Turned to Stone (12 page)

“Can this Kraniotis be trusted?”

“Completely. He’s carried out other operations for us and his service record is impeccable.”

“What’s the source of the inventory you mentioned?”

“It’s from a database Interpol compiled and sent to every investigative agency in the world. Over five thousand pieces appear in the catalogue. Of course, the list includes only those pieces for which we have a photograph; these are the ones that can be identified if they happen to surface. Our job is to find out whether any of the pieces in the
Artemis
’s hold are a match.”

“Let me get this straight: Have you come to recruit me? You want me to go with you?”

“That was the idea, yes.”

“Just you and me, loading and unloading boxes and checking a database of more than five thousand pieces of art?”

“I never said it’d be just you and me. A team of researchers from the CHR is at my disposal. Once we’re in Piraeus we’ll have the support of the Greek and Italian police. The team includes Professor Mercedes San Román, Professor Lucas Andrade, and Señorita Sonia Durán.”

“Sonia Durán?” Jaime raised an eyebrow. Requena had forbidden him from going near the attractive blonde he’d crossed paths with outside the CHR lecture hall. But what if they were thrown together in a professional capacity?

Amatriaín was looking at him expectantly. “What do you say? Any questions?”

“Just one,” said Jaime. “What’s the weather like in Athens at this time of year?”

15

“Hey, what are you doing later?” Amanda asked Paloma, who was sitting in front of her computer on the other side of the room. She was writing up a report on a damaged still life by Spanish artist Luis Meléndez. The two-hundred-year-old painting was one of the works affected when the Prado developed a leak the previous year. The Technical Documentation Office had to evaluate the damage before they could proceed with their restoration.

When she got no response, Amanda raised her voice. “Paloma!”

“Huh?”

“What is going on with you? You’ve been ignoring me all day.”

Paloma lifted her hands off the keyboard and rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I’m . . . concentrating on this.”

“Are you all right, honey? You seem tense.”

“Yeah. It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well. It must be the new pillow I bought.”

“I was asking you what you’re doing tonight.”

Paloma glanced nervously at her watch. It had been a long day, but it was almost over, and she was looking forward to going home. Ever since the break-in at her apartment, she’d felt a deep sense of unease whenever she had to be out for more than an hour. She had lashed out at Preston over what happened, but he denied all knowledge of it and his innocence had seemed sincere. “I’ll probably just grab a shower and try to sleep,” she said, keeping her eyes on the computer screen.

“How about we grab a drink? Whatever’s bothering you, you can tell me all about it over a few beers.”

“I can’t, Amanda, but thanks. Maybe some other day.”

“Why? Are you sick?”

“No, just tired. Anyway, don’t you have to get home to make Hugo’s dinner?”

“The neighbor who picks him up can do it this once. I think he can get by without me for one night. Even moms need a break now and then.”

Paloma couldn’t help giving her friend a look of reproach. At thirty-three, she still wasn’t a mother, and, although it wasn’t something she had wanted, her body had recently begun sending her signals.
You don’t have long left,
she would suddenly find herself thinking. But she always found reasons to ignore the message and focus on work. Plus, if Amanda’s life was anything to go by, parenthood appeared to be something one should enter into very carefully.

“Honestly, I can’t. Another time.”

“Is this about that idiot?” Amanda whispered. She nodded in the direction of Oscar Preston, who was sitting on the other side of the room reviewing some reports while listening to music on a pair of giant headphones.

“Only partly. Sorry, I have to finish this before I go home.”

Amanda shrugged and went back to her workstation. She was working on a small eighteenth-century landscape painted by an English artist that had also been damaged by the leak. The piece depicted a biblical scene of the Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, and the baby Jesus resting during their flight into Egypt. The water had affected the outer layers of paint, which had bubbled up at certain points and changed color in others, but the preparation and medium remained intact. The stereomicroscopic analysis had been completed, and now Amanda faced the task of cleaning it and repainting the affected areas.

At seven in the evening she stopped, stretched her muscles, and put her utensils away in a small black case. “I’m off,” she told Paloma. “If you come to your senses, call me.”

Paloma was gathering up her things, too, but hurriedly and in no particular order. When she’d finished, she stood and grabbed her jacket from the hook. Before she walked out the door, she came up behind her friend and whispered in her ear, “See you tomorrow—and sorry.”

Amanda shook her head, wondering what on earth was going on with Paloma. She gave one last glance to Oscar Preston, who was still engrossed in his work and his music, and left without saying good-bye.

The night was misty and the streetlamps and car headlights glowed through a thick layer of gray paint. At least that’s how it seemed to Amanda, who was used to spending her days surrounded by artwork and was developing the habit of viewing real life as if it, too, were a painting. The air was cool and pleasant, and the idea of walking home was appealing.

As she strolled, she tried to call Señora Julia, the neighbor who picked up Hugo from school whenever Amanda had to work late, which was almost every day. It seemed strange that the Señora wasn’t picking up the phone—it was the third time Amanda had called that evening. The poor woman must be going deaf.

As she strolled past the Parque del Retiro, Amanda thought about how quickly Paloma appeared to be unraveling. Over the last week she’d been particularly sensitive and overanxious, looking at everyone with suspicion, and was generally keeping to herself, speaking as little as possible even to Amanda. She speculated whether the change had something to do with the man who had surprised them at the restaurant a few days earlier.

Jaime Azcárate.

Amanda wondered who he was and where he’d come from. It worried her that Paloma had never mentioned him, and it pained her that her friend didn’t confide in her as much as she’d thought she did.

So lost was Amanda in her thoughts, she barely noticed that she’d arrived at her home on Calle Jorge Juan. As she took the elevator up to the second floor, she toyed with the idea of sinking into a bubble bath after cooking Hugo his dinner; her body and mind both needed the tension relief. Before taking her key from her handbag, she rang the bell to Señora Julia’s apartment. No one answered.

That was odd. The Señora rarely went out, especially on days when she had to look after Hugo. She began to worry. Had someone fallen ill? Why hadn’t anyone called her?

Amanda opened her own door and went in, but the place was empty. She took a set of her neighbor’s keys from the sideboard and let herself into the adjoining apartment. The lights were off and no sound could be heard. She took out her cell phone and called Señora Julia. Somewhere in the apartment a ringtone went off.

Amanda felt her heart pound. “Señora Julia?”

She walked down the corridor to the bedroom, and then she heard it: a hollow banging sound, coming from the wardrobe. Amanda turned the little ornamental brass key and the wardrobe door opened. A bundled-up form fell to the floor and Amanda screamed. “Señora Julia!”

Her sixty-nine-year-old neighbor was bound and gagged. Amanda removed the tape covering her lips and the woman gasped for breath.

“Wait here. I’ll . . .” Amanda ran to the kitchen and returned with a serrated knife, which she used to free her neighbor. “What happened? Where’s Hugo?”

“Oh my dear. Oh good God . . .”

“Señora Julia, where’s my son?”

“A man. He said he was here to read the water meter. They’d left a note this morning saying they’d come. I—I believed him. God, what an idiot I am!”

“What did the man look like? Did you know him?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see him clearly through the peephole, and when I opened the door he was wearing a mask. How could I have been so stupid? You know I never open the door to anyone. We have to call the police!”

Amanda took out her cell phone and when she looked at the screen saw that she had a text message waiting. Ignoring it, she began to dial the emergency number with trembling fingers, but then the handset started to ring. The screen showed an unknown number.

Not knowing what else to do, she answered the call.

“Hello, I can’t—”

“Amanda?” The male voice was nasal, with a strange accent.

“Who is it?” The voice seemed familiar but she couldn’t put a name to it. Then it clicked. “Oscar Preston?”

“Are you okay?”

“Oscar, I can’t talk right now. Someone has—”

“I know. Someone broke into your neighbor’s house and took your son.”

Amanda felt dizzy. She sat on the bed.

“How do you—?”

“I sent you a text. Have you called the police?”

“I was just about to. But how—”

“Listen to me, Amanda. It’s very important that you don’t tell the police. If you do that, you’ll never see your son again.”

“You son of a
bitch
—What are you talking about? What’ve you done with Hugo?”

“I don’t have him, I swear. But the man who did this is desperate. You can’t mess with him.”

Amanda looked at Señora Julia, who was digging her fingernails into the younger woman’s arm. “What’s going on?” she whispered. Amanda shook her head.

“I don’t understand, Oscar. Where’s Hugo? And what’s your part in all this?”

“They’re using me. I’m supposed to tell you to get something from Paloma. Something she’s working on.”

“What are you
talking
about?”

“That secret document of hers. She must have told you something.”

“I’ve never heard anything about Paloma having a secret document.”

“You’re lying. You’re her best friend. You must know about it.”

“I swear I don’t. I know Ricardo has asked you both for a research piece. Is that what you mean?”

“Possibly, yes. Amanda, you have to get it. This man isn’t screwing around and we only have a few days. If I don’t get that document for him by Wednesday, God knows what’ll happen to your son.”

Amanda took a deep breath. Everything in her wanted to scream and insult that bastard Preston, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Look, Oscar, I don’t know what despicable mess you’ve got yourself into, but if you so much as lay a finger on Hugo—”

“I’m not going to touch him; I don’t even know where he is. I’m as much a victim in all this as you are. Remember, next Wednesday.”

“But I don’t—”

“I’m sorry, Amanda.”

The line went dead. Amanda collapsed onto her neighbor’s bed.

“What’s going on?” Señora Julia asked.

“I don’t know,” Amanda said in the voice of someone whose soul has been torn from her. “I honestly don’t know . . .”

16

Athens

Just before midday, the Alitalia Boeing 777 transporting Vicente Amatriaín’s team landed at the Eleftherios Venizelos airport in Athens.

Jaime had spent the nearly four-hour flight chatting with the three CHR researchers the EHU officer had recruited for the mission. There was Mercedes San Román, an expert in religious imagery; Lucas Andrade, an all-around historian who drove the CHR’s Modern History Department crazy with his audacious theories about the treasure that disappeared from France during the Franco-Prussian War; and, of course, Sonia Durán, the specialist in heritage management.

Jaime’s new colleagues left a wide range of first impressions on him. Professor San Román had striking chestnut hair that she wore in a spiral knot. She wore red-rimmed glasses, and, even though she’d just met him, she nearly talked Jaime’s ear off. Andrade was short and reserved, with a monotonous, husky voice that had the unfortunate effect of driving people away. Sonia Durán, a Nordic-looking beauty with white skin and turquoise eyes, proved to be both intelligent and amiable, though, to Jaime’s regret, she was also rather guarded and not at all open to workplace flirtation.

To Jaime, all three seemed encouraged by the faith the EHU had in them, but they remained apprehensive about the responsibility laid at their feet. These were people who spent their days conducting research in museums, libraries, and archives, and each one’s expertise in his or her field was unrivaled. But the task ahead was different from anything they had done before. They couldn’t help but worry when they considered that the objects they were to find and examine might be loot a dangerous criminal gang had collected over many years of robberies.

Jaime’s own unease was less about the mission than about the loose ends he’d left behind in Spain. When he left home Paloma wasn’t answering his calls, and neither was the Petrarca Gallery. He had left them both messages via their answering machines, e-mail, and even social media accounts, but nobody seemed to want to hear from him.

During the last part of the trip, he managed to grab a power nap. His final thoughts before he closed his eyes were of Paloma and of the gorgon Medusa, and—for no particular reason—he found himself wondering whether both history and mythology were doomed to repeat themselves.

At a quarter past twelve, the five team members walked out of the airport toward the patrol car with tinted windows that was waiting for them. A man in a suit approached and greeted Amatriaín. “This is Inspector Juliun Kraniotis, the EHU’s associate and head of the operation in Athens,” Amatriaín said to the others, indicating the man with the red hair and beard.

Kraniotis didn’t speak a word of Spanish, so he greeted them in English, showing each person an equal amount of attention. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience this trip may have caused you,” he said, “but, as I’m sure Mr. Amatriaín has mentioned, it is only through close cooperation between our countries that this investigation can produce results. My team is already waiting at the port, but if you wish, I will take you to your hotel first. You must be tired, and the
Artemis
hasn’t arrived yet.”

Once they were all settled into their seats, the van set off toward the center of the ancient city. They left behind a highway flanked by olive groves and entered into a confusion of stores, kiosks, orthodox churches, and sidewalks packed with pedestrians. After the driver took a few side streets, they arrived at the grand hotel where rooms had been reserved for them.

The EHU had spared no expense. The Theoxenia was the only five-star hotel in Piraeus, and with its four nine-story buildings it resembled an architectural experiment more than an apartment block. While Kraniotis checked them in, the rest of the team admired the sleek, expansive lobby, which looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. They dropped off their luggage and refueled on coffee, and within an hour they were back in the police car following a report that the
Artemis
had just docked at port.

Jaime sat in the back with Lucas Andrade, who seemed equally miffed not to be sitting next to Sonia Durán. He breathed the salty air of one of the world’s most important ports and peered out of the window. There it was: Piraeus. The legendary departure point for voyages of exploration, trade, and war.

Jaime had once studied the plans, designed by Hippodamus of Miletus, in a university class on urban planning. He dug back into his memory and recalled that it was Themistocles who, five centuries before Christ, had ordered the port city built so that Athens could become a true maritime power. Years later, in 1834, after the War of Independence, Piraeus became Greece’s third largest city, with over two hundred thousand inhabitants—thereby recovering the status that for centuries had been lost.

The van turned down a road that ran parallel with the wharf; before a glass-fronted building, sailboats bobbed gently on the water. Buried in thought, Jaime barely noticed that they’d turned into the Kentrico Limani, one of three harbors that made up the port complex of Piraeus, and had stopped at the red-and-white barrier of a checkpoint. A guard approached the window of the police car and, after exchanging a few words with their driver, went back to his guard station and raised the barrier.

They passed a series of ships bearing the names
Delphos
,
Delphos II
, and
Delphos III
. Beyond the Delphic trilogy were other vessels whose names, painted on their hulls or bridges, said a little more about their owners’ interests:
Ulysses
,
Zenobia
,
Theseus
,
Veronica
. . .

Finally they stopped at a small brick building. Kraniotis got out of the car first, and he pointed toward a massive ship several meters out. “There you have it: the
Artemis
.”

The ship was moored alongside a gigantic crane, parallel to the old jetty and separated from it by half a meter. Its bow rose ungracefully, revealing a layer of rust that covered most of the black hull. Containers and crates of all sizes were stacked on the deck, chained to crane masts at both bow and stern.

Kraniotis led the group into the small building, which turned out to be a port police station. Its one spacious room contained a filthy, threadbare sofa and a large table in the center. In a corner were a computer and a printer. Standing near these was the team of historians from the University of Athens assembled by Kraniotis: three specialists in ancient artifacts whose names Jaime forgot the minute he was told them.

“What do we do now?” Professor San Román asked Amatriaín. She looked around for a place to put her bag and decided not to deposit it on the disgusting couch.

“A soon as I inform the EHU’s head office of our arrival, we’ll go on board and get to work.”

While Amatriaín made the call, Jaime slipped out of the station and set off at a fast walk out of the port. As he breathed in the pleasant smell of sea and petroleum, he passed a charming restaurant filled with couples and families sampling some tasty-looking meze under a natural canopy of vine leaves. Giving them a look of envy, he slipped his cell phone from his pocket and called Roberto. After seven rings he was about to hang up, then he heard a breathless voice. “Yes?”

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no. I love answering the phone while I’m soaking wet and shivering, with just a towel around my waist. I get off on it, in fact.”

“Too much information. I can call back later.”

“No, wait a second.” Jaime heard Roberto switch on his heater. “Okay. Where are you?”

“At the Port of Piraeus. We just got here.”

“Lucky you. And? Found something already?”

“Nothing but a freighter that’s falling to pieces. I doubt the artifacts inside it are much older than the ship itself.” Jaime said. “Listen, I’m going to need your help.”

“Sorry, but you’re dreaming if you think I’m going to show up with my revolver to get you out of trouble again. It’s one thing expecting me to drive to El Burgo de Osma, but it’s another—”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Do you remember the gallery I mentioned? The Petrarca?”

“Where the Medusa used to be, yes. Unlike some people,
I
actually listen when someone talks to me.”

“I can’t get hold of them and things are going to be crazy here for a while. Could you do me a favor, since you like to stay up late anyway?”

“There you go again, trying to drag me into your crazy plans.”

“Actually, what I need is really very simple. But if you want, I can let you get back to more important things, like scrubbing your belly.”

“You’re an asshole. Fine, what do you want me to do, exactly?”

“Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Are you kidding? I never shower without them.”

Jaime gave Roberto a series of instructions and passed on the contact information for the Petrarca Gallery. After he’d written it all down, Roberto asked, “Anything else?”

“Not for now. I’ll call tonight so you can tell me how it went.”

“Not tonight. I’m playing in a match.” Roberto took his online gaming very seriously.

“That’s how you keep watch on the building?”

“You have no idea how mind-numbing it gets at night.”

“Fine. Tomorrow then.”

“Not too early,” Roberto pleaded.

“Hey, we’re professionals and there’s work to do. You don’t want the EHU to think we’re as incompetent as they are, do you?”

“Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass. You’re the secret super agent, not me.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Jaime whistled his way back to the port. After waving to the now-familiar guard, he walked back into the station, where an enraged Amatriaín asked where he’d been. Jaime shrugged.

“Nature called. Can we get started now?”