The Black Madonna (19 page)

“What's going on?”

“You see soon enough.” She pulled Storm forward, but not unkindly. “For now, you are safe. Everything else must wait.”

But when Tanya started to close her inside the concrete cubicle, Storm jammed the door open and said, “Are you Russian?”

“Polish.” The woman's smile was brutally tough. “You don't like Russian?”

“I have been told they are after me.”

“Yes, we think so.” She jerked her chin. “Get inside where you are safe. Relax. I wait here.”

Storm had no way of knowing how long she was kept inside, but it felt like a very long time. At some point during the melee her watch had broken. The hands were frozen at a quarter past six. Her phone was still in the limo of the men who had abducted her, along with her purse and ID. Now and then Tanya tapped on the door and asked if Storm was okay. Twice Storm asked what was going on. When the woman did not respond, Storm did not push it. The restroom stank of industrial cleanser, but slits above the door let in a little of the night breeze. The walls were rough concrete and tightly constructed. Storm heard the sound of an approaching car. A door slammed. A motorcycle pulled up and halted. Fear blossomed in her gut at the sound of footsteps.

There was another rap on the door. Tanya said, “Open the door.”

“Who is out there with you?”

“Friends.”

When Storm did as she was ordered, the woman handed her a bag. “Take off everything you are wearing. You understand when I say everything?”

“Of course, but—”

“Put it all in this bag. You keep nothing. Not even your rings. Do you have a hotel key?”

“In my pocket.”

Tanya held out her hand. “Give.”

Storm thought of Raphael's cash tucked into her suitcase's side pocket and hesitated.

Tanya gave another slit of a grin. “You think we wait this long to rob you?”

Storm handed over the key. “Cirencester Grand. Room one eleven.”

“Remember, put everything in the bag. Then put on these clothes.” Tanya pushed the door shut. “Hurry.”

THE BAG CONTAINED A BLUE
two-piece outfit of cotton thick as sailcloth. The pants were cinched by a drawstring. The jacket had two long flaps, like identical tongues. It took Storm a moment to realize she needed to tie one end under her left arm, then wrap the outer side around. Then she had to undo both ties because at the bottom of the bag was a T-shirt, her size, also blue. The T-shirt felt much better against her skin than the rough outer garment.

The woman rapped on the door. “We must leave.”

“Almost done.” On her feet went Japanese-style tabi socks with a slit between her big toe and the next, then rope-soled sandals. Storm assumed the outfit came from some studio teaching hand-to-hand combat. The knowledge left her feeling safer.

She opened the door. “I'm ready.”

Tanya reached for Storm's bag. “Is everything in there?”

“Yes.”

“We check for bugs, then return everything.” She handed the bag to a small man with unruly hair, who grinned at Storm, then loped to a motorcycle and sped away.

Tanya directed Storm back to the van. “Where are we going?”

Tanya climbed in behind her and shut the door. “London.”

“Why did you make me wait back there?”

“Our job is to keep you safe. We are taking you to someone who can answer your questions.”

As they entered London's outskirts, the night clouds turned the color of old bronze. Storm thought she could smell rain through the van's open window, but the streets were dry. They
passed an electric sign that flashed the time, quarter past eleven. The numbers were meaningless.

The buildings they passed grew steadily grander, the street broader. One side became lined with trees. Then a park opened up. Broad paths of what looked like sand or gravel ran beneath streetlights. The walks glowed like yellow streams. Despite the hour, Storm saw a number of joggers.

The woman noted Storm's interest. “Do you know where you are?”

“I've only been in London once, and just for three hours. Less. A limo into the city, a meeting, then back out again.”

“We are driving along Hyde Park.”

“I've heard of it.”

“Up ahead is Hyde Park Corner and then Piccadilly. The name is for a street and a circus. The word ‘circus' in Latin means circle.”

Storm studied the woman seated beside her. She was calm in the manner of an unprimed grenade. “You live here?”

“Once. Not now. I studied in London. Four months.” She smiled thinly at the memory. “Nice place.”

They sped past a cluster of fancy hotels, then turned down a broad thoroughfare lined with what to Storm looked like Regency houses. They stopped in the middle of the block. Storm asked, “Where are we?”

“Your destination.”

The house was white with a colonnaded entrance. The sash windows on the first three floors were almost as large as the front door, fully ten feet high and eight across. The houses to either side were just as grand. Storm followed Tanya from the van. The driver sped away. Storm looked down a long street flanked by centuries of power. As she climbed the manor's front stairs, the first drops of rain splashed against the portico's roof.

The woman pulled a handle set inside a brass circle. A bell jangled inside the house. The door was swiftly opened by a man in a gray morning suit. He glanced at Storm's blue smock and
frowned. Tanya spoke to him sharply. The man bowed them both inside.

The entrance hall was twenty feet wide and lined in faded Persian carpets. At the back of the hall, double doors opened to an elegant dining hall. The majordomo pointed them up a grand staircase. The wall to the right of the stairwell was lined with black-and-white photographs of stern-faced men. Storm took her time going up the stairs, studying the pictures. She thought she recognized General Patton in one, wearing his trademark pearl-handled pistols and flanked by two men with handlebar mustaches. The three men stood before a burned-out Nazi tank.

The upstairs hall was lined by several rooms, all of them occupied by men who smoked and drank from crystal goblets and played cards upon felt-covered tables. They observed Storm's passage with unreadable gazes. Tanya knocked on the closed door at the end of the hall. At a voice from within, she motioned Storm inside and followed, closing the door behind her.

The room was both grand and severe. Empty walls bore shadows from tapestries. The parquet floor was inlaid with what looked like a mosaic of bone and teak. Four lumpy sofas slumbered along one wall. A meager fire smoldered in a vast marble fireplace. Tall sash windows were open to the night and the rain. A lone table stood beneath the central chandelier. Two gray-haired gentlemen watched the women enter the room.

“Ms. Syrrell, what a pleasure. Do forgive me for not rising,” one of the men said. He tapped his left shin with a walking cane. “My leg.”

“Where am I?”

The other man, a silver-haired priest, rose and bowed. “Welcome to Ognisko, Ms. Syrrell. The word is Polish for ‘hearth' and signifies a place of safety.”

“Our club was started by expatriates during the Second World War,” the seated gentleman said. “Nowadays it is mostly reserved for memories the rest of the world has long put aside.”

The priest added, “It remains a haven for people like ourselves.”

“We still have our uses.” The gentleman motioned to the chair beside his own. “Will you take refreshment, Ms. Syrrell? Tea, perhaps?”

Tanya told them, “The lady missed dinner.”

“We can certainly remedy that.” He waved Storm forward. “Please, dear lady. Do join us.”

Storm remained where she was. “Who are you?”

“My name is Antonin Tarka. My friend of the cloth is Father Gregor.”

“You met Emma in Washington?” she said, looking at the cleric.

“Indeed so, Ms. Syrrell,” Father Gregor replied. “Might I ask how your friend is?”

“A lot happier than when she left you. Seeing as how you got the news about Harry completely wrong.”

“A mistake for which I sincerely apologize.”

She detected no danger, only the sweet fragrances of wood smoke and rain. She walked over and seated herself. “Will you tell me what's going on?”

“Gladly. That is, we will tell what we know. Which is much less than we might like.” He inspected her and said, “Might I say, Ms. Syrrell, I detect a great deal of your grandfather in you. It is most reassuring, given the situation we face.”

“You knew Sean?”

“We both did,” the priest said.

“I considered it an honor to call him a friend,” said Antonin Tarka. He looked beyond her. “Ah. Your repast. Excellent.”

The gray-suited butler entered the parlor, set a silver service on a card table, and asked, “How does madame prefer her tea?”

“Milk, no sugar.”

“The brown-bread sandwiches are salmon; the grain are tongue. The pots contain mustard and relish.” He settled a linen napkin into her lap. “Will madame be requiring anything further?”

Storm found herself oddly comforted by their stilted formality. “This is great, thank you.”

Antonin Tarka studied her carefully as she ate, then turned to Father Gregor and spoke in Polish.

Father Gregor replied in English, “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“There are great risks,” Father Gregor said. “On every side.”

“How else is she to fathom what has happened?” Tarka did not wait for a response before turning to Storm and saying, “The only way you can comprehend the gravity of our situation is if you will make a trip with us.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. We would leave at dawn and return late that same night.”

“Where to?”

“The monastery of Jasna Gora. In Czestochowa.”

“You want me to go to Poland with you?” Storm rubbed the sore point on her temple. “My passport is still in the Rolls.”

Antonin Tarka brushed that aside. “We can supply you with an ID.”

Storm tried to think past the thunder in her head. All she could come up with was the affection she'd heard in their voices when they spoke her grandfather's name. And the tense urgency that filled the room. “All right. I'll go.”

The priest fretted. “Ms. Syrrell, it is vital that you maintain strict confidentiality with the matter.”

“I am very good with secrets.”

“And I, Ms. Syrrell, believe you.” Antonin Tarka held himself with regal formality. His features possessed an almost brutal strength, a throwback to an era of warrior princes. Neither age nor ailment robbed the man of his power. He weighted each word as though sending his nation on crusade. “Three weeks ago, we received word through allies within the art world of a new buyer. Someone who insisted on absolute confidentiality. Someone with enormous resources. This mystery buyer was
intent on purchasing artwork and artifacts reputed to have special properties. Most of the items originate in Eastern Europe.”

Storm said, “The Pokhitonov oil.”

“Just so. We think that perhaps, just perhaps, this oil and the two men who bid its price to such ridiculous heights are somehow tied to another mystery. One that concerns us both.”

Storm looked from one somber face to the other. “The Black Madonna.”

“You have heard of this?”

“Father Gregor mentioned it to Emma.”

“We learned from an ally in the international arts trade of your purchase of the items in Marbella, once again bidding against a member of the Rausch clan. When Jacob Rausch appeared in Cirencester, we decided to trail him. Then you appeared yet again. Even so, we still had no direct evidence that Rausch was tied to anything more than an avid buyer of Byzantine artifacts, or whether you might be a potential ally, until we witnessed the attack.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Indeed so. I would ask that you be our guest here tonight, Ms. Syrrell. There are private chambers upstairs, quite comfortable though a bit dated. At least we can be certain of your safety.”

“I'm sure the accommodations will be fine. But back to what we were discussing—”

“Get some rest. We will depart very early.” He started to rise, and instantly Tanya was there to assist him. “It is necessary to bring you face-to-face with my homeland's latest tragedy.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING, HARRY MET
Emma in the Aqaba hotel lobby. They shared a Middle Eastern breakfast of olives, goat cheese, boiled eggs, flatbread, and mint tea. Afterward they followed Saleem's directions down to where Aqaba's main boulevard paralleled the shoreline. Saleem and his brother-in-law were seated in a stone plaza fronting the gulf. The ache around Harry's ribs forced him to walk at a slight crouch.

Emma asked, “Are you sure you don't want something for the pain?”

“No, thanks.” Harry motioned with his chin. “Spotter at seven o'clock by the van. Maybe another on the beach by the kids' playground.”