Gold of Kings Page 8

  “You just told me. It’s not my company anymore.” Then it struck her. “Have they offered you a job?”

  “Nothing’s definite.”

  “Oh, this is sweet.”

  “Didn’t you hear a word I just said? It’s this or nothing.”

  But Storm was already in departure mode. “Just exactly who are you working so hard to convince?”

  STORM KNEW SHE SHOULD RETURN to the booth. But she wandered the aisles, occasionally greeting people without actually seeing who spoke to her. She could not tell which disturbed her more: hearing that Claudia was talking to a buyer, or not telling her aunt about the bank vault and its contents. There had never been secrets between them. Not telling Claudia ripped another shard from her tattered world.

  The first time she met Claudia, Storm had been thirteen. An impossibly elegant woman rang their bell one afternoon, then stood in the doorway and stared at Storm and wept. Storm felt naked beneath the gaze of a woman she had never seen before, one who shed tears from the pain of just looking at her.

  When the woman recovered, she wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and said, “You must be Storm.”

  Storm had stood there, mute from the distress on the woman’s features. The stranger was beautifully refined. Her features were as cultured as her voice. Her clothes were stunning. Everything about her spoke of a world beyond Storm’s reach.

  The woman asked, “Do you know who I am?”

  “My aunt Claudia. I’ve seen your picture.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Storm hesitated out of deep shame.

  Claudia said, “Joe is my brother, Storm. I know what he’s like.”

  Storm stepped aside.

  As soon as Claudia entered the house, her nose wrinkled at the odor. Dope’s sweet, cloying stench permeated everywhere. Storm’s shame deepened.

  Claudia asked, “Where is he?”

  “In his studio.” At least that was what he called it. But the brushes were rock hard and the paint tubes had long become bricks. Whenever anyone visited him, the only items he showed off were his collection of bongs.

  “Where is that, Storm?”

  “Last door on your left.”

  But Claudia remained where she was. “Joe’s choices are your future only if you make them so.”

  When Claudia started down the hallway, Storm left the house and crouched on the front steps. Claudia didn’t stay inside long. When she came out she was no longer sad. Instead, she looked furious.

  Claudia slammed the front door behind her. She walked down the three steps to the sidewalk. She stood staring across the street, her jaw clenched tight. Storm studied her intently. Claudia’s hair was prematurely grey, matching her blue-grey silk suit. Her eyes were the same opal black Storm saw in the mirror. On the trailing edge of the scarf around her neck Storm could read the name Hermès.

  Finally Claudia said, “I don’t suppose I need to ask if he’s like this often.”

  “Almost every day.”

  “What about you, Storm? Do you get high?”

  Storm liked the woman’s directness enough to reveal one of her closely guarded secrets. “When I was seven he started getting my dog stoned. He and his friends. They watched the dog and laughed. Then they tried to do it to me. Like I was just another pet, just another reason for them to laugh.” Storm was breathing hard now. “I hate it.”

  “Good.” Claudia looked at her. “If your grandfather knew I was here he would fire me. You know about your father and Sean, my father?”

  “I know Daddy hates him.” Raging against Sean Syrrell was another thing Storm’s father liked to do when he was high.

  Claudia brushed off the step beside Storm and seated herself. “Joe wanted Sean to display some of his paintings in the shop.”

  “Joseph,” Storm corrected.

  “What?”

  “Daddy hates being called Joe.”

  Claudia looked at her a moment. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t much care what Joe does or doesn’t hate. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sean told him he would do it on two conditions. First, Joe had to attend a proper art school and graduate. Second, he had to clean up his act and start learning discipline, start honing his gift. Otherwise Sean wouldn’t hire Joe to paint his doorpost.”

  Storm tasted a smile. “My grandfather said that?”

  “He did indeed. The next day, your father stole two items from Sean’s private collection. One was a very valuable painting. The artist was Pissarro, an Impressionist painter from France—”

  “I know who Pissarro is.”

  “The other was a medieval triptych, which is a fancy word for a carving set into three folding panels. The triptych was Sean’s most treasured possession. Which is no doubt why Joe took it. There was no hard evidence who the thief was, of course. But we are certain it was Joe. When the theft was discovered, Joe and Sean had a raging battle. Your grandfather disowned Joe and he moved down here. And now I’m tired of talking about your father.” Claudia opened her purse and drew out a card. “Do you know our shop on Palm Beach Island?”

  “Yes.” It was on Worth Avenue, with a huge glass window always filled with the most beautiful things Storm had ever seen.

  “Our manager has retired, and there’s a problem with our lease. I’ve come down to find a new location for the shop and to run it until we find someone else. If you like, we could meet there on the weekends and go for a coffee and a chat. Just call and make sure I’m available.”

  “What would Sean say?”

  “This would have to be our secret. Can I trust you with that?”

  Storm wanted to hug the woman. Or cry. Which was ridiculous. Storm never revealed any emotion at all. And this woman was a complete stranger. So she hugged herself instead. “I won’t ever tell.”

  TWELVE

  THAT AFTERNOON HARRY MANAGED THE BOOTH. Storm returned from her meeting with Claudia in a serious funk. Twice Harry approached her, once to bring coffee and another time to squeeze her shoulder. Letting the lady know she wasn’t alone. He didn’t see any need to ask what had happened. If Storm wanted to talk, she knew where to find him. Harry had no problem with silence between friends.

  A half hour before closing, the guy appeared. Harry noticed him because if Harry had been planning a move, this was when he’d do it. The exhibition hall was winding down. The plainclothes detail was clustered by the exit, as weary as the departing clientele. All the eyes Harry could see were dulled from a very long day.

  The guy definitely had his share of eastern Mediterranean blood. But his outfit was pure LA hip. Black suit, knit shirt, woven leather shoes, narrow black shades. Dark hair glossed and gelled. A thin gold chain from his left wrist.

  Harry moved to intercept him in the aisle. “Help you?”

  “I got some business with the lady.”

  Probably Turkish. Harry had met guys like this before, merchants to the world. They didn’t just pick up the lingo. They got the accent down so heavy they sounded local. This guy had done some serious street time either in Chicago or Detroit. “The lady is not in.”

  “I mean the one right there behind you.”

  When the guy tried to step around him, Harry moved to block. “Take off the shades and look at me.”

  “Get out of my face, old man.”

  “Listen to what I’m saying. The lady in question is not available.”

  “Oh, is that so.” The guy reached inside his jacket.

  Or tried to, because Harry got one grip on the guy’s wrist and another at the point where his jugular met his jaw. “You want to live, you bring that hand out empty.”

  The guy’s shades fell to the carpet by his feet. His dark eyes were too surprised to be angry. “Man, what is your problem?”

  Storm asked, “Harry?”

  “Go get security.”

  “No!” The hand came out empty. “There, now will you just back off?”

  Harry dropped his hands as two pla
inclothes jogged up. “What is going on here?”

  Harry lifted his vendor’s badge, his gaze not leaving the guy’s hands. “I thought I recognized this man as a troublemaker. But I might have been mistaken.”

  “Were you ever.” The guy scooped his shades off the floor and jammed them into his pocket. “Can I reach into my jacket for something?”

  “Slow and easy.”

  “I was told to do this quiet. And I would have. ’Cept for gung ho joe here.” His hand emerged holding an envelope. “All that was gonna happen was, I give this to the lady and ask for an estimate. Nothing else.”

  “Sure thing,” Harry said. And reached out.

  The hand holding the envelope retreated. “Nothing doing, old man.”

  “Anything that goes to the lady goes through me.”

  The guy didn’t like that either, but the world was watching, and the security was still poised for trouble. So he said something in Turkish that Harry didn’t need a translation for and passed him the envelope.

  Harry opened it to find himself looking at a gold cuff link framing an oversized star sapphire.

  “Can I see?” Storm took one look and stiffened. Harry felt the change through the hand on his arm. When she spoke, all her weary funk was gone. “I can’t do the appraisal here. We have to go.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what shoulda gone down without fireworks.” He reached for the envelope, then used it to point at Harry. “The old man stays here.”

  Storm slipped into her jacket. “His name is Harry and he’s coming.”

  ONE OF THE SECURITY PLAINCLOTHESMEN escorted them outside. The Turk slipped behind the wheel of a black stretch limo, far too angry to be holding anybody’s door. The guard asked Storm, “Are you sure you’re all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The security guy said to the driver, “I’m making note of your license. And we’ve got you on camera.”

  The Turk had something to say about that, too. He gunned his limo out of the lot, swung hard into traffic, and rolled up the divider window.

  The limo swept through the rush-hour traffic and took the newly opened overpass to Palm Beach International Airport. The driver had a word with the guard by the private-jet concourse, passed through the gates, and rolled up to a narrow aluminum needle with wings. A pilot saluted as he opened Storm’s door. “Ms. Syrrell?”

  “That’s right.”

  He eyed Harry rising from the limo’s other side. “I was told you’d be traveling alone.”

  “My associate comes, or I’ll have the limo take me back to town.”

  The pilot was young and carefully ironed and trained to handle the extremely rich. “Guess I heard wrong. This way, folks.”

  Harry climbed the stairs and asked, “Where are we headed?”

  The engines were already winding up as the pilot sealed the door and replied. “Our flight plan reads Teterboro.”

  But the jet had scarcely reached cruising speed before it started winding down again. The sun swung through a brilliant arc as the plane descended. Ten minutes later, they landed and wheeled over to where another limo waited, this one a white town car. When the pilot reappeared, Harry asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Sir, all I can tell you is we’ve made an unscheduled stopover at a private strip near Jupiter Beach. But we’re leaving immediately for New York.”

  “Without us.”

  In response, the pilot stepped back to admit an older woman in a chauffeur’s dark suit. “Ms. Syrrell?”

  “That’s right.”

  The driver offered Storm an envelope. Through the opening she saw a second star-sapphire cuff link. “I was told to give you this.”

  THE DRIVE FROM THE JUPITER landing strip back to Palm Beach Island took just under an hour. It was almost dark when the limo pulled up before a French provincial home surrounded by a high concrete wall. The wall’s two entrances were solid steel and painted the same chalk blue as the razor wire running along the top. The driver locked the limo’s doors before walking over and ringing the bell. Storm said, “We’re talking serious money.”

  Harry continued to scout the gloom. “Funny. With the jet and the limos and all, I had kind of assumed that already.”

  The driver of their first limo stood just inside the perimeter wall. He offered Harry a serious stink eye as they entered. The garden was illuminated by lights planted at the base of palms and blooming wisteria. The gentleman she had last seen at the Breakers reception said, “Ms. Syrrell, how very nice of you to join me.”

  “This is my associate, Harry Bennett. Harry, meet Selim Arkut.”

  “So we are properly introduced. How very excellent.” He motioned to the man smoldering in the garden. “I believe you have already met my nephew.”

  Harry said, “That was some roundabout journey to get here.”

  Selim led them back toward the house, as his nephew went back to patrolling the garden. “These days, attention is being paid to all our movements.”

  “Any idea who the watchers are?”

  The gentleman ushered them inside with a courtly half bow. The house was an empty shell littered with packing material. Selim locked the door behind them and replied, “The wrong kind of people. The wrong kind of attention.”

  Harry said, “Let me guess. A small guy who likes desert colors and vanishes before your very eyes.”

  Storm added, “It could also be a federal agent with darkish blond hair.”

  “I am familiar with Agent Webb. And I have heard of your attacker. Mediterranean in coloring. Perhaps Latino, but I personally do not think so. He appears to be very good at his job. I have never seen him before and do not yet have a name.”

  Mediterranean was a perfect way to describe their host, in his dark slacks and midnight blue silk pullover and Italian loafers and no socks. He wore a gold watch thin as a gigolo’s moustache. His hair was oiled and immaculate, black except for the silver-fox streaks by either temple.

  Harry asked, “You know most of the South Florida pros?”

  “I know who I know, Mr. Bennett. This way.”

  The house was like the other beachside homes Storm had visited, an elegantly fortified citadel. The air was as controlled as the lighting and scented by packing dust. The walls held vague shadows of vanished artwork. Their footsteps echoed loudly through an empty house as Selim Arkut led them down a side hall, through polished double doors, and into a carpeted room that must have formerly served as his master bedroom. He entered a vast walk-in closet, slid aside a panel, and coded numbers into a keypad. The rear wall sighed open, revealing a door of fortified steel. “Follow me, please.”

  The vault was larger than Storm’s bedroom. The chamber was almost bare. The carpet held a deep imprint where an armchair had rested before an empty easel. The wall beside the entrance held six miniature flatscreens, a bank of switches, two keypads, and a phone. When the door slid shut and the safelike wheel rolled steel bars into locking position, Storm saw Harry shudder. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve got a thing against cages.”

  “You could wait outside if you like, Mr. Bennett.”

  “I go where she goes.”

  “A trusted ally. I commend you, Ms. Syrrell.” Selim worked the panel. Steel shutters rolled up the far wall, revealing a deep floor-to-ceiling alcove. The tiers of metal arms were intended to hold perhaps a dozen paintings. Now the alcove contained just one canvas. Selim released the latches and lifted the frame free. He moved to the artist’s easel standing beneath a single light. “I would be grateful if you would please identify this for me, Ms. Syrrell.”

  A single glance was enough to say, “Identification isn’t the issue, though, is it.”

  Harry asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “If it’s real, it’s a museum-quality piece. But I can’t determine the authenticity without proper equipment and a lot more time than we have tonight. The same goes for giving a valuation.”

  “I am merely requesti
ng an identification.”

  “You know perfectly well what this is.”

  Harry said, “The guy’s fronted us two limos and a jet. You got to admit, it’s an expensive way to waste our time.”

  As she approached the easel, Storm felt the exquisite, gnawing hunger that only a voracious collector ever understood. “The painting is by Albrecht Dürer, of course. Assuming it’s real. This work contains many of the same elements he applied to his self-portrait of 1499, which is considered by many art historians to have created the structure of portrait painting that is still applied today.”

  The subject stared intensely at the viewer, his arrogance and power reaching across five hundred years to grip Storm’s chest and squeeze so hard she was left breathless. “Dürer’s signature is here in the upper-left section, just off center, as it is in his self-portrait. This too is an abrupt change from the norm. Dürer is declaring himself a creator who deserves full credit for his composition and his talent.”

  Storm shivered from pure craving. The painting was a magnet for the light. It possessed the ability to transform even this steel and concrete cave into a sanctuary. The subject was obviously a cardinal. He wore the ermine robes and red cap of office, with a massive gold crucifix dangling from his chest. This was matched by the gold beaten along the painting’s borders, an eight-inch frame of pure gold leaf. Which in and of itself was another suggestion of authenticity, for no forger would dream of making such an investment, particularly since the practice hearkened back to the early Middle Ages. But Dürer’s father had been a goldsmith, and the cardinal in question was clearly rich and haughty enough to have ordered such a finishing touch.

  Storm took a mental step away from the painting. She asked, “You have provenance?”

  Selim Arkut was unsettling, the hawk nose and the thin way his lips compressed into what could be pleasure or disapproval. Or both. “There is mention in Dürer’s letters of a visiting cardinal who admired his work.”

  Her shivers intensified. “Where did you find this?”

  “Like your grandfather, Ms. Syrrell, I have never divulged a name. Many of my clients keep their wealth a secret because the alternative is for them and their families to be erased from the scrolls of life. Your grandfather and I began working together in the chaos following the Shah’s fall from the Peacock Throne. We solidified our relationship when the generals took power in Ankara. Throughout such lands and times, trust is a matter of life and death.” He motioned at the canvas. “This was the first time your grandfather had used me to hunt down a work of art. But he had heard of this, and when I approached the owner, he seemed almost grateful for the chance to redeem it for cash and exit visas from Iran for his family.”