The Black Madonna (6 page)

One of the men was Latino, the other African-American. A tribute to diversification in America's intelligence services. Both shared the stony expressions of people who worried they might have infiltrated enemy territory. From the cut of their suits, which was somewhat more stylish than was normal around Homeland, and the steel-tight way they scoped the room, Emma was thinking CIA.

Emma's immediate superior, Tip MacFarland, was seated three chairs down the table to her right. Tip was a rumbling pachyderm in a rumpled suit. He tested the weight limit of his chair, shifting around so he could prop one size-fourteen hoof on a desk and lean against the wall opposite Emma, and said to the two men, “So there I was, doing my job, saving America from the latest threat we hope nobody will ever know about. And I get a call from the director's office. Which, I've got to tell you, gets my attention. On account of how I'm so far down the totem pole
I assume the director's office couldn't find me with a guide dog and a map.”

The African-American checked his watch and said, “Sir, we should check in.”

MacFarland ignored the interruption. “The director orders me,
orders
me, to give all due respect and assistance to two visitors he does not even bother to name. Naturally I stand at attention and place my hand on my heart and promise I'll do just that.” Tip MacFarland's voice rumbled along as though he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Which, Emma knew, was the only warning Tip MacFarland gave before opening the bomb doors and locking on target. “So as per your request, I bring in one of my top operatives and direct her to place calls that make no sense to me at all. Do they make any sense to you, Agent Webb?”

Emma just sat and rocked and fumed.

“See, up to this point, I thought we were all working on the same team. In my book, teammates take time out to explain what's happening.”

The Latino reached forward and plucked the file from Emma's grasp. “Thank you for your assistance, Agent Webb.”

“Is my friend in danger?”

“Our local operatives are under orders to maintain close surveillance.”

“That so does not answer my question,” Emma snapped.

The Latino's response was cut off by the fifth person in the room, a technician seated at the table's far end. He looked up from his laptop and reported, “Sir, I can confirm the package was delivered and is operational.”

Which only made Emma hotter. “Is your man telling us he's just turned Storm's phone into a bug?”

“Electronic surveillance is necessary for Ms. Syrrell's own safety.”

“Oh, and keeping Storm alive is suddenly your number-one priority, is that what you're saying?”

MacFarland said, “Last time I checked, we were required to obtain a warrant to tap an American's cell phone.”

“Not in matters of national security.”

Emma Webb huffed, “You guys are totally loony tunes if you think Storm Syrrell is a threat.”

MacFarland demanded, “What does your highly sanitized file on this Danton guy not tell us?”

“Sir, your director did not see any need to ask such questions of us.”

“Our director is five buildings away. Which, as far as you're concerned, might as well be Albania.”

They exchanged glances, then the African-American said grudgingly, “If Danton is operating on his own, we have no interest in this at all.”

“So who does he represent?”

“That,” the Latino said, “is what we are trying to find out.”

Emma asked, “How did you identify Storm Syrrell?” When they did not respond, she guessed, “You've been tracking Raphael Danton's calls. When he contacted Storm, you traced her back to me and had your boss call ours.”

The Latino said, “You are hereby ordered to initiate no further contact with Ms. Syrrell until we green-light you.”

“You expect me to leave my friend dangling on the end of your line?” Emma shook her head. “I don't think so.”

Tip said, “You don't know who Danton is working for. But whoever it is, you're certain they've got watchers in place?”

The African-American said, “This is so much bigger than you imagine.”

Tip MacFarland snorted. “Hey, I wish I could tell you how impressed I am with that news flash.”

The Latino added, “No contacts, no research, no casual questions dropped around by your friends in the field.”

Her boss shot Emma a warning look. She smoldered in silence.

The African-American said, “We'll be in touch.”

“And when might that be?”

“When it suits us.”

Tip MacFarland snorted. “Don't let us keep you gentlemen from catching your crosstown bus.”

Emma watched the pair gather up their technician and depart. And waited.

Tip MacFarland had been Emma's boss at Treasury intel. When Emma had returned from her last foray with Storm and Harry Bennett, Tip had invited her to join his team as head of a Homeland Security task force. Tip MacFarland was smart, dedicated, and an experienced Washington infighter. He rose from his chair and said, “Let's walk.”

He waited until they were strolling beneath towering elms that lined the campus sidewalks to ask, “What's the status of your current projects?”

Emma replied, “Boiling along nicely.”

“You have confidence in your number two?”

“Total.”

He stopped her with a subtle gesture, which turned into an inspection of his thumbnail. “Any idea what that item was your friend mentioned?”

“The Amethyst Clock? No. But if Storm calls it a myth, we can take it to the bank. She knows her stuff.”

“Somebody has got to consider it vital if they're paying her a hundred thou and flying her first-class across the Atlantic.”

“That pair neglected to order us to stay away from the clock. I'll check it out.”

MacFarland continued to inspect his thumbnail. “I imagine the director will insist we give the Langley brigade forty-eight hours to come clean.”

Emma did not try to keep the whine from her voice. “Two days is an eternity to leave Storm dangling in the CIA's wind tunnel.”

“You ever heard of this Danton?”

“No.”

“We need to check our system, but my guess is we'll come up blank. Let me handle that part. I don't want your shadow passing in front of their sights.”

“Give me a break, Tip. I can't just sit and hold my breath for two days.”

“I don't expect you to. As far as the system is concerned, you're at your desk, working your crew, fighting the good fight. Do you trust your crew to hold up that fable?”

“Absolutely.”

“Leave your ID with your number two; have her slot you in and out of the building's security. Go see Jimmy over in Documents. Have him work you up a new ID. Tell him the orders come from me and you can't show up on any in-house protocol.”

She could have hugged the man. And not just from relief over Storm. Emma had not been in the field since the previous spring. Washington was gradually becoming just another overcrowded prison. “Thanks, Tip.”

“Save it, girl.” He did not share her excitement. “My gut is telling me this could grow into something seriously poisonous. For all of us.”

S
TORM'S LIMO DRIVER STOOD WAITING
just beyond Heathrow's customs controls. The guy folded his little sign and actually doffed his hat before taking her luggage. He spoke cheerfully about the weather, which was awful, as he shepherded her through the terminal. Their destination was a Rolls the color of old money. The driver waited as she eased into the butter-soft seat, then pointed out the silver carafe of coffee, the burled-walnut table she could fold down to hold her Limoges china cup, the damask napkin to wipe the royal fingertips, the sterling cutlery, the smoked-salmon sandwiches, the television, the ironed newspapers, the half bottle of champagne in the sweating silver ice bucket. At eight o'clock in the morning.

The Rolls was a soothing unguent applied to London's morning rush hour. Storm did not bother to ask where they were going, nor did she much care. Jet lag remained a faint shimmer upon the rainswept horizon. She knew she needed to focus on what lay ahead. But she had never been to London before and was not going to let a little danger spoil the show.

Their destination proved to be the Mayfair branch of Coutts. The bank had been in business for over three hundred years. The royal family banked with Coutts. Coutts only accepted clients
with over a million pounds in liquid assets. Not even the worst recession in three generations could fracture the bank's haughty demeanor.

The bank's door was opened by a junior staffer in striped trousers and a formal cutaway jacket whose manner was as starched as his shirt. When she gave her name, Storm was ushered into a rear conference room.

Her first thought upon spotting her new client was, Don Rafael. As in, Spanish conquistador. Minus the silver filigree, but with the coldhearted brutality required to conquer a more primitive world.

Raphael Danton possessed eyes of cobalt ice, a frigid blue one shade off midnight. Chiseled features, high cheekbones, cleft chin, tan the shade of Baltic amber. With a voice and accent to match. “My sources neglected to mention you were beautiful, Ms. Syrrell.”

Had the comment been offered with anything other than complete disdain, Storm might have beamed. As it was, she found it easy to offer aloofness in return. “What sources might those be?”

Raphael Danton closed the file he had been studying and rose from the chair at the conference table's far end. He carried his cup to the silver coffee service on the sideboard. “Will you take something?”

“Thanks, but I had all I needed on the way into London.” She walked around the table and took a seat. The walls were wainscoted in vintage South American silk wood, now almost extinct. The paintings were all of clippers under full sail, probably privateers financed by the bank's more rapacious investors. The chandelier was more gold than crystal. Storm waited until Danton settled back at the head of the table to say, “If you used the same sources who claim the Amethyst Clock is real, I'm amazed they found me at all.”

Something flickered deep in his gaze. “You are wallowing in so many fine offers these days you can afford to scoff at me?”

Seven hours' sleep at thirty thousand feet left her feeling smooth as the limo's leather. “There's no profit in scoffing, Mr. Danton. I'm just trying to move us through the fog of misdirection. You don't believe the clock exists any more than I do.”

He sipped his coffee, checked a watch of woven gold, and said nothing.

“Just like you know the Pokhitonov portrait is not worth a million dollars,” she continued. “But revenge is. You're after whoever Jacob Rausch represents. Rausch's client thinks the Amethyst Clock exists, so you want it.” Storm offered him two open palms. “See? I've just moved us a hundred miles closer to the truth.”

Raphael Danton's grimace was the first not-handsome part about him that she had seen. Not ugly, though. This guy could have stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes, and blown spit bubbles at the ceiling and still stopped female traffic. But his frown released a tiny sliver of whatever oozed beneath that cool surface.

He said, “So you think you can handle the truth.”

Then it hit her. Danton was angry. At
her.

Danton took her silence as assent. “My company is LEM. LEM stands for Lifestyle Enhancement Managers. We are a luxury concierge service. I assume you have heard of such?”

“Sorry. That's a new one.” This guy isn't just miffed, she thought. He is livid. But why? Had he expected her to fail at the auction? Then why fly her over when she succeeded?

“My group has clients in eighteen countries. There is nowhere on earth we do not operate. And no service we will not offer, so long as it does not breach the laws of the country in question. Anything from hiring a private yacht on six hours' notice to handling all financial correspondence for a retired executive. No service is too large or too small. Our clients like to call us wish fulfillers.”

Storm realized what it was. Raphael Danton liked to hold all the cards.

Why had he chosen her? Simple. Because she was desperate. Danton did not want her hungry. He wanted her
scared
. A guy able to offer her this level of luxury was also a guy willing to take it away. He had rescued her from the precipice, and he expected her to grovel. Instead, she was giving him lip.

Storm said quietly, “I see.”

“I have no interest in a second-rate oil by Ivan Pokhitonov. But my client does. The same client who insists that the Amethyst Clock both exists and is coming up for sale. Your task is to track this clock down and buy it.”

“What if I prove the clock is a fake?”

“Do so with the item in your possession, Ms. Syrrell.”

“You will collect your commission on a fraud?”