The Black Madonna (5 page)

S
TORM'S BANKER REPORTED, “THE FUNDS
were transferred into your account from the New York branch of Credit Suisse.”

“Is there any reason I should be worried about that?”

“Not from our end. I have spoken with our legal team. Everything is aboveboard. The proper notification has already been sent to Treasury. Are you intending to export the painting?”

“I have no idea.”

“So long as we leave a clear paper trail and your taxes are paid on time, there should be no problem.” Gerald Geldorf's attitude had undergone a drastic transformation. Gone was the pressure, the condemnation, the anxiety. In its place was a man intent on making things happen. “Money is money.”

“Tell me again how much he transferred.”

“One million, two hundred thousand dollars.” If Gerald Geldorf found anything odd about a client who could not believe her own good fortune, he did not show it.

Storm did a quick calculation. The auction house's 8 percent commission was added on top of the item's price. That and her own commission brought the total to one mil one forty. “The
client overpaid,” she said. “I need you to set up an escrow account for the extra sixty.”

“Certainly, Ms. Syrrell.”

The prospect of a mystery client who did not bother with such details as sixty thousand dollars left Storm weak at the knees. “I may be drawing out expenses.”

“As far as my bank is concerned, the escrow is there for you to use at your discretion.”

“I'll be taking the painting with me as I leave the estate this evening. I need to deposit it in our safety-deposit vault.”

“A bank official will be here to assist you whenever you complete your acquisition, Ms. Syrrell. Day or night.”

“And the funds are ready to be transferred to the auctioneer's account?”

“As soon as I receive your confirmation, Ms. Syrrell. We are standing by.”

“My very own yes-man.”

“Is there anything else, Ms. Syrrell?”

“Try to find out whose account made that funds transfer. If you learn anything, call me on this number.”

Storm shut her phone and remained standing outside the estate's main gates. She would have liked a moment to bask in the unaccustomed light of having the banker off her case and on her side. But a cloud by the name of Jacob Rausch chose that moment to insert itself between Storm and the sun.

Rausch demanded, “Who is your client?”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

“You don't have one. You knew I was intent upon purchasing the item.” Even Rausch's fury held an elegant sheen. “You used this for revenge.”

“Sorry, Jacob. Those are Manhattan tactics. In case you hadn't noticed, we're standing in Manalapan.”

“I'll do you a favor. Give me the painting and I'll offer half a percent commission and not a penny more.”

“And I'm telling you, I have a client.”

“You're lying. You just spent your little business into bankruptcy for sheer vengeance against me. I will take pleasure in grinding you and your paltry firm into the dust where it belongs. My offer for Syrrell's is hereby revoked.”

Storm responded with her sweetest smile. “What offer would that be?”

Rausch wheeled about and almost collided with Claudia. “Kindly move out of my way.”

Claudia watched him stride away, then asked, “Who put a roach in his sandwich?”

Suddenly even the clammy April afternoon tasted sweet. “That would be me.”

IT BECAME AN AFTERNOON FOR
weaving dreams. Claudia arranged the details regarding the purchase while Storm returned to the auction and assumed the role her grandfather had once dominated. She worked the room, giving out every card she had, smiling at little jokes she did not even bother to hear. Eyes followed her everywhere. A visit to the coffee table meant fielding a series of quick intros from dealers desperate to make the acquaintance of that rarest of breeds, a dealer with money to burn.

As the final lots came up for bidding, a late-afternoon storm swept across the waterway. The rotunda-style windows behind the auctioneer's dais revealed a violent display of wind and lightning and walls of rain. Storm pretended not to detect a note of foreboding when the thunder drowned out the bidding.

The auctioneers had turned the butler's pantry into a payment office. Storm found Claudia standing in one corner, frowning down at their acquisition. Claudia remained somewhat hollowed by the previous year's ordeal. Her refined features carried new shadows, and there were times when it seemed to Storm that her stylish clothes were all that kept the lady intact.

Claudia greeted Storm with a quietly murmured, “This oil isn't worth a million dollars.”

“No.”

“Maybe half that. On an extremely good day. At the top of a superheated market.”

Storm recalled words from another time. “If the dream seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

“Sean used to say that.”

“I know.”

Storm arranged a loan of two security guards and one of the auctioneer's vans, then phoned the bank to reconfirm their after-hours delivery. As they watched the oil being loaded, Claudia said, “I did a little checking after you phoned. Pokhitonov's son hid this painting through Stalin's years of chaos. It was the last of his father's oils that he sold. He claimed its spirit protected the family from harm. Every other citizen of their village wound up in a Siberian gulag.”

“Here's what I think happened. Either Rausch himself or the money he's representing did the dirty on our mystery buyer. Our guy wants it because they want it. Price means less than his chance to savor the taste of revenge.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“You mean, other than holding a sixty-thousand-dollar lifeline?” Storm waved to the van's driver and unlocked her car. She was suddenly eager to leave behind the strangeness that was Manalapan. “I have no idea.”

A
S SOON AS STORM HAD
stowed the painting in the bank vault, she phoned her mystery buyer. The man definitely did not possess a New York accent. Storm was thinking possibly French, but with some kind of colonial overtone. Probably someplace hot. Swampy and snake-infested. Dreadful enough to breed this mystery guy's bad attitude.

“I assume you have somewhere extremely safe to keep my oil.”

“The basement vault of Worth Bank.”

“I suppose that will do.”

“Exactly who are you?”

“My name is Raphael Danton.”

“Spell that, please.”

He did so. The man sounded vaguely dissatisfied, as though he had half hoped she would fail. “I have another assignment for you.”

“Are you French?”

“Are you paying attention?”

“Is there some reason why I shouldn't know—”

“I have received word that the Amethyst Clock will soon come up for sale.”

With any other client, she would have couched her response a bit more diplomatically. “That's pretty amazing. Seeing as how the item couldn't possibly exist.”

“The clock will not come onto the public market.”

“Think about what you're saying. The Amethyst Clock is a legend about a device that stops time. The forgers would be ridiculed. Not to mention be arrested for the crime of stupidity.”

Raphael Danton did not give any indication he heard her at all. “I want you to buy it for me. I will pay any price.”

“You're wasting your money. And my time.”

“Nonetheless, I want you to act on my behalf.”

“Sir, maybe I didn't make myself clear. There is no clock to find.”

“I say there is.”

“Mr. Danton—”

“Name your price, Ms. Syrrell.”

“Excuse me?”

“Obviously you are concerned about my wasting your oh-so-valuable time. Fine. I will make it worth your while. Tell me what retainer you require to justify depriving your numerous other clients of your precious counsel.”

His words burned harshly enough to color both her tone and the amount. “A hundred thousand dollars.”

“Very well. One moment. The money is now transferred. A British Airways flight leaves Miami for London Gatwick in four hours. Your ticket has been purchased.”

“Wait, I—”

“Hurry, Ms. Syrrell. Make that flight. Danton out.”

STORM WAITED UNTIL SHE HAD
arrived at the Miami airport and checked in before returning Emma Webb's call. When her friend answered, Storm related the day's events, then said, “I packed in precisely twelve seconds. For London. I'll probably
wind up there with three left shoes and a dress I haven't worn since my high school prom.”

Emma Webb, recently of Interpol, was now chief of her own investigative task force within the Department of Homeland Security. “Girl, with a hundred thousand dollars in the bank, you can afford to shop.”

“You haven't seen my overdraft. Not to mention overdue rent. Bills. Melted credit cards. Unsold goods gathering dust in my front window.”

“Storm, you have got to stop blaming yourself for the global recession.”

“Not the whole thing. Just my little corner.”

“Where are you now?”

“You're going to love this.”

“Tell me.”

“Miami airport. A leather sofa in BA's first-class lounge. Crystal glass at my elbow. My feet are on a burl table I wouldn't mind having on display in the shop. Every thirty seconds or so a servant comes by with nibbles on a silver platter. The ticket my mystery buyer arranged cost more than my car.”

“What was his name again?”

“Raphael Danton.” She rubbed one stockinged foot with the other. “I should have told him I wouldn't travel for less than a million.”

“Hold on, let me see if we've got a file on the man.” After a pause, Emma said, “Whoa.”

“What?”

“This guy is hot. Not to mention rich. And he's single. There must be something seriously wrong here. I'm thinking some secret wasting disease.”

“His attitude is about the worst I've come across.”

“Honey, a rich single hunk isn't allowed to have a personality. It's the law.”

“He's really a hunk?”

“Let me put it this way. When Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's
kid grows up, he's going to look like armadillo roadkill beside your new client.”

“Why does Homeland Security have a file on him?”

“Probably because he's so hot. I can imagine some lonely chief investigator spotting this guy in line somewhere and ordering her crew to find his home address.”

“Is he French?”

“Swiss. Raphael Danton, born in Geneva, thirty-two years old, father died when he was two, stepfather a biggie scientist in the pharmaceutical industry. Get this, the guy actually won a Nobel Prize.”

“My client?”

“No, fool. His stepfather. Okay, Danton currently resides in London. He owns a company called LEM, incorporated in Switzerland, no indication here of what it does. Which is strange in the extreme. He was an officer in the Swiss army, then headed to Africa. Won a big-game license for a two-hundred-thousand-acre game preserve in northern Congo. When the country's government went south, he . . .”

“He what?”

“Our boy went over to the dark side. Ran guns to the rebels.”

“So I'm buying oils with an arms smuggler's money. Sweet.”

“It gets worse. Danton fought on the side that didn't win. Which classes him as a mercenary, which is why we are reading this file.” Emma was all business now. “What does he want you to do for him now?”

“Locate a myth called the Amethyst Clock.”

“A myth how, exactly?”

“The thing is supposed to freeze time for anyone who possesses it.” The hostess chose that moment to signal Storm. “Sorry, Emma, they've called my flight.”

“Watch your back with this guy. And call me the first chance you get. And, Storm?”

“Yes?”

“While you're at it, try to enjoy yourself, okay?”

• • • 

EMMA WEBB HANDED THE PHONE
to the technician. She leaned back in the ergonomic chair she would have liked to steal for her own office. She stared at a blank side wall as she let go of her smile. Emma wished she could go scour her skin with a wire brush.

Homeland Security had taken over a campus-style compound in the ghetto called Northeast Washington. The site had once housed the Coast Guard Academy and remained a tiny island of green and trees and orderly sidewalks and rectangular seventies-style buildings set in the heart of the nation's premier drug frontier. The campus was both paranoid and intensely secretive. Four years after it was first conceived, Homeland Security remained bitterly segmented along its original divisions. Orders to share information among branches remained nothing more than departmental memos. Which was why Emma knew better than to ask the names of the two dark-suited men standing by the conference room's opposite wall.