The Black Madonna (16 page)

“As your appointed agent, it is my duty to inform you that such a bid is about as sensible as looking for life on Pluto.”

“Duly noted.”

She lifted her paddle. “So idiotic you should have your client's interior decorator design a padded cell.”

Danton asked, “Having fun, Ms. Syrrell?”

“I'm almost looking forward to having this done so I can remember what a good time I had. Hold on a second.”

The auctioneer's aide was slowly making her way down the central aisle. Storm lifted her hand, signaling to the auctioneer that she wanted time for a closer look. The entire hall held its breath.

A paten was a sacramental plate designed to hold the holy wafers. The bone-white alabaster was carved as a six-sided flower. The design had been the seal of Byzantium's emperors for over a hundred years, from the mid-fourth to the mid-fifth centuries. At the flower's center was the image of Christ holding the Law, fashioned from what appeared to be early cloisonné enamel. The plate's outer two inches were solid gold and rimmed with pearls the size of Storm's thumbnail.

The auctioneer announced, “We are back to you at nine hundred thousand.”

Storm replied, “One million, five hundred thousand pounds.”

Even the auctioneer needed a moment to recover, which was hardly a surprise, since Storm had just doubled the day's total take. Then he said, “Madame has raised the bid to one million five. Do I hear a counter?”

Rausch shoved his chair into the gentleman seated behind him, who exclaimed, “I say, have a care there!”

Rausch stalked toward the exit. As he passed Storm's chair, he snarled, “You are about to discover what it means to have me for an enemy.”

The auctioneer's hammer smacked the podium. The audience applauded a drama strong enough to divert them from the day's gloom. “Sold to the lady for one million, five hundred thousand pounds!”

T
HE JORDANIAN LIMO DRIVER WAS
only too pleased to have Emma's company. His name was Saleem, and he stank of old cigarette smoke. “These days, too many arguments over payments. Too many poor tourists. My children, they starve.” But he smiled as he said it, and he drove with happy abandon.

Emma replied, “Long as we make good time.”

“For a pretty lady with money, we fly. Like golden . . . what you call it?”

“Chariot.”

“Yes. With wings.” Worry beads polished by years of nervous hands dangled from one wrist and caught the sunlight as he patted the wheel affectionately. “Good chariot. She fly for you, pretty lady.”

The car was a black Mercedes of late seventies vintage, boxy and huge. But the air conditioner hummed and the wheels ate up the miles. The road north and then west started flat and was so empty that Saleem had little use for the horn. But such habits died hard. Saleem honked at everything they passed—donkey carts using the flattened earth alongside the asphalt, silent Bedouin communities, dusty children teasing a
yapping dog. Saleem wore a shiny suit that bulged over his protruding belly and a starched collarless shirt. Beyond the windshield, heat shimmered and danced. Emma asked, “How long?”

“Fifty kilometers, three hills, one town.” Saleem grinned. “For you, fifteen minutes.”

“Seriously.”

“Yes, I am thinking you are much serious lady.” Saleem's eyes danced with the glee of driving a woman in too much of a hurry to dicker over his price. “We come there plenty soon. You like music?”

“Whatever gets us there quickest.”

He switched on the radio and found a station. “Most tourists, they come to Nebo, they take much time. They ask many questions. They want to know, did Moses do this, do that. I say, so sorry, he was gone when I got there.”

“You're a funny man.”

Saleem pointed to the radio. “This is Oom Kalthoum. You know?”

The woman did not sing so much as sob in cadence to the orchestra. “First time I ever heard her.”

“She very famous. Egyptian. She asks, ‘Why my love go away?'” He made moon eyes. “You come to Nebo, pray for love?”

“Something like that.”

“No, I think it is another reason why you come.”

Emma clutched her purse, comforted by the gun's proximity. She wondered if she dared try Harry's phone again. “I don't like questions, Saleem. They slow things down.”

“Don't worry, pretty lady. I talk and drive all the time.”

But he did not have the chance to pry further, for Emma's phone rang. Storm asked, “Any word?”

“Not much. Where are you?”

“England. Somewhere intensely green. Tell me what you know.”

“Harry's walked into some serious trouble. He told me not to come.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think? I'm coming.”

Storm hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Raphael is part of this?”

Emma noticed how Saleem was taking a somber interest in her side of the conversation. “That is exactly the question I've been asking. My gut hasn't decided. But he did give me something from his little drawer.”

“Money?”

“Something a lot louder. With three clips of little helpers.”

“You're armed, and you're being overheard.”

“Affirmative to both.”

“What can I do?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Call me, okay? The very instant.”

When she hung up, Saleem showed her worried eyes. “I am driving into trouble?”

“My trouble, Saleem, not yours.”

“No, no, this is my car, so is my trouble.” As they entered the desert town of Madaba, Saleem slipped his worry beads off his wrist and began clicking them through his fingers. “My babies, they starve.”

“Just get me to Nebo. I'll take care of things. You can stay in the car all safe and sound.” As they approached the town's central market, a storefront window display caught Emma's eye. “Stop the car, please.”

Saleem pulled into a parking space. “You are policewoman?”

“United States federal agent.”

He rocked in his seat. “This very much bad.”

Either she calmed the man down, or as soon as she stepped from the car, he was going to scoot. No question. And there was the small matter of getting away with Harry afterward. “I want you to listen very carefully. My entire life is dedicated to protecting the innocent.”

“Innocent. Yes. Is me.” Saleem's worry beads clattered loudly. “Your friend, he not hurt my country?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Who is after him?”

“I'm not sure. But I think maybe Russians are involved.”

Saleem moaned. “Very, very terrible.”

“Yes.” Emma pointed at the department store's window display. “I need one of those.”

Saleem had trouble focusing. “You wish to buy
thob'ob
?”

“Whatever. Will you help me?”

As they left the car and crossed the noisy street, Saleem asked, “Your friend, what he do?”

“He's a scavenger.”

Saleem squinted over the unfamiliar word. “He smuggles?”

“Sometimes. He hunts for treasure.”

“Why you not say so? Smuggling good business. My uncle, my brother, my cousin. All smuggle.” The thought brightened him visibly. “I think your friend make very much money to worry Russians.”

Emma caught the message loud and clear. “Help us get out of this mess, Saleem, and we'll be happy to share the wealth.”

His smile revealed terrible teeth. “My babies, they thank you.”

INSIDE THE DEPARTMENT STORE, SALEEM
took it upon himself to act as Emma's personal ambassador. Saleem explained to Emma that none of the salesladies had ever dressed a Western woman in traditional Jordanian garb. They were delighted.

Saleem named each item as Emma was kitted out. Her travel-weary suit was traded for a
thob aswad
, a bluish-black voluminous dress with broad sleeves and deep, pointed lapels. Beneath this she donned a pair of
sirwa'al
, capacious long pants that covered all but the tips of her shoes. A woolen
ishdad
was belted over the
thob
. Then came the
bisht abayeh
, a mantle of the
same blue-black silk, chased about the edges with silver thread. The senior saleslady showed her how to cross the scarf's leading edges beneath her chin, then drape the ends over her shoulders so that they hung down the back. The salesladies jabbered delightedly as they guided Emma toward the mirror.

The woman who stared back at her was utterly unrecognizable.

Her driver beamed at the result. “The ladies, they say you do much honor, dressing like pilgrim for Fasaliyyeh. That is our word for Moses church.”

“Thanks, Saleem.” Emma pointed at a rack of oversized sunglasses, the moon-shaped globes a throwback to nineties bling. “What do you call those?”

Saleem shrugged. “Ray-Bans.”

“I'll take a pair.”

Saleem insisted upon carrying the bag holding her former outfit. But midway back to the car he said, “No, no, is not correct.”

“What's the matter?”

“You walk like soldier. Bam, bam, your feet, they . . . how you say?”

“March.”

“Yes. Too long step. Too strong.” Despite his evident nerves, Saleem enjoyed himself, reshaping the Western agent into a proper Arab. “Small steps. Like lady. Yes, is better. And chin too high. Good, yes. Now you are . . . what is word?”

“A wimp.”

“Proper. Yes, is proper. Good.” He bowed her into the backseat. “Maybe tonight I kiss my babies.”

THE FINAL TEN KILOMETERS FROM
Madaba to Nebo were over a series of increasingly steep switchbacks. Their destination was clear enough, a yellow mount rising well above its neighbors. The church was of ancient Orthodox design, a low structure with a rounded top and deep-set windows, fashioned from the
hill's own stone. Saleem pulled into the massive parking lot and halted beneath a trio of desert pines. He sat staring forward, his fingers busy with the worry beads.

“Here's how it's going to play out,” Emma said, hoping she was right. “A modest woman dressed in proper local fashion is going to climb the rise and find the man and bring him back. We will leave. End of story.”

“There will be shootings?”

“If you hear gunfire, Saleem, you have my permission to take off.”

“I think maybe you pay now.”

“Some now, more when this is done.” Emma handed over a brick of folded notes. “Your babies are lucky to have such a good dad.”

Saleem made the money disappear. “Two men by the bus, they are not tourists.”

“I see them.” And two more in a slowly cruising blue Peugeot. And another pair hovering like navy-suited vultures by the walk leading to the church. “Come open my door.”

Saleem slipped from the car, walked around, and held her door as she rose. All without meeting her gaze. Emma started to walk off, then turned back to say, “Just so you know, Saleem. This is what I live for.”

THE CHURCH HELD THE AIR
of a fortress. The interior courtyards were shielded by a high stone wall. Inside the main basilica, four narrow windows with curved tops supplied most of the light. The windows added to the sense of entering a medieval garrison. A notice in six languages stated that the Franciscans operated a monastery on the site and requested that all visitors maintain silence and decorum.

Emma devoutly hoped the blue-suited vultures had taken note of that sign.

Adrenaline etched everything she saw with brilliant clarity. Tourists floated about in pastel busloads, their guides shepherding and chattering. Monks and nuns clustered in desert garb of white and black. Local pilgrims came bearing flowers and candles, their heads covered, their gazes focused on whatever problem drew them to the Moses church on this scalding day.

Two more watchers hovered in the shadows by the sacristy's main entrance. One glance was enough for Emma to be certain they were not Russians, but locals. These men had spent a lifetime learning absolute patience. One slipped by Emma, moving to where the outer walk looked back over the empty Jordanian plains. As he passed, he glanced at her and then away. Emma took his dismissal as a sign that she and Harry just might get out of this alive. If only she could find him.

She entered the nave, slipped coins from her purse, fed the offering box, and lit a candle. She joined a group of tourists and passed slowly through the basilica. As she started toward the stairs leading to the archeological excavations, Emma felt eyes upon her. But the only watcher was a bandaged Arab who wheeled his chair toward a prayer alcove.

Emma followed the group down the winding stone stairs. The tour guide slowed at the first excavations and began a longwinded lecture that Emma could not be bothered to hear. She did a quick sweep of the other tourist groups filling the quarry, then returned upstairs.