The Black Madonna (32 page)

“Let's assume Muriel is not to be trusted. She's a spy for Rausch. How do you see all that working out?”

“How should I know? Maybe she wants to take over the business. She looks like a smart girl. She's tired of working for the jerk. So she accepts an offer from Rausch's buyer.”

“But why, Emma? She helps shoot her own boss? Wouldn't she be the first to come under suspicion?”

Mehan said, “She most certainly was.”

Emma glanced over, then back. She did not reply.

“Why not just go off and set up her own shop?” Storm said. “You said it yourself. Raphael can be a major pain. How many of his employees and clients are there because of Muriel and the team she probably holds together?”

“It was just a suggestion,” Emma replied. “She could be working for one big score.”

“But what would be the motive behind Rausch's client making such an offer to her?” Storm continued. “This mystery guy has spent a ton keeping his identity secret. All of a sudden he'd trust Raphael's number two so much that he will rely on her to help him shoot her boss?”

“Ms. Syrrell,” Mehan said, “has a point.”

Emma gave a tight nod. “All right. I'll go with you on this. Unless I have strong evidence to the contrary.” She shifted her gaze to the woman seated on Storm's other side. “Which I sincerely hope I never do. For all our sakes.”

“Great.” Storm turned to Tanya. “Call Antonin. Tell him we're looking for a Russian so powerful he can order armies to war.”

Tanya shrugged. “Russia has maybe a hundred such oligarchs. More. We need something to narrow the search.”

The same idea that had whispered to her when she woke from Raphael's dream returned now. “All the items I've bid on are tied to miracles,” Storm said. “Each of them is bound to events so huge the stories have endured for over a thousand years. Centuries of miraculous healings. Visions, holy men, powers and events beyond mortal men. Even the power to stop time.”

Mehan said, “You're suggesting our culprit is some religious wacko who's moved in close to Russia's new throne.”

“No.” Only now was the concept fully formed, clarified by the confines of a police van drawing her ever farther from Raphael. “I think we're after someone who has lost all earthly hope. He needs a miracle.”

Tanya nodded slowly. “I like this. Very much.”

“Tell Antonin to search for a Russian oligarch with a problem so serious he's given up all connection to logic. Maybe somebody who's cheated death before, and he's looking to do it again. He wants his own personal stairway to heaven. Buy his way out of his latest problem.”

Tanya swiveled around to face the rear window and hit the speed-dial button.

Storm opened her own phone. She could feel Mehan's gaze raking over her. When Muriel answered, Storm asked, “Anything?”

“Two gentlemen in suits just stopped by. They took one look in Raphael's room, spotted me, and left.”

“Do you have access to the upper echelons of the British power structure?”

“Most certainly.”

“We need to know who Sir Julius Irving really is.”

Mehan leaned forward.

Storm went on, “Raphael was emphatic that Sir Julius held no connection to Russia. But he
is
the second buyer. Which means he has a hidden motive for fighting with Rausch's client over these items. We need to find out who is backing his play and why.”

“I will have my team get on this immediately.”

“One other thing. Can you find us a plane?”

“I can do better than that,” Muriel replied. “I can find you an ally. Where are you now?”

She passed the question on to Mehan, who replied, “Just coming onto the A4. Thirty minutes from Heathrow in this traffic.”

Muriel said, “Unless they carry heads of state, private planes are rarely granted landing privileges at Heathrow. Can you get to City Airport?”

When she asked Mehan, he said to the driver, “Turn us around and head for City.”

The driver objected. “That airport has no facilities for detaining deportees, sir.”

“Just do it.”

T
ANYA'S PHONE RANG JUST AS
the police van reentered London's stop-and-go traffic. She spoke briefly, then handed the phone to Storm. “The patriot has succeeded.”

When Storm answered, Antonin Tarka said, “We have a name. Kiril Temerko. Does that mean anything?”

Storm lowered the phone and repeated the name to Emma, who frowned. But Tanya leaned back against the van's metal side and smiled at the ceiling. She said, “Is perfect.”

Storm raised the phone and heard Antonin Tarka say, “Kiril Temerko is an intimate crony of Russia's president. You have heard of Mikhail Khodorkovsky, perhaps?”

Storm recalled the name. “The disgraced oil tycoon.”

“Khodorkovsky backed Putin's opponent in his last race for president. Khodorkovsky thought having a billion dollars in the bank was enough to protect him. He was wrong. History is filled with such stories, where princes mistakenly think they are as powerful as kings. When his company, Yukos, was broken up, Kiril Temerko was permitted to purchase the assets for pennies.”

“So Temerko now owns Russia's oil.”

“Quite a considerable portion. Kiril Temerko also controls
two-thirds of Russia's natural gas fields. And more than half of western Europe's gas comes from Russia.”

More puzzle fragments swam together. “Is Temerko sick?”

“His daughter. An only child. She has cancer of the bone marrow. Her chances are nonexistent.”

Storm waited as the van took an overly tight corner, then she asked, “Now give me the bad news.”

“You are quite correct. The next item is certainly not good.” Even so, the old man's voice rang with optimism. “Kiril Temerko owns eleven houses. They are everywhere. His official residence is a private island in the Moskva River from which the Kremlin is visible. He owns another island, near Papua New Guinea. A penthouse in New York. A town house in Versailles. The list, as far as we are concerned, is endless. He employs a small army. He travels only by private jet and helicopter.”

“Maybe so. But if this Temerko has spent a ton on items tied to miracles, my guess is that he has a priest-confessor on call day and night. Can you reach Father Gregor?”

“He is seated across my desk from me. Ms. Syrrell, I wish to share something with you. My definition of a professional is someone who can think coolly in the heat of battle.” Antonin Tarka gave that a beat, then said, “One of us will be in touch as soon as we have something to report.”

THE SUN FROLICKED THROUGH THE
city, flashing off windows and buildings and cars. The sidewalks were crowded. Many people walked with faces turned to the cloudless sky. Storm watched them through the van's wire-mesh rear window and wished she held the power to rejoin them. To cut away this distance between herself and any hope of a normal life. To bring Raphael back to consciousness and give herself the chance to love a man who could actually respond.

Emma must have caught a hint of her remorse, for she slid an arm around Storm's shoulders. Drew her close. Did not
speak. They remained like that, knit tight as shared sorrow, until Storm's phone rang.

Muriel reported, “Raphael's jet has landed at City Airport. The pilot is Eric Siegler, Raphael's former partner. Also, our security team just found listening devices in the hospital waiting room and attached to Raphael's bed. Highly sophisticated. Not commercially available.”

“You need to stay safe,” Storm said. “Is the security in place at the hospital?”

“I am surrounded by hulking men.”

“Stay by your phone.” Storm cut the connection and repeated to everyone in the van what Muriel had said.

City Airport was located within shouting distance of London's financial district. The economic crisis might have depleted the ranks, but private jets still outnumbered the commercial aircraft by a factor of ten to one. Raphael's jet was visible from the parking lot, a tiny sparkling gem between two Boeings with crossed swords and Arabic lettering down their sides.

The van stopped in front of the wire mesh gate. Mehan said, “I need to inform my superiors where you're headed.”

“We don't know yet.”

Mehan stared at her. “You're asking me to let you sit on the tarmac and wait for word?”

Storm met his gaze. “Exactly.”

T
HE MAN WHO STEPPED DOWN
from Raphael's jet looked warped. Like a perfectly normal human being had been attacked by a force as strong as the sun. The left side of his face was nothing but scar tissue. Same for his neck and left arm where it emerged from his short-sleeved shirt.

Only Emma was unaffected. She walked over, offered her hand, and said, “Emma Webb. Homeland Security.”

“Eric Siegler.”

Emma introduced the others, then said, “Raphael was your buddy?”

“Is.” He looked at Storm. “Raphael is my friend.”

Storm liked that so much she rushed over and took his hand in both of hers, seeking a link strong enough to keep her own hope alive. “Thank you.”

“You look just like Raphael described,” he said.

Up close the man's scars were even worse. The bone above his left eye threatened to poke through the scar tissue. His left ear was a mockery. Storm asked, “He told you about me?”

“Three times,” Eric replied. “Where are we going?”

Mehan said, “An excellent question, that.”

“As soon as we find out,” Storm replied, “I'll let you know.”

THEY WAITED IN RAPHAEL'S JET
for three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Storm knew because of the two clocks set above the cockpit windshield. The clocks were separated by a compass. All three dials were rimmed in silver and burl. Storm watched the clocks tick together, counting down lost minutes in both London and New York.

Through the bulbous windshield Storm watched Inspector Mehan pace back and forth in front of the jet. A police car was parked between the jet and the airport gates. The deportation van was gone. A uniformed officer was in the police car's rear seat. The officer's head was settled on the headrest. He appeared to be asleep. Mehan draped his overcoat and his yellow-beige jacket on the jet's stairs. A dark stain of perspiration had formed between his shoulder blades.

Waiting.

Emma hovered by the cockpit's entrance but did not speak. Storm felt a mounting pressure, an ache like she was being repeatedly struck just below her rib cage, the blows timed to each tick of the dual second hands.

Storm's phone finally rang, and Father Gregor announced, “I have news.”

As Tanya crowded into the cockpit portal beside Emma, Storm said, “Just a moment. I want us all to hear.” She keyed on the speaker and set the phone beside the engine controls. “Go ahead.”

“The Vatican has made enormous strides in building bridges to the Orthodox community. We have a thousand years of wounds to overcome. But we are progressing. A new ally agreed to check for us to see if Kiril Temerko has a personal priest. I apologize for the delay in responding. But with
the man's residences spread all over the globe, this has taken quite some time.”

Tanya called softly to the inspector, who vaulted up the jetway and crammed himself in behind her. Father Gregor went on, “A high-ranking Orthodox bishop was flown from Saint Petersburg to Switzerland recently to perform their version of last rites for his daughter.”

Eric Siegler demanded, “Switzerland? You're certain?”

Tanya said, “Antonin's list includes a villa in the Engadine Valley.”

Father Gregor said, “The bishop described landing between a village and a lake.”

Eric nodded. “He landed at the Saint Moritz airport.”

Storm asked, “You know the region?”