Turned to Stone (11 page)

“Well, it appears that Señora Escámez is divorced and has a son. Do you see where this is going? Is my Spanish good enough for you?”

“I don’t know anything about Amanda.”

“Well, you’re in luck then, because we do. She’s a lonely and bitter woman whose husband ran off with someone else and left her with only her job and her little boy. We can’t take her job away, so we’ve decided to go after the one thing she loves most in the world.”

Preston stared at him in horror. “Her son?”

“Tell Amanda to get Paloma’s research from her or she’ll never see her child again.”

“But that’s insane. I’m not a kidnapper! I refuse to take part in something like this.”

“That’s the best part. You won’t have to kidnap anyone. You won’t even have to lie. In two days Amanda will take her little boy to school like she does every day, but he won’t come back home. You’ll call her and explain what happened: a handsome stranger with blue eyes and a passion for fine dining forced you into getting the document. No, don’t even say that. If she has any brains she’ll know what’s best for her. She’ll speak to Paloma, get the document, and give it to you; you’ll give it to us, and we’ll give her back her son. And don’t give me any shit, Preston. We know your background. It won’t be the first time you’ve stooped this low.”

“I’ve never done anything remotely like this. Why don’t you blackmail her yourselves? Why do you need me?”

“This makes it easier to throw the cops off the scent.”

“But the suspect for the kidnapping will be me!”

“Keep your voice down, will you? Without proof they won’t be able to charge you. In the hypothetical case that the police come after you, you’ll honestly claim you were blackmailed. Give a false description of the blackmailer, and that’s that. The perfect plan: you’ll be safe and so will we.”

“But I still don’t understand why—”

“Come on, man. You’ll have to do something to earn your reward. Suppose Paloma has found something important, something that stirs up the entire art world. Your dream job will become hers, and that’s just be the beginning. But what if, on the other hand,
you
reveal the discovery to the world? Here’s the deal: you get the research; we make sure Paloma disappears and the research is credited to you. Now look me in the eyes and tell me you think it’s a good idea. Do you think it’s a good idea, Preston?”

Clark asked the question slowly, nodding his head at the same time: a crude yet effective attempt to coerce his victim. It was starting to work. The picture Clark had painted for Preston was so tempting . . . But he knew from experience that no one did favors for nothing. “Hang on. I still don’t get it. If I do all this, I get the study and the job. But what do you get?”

Clark impaled another mini octopus and inspected it against the light before gulping it down like a whale swallowing a herring. He gave Preston a mocking look. “Us? Oh, don’t you worry about that. We’ll take the big prize. And you, my friend, won’t ask a single question.”

Then he raised his hand and called the waiter over, ready to order another round.

PART II

NIGHT OF THE
ARTEMIS

14

“Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgh!”

Jaime Azcárate’s ferocious howl echoed off the bathroom walls as the water spraying from the shower abruptly dropped to near freezing. This had been happening a lot lately, and whenever he asked the landlady about it, she put him off with an excuse. “The boiler’s acting up,” was all she’d say. Jaime had since grown accustomed to what he called “express showers,” which saved him money by using less water and had the added advantage of wasting less time. But this morning he’d been distracted, and the torrent of cold water surprised him as he was mulling over everything he’d been obsessing about since the previous weekend.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Paloma’s reaction to him bringing up the Medusa. She had always been a little temperamental, but he didn’t see why the subject should have affected her so much. When Jaime told her they’d come close to killing him because of the piece they’d published on Bolgi, she’d stood up and practically shot out of the restaurant, as if she already knew someone had broken into her home. Why? He had no answer to that, or to the question of why that damnable Petrarca Gallery in Rome, which had once been home to the Medusa bust, was refusing to answer his calls.

Nobody was helping him, everyone was ignoring him, and it was starting to depress him. He was grateful to at least have Roberto and his shooting lessons, though he was starting to worry that he might have a panic attack while his finger was on the trigger.

As Jaime was putting on his bathrobe, he realized that the toilet was blocked and full of brown water. He suspected a link between the shower and this new phenomenon. This was confirmed when he turned the shower on again and a mud-colored geyser spouted from the basin. The scientific theory behind communicating vessels came to mind as he tried to solve the problem using a rubber plunger, but the problem persisted. Jaime decided he needed something lively to help him face the messy challenge with some semblance of joy, so he went out into the living area of his attic studio and headed for the stereo. Within a few seconds Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” was blasting from the speakers. He wasn’t going to let a little plumbing issue ruin his morning now that he’d finally started to feel a bit better.

Except for a slight ache in his temples and the occasional cough, he was almost back to full health. His cold had relented in the face of an onslaught of orange juice and herbal remedies, and he could even breathe again without feeling like he was drowning. His lip had also healed well, and he no longer looked like a third-rate boxer.

All that was left was the emptiness, and the unanswered questions.

He was still waging battle with the plunger when he heard the doorbell ring.
Could it be the plumber?
he wondered in a rush of optimism. Putting his eye to the front door peephole, he saw a warped image of a tall, blond man. Suddenly he was filled with a terrible desire to climb back in bed and stay there for the rest of the day. Instead, he mustered his strength and opened the door.

“Good morning.” The visitor ran his fingers through the hair on his temples. “I hope I haven’t woken you.”

“Whatever you may think of me, I don’t tend to sleep with wet hair. Come in and make yourself at home. Do you feel like unblocking a toilet?”

Vicente Amatriaín quite unnecessarily wiped his spotless shoes on the doormat and, looking a bit taken aback, followed Jaime to the bathroom. “I was wondering when you’d show up again,” Jaime said as he took up the plunger. “Laura said you’re not the type to give up.”

“I told you we’d be in touch.” Amatriaín looked at the toilet and then the shower, which was filled with standing water. “Do you have a problem with your pipes?”

“What would make you think that?”

“I think I owe you an apology for getting you into this mess.”

“So now it’s your fault my bathroom’s flooding?”

“I’m talking about the other day. I’m sorry to have caused trouble for you.”

“Don’t worry. I rarely say no to anything. Any day now I’ll wake up married with three kids.”

Amatriaín gave him a polite smile. He glanced at the bathtub again and, observing Jaime’s fruitless efforts with the plunger, said, “This has all the earmarks of a blocked siphon trap.”

“Does the EHU give you plumbing training? What’s this about a symphonic trap?”

“Siphon, not symphonic.” Amatriaín took off his jacket and hung it on the doorknob. “I have to admit, I’m a fan of your work. I’ve read many of your magazine stories and I think we could achieve great things together. Do you have a flat-head screwdriver?”

Jaime left the bathroom and returned in an instant with an Ikea toolbox. He watched in amazement as Amatriaín laid a folded-up towel by a circular metal cover in the floor beside the toilet, then knelt on it. “Pass me the screwdriver. This is the cover for the siphon trap. I bet it’s full of muck.”

“Would you believe it, this is the first time I’ve noticed that.” Jaime looked on as the EHU officer deftly unscrewed the cover to reveal a stinking hole full of dirty water. “I appreciate your comment about my work,” Jaime said as Amatriaín worked. “Most people I know think what I write is sensationalist trash.”

“I don’t think that. And even if I did, it’d be trash that has thousands of devotees. I don’t suppose you have a rubber glove? I don’t want to ruin my leather ones.”

“Would a plastic bag do?”

Amatriaín nodded.

Jaime brought a small plastic bag from the kitchen. Amatriaín removed one of his leather gloves and slipped the bag on like a mitten, briefly revealing a scarred, yellowing hand covered in marks like those on his face.

“Well, well. Look what we have here.” Amatriaín pulled his plastic-wrapped fingers from the trap. He was holding a mass of hair and filth at least the width of his hand.

Jaime looked impressed.

“I guess I really am losing hair. It must be the stress.”

“It’s a mystery how so much stuff ends up in there.” Amatriaín opened the toilet seat lid and threw the foul wad of matter into the bowl. “Right, it should work now.” He returned the plastic bag to Jaime and put his leather glove back on before screwing the cover back in place. “It’s true that you specialize in rather unorthodox areas of art history. But stories like yours have always had broad appeal. And if you write, it’s because you want people to read what you have to say, isn’t that true?”

“Actually, I write so I can afford to pay for this little palace. And while I’m grateful to you for fixing my bathroom, I doubt that’s why you came here. So tell me: Why did you come?”

“To speak to you about some work.” Amatriaín stood and removed his gloves again, taking care this time to turn his back to Jaime. He washed his hands in the sink, from which the water now drained freely, and put his jacket back on. “Your expert knowledge of unusual topics is exactly what’s needed for this Medusa business.”

“I’ve already written everything I know about the sculpture. And anyway, I don’t understand how a sensationalist story about a Medusa that causes death, hallucinations, and plague epidemics could possibly help the EHU.”

“It might not help the EHU, but it’d be huge for the magazine. And, therefore, for you.”

“I appreciate your interest,” Jaime said. “But I don’t need to play along with you to do that.”

“Azcárate, you need to understand that—”

“No.
You
need to understand that I don’t need any of this, so don’t come here with your underhanded tactics. You can talk straight with me or go and find yourself another idiot. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

In the kitchen, Jaime unfolded the table and started the coffee maker.

“The fact is,” Amatriaín continued, “you seem uncomfortable with this business, but I’m anxious to have you on board. I’ve followed your career closely, and, as I’ve said, I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you. But all I want is to find out who tried to kill me in El Burgo de Osma, and why.”

“If the aim is noble, any motive is good,” said Amatriaín.

“Who said that?”

“Me, actually. I just thought of it.”

“Congratulations. And yes, finding out why someone wanted to freeze me like a codfish seems a pretty noble aim. Do you want sugar? Sweetener?”

Jaime put two coffees on the table and set out the sugar bowl. Amatriaín helped himself to a spoonful.

“What’s the deal with you, anyway?” Jaime asked. “Has your life always been dedicated to bothering people while they’re on vacation or have you had other jobs before this? As a plumber, perhaps?”

When Amatriaín smiled, the scars on his cheeks grew even deeper. “I’ve done a bit of everything. A few years ago I was an adviser for the Historical Heritage Group. For a long time my job was to hunt for missing works of art, but a little accident forced me to give that work up. Don’t you think the music is a bit loud?”

“No. Go on, please. What was this little accident you mentioned?”

“I was discovered while searching a suspect’s warehouse. There was a firefight, and a bullet burst a container of sulfuric acid.” Jaime gave no sign of understanding, so Amatriaín continued. “It was a chemistry lab. Its owner was involved in trafficking drugs, diamonds, and works of art. I suffered burns to my hands, chest, and part of my face.”

Jaime nodded. That explained a few things.

“Wearing gloves all day is uncomfortable, but you get used to it,” Amatriaín told him. “They moved me to Archives, and I still dabbled in other routine work and the occasional investigation. When the EHU was formed, Europol asked all the security and investigative forces in the EU for their cooperation. I was chosen to coordinate operations in Spain and Italy.”

“Given all the artwork that’s disappeared, why are they mounting an operation of this scale to find this one wretched Medusa’s head?”

“As I said, the EHU hasn’t been active for long, and until now we haven’t had the help of true specialists. Our goal is to recover every piece of stolen artwork, but the Medusa was taken most recently, so the trail is fresher. We should be able to locate it more easily.”

Jaime finished his coffee and stared at the bottom of the cup. Finally he put it down on the table, and without lifting his gaze said, “Fine. I’m all yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure. We can’t let the mess you and your team made in Amsterdam tarnish the reputation of the EHU. It needs some polishing pretty badly, and I can help you do it.”

Amatriaín screwed up his mouth.

“I can’t say I agree with all of that, but thank you. Now we can get to the real reason I came to see you.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s news about the Medusa. There’s a good chance we’ve located it.”

“
Now
you tell me?”

“I had to be sure you’d agree to work for us first.”

“How could I refuse after all you’ve done for me and my bathroom?”

“According to our contacts on the Italian coast, yesterday a collection of artifacts was loaded onto a cargo ship named the
Artemis
. It’s scheduled to sail tomorrow from Istanbul to New York, stopping at Piraeus to collect more freight. There’s a distinct possibility the Medusa is among those works of art.”

“How do you know that?”

“Our agent recognized a crucifix that was stolen from a church in Ravenna a few weeks ago. It’s possible that the rest of the pieces are stolen, too, so it stands to reason that the Medusa could be among them. In order not to tip off the ship’s owners, we’ve decided to inspect the goods in secret.”

“Stolen artwork on a ship? Don’t you need warrants and all that?”

“All the pieces are required to have export certificates that prove they’ve been acquired legitimately,” Amatriaín explained. “We suspect these certificates are excellent forgeries. Our sources tell me that there’s also a very good chance that a port official is involved.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Do we know who put the artwork on the ship?”

“A dealer named Vittorio Rosselli who intends to exhibit them at an antique fair in New York next month. He has no previous convictions, but my superiors insist we need to dig deeper. Unfortunately, there’s not enough time for a thorough investigation before the ship sets sail, so we’ll have to intervene at some later point.”

“When did you say it leaves?”

“It sails from Istanbul first thing tomorrow. That gives us just enough time to get to Piraeus and inspect it there before it casts off again. Mind you, we can’t stick around.”

“Couldn’t the authorities hold up the ship for a few days? That’d give you more wiggle room.”

“Possibly, though currently there’s little proof that the ship’s transporting stolen goods.” Amatriaín gave a vulpine smile. “However, we could arrange for it to be stuck in port an extra night thanks to some problem with the vessel and a spare part that could be difficult to obtain. Inspector Juliun Kraniotis of the Greek police is going to lay the groundwork for us. Tomorrow morning my team will head out there with an extensive list of the artifacts stolen in recent months and try to identify the goods that are on board. If we find anything from the list, we’ll seize the items and arrest Rosselli.”