn't even do the statue justice.
He skimmed the caption beneath the picture.

"The Wind Dancer, recognized as one of the most valuable art objects in the world. The
famous 'eyes of the Wind Dancer' are two perfectly matched almond-shaped emeralds
65.50 carats each. Four hundred and forty-seven diamonds encrust the base of the winged
statue of Pegasus.

"In her book Facts and Legends of the Wind Dancer, published in 1923, Lily Andreas
claimed there were historical references indicating the Wind Dancer had been in the
possession of Alexander the Great during his first campaign in Persia in 323 B. C.; later,
it was said to have passed to Charlemagne during his reign. Andreas's book was the
subject of controversy. She claimed that a host of the most influential figures throughout
the ages had not only possessed the Wind Dancer but asserted that it had contributed
decisively to their success or failure. Both the antiquity of the statue and its history were
challenged by the London and Cairo museums at the time."

Alex impatiently closed Art Treasures of the World, pushing it aside as Pavel set a stack
of five more volumes on the desk. He already knew the contents of Lily Andreas's book.
He remembered Ledford quoting it chapter and verse as if it were the Bible.

Pavel raised one bushy black brow. "No luck?"

Alex shook his head. "Too early. I need facts, not legends." He reached for the top book
on the stack, flipped it open to the index, ran his finger down the chapter headings until
he found the one labeled "Wind Dancer," then thumbed to the correct page. "For God's
sake, you'd think the damn statue had disappeared from the planet." Speed-reading
through the chapter, he muttered, "At least this book gets us out of the roaring twenties. It
mentions the Wind Dancer's confiscation by the Germans in 1939 and its discovery in
Hitler's mountain retreat after World War Two." He slammed the book shut. "But I'm
wasting time. Call the curator of the Louvre and--"

"Ask where the Wind Dancer is now," Pavel finished for him. He shook his head, an
amused grin creasing his weathered, heavily jowled face. "You know, of course, they'll
probably try to trace the call and notify Interpol. I imagine the management of the Louvre
is a bit touchy since they 'lost' the 'Mona Lisa' yesterday."

"Maybe," Alex said, abstracted. He stood up and walked across the room to a long table
on which a number of headlined newspaper articles had been cut out and arranged like
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

MICHELANGELO'S "DAVID" DISAPPEARS FROM FLORENCE

TERRORIST GROUP BLACK MEDINA ASSASSINATES CARDINAL ON WAY TO
VATICAN

POLICE BAFFLED AT REMBRANDT'S "NIGHT WATCH" THEFT FROM
AMSTERDAM MUSEUM

TERRORIST GROUP BLACK MEDINA KILLS THREE IN BOMBING AT
CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT

"MONA LISA" STOLEN FROM LOUVRE

Several other articles lay under a jade paperweight, and Alex glanced at them as he tried
to decide whether he was interested enough to commit to it. If he was right, that call
would cause even more furor than Pavel believed.

Oh, what the hell. Why not? He couldn't just sit there on this damn mountaintop and let
his brain grow barnacles.

"Phone anyway. Give my name and say I'm doing research for a novel. I need to know
where the Wind Dancer is right now. The Andreas family lives in the U.S., but I recall an
article a few years ago about French public opinion on the Wind Dancer: the average
French citizen considers it a national treasure. Find out more about that if you can. Oh,
the Louvre curator's name is Emile Desloge."

Pavel nodded, his black eyes twinkling as he studied Alex's intent face. "I call the Louvre
and you get another piece for your puzzle." He gave a mock sigh. "And when the statue is
stolen, at whose door will the police come knocking?" He lightly tapped the massive bulk
of his gray-sweatered chest with one hand. "Pavel Rubanski's door. You bring me
nothing but trouble. If I had any sense, I'd leave you and find a job with someone who
offers less pay and greater job security."

"You'd be bored as hell." Alex grinned as he sat down at the table and drew the latest
article toward him. "God knows I am."

Lumbering to the door, Pavel halted and looked back at Alex in surprise. "I'm glad you're
finally admitting it. Now I can do something besides feed you information for your
infernal puzzles. What's the use of being a rich man if you don't spend your money?
Instead of calling the Louvre, I'll phone the travel agent and arrange a nice, sunny
vacation in Martinique. You always enjoyed going to Martinique at this time of year."
His tone became coaxing. "Or we'll send for Angela and one of her friends to come to the
chalet for a pleasant little weekend orgy. Sex is as good as a vacation anytime."

Alex's lips twitched as he looked at the hopeful expression on Pavel's face. "And you're
betting one or the other of those distractions will take my mind off the Wind Dancer."

Pavel nodded. "You may be under KGB and CIA blankets of protection, but I'm not so
favored where Interpol is concerned. I'm a peaceful man who wants only a little sunshine,
a little sex, maybe a fine gourmet meal now and then--"

"Now and then?" Alex smiled affectionately. "You haven't stepped on the scales lately."

"That's not fat, it's muscle. I'm a big man and I need fuel. Besides, what else can I do up
here in the mountains but eat? Now, on Martinique I could just lie on the beach with a
pina colada and not have to worry about snow or ice--or Interpol asking me
uncomfortable questions."

"Interpol's too busy clutching at straws and chasing after every clue in sight to bother
with you." Alex thought about those recent newspaper headlines and frowned. "I wonder
if that's part of it...."

"Part of what?"

Alex didn't answer, his mind busily sorting out information, drawing conclusions,
discarding them, moving the information to new positions, drawing other conclusions,
and fitting pieces together until they formed a picture with which he could be satisfied.