Seven Kinds of Hell (14 page)

She slid the phone shut, looked up, and saw the other beer. “Thank you. I will.” She drew the glass over.

“Well, it was really almost three minutes you got there,” I said, shrugging.

“And we are grateful for it.” Another sip of beer, and Jenny was back to the real world. “So. You don’t often hang out in the park waiting for me. In fact, if I recall correctly, you’ve never really been out of the States. What’s wrong, Zoe?”

I decided to come right to it; I still had a schedule to keep. I was desperate. “I need your connections. I may need some kind of letter of introduction.”

“But why? Why are you actually
here
? Why not call or e-mail?”

I explained about Dmitri and Danny. I left out the part about Ma and my newfound family tree. Danny was bad enough.

Jenny’s face grew more disbelieving, then horrified.

“Heavens, Zoe.” She set down her beer. “You’re…you seem rather calm about this. Cold-blooded, even.”

I shrugged. I’d been pummeled with so much in the last week. “It must be the jet lag.”

“Still, you’re worrying me. And…how is it you think I can help?”

“It’s not your professional connections I want.” I took a deep breath and wondered if two beers would loosen my friend up as quickly as it used to. We still e-mailed and Facebooked, but it was four years ago that we’d hung out in Boston; BW, Before Will.

I said in a rush, “It’s your father’s connections. I wouldn’t ask if—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Jenny stared. “My God, I can’t believe you would ask me such a thing, Zoe. I told you that in
strictest
confidence. Honestly!”

I held up a hand. “I wouldn’t ask unless it was the only thing I could think of that would help Danny,” I said quickly, hoping no one had heard Jenny’s outburst. “I would
never.
This isn’t morbid curiosity. You know that. You know I’m not like that.”

Jenny’s body was rigid. “I’m not exactly sure what you’re like anymore. You want me to give you the names and addresses of a load of thieves.” She exhaled. “I’m not even sure why I ever told you about my father. I don’t do that easily, Zoe. You just had this way about you. You drew things out of me, things I never told anyone about my…family.”

I began to wonder if that wasn’t attributable to two things: perhaps some element of persuasion, thanks to my newly identified Fangborn powers, and the fact that we’d both had early lives influenced by criminals and criminal behavior. It had just made sense at the time. Jenny was thawing, if not warming, to the idea. “I’m just asking so I can do this quietly, maybe save Danny’s life. Maybe mine.”

“These…people…they’re dangerous, Zoe. It’s not like my…the old days, which were bad enough. It’s a high-tech livelihood now, and they’re no slouches. They do their homework. And they’re
the same people who deal in weapons and drugs. Same routes, same buyers oftentimes. So, to recap: heavily armed, greedy, and amoral.”

It sounded like a fair description of Dmitri. “You don’t need to tell me. I’m only asking for Danny.” I took a sip of my beer to hide my fear she’d say no.

Jenny put down her empty glass and fidgeted. “Officially I have never wanted a cigarette as much as I do this moment. Thank you for that, Zoe.”

Jenny had spent her life making up for her father’s trade as a dealer in stolen art and antiquities, a life that he intended she continue after he was gone. She had gone in exactly the opposite direction, making her subspecialty the study of archaeological law and ethics, working to protect antiquities around the world. It was only to be expected that her exacting standards of professional behavior might not make exceptions for me and our friendship.

I shoved my own second, untouched beer across the table.

Jenny frowned. “You can’t bribe me with alcohol, Zoe. It’s a long time since my postdoc in Boston.”

“I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m trying to make up for making you want a smoke.” There was no lightening the moment. “Jenny. You know what Danny means to me. This situation requires whatever I can do to fix it.”

Jenny sighed, then reached for the pint. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“I’m here in London. Yesterday I was going to drive to New York City maybe.”

“I don’t like it. I hate it, as a matter of fact. But I can’t think of anything else that might work. If I do this, you may be able to save your cousin.” She took a deep breath. “So I will help you.”

“Thank you.”

“Only because I know these people. If you go to the police…” Jenny drained her beer. “Which one is it you think can help you?”

“Someone named Rupert Grayling.”

The glass paused on its way back to the table; she clearly recognized the name. She set the glass down very carefully and took a deep breath.

“You’re in luck, only in that I know him, and I believe he knows me. You’re out of luck, because the only person I know less obsessed, less dangerous than Grayling is this Dmitri character, if you’ve described him correctly. Zoe, are you sure?”

“No. But I have to do it.”

“Come along, then. The offices will have cleared out. No one will see us while I mortgage our souls.”

Jenny’s office was lined with bookshelves that were stacked to the top and overflowing. There were mugs and an electric kettle in the corner. The place smelled of floor wax, paper, and stewed tea.

I showed her the figurine from the museum.

“I think it’s some kind of souvenir, right?” I said as she examined it under a lighted magnifying glass. “The sort of thing they sold back in the day when rich people were going on grand tours and seeing the world?”

“You’re right, it looks mold-made, so there could have been a lot of them, but I don’t see any seams.” Jenny shook her head, turning the figurine around. “No, it’s definitely much older than that.”

“Well then, a votive figure, maybe? An offering to the gods?”

“No, I suspect not. If it’s not just a toy—and I wonder how many ‘ritual objects’ in the world are nothing more than toys a potter made for his kids—I’m betting it was a decoration, possibly for a ceramic vessel. See how the figure’s body is somewhat curved? A series of them might have adorned the neck or waist of a pot.” She thought for a moment, then turned to her computer, typed briefly,
until an image appeared. “This is one like it, from the Metropolitan Museum. An unusual form, but not unheard of.”

I glanced at it and nodded. Eighteen inches high, with a flared, angled mouth, almost no neck, and a bulbous body, the pot was different from anything I’d ever seen before. It was made of terra-cotta, pale whitish over red, and there was a flange around the waist with dozens of holes. Although the decorations on this museum piece had pegs beneath their feet to fit into the band around the pot, I could see some similarity to my figurines.

“Not identical, of course, but I just have one of those feelings.” She made a face. “I hate that. I know there should be a good reason why I’m thinking of this piece, but sometimes you just end up saying ‘I just know that’s what it is.’”

I nodded. She was the expert, and I trusted her gut instincts. Besides, I was starting to get the idea—for another reason—that my figurines weren’t mass-produced, the same way she “just knew.”

“And—wait! There is an article, just came out, with a reference to one.” She dug around, tossed me a copy. “Take it. I have an offprint. Some reference to a decorated pot in one of those letters from the Roman fort of Vindolanda; Professor Carl Schulz in Berlin ran it past me. He might be able to help with identification. He’s the one who taught me—but of course, identification’s not your problem, is it?”

I shook my head. Mine was not the usual academic puzzle.

“This plan of yours,” Jenny said while flipping through her Rolodex—she wouldn’t trust this address to her computer. “Contacting Grayling and hoping for some sort of cooperation? It’s full of assumption and hopefulness, Zoe.”

I shrugged. “I’m open to other suggestions.”

Jenny seemed to struggle with something. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to call Grayling. I’m going to arrange a meeting for you.”

I froze. I almost said, “I can’t let you do that,” but the truth was I needed whatever help I could get. I’d been on thin ice hoping Jenny might know Grayling or how I could appeal to him. I never really considered my friend might actually lend me the credibility of her father’s dishonorable name.

I nodded and bit my lip. “Thank you. Jenny, I mean it.”

Jenny scowled. “I won’t have your death on my conscience. But there are conditions.”

I nodded, not quite crossing my fingers under the desk.

“This is a one-time deal, and I’m telling Grayling so. It’s for your own good.”

“OK.”

“He will get
nasty
if he thinks his goodwill is being abused. Never for a minute underestimate the viciousness of these people.”

I tried not to let my dismay show. This was a side of Jenny I’d never seen before. To be fair, she’d devoted her life to concealing it, and I had asked, but now…I was getting scared.

Then I remembered: Grayling had better not underestimate my hidden viciousness.

“Next: Anyone besides Grayling asks you anything about me, my family, anything, you lie your head off. The story is you’d never be so self-involved as to ask this favor of me, and even if you were, I’m too much of a stickler to admit such a thing was possible. I’m just thinking of my kids and Lawrence, here. You understand.”

I nodded. Who was being cold-blooded now?

“Lastly: You mustn’t get hurt.”

“I won’t.” I shrugged.

“I’m serious. I’m reluctant to give you this introduction because it is so dangerous. And I’m afraid if I do, it will only get you in out of your depth. But if I don’t, you may be in worse trouble. If you get hurt or killed or sold or something else dreadful, I’d have to work very hard to remember the blame is on you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No,” she said with the same tone she’d used on Lawrence. “Promise me you’ll do more than your best.”

I nodded. “I promise. Now may I have Grayling’s number?”

“Oh no. This has to come from me. And that means a walk to King’s Cross.”

“Why on earth—oh.” Jenny didn’t want the call being traced back to either her mobile or her office line.

Jenny arched her brow. “Exactly.”

The meeting was set for late that night. I had assumed that it would either be in a really ratty part of the city or the most expensive. Instead, Jenny told me to take the Tube to Islington, an upscale but unremarkable borough of streets lined with row houses. I would meet Grayling at a nearby restaurant.

“He lives somewhere on the South Bank,” Jenny explained. “But he can’t afford to be seen doing business there.”

Grayling didn’t look like anything at all. If I hadn’t known what to look for, I’d have thought he was an old-age pensioner, sitting alone in the back room as on a thousand other, identical nights. Portly, with wisps of curly graying hair, jowls sagging to dewlaps, and owlish eyebrows. He had soup and a glass of wine in front of him, making a racket when he slurped either of them. There was a stain on his tie that looked like the same tomato soup, only from a month ago.

“Mr. Grayling?”

“Miss Miller?”

I nodded, and he gestured to the chair opposite. “Please sit down.” He didn’t offer a hand, so I didn’t either.

“Forgive me if I eat while we talk,” he said. “If I don’t eat when I remember to…”

I wasn’t sure I bought his frail old man act. The waiter came over; I ordered a glass of wine.

I waited until Grayling pushed his plate of soup away, not half-finished. He nodded at the waiter. “Would you heat this up, please?” The waiter took the plate and disappeared into the kitchen.

“So I’m told that you’re interested in…archaeology,” he said.

“Yes.” “Don’t say much, do you?” he grunted. “That’s fine, that’s fine. I was very surprised to get a call from…our friend. About this sort of thing.”

I shrugged.

He wiped his mouth, returned the napkin to his lap. “I am very interested in seeing this piece you claim to have.”

“But not here.”

“Not here.” He wasn’t done vetting me, not by a long shot, I knew. “You know our friend…how?”

I wasn’t going to say more about Jenny than necessary. “We have mutual interests.”

Just then he held up a hand. “A moment.” He turned, gestured, and placed his napkin on the table.

A short, thin man, nearly as old as Grayling, had shuffled to our table. Dressed in a soiled jacket and a threadbare shirt, he waited at Grayling’s side until Grayling nodded. “Marco.”

“Evening, Grayling.” The old guy didn’t exactly tug his fore-lock, but his respect was close to obsequiousness. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, nearly as dirty as his fingernails, and slid it under the napkin.

Grayling cocked his head. “I hope that’s everything.”

“Absolutely…” Marco tried a game smile. “…very nearly. Only, I need an extra day or two—”

The waiter returned with the soup. “Careful with that. Shall I get another setting?”

“He’s not staying,” Grayling answered, never taking his eyes off Marco.

When the waiter left, Marco said, “It’s been a bad week, that’s all. I can have the rest in two days, three tops.”