Gold of Kings (36 page)

T
HEY WOUND UP IN FOUR
adjoining rooms at the hospital in downtown Palm Beach. Claudia was under observation after having been fed a cocktail of drugs for three days. Emma recovered well from her mild concussion. Storm's shoulder took three hours of surgery and left her with her arm bound tightly to her chest. Harry was the only one who really worried them. But on the second day the doctors allowed the two ladies some unsupervised time.

Emma began with “I've got to leave for Washington in about half an hour. Until then, you're mine. The police are going to make certain nobody comes in. No matter how loud you scream.”

Harry watched them through guarded eyes. “You're ganging up on me.”

Storm used her good arm to raise his bed. “Answers. Good ones. Now.”

Emma said, “Start with marching off the boat.”

Harry pushed himself up a bit more erect. “About that.”

“Yes?”

“I'll tell you. If you're sure you want to know.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You're a cop. You'll always be one. The question you need to ask yourself is, can you live with my kind of secrets.”

She gave that a long moment. Then decided, “I have to, don't I?”

“I sure hope so.”

Emma nodded slowly. Back and forth. “Tell us, Harry.”

“I went back.”

That brought them both up sharp. “Back where?”

“To the island.”

Storm shrilled, “You went
back
? Are you
insane
?”

“I said what I did and acted like that for two reasons. First, I wanted Hakim and his boys to think I was totally fed up, so angry I couldn't talk, much less plan.”

“That was an act?” Emma leaned in tight enough to cook him with her heat. “Do you have any idea what I've been through?”

“It was necessary. I also needed Boucaud to think there were only the two of you. If he thought there was the slightest chance I was going to show up, he'd have been more prepared. So I came into the US by boat from the Bahamas. I know it's total paranoia to think Boucaud could have been watching the borders. But I had to get this one
right
. I knew he wasn't going to hit you in Washington. The feds were swarming and the whole world had their eyes on you. So I camped out here, took a room in that overpriced guesthouse down the street, and I waited.”

“How long were you going to wait, Harry?”

“I figured he was coming sooner rather than later. But I was in for the duration.”

Storm planted her face on the sheet by his hand. Shook her head back and forth. Clearing her eyes. “You gave Sean your word.”

He let his hand settle into her hair. “Actually, you were the one I promised, lady. I told you I'd be there for you. Remember?”

Storm kept dragging her eyes back and forth over the sheet.

Emma said, “You mind if we back up to that first little item? About going back to North Cyprus? Alone?”

“With a pal.”

“But without
us
.”

“It had to be that way. We hired a speedboat in Rhodes. My buddy got me in diving range. I swam in. Swam out. We left. I flew to Freeport, boated here. End of story.”

“No, it's not,” Storm said. “Not by a long shot.”

Emma agreed. “You risked your life, your future,
our
future. And for what?”

Harry said, “I love hearing you say that.”

Her tone sharpened. “Answer the question, Harry.”

He pointed at the closet. “Reach into the back pocket of my trousers. There's something in my handkerchief I want you to see.”

Storm came back, opened the cloth, and let two coins spill onto the bed. They glinted rough and red in the light.

“Herodian gold. Stamped with Herod Antipas on one side and Pontius Pilate on the other.” He drank in the sight of their two stunned faces. “It was pretty simple. Soon as I saw your faces that morning, I knew something was up. I mean, how did you know which police station to hit? The closest jail to where I got ambushed was Kyrenia. Somebody told you where to go. You couldn't just call the police and ask. Hakim had to have stepped in. So I took the coins from the chest and I buried them. Just in case.”

Harry winced as he linked his hands behind his head. “Where should I send your shares?”

H
ARRY FLEW TO WASHINGTON IN
a private jet. Emma met him planeside with a limo bearing diplomatic plates. Emma was a study in midnight blue—pumps, stockings, hairband, new suit by Givenchy. Harry knew because he saw the label. Emma gave him space to absorb it all—the early morning drive, the smooth slide through the nation's monuments. She only spoke once, when he asked how she arranged for all these perks.

Emma replied, “Haven't you heard? It's Harry Bennett Day.”

The Smithsonian Museum's Art and Industries Building dressed up the Jefferson Drive stretch of the National Mall. The edifice was gaudy enough to outshine the carousel located just beyond its southern perimeter. The style was high Victorian. The brick exterior was adorned with peaks and turrets. The crowd stretched in accordion style through guarded ranks between the building and the road. Harry guessed there must have been a thousand or more people, at eight-thirty in the morning. It was a typical Washington throng. Tourists mingled with pinstriped bureaucrats whose plastic IDs were strung around their necks, reading the
Post,
sipping lattes, talking into their Bluetooths, too caught up in being important to even notice the fine June morning. They all stopped and watched, though, as Emma stepped from the limo, waved away the driver, and helped Harry maneuver himself upright.

“Can you manage?”

“Sure thing.” He debated momentarily, then decided to leave the cane in the car. He probably needed it. But he was determined to make this trek on his own steam.

“Storm wanted to make sure I told you again how sorry she was not to be here. But Sean's memorial service is turning into a monster.”

“I understand.” Harry's bruises were at the stage where they looked worse than they felt. But the stab wounds pulled tight with each step. The one in his hip caused him to limp slightly, but he figured he could manage the distance. What bothered him the worst was where Leon had knifed him on the same rib bruised by the Turkish Cypriot cops. The doctors had wanted him to stay down another day or so. But the previous night Storm had told them what was planned for the next day, and Emma had sprung this little surprise. So here he was. Too excited to let his body hold him back another minute.

Emma had phoned him every day he'd been in the hospital. Sometimes twice. Once three times. She alternated between showing him the caring feminine side and being a tough-minded cop. Harry found he didn't mind the switch at all. He felt like she was intent on more than just clueing him in. She wanted to make him a part of her world. All of it. As much as he could handle.

Her reports on the ongoing investigations remained very upbeat. Leon's true identity remained a mystery. But it was only a matter of time. His fingerprints and DNA linked him to two other killings, one in Brussels and the other in Singapore. He was being held in a maximum-security federal prison in upstate Maryland.

The computer link Yves Boucaud had used proved marginally rewarding. The authorities had established a direct connection to the attorney's office in Marseilles: the same advocate who had refused to help Emma at the prison. The link was undoubtedly a cutout. But it was reason enough for the French authorities to place the lawyer in custody and sweat him thoroughly.

Arrest warrants had been issued for Boucaud, and all known assets had been seized. The current operators of his seven art dealerships were being questioned. Including Storm's father, who sang louder with every hour that further separated him from his last high. The art dealers who had either resigned or been shouldered out were taking up the reins
once more. All, that is, but Claudia, who was uncertain whether she would ever reenter Syrrell's.

Harry and Emma walked past the crowds and the barriers. Emma buzzed the main entrance. The left-hand door opened to where it banged on the security pylon. “Yes?”

“I'm Agent Webb. You were called about me.”

“ID?” He inspected it carefully. “Your guest is?”

“Harry Bennett.”

The guard was ex-military and paid to play like human stone. Even so, his eyes glinted approval. “The man himself.”

“Can we come in?”

“Sign in with the agent behind the desk. You armed?”

“No.”

“You both have to turn in all phones and electronic gear. No pictures, no recordings of any kind.”

“We were informed of procedures.”

“Sure you were. But I've got to say it just the same.”

“Come on, Harry.”

“You've got twenty minutes before we open the doors.”

Once they had signed in and passed through the security checkpoint, another agent led them down the central hall. Harry said, “In case I forget to say something later, I just want you to know how much this means.”

She squeezed his hand. “I think I know.”

The treasure was in the main ballroom. The building had been completed in 1881 and originally housed the National Museum. But its first function, before the museum opened, had been to host the inaugural ball of newly elected President James A. Garfield. The entire building had recently undergone major renovations. The ballroom positively sparkled.

Harry felt a bloom of heat rise from his core, so thick and powerful it totally erased his former aches. The moment, the chamber, held no space for anything except what stood straight ahead.

The cabinets formed a single long line down the center of the gallery. In between each case were drawings, models, photographs, historical overviews. The cases were plain in the extreme. The cubes of bulletproof glass were brilliantly illuminated.

The central case was forty-four feet long.

They had done a remarkable job straightening the vine. The places where it had been bent back upon itself were still visible, but only because Harry was looking. Harry was very glad they had decided to stretch it out again. The vine did not run straight and true. No vine would. Instead, it twisted upon itself, it curved and flowed, adorned along its entire length by grafted-on leaves of solid gold.

Sean walked the entire length of the room alongside Harry. Harry was as certain of that as he was that Storm had been right to share their quest with the world. These treasures belonged to humanity.

They stayed until the main doors opened and the hordes arrived in a hurried rush of footfalls and conversation.

Harry had no interest in sharing his moment with anyone but Emma and his departed friend. She must have understood, for she moved up close and said, “Take my arm.”

T
HE SAME PRIVATE JET FLEW
them back to Palm Beach. As they left the terminal, Harry said, “The last time I came through here I was wearing a Bentley. Most of one, anyway.”

First stop was Storm's apartment, where Storm greeted them both with a hug made clumsy by one arm still being in a sling. She then walked them around, showing off the progress she'd made in the cleaning and renovation. The kitchen cabinets Harry had shot up had been torn out and the stains had been worked from the hardwood floor. The movers had returned the furniture, and Storm talked about consignment items she had been offered, enough to reopen the shop. Harry spotted a few smudges of fingerprint powder in the bedroom as he showered and dressed in the suit Storm had laid out on the bed. Maybe one day he'd be able to enter here without seeing Leon's manic gaze, glaring at him through the veil of Emma's hair.

Emma drove them by the bank and accompanied Storm inside. Harry sat in the car, reveling in a day he could only describe as complete. Emma emerged with a bank carry bag, which she settled on the backseat beside Storm. Storm looked like she was sheathed in smoke, a dynamite frock of blue grey silk that somehow managed to look utterly severe and alluring at the same time.

They rode to the church in silence. Harry stared out the side win
dow as the line of Imperial palms flashed by, recalling another trip down this very same avenue, one far more heavily laden. He sighed contentedly, ready to finally put that to rest. As much as was humanly possible.

The church's parking lot was jammed, as were all the surrounding streets. Cars and limos and television vans lined the beachside highway for a mile or more in either direction. When the guard blocking the main drive tried to wave them away, Emma leaned forward and flashed her badge, saying, “The show can't start without us.”

Douglas Kerr, the senior pastor, bounded out the rear doors before Emma cut the motor. He watched her pull the case from the rear seat and asked, “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

The pastor was decked out in his most formal set of robes. The overmantle's gold embroidery glittered in the sunset. “We've still got a few minutes. We can wait in the chancellery.”

As they entered the church, the pastor said, “Your aunt sends her best. But she adamantly refuses to budge from the front pew.”

“She's still pretty shook up,” Storm said.

When they were inside the offices behind the main hall, Harry declared, “I'm with Claudia. I'd feel a lot better sitting this one out.”

“Not a chance,” Storm said.

“Sean wouldn't like the idea of me standing in front of his church.”

“Sean wouldn't have it any other way,” Storm replied.

“I feel like an enlisted man sneaking into the officers' mess wearing a stolen uniform.”

“You look great, and I know the suit's not stolen because I've still got the receipt in my purse.”

Emma's eyes glinted. “Don't tell me you're frightened by the thought of holding a little treasure.”

Harry sighed his defeat. “Whatever.”

Emma stepped forward. “Your tie's crooked.” She fitted the knot in close to his collar. “There.” She smoothed the lapels to his jacket. “You look totally edible.”

There was a sharp rap on the door. An older man entered in a formal dark suit, a silk skullcap adorning his bald pate. “Ms. Syrrell?”

“That's me.”

“Rubin Kleinman. Ambassador of Israel to the United States.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Syrrell, it is I who am indebted for this invitation.” He embodied diplomatic elegance from head to toe. Every move seemed measured against a lifetime of wielding power.

“You already know Emma Webb.”

“Indeed so. An honor, Agent Webb.” He turned to Harry. “And you must be Mr. Bennett. So glad to see you up and around again, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

The man's polish was matched by an extremely intense gaze. “My government is interested to know if you might be willing to help us with another matter of missing artifacts, Mr. Bennett. We could possibly use the services of a resourceful man who also values discretion.”

Harry's interest sparked. “It would sure make for a change, having a government play like I was on their side.”

Emma added, “That's the first word that comes to mind when I think about Harry Bennett. Discreet.”

The ambassador handed Harry a card. “Perhaps you would be so good as to contact me when this is behind us.”

Storm stepped to the desk and slipped the chalice from the bank's carry sack. “You might like to have a look at this.”

The ambassador's polished manner simply melted away. “May I?” His hands trembled as he turned the chalice over. He inspected the name inscribed in the base, then slipped a photograph from his jacket and compared the two inscriptions. “It is just as you said.”

“I'm glad you agree.”

He handed back the chalice, then made a mess of refolding the photograph. “You have not mentioned a price.”

The pastor accepted the chalice from Storm and filled it with wafers. Storm knew he objected to their talking business in this setting. But Sean had never been one to isolate his work from his faith. Far from it.

When she was certain of her voice once more, she replied, “Sean trusted you.” So much so that he had starred the man's name. There were only nine such entries in his notebook. “You may have the right of first refusal. The offer is to you personally. I will deal with no one else.”

Before the diplomat could recover, the pastor said, “Mr. Ambassador, if you would be so kind as to take your seat.”

Emma hugged Harry. “I'll see you outside.”

Storm watched the two of them embrace and found herself filled with a sudden sense of completion. There was no logic to the moment. But the sensation of having arrived at Sean's goal was so overwhelming, she was forced to look away, afraid if she didn't she would lose control.

They entered the sanctuary to the sound of the choir singing a Brahms liturgy. The chamber was bathed in harsh white television lights and the frenetic flash of countless cameras.

The sanctuary was lofty and grand and packed. The central aisle was crammed with folding chairs to handle the overflow. The upper loft was a mass of cameras and journalists and lights.

The pastor set Sean's battered Bible on the bronze stand. He directed Harry and Storm to stand at either side of him as he gave his opening benediction.

Sean would have hated the fuss. And loved it. Loved even more the fact that his passage had brought her here. To this place. With his final treasure taking center stage.

The pastor said, “We are gathered here to commemorate the loss of two dear friends, Reverend Richard Ellis and Sean Syrrell. Two friends unto death. United into eternity.”

He turned and took the chalice from Harry. Lifting it high over his head, illuminated by far more than all the camera lights, he said, “Behold the bread of life.”