Tell Me No Lies (4 page)

"Coming up." O'Donnel vanished into an adjoining room.

"How was Canada?" asked White. "See anything good?"

Lindsay thought she heard more than the usual amount of interest in the latter question. "Beautiful. No."

"In that order?"

Lindsay nodded.

"Hell," sighed White. "My father's all over me like a rash about the hole we have in our Warring States and early Han bronze collections."

"Then why did you send me to look at an early Chou collection?" she asked.

"Not close, huh?"

"You missed it by several centuries," said Lindsay dryly. She was accustomed to the fact that the director of the Museum of the Asias was militantly uninterested in ancient Chinese bronzes. That was why she had been hired – to placate the grandfather to whom Chinese bronzes represented all that was sublime in art. It was unusual, however, for White to miss the mark so widely.

"Nothing else, uh, turned up?" he asked.

This time Lindsay was certain she heard more than casual curiosity. "No. Were you expecting something?"

O'Donnel came back through the connecting door, carrying two mugs of coffee. Lindsay murmured her thanks and looked at the mug curiously. It was thick, cream-colored and emblazoned with the FBI seal in gold and deep blue. She looked up as another man came into the room, a man who needed neither badge nor seal to mark him. From the short steel-gray hair to the wing-tipped shoes, the man fairly shouted FBI.

"That was quick, Brad. Did you get him?" asked White, looking up from his coffee. Despite the first-name familiarity, there was respect in White's voice as he spoke to the older man.

The man shook his head. "Still busy. I'll give it a few more minutes and then send a car for him."

"Bradford Stone, Lindsay Danner," said O'Donnel, completing the introductions with admirable economy.

Suddenly White's familiarity with O'Donnel and his boss made sense to Lindsay.

"Mr. Stone," said Lindsay, holding out her hand. "Jason White has mentioned you many times."

"Still telling Korean war stories, I'll bet," Stone said, smiling and shaking her hand firmly.

"More than one Oriental art collection began then," said Lindsay. "The spoils of war."

Stone smiled enigmatically and changed the subject. "Have Terry and Steve told you why you're here?'

"No."

"Please sit down, Miss Danner," Stone said politely. "Or is it Ms.?"

"Whichever you prefer."

"Well, then. Miss Danner, I understand you're an expert on old Chinese bronzes."

"Er, yes," murmured Lindsay. She sipped the potent coffee. Like the rest of the FBI setting, it was masculine and utterly lacking in finesse.

"I also understand that you have an uncanny talent for telling forgeries from the real McCoy."

Lindsay blinked and wondered if now was the time for modesty. "Any expert – " she began carefully.

"Don't get coy on me, Lindsay," interrupted White, cutting across her cautious words. "You know damn well that's why I hired you. You kept old Jason from making a fool of himself over that half-baked bronze pot."

"Actually," Lindsay said, smiling slightly, "that 'pot' was a kuei and it was quite thoroughly 'baked'. One of the best frauds I've ever seen."

"But still a fraud," said Stone, watching her closely.

"Yes."

"How long did it take you to find out?"

"Oh, I knew the second I looked at it," said Lindsay. "It took me several days to prove it, though. Jason didn't want to take no for his answer. He loved that kuei."

"But you knew," said Stone. "Instantly."

Lindsay wondered at the satisfaction in Stone's voice, but refused to evade or ignore the implicit question. "Yes."

"How?"

Lindsay looked at the three men who were watching her intently and wondered how she could explain the inexplicable. Besides violence and fear, one of her most vivid childhood memories was of standing in front of a Hong Kong shop window and knowing that something was wrong with one of the old bronze ti vessels on display. She had stood and stared until her mother had taken her by the hand and led her back to their quarters behind the shabby Christian church. She had been eleven years old, exposed since babyhood to the bits and pieces of the ritual grave furnishings that her father and uncle had collected around Xi'an. Though the intent of the ritual vessels was unabashedly pagan, both of the Danner men had been fascinated by the art itself. And so had Lindsay.

"I grew up with Chinese art," said Lindsay finally.

"So did the Chinese," Stone responded. "Can they tell fraud at a glance?"

Another memory surfaced, that of the owner's amazement when she had marched into his shop and asked him what was wrong with the ti. Only years later did she realize that the vessel had been a clumsy fraud, the first of many that she would see. But there were other frauds, far more subtle and expert. Those, too, she came to recognize for what they were. Lies.

"Some people are born with the ability to discriminate perfectly among musical notes," Lindsay said finally. "Others are born with the ability to create extraordinary paintings or poems that ravish the soul." She shrugged. "My ability is much more mundane. All art experts have it to some extent. They will run tests as confirmation, but they depend on their instincts and experience to form their opinions."

Stone looked at Lindsay for a long moment, as though judging her, using his own instinct for lawlessness and fraud. "Whatever is said here will go no farther than this room. Agreed?"

Lindsay hesitated. "So long as I don't have to actually lie about it. Frankly, I'm a terrible liar."

"If anybody asks you questions, refer them to me."

"All right."

Stone looked away from Lindsay. "Thanks for your help, Steve. I'll call Terry if I need either of you.''

O'Donnel took White's arm and headed for the hallway. "C'mon Steve. One of our agents just busted a porn ring. He's got a file full of evidence that's guaranteed to make you go blind."

The door shut firmly behind the two men.

"The FBI finds itself in the position of needing some immediate, reliable and very discreet advice on ancient Chinese bronzes," Stone said bluntly. "Normally our own resources are enough to cover anything that comes up from counterfeit Paul Revere silver to fake Old Masters. In this case, though – " He made an impatient gesture. "Our labs won't have access to the bronzes. If there are bronzes."

Lindsay took an unobtrusive sip of coffee. She knew that Stone was irritated at having to reveal anything to an outsider. That simply wasn't Bureau policy. Even so, his elliptical approach to the subject told her that whatever was at stake was very important.

"Yet," continued Stone, "with or without recourse to our labs, it is absolutely imperative that we know whether or not the bronzes are fraudulent."

Lindsay wanted to shout What bronzes? but instead took another sip of the lethal coffee. Though she was a naturally spontaneous person, being a buyer, seller and appraiser of art had taught her the value of a poker face and silence.

"No comment?" prodded Stone.

"I'm sorry. Is one required?" Lindsay asked politely.

Stone made a sound that could have been a muffled laugh or a grunt. "You don't give away much, do you?"

"Neither do you, sir." She smiled. "We'd be a lethal bridge team."

Unwillingly Stone smiled in return. He fiddled with a pen, brushed it aside and said, "There are some bronzes down the hall. I want your opinion of them."

"Certainly." Lindsay set aside her coffee and stood with barely concealed eagerness.

The phone rang.

Stone picked it up, listened for a moment. "He what? Who the hell does he think he is?" Pause. "They're here? Judas H. Priest!"

The receiver slammed back into the cradle.

"Sit down, please, Miss Danner," said Stone in a tight voice. "Someone will bring you more coffee. There's been a slight problem with the, er, exhibit."

Stone was out the door and down the hall before Lindsay could say a word. Not that Stone would have listened if she had managed to say anything. He was focused on the problem waiting for him down the hall. He had been against this assignment from the first moment he had heard of it. Nothing had happened since to change his mind.

Without bothering to conceal his irritation, Stone yanked open a door, stepped through and forcefully pulled the door shut behind him. "All right, Terry. What in hell is going on."

It was a demand, not a question. Before O'Donnel could respond, an interior door opened. An old Chinese man entered, accompanied by a large, solidly built male Caucasian who moved like a commando.

"Mr. Stone," said O'Donnel quickly, "this is Mr. Chen Yi and his, er – "

"Fishing buddy," supplied Catlin. He looked at the older FBI agent. He had worked with men like Stone before, respected their strengths and knew their weaknesses. Part warrior, part bureaucrat, part prima donna, part team player. Shrewd, hard and more than a little vain. A good soldier and a lousy guerrilla.

Chen Yi held out his hand in the accepted Western manner, clasped Stone's hand briefly and said, "It is an honor."

Stone's pale blue eyes fastened on Yi's impassive face as they shook hands. "The honor is mine," said Stone. Then he added bluntly, "The State Department told me to expect several Chinese. Nothing was said about an American."

"A small misunderstanding," murmured Yi. "My comrades were delayed in Los Angeles by illness. Something in the water, I fear."

Catlin wondered whether the "something in the water" had been added by Chen Yi rather than the Greater Los Angeles Metropolitan Water District. It was what Catlin would have done if he had reason to distrust his comrades – or they had reason to distrust him.

"I came ahead alone to prepare the way," continued Yi, his voice breathy and yet staccato, giving a sense of pressure or urgency to everything he said. "Mr. Catlin was gracious enough to agree to advise me on the intricacies of your American customs and government."

"Mr. Catlin," inserted O'Donnel in a neutral tone, "is the Pacific Rim Foundation's leading Asian expert."

Catlin held out a hand that had a thin white knife scar across the back. Stone took the hand with the firm grip of a man who has to do a lot of politicking to maintain his power.

"We weren't expecting you," Stone said.

"It came as a surprise to me, too," said Catlin.

"Mr. Yi – " began Stone.

"Chen," interrupted Catlin quietly. "Mr. Chen. Native Chinese reverse the order of their names, family name first and personal name last."

Stone nodded abruptly. "Pardon me, Mr. Chen." He glanced at O'Donnel. "Why don't you take Mr. Catlin down to the coffee room while Mr. Chen and I talk."

Yi's hand moved in a silent gesture of protest. "Pardon me, Mr. Stone, but Catlin is necessary. He is also very discreet."

The words were polite, but no one in the room doubted that Yi meant to have his way. Any discussions would be held in Catlin's presence – or they wouldn't be held at all.

"Where are the bloody diplomats when you need them?" muttered Stone under his breath. He took a deep breath. "Mr. Chen, the director himself impressed upon me how necessary it was that we do everything within our power to help you."

Yi bowed slightly, accepting the implications of Stone's words with a uniquely Chinese combination of modesty and arrogance.

"I have no wish to offend you," Stone continued carefully, remembering the extreme clarity and bluntness of his orders: Do whatever you have to, but make goddamn sure Chen Yi doesn't go home unhappy. "But the fact is that your presence presents me with some, er, difficulties."

"That is why Catlin is here," agreed Yi calmly. "He is one who removes obstacles from my roads."

Stone said nothing, but color heightened beneath his skin. "If you will excuse me for a moment," he said tightly, turning away.

Catlin decided it was time to dynamite some of the obstacles out of the roadway. "Certainly, Mr. Stone. But when you've finished talking to your boss, and he's talked to his, and so on up to the Oval Office, the answer will come back down the line that Chen Yi has the keys to the city. Believe it. He could commit sodomy on the White House lawn and receive only congratulations on his form and prowess."

Stone grimaced. O'Donnel smothered a smile. Neither one argued the point.

"Politics," said Stone in disgust, turning back to face Catlin.

"Precisely." Catlin smiled crookedly. "Think of it as budget time, Mr. Stone, and Chen Yi is the Appropriations Committee."

Stone looked from the frail, politically powerful Chinese to Catlin. "May I be very blunt?" asked Stone.

Catlin looked at Yi. Yi nodded slightly.

Catlin turned back to Stone. "Yi understands enough of our customs not to be insulted by things that an American of equal rank wouldn't be insulted by. So when it's just us chickens pecking away at each other, we'll observe American customs and you can be as blunt as you like. But outside here, you treat Yi like the Second Coming of Christ. Nothing personal. Just a question of face."

A quick look told Stone that the Very Important Chinese was amused rather than insulted by Catlin's boiled-down version of diplomatic protocol.

"Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Chen?" asked Stone with the caution of a man who had survived changes in political administrations and the more vicious fraternal infighting that bedeviled any large bureaucracy such as the FBI.

"Yes, Mr. Stone," said Yi, lighting a cigarette. "As Catlin kindly explained it to me, he may be a son of a bitch, but he is my son of a bitch." Yi swallowed smoke, gave Stone a cool look and asked, "Have you chosen an appraiser from the list I gave you?"

"Three of them were out of the country. One just got back."

"What of the five who were here?" asked Yi. "Have you interviewed them?"

Stone shrugged. "Since we're being blunt, I'll tell you that I wouldn't trust most of them as far as I could throw them uphill. Including the women."

"Buyers, sellers, smugglers or thieves?" Catlin asked casually.

"Where the hell did Chen find you?" retorted Stone.