The Art of Possession Page 5

  Ah, and that explained it. I’d been wondering what Gerard’s angle in all of this was. Being friends with the hapless Mr. Ashad wasn’t enough—Gerard went through friends like a snake shed skins, putting them to good use while they fit his needs and then discarding them with yesterday’s rubbish. No, Gerard wasn’t involved in this out of the goodness of his heart—he was setting himself up as the man who brought the museum into possession of a truly impressive, one-of-a-kind artifact. It would elevate his status here even more—perhaps he was angling to get a wing named after him. Whatever. He was a berk, but he was a clever berk.

  He was doubly clever to set me up in this fashion, because he knew I wanted to come back. Not to him, of course, but to the museum. The trail to redemption he laid out was tempting, but I couldn’t trust it.

  “The Malian government would make a claim for it if it’s genuine,” I pointed out. “It’s unlikely the museum would keep the scepter for long, with its history of theft.”

  Gerard shrugged elegantly. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and in all likelihood the scepter hasn’t been thought of by anyone in Mali for decades, if not longer.”

  Of course that was his explanation. “Well, then. It seems you’re determined and that you really have no need for me. Happy hunting.” I started to head toward the door.

  “Mal!” Gerard called out to me. “You haven’t heard the best part, yet.”

  “I won’t assist you in defrauding another nation of their history, even if they don’t know it exists yet,” I rejoined. A moment later I felt Gerard’s hand on my arm, turning me firmly. I pulled back against him, but Gerard had always been stronger than me. The other men watched from the sidelines, Mr. Ashad with wide eyes, Mr. Tucker looking like he might pull his gun out again at any moment.

  Gerard let go of me before I got my free hand high enough to hit him. “I anticipated this argument from you, Mal.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not an argument, it’s a question of basic decency, and I don’t care how you dress it up, there’s no way I’m going to go on a wild goose chase after a thief to find and authenticate an artifact just so you can give it to the British bloody Museum!” I was practically panting in anger. “Haven’t we stolen enough? Must we pour more salt on the wound?”

  “We mustn’t,” Gerard agreed.

  Too bloody right we—wait, what? “What?” I asked, parroting my own thoughts.

  “It’s one of Mr. Ashad’s conditions for giving up the scepter in the first place. We have to be willing to repatriate it, as long as certain small demands are met.”

  I glanced at Mr. Ashad, who nodded eagerly. “Of course, it should go back to the people whom it symbolizes,” he said. “The exhibit here was meant to be the scepter’s introduction to the world, not its final resting place.”

  Oh. Well, that was rather more… compelling. I felt flustered, unsure of myself—basically like I always did around Gerard, but hypersensitively.

  “Where’s the proof it exists?”

  Oh, thank God. It felt like Mr. Tucker had been brought into this room solely to keep the three of us on track, and I was grateful for it. “He’s right,” I said. “We need to see pictures, at the very least.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mr. Ashad took out his phone. “I have several pulled up here, including one I took just yesterday before it was stolen.” He passed it to me. Gerard loomed over my right shoulder, as intrusive as a gargoyle. He took a welcome step back when Mr. Tucker leaned in to get a look for himself.

  I looked down at the photo, and my breath caught.

  The scepter lay on a blue velvet background, perfect for setting off the shining copper collars inlaid at both ends of the shaft. The bulk of the long, slender rod looked to be gold—it was gold-colored, at least, but if it truly did once belong to Mansa Musa, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was solid all the way through. The top of the scepter was shaped a bit like a lotus blossom, with a large, central dome-like piece around which four golden triangles arched down and away, like petals stretching in the sun, each one edged with a thin band of copper and engraved with a delicate, repeating floral motif. The dome had to be the size of my fist, at least—the petals were very slender by comparison.

  It was beautiful. It looked like nothing I had ever seen before, with none of the dazzling crust of gems that I associated with so many European examples. It was elegant, deceptively simple, and utterly enchanting. If it was real, God, if it was truly real, then it was the find of the century.

  “It was said that the engraving was done upon arrival at Mecca,” Mr. Ashad murmured. “As a commemoration of Mansa Musa’s pilgrimage to the holy land.” I nodded, understanding—the floral motif looked similar to what I’d seen in other examples of Islamic art.

  “What about the woman who stole it?” Mr. Tucker asked, breaking the scepter’s spell for a moment. “Do you have pictures of her too?”

  “No still pictures, but video from my home security system,” Mr. Ashad said. “I’d be more than happy to send it to you, provided you take the job, of course.”

  “Of course,” I breathed, swiping over to the other photos. Most of them were secondhand, pictures of pictures that, presumably, Mr. Ashad kept in his home. Not very covert, having these lying around. Perhaps he didn’t entertain much. Good lord, had he kept this potentially priceless relic shoved in a box under his bed?

  “Are you interested in taking the job, then?” Mr. Ashad asked delightedly. “I think you two will make an excellent team. You must decide quickly, however—time is of the essence. Even with alerting the authorities, there is no telling how far the thief could have gotten by now.”

  “And the longer they have the scepter, the more time they have to get a copy made,” Gerard added. “You know how it is, Mal. It’s one of the classic deceptions of a forger and thief—make a big brouhaha over the newly manufactured fake, then get away with the real artifact. Or better yet, avoid the brouhaha completely when possible.” He smiled at Mr. Tucker. “There are museums out there that don’t even know they’ve been robbed, the fakes are so good. It’s less material in this case, as the original was never in a museum, but we wouldn’t want you gentlemen to come back with an imitation.”

  “True, although I can’t imagine why the thieves would bother.”

  Mr. Ashad frowned. “No, there was only one thief.”

  “I guarantee you that she wasn’t working by herself,” Mr. Tucker said. “This is a two-person job, minimum. She’d need a lookout, someone to help her spot any trouble coming her way and to confuse anyone searching for her.”

  “Well.” Mr. Ashad seemed a bit disconcerted, but he shrugged gamely. “If you say so. Will that make things more difficult for you?”

  Mr. Tucker smiled. It was the smile of a professional looking at someone who didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, but to whom they had to be civil. “In all likelihood, yes. But not impossible. I’ll need that video as soon as possible, though. I need KIS’s techs working on it yesterday.”

  “Then you’re taking the job?”

  Rather than flat-out assenting, Mr. Tucker looked over at me. He raised one dark eyebrow.

  Is he actually waiting on me to make a choice? Could it be possible that his yes depended on mine? I mean, of course it did—he couldn’t do the job alone, so if he wanted the work, he needed me to agree. But he could have said yes first, to increase the pressure on me to do the same. Instead he was waiting on me to make the call.

  Don’t let simple professional courtesy go to your head, I reminded myself. “I’ll do this, provided all of my expenses and a per diem are included. I can take some leave from the Corinium Museum, but I’m certainly not looking to jeopardize my position there as a result of this… chase.”

  Gerard clapped me on the shoulder. “I daresay I can talk your director into calling it a sabbatical, despite the short notice. And your daily rate will be the same as Mr. Tucker’s, if that’s all right. It’s quite generous,” he adde
d, with a barely there air of acknowledgment of the fact that most of us didn’t have enormous familial wealth to fall back on. “There’s a contract and everything. It’s all ready for you to look over.” He turned his gaze on Mr. Tucker. “And you, sir?”

  The American sighed, then shrugged. “Yeah, I’m in.”

  “Brilliant!”

  Yes, I thought, staring straight at Mr. Tucker’s dark, penetrating eyes and wondering what the hell we’d just gotten ourselves into. Quite brilliant.

  Chapter Five

  THE FIRST thing I did after signing Mr. Ashad’s contract—and reading it cover to cover and sending a copy of it to KIS’s legal department—was get the surveillance video from the guy. Now wasn’t the time to review it, seeing as I was locked in the director of the British Museum’s office with our new employer, his gaudy and well-connected friend, and my nervous partner-to-be in the affair. I sent the video on to Robert, who was getting off the managerial bench and taking over as handler for this mission, then took a moment to assess my new partner as he read through the contract himself.

  Amateur hour. At least when it came to the actual mission. I had no doubt this guy was a competent curator and historian, but he didn’t exactly strike me as well prepared for much else. Who went out and about in London without an umbrella, for fuck’s sake? He’d probably been on the edge of freezing all night—it was cold in the Reading Room. And it was clear from the way he’d reacted to my gun that he wasn’t used to seeing them, or comfortable with them. As far as physical backup went, he’d be next to useless.

  All of that should have made me hesitant when it came to partnering with him, but there was something about him… maybe it was the way he hadn’t hesitated to tell each and every one of us off, maybe it was in how Thorburn’s presence clearly irritated him but he managed to work around it…. Whatever it was, it interested me. He might not know how to shoot or have the common sense that God gave geese, but he had a spine. And he was willing to abide by the somewhat-ridiculous rules these two had laid on us, which I’d balked at, at first.

  “It’s vitally important to have the scepter here by the exhibit,” Thorburn said plainly when I asked about the rushed date. “Later simply won’t due at all.”

  “That’s just one week from tomorrow,” I replied. “And we’ve got very little to go on so far. We don’t even know who the thief is yet.”

  Thorburn ran a hand through his immaculate hair. “It is imperative that it be back for the exhibit. As I said before, it’s the perfect introduction to the world for the piece. And—” He winced. “—I might have made some promises to the director concerning it that will need to be kept if I’m to continue to have any sway in this institution, and believe me, this scepter is the least of them.”

  “What have you done, Gerard?” Mal asked with a frown.

  Thorburn smiled. “Nothing irreparable, as long as that scepter makes its scheduled debut. If it doesn’t, my reputation might land somewhere down near where yours is now, and that won’t make either of us look good, will it?” He clapped his hands together. “To work, gentlemen. I’ve got the utmost confidence in your skills.”

  That was one of the smarmiest “fuck off and get to work” speeches I’d ever received. Ashad might be the one paying for my services, but it was clear that Thorburn was pulling the strings here.

  “Additionally, you’ll want to have some sort of cover story for what you’re doing together if anyone asks. You absolutely cannot let on that what you’re looking for to anyone. Understood?”

  Peremptory motherfucker. “No problem,” I said calmly. “If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them I came over from the States to visit my boyfriend and get him to show me the sights.”

  Everyone else in the spacious office froze. I genuinely didn’t care if what I’d just said affected their opinion of me—I’d done my time in the closet, and I might not be blatant about my sexuality now but I wasn’t hiding it for anyone.

  Ashad looked uncomfortable. Thorburn looked incredulous. Mal looked… somewhere between aghast and intrigued, which was probably the best I could hope for, given the way I’d dropped that bomb.

  “Ah-ha.” Thorburn finally forced a laugh. “Yes, quite funny. Try to come up with something more believable between now and whenever you might need the excuse, all right?”

  Mal went as pale as if he was bleeding out, and that was it. If I stayed here any longer, I was going to punch Thorburn in the face, client’s bosom buddy or not. I did what I needed to for a job, but I hated people who were casually cruel, that it could become such an integral part of what they thought they could get away with that they didn’t even think to check themselves anymore. It was punching down, and that was the bastion of bullies.

  “We’re done here, right?” I got up and held out a hand to Mr. Ashad. “I’ll ensure that you’re kept in the loop on our progress, sir.”

  Thorburn frowned. “Really, you ought to be contacting both of us.”

  “That would break client confidentiality rules, which are a standard part of every contract with KIS,” I said. “If Mr. Ashad chooses to clue you in, that’s his business, but it’s definitely not mine.”

  Thorburn’s lips twisted slightly, and he turned to Mal. “I trust you’ll be more forthcoming?”

  Mal’s back straightened. “I don’t think so, Gerard. I’d hate to be the cause of any delicate information getting out in the wrong circles. I mean, I never know who you’re meeting with from moment to moment, and you do have that terrible habit of letting things slip at the worst possible time.” He glanced at Mr. Ashad, who was looking between the two men like he’d only just realized what a mine field he was standing in. “Thank you for your faith in me. I guarantee that it won’t be misplaced.”

  “I’m… quite pleased to hear it,” Mr. Ashad managed.

  “Malcolm, honestly—”

  “We’ve got to get going. There’s lots to do before tomorrow.” I opened the door and held it for Mal. “Like I said, we’ll be in touch.”

  “Mr. Tucker, I don’t think you—”

  Thank the lord that Mal knew when to call a last word a last word. He walked out of the office and sighed with visible relief as I closed the door behind us. He looked my way, opened his mouth in preparation to speak.

  “Not here,” I said. This was the opposite of a secure location right now—a woman spun over our heads on a trapeze, her gaze languid but clearly taking us in. People in bespoke suits and designer gowns surrounded us, museum patrons chatting and whispering and eating and laughing. There were so many people it made my head ache. I was done with this scene.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked, putting my hand on Mal’s lower back and gently propelling him toward the exit. “We can talk there.”

  “Oh, um—at the, the Strand, actually.” It was hard to tell in this light, but he looked like he might be blushing. “It’s—I’m not paying for it myself, in point of fact. I believe either Gerard or Mr. Ashad are, although after that little altercation back there I wouldn’t be surprised if I find that my reservation for the night has mysteriously dissolved.”

  “Convenient that I’m at the same place, then.” The Strand had been my client’s choice of hotel—and it was definitely something that KIS was billing him for. “If anyone tries to give you a hard time, you can just bunk with me.” I guided us toward the same large doors we’d entered through less than an hour earlier, conscious of the fact that we were being watched. The most avid observers appeared to be museum employees—gossipers, probably. I marked their distance and angles anyway. It paid to be paranoid.

  Once we were outside in the cool, rainy night air, it felt like iron bands of tension suddenly ratcheted loose from around my chest. I took a deep breath and let them fall the rest of the way off. “Let’s get a taxi.”

  “I’m perfectly all right walking, as long as you have an umbrella,” Mal said quickly. “I’m afraid I didn’t think to bring one of my own.”

  “And I did, but I
left it checked in and like hell am I putting myself back into that fishbowl.” I stuck my hands in my pockets, mentally apologizing to my tailor for ruining the line of the suit. “So let’s take a taxi. Or get an Uber, or whatever.”

  “Taxi, please.”

  It was easy to flag one down—there was a whole fleet of them parked along the nearest street. Looked like they were expecting a lot of wealthy, drunk fares tonight. I got us into the nearest one and told the driver our destination, then adjusted my holster so I could sit back against the seat comfortably.

  Mal noticed the movement. I could see his eyes trace the line of my torso. He opened his mouth hesitatingly, then shut it again.

  “Go ahead,” I offered. “Ask. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t it… don’t you feel conspicuous, carrying that around in London?” He nodded toward my chest. “It really does play into all the worst stereotypes about Americans, and you look like a very competent person. I have to imagine that you don’t really need it to handle yourself. And whatever we’re heading into, it’s very unlikely that our problems will be solved with bullets… isn’t it?”

  He sounded deferent, but his eyes were piercing. I decided to give him my honest answer instead of my “soothe the client with company requirements” bullshit answer. “It’s true that I’m used to carrying it.” And the one at my ankle, but that could stay theoretical for now. “And I am comfortable using other weapons, when need be. But I’m a former Green Beret. We’re not knife fighters, we’re not hand-to-hand experts, we’re not kung-fu masters. We’re shooters. So yeah, I could get by another way, but I’m much more confident with a gun at my disposal. And don’t forget, Mr. Ashad was choked unconscious,” I added as an afterthought. “That’s not the act of a pacifist.”

  “Did your inspection of his neck confirm that?”

  I sharpened my gaze a little bit. “Why do you ask?”