Turned to Stone (20 page)

28

This time, Clark didn’t have to waste time picking the lock. After breaking into Señora Julia’s apartment, he had entered Amanda’s place next door and found a set of keys from when she and Paloma were roommates. Slipping into his target’s apartment was quicker and easier this time, although he wasn’t so sure he’d find what he was looking for there.

In Paloma’s bedroom, the music CDs were arranged in rows on a bookcase opposite the computer desk. There weren’t that many of them, but in an age when physical music formats were on the verge of extinction, even this small collection was big enough to catch the eye. The titles were so varied, a psychologist using them to gauge something of their owner’s personality would likely conclude she was a woman open to anything. Leonard Cohen and Brahms; Manolo García and B. B. King; Bob Dylan and Andrew Lloyd Webber; Lou Reed and Enrique Morente: all coexisted peacefully on the shelves, waiting to be played whenever they suited the CD owner’s mood.

Clark moved quickly. In an instant, all the discs were in his metal briefcase.

The previous day, Rosa had called him from the
Phoenix
and told him to break into the apartment and take the discs. Clark hadn’t understood why, but Rosa had insisted so strongly he couldn’t refuse.

He had always known that his uncle’s daughter was not just gorgeous, but also brilliantly intuitive. Clark was certain that when the family fortune was divided up one day, the biggest share would go to Rosa—especially now that Leonardo had snuffed it. But he wasn’t worried. When the time came, he’d find a way to make sure he got his piece. He deserved
something
as reward for getting his hands dirty for the family over the last two decades.

The assignment in El Burgo de Osma had gone badly, it was true, but his commitment to the family would be taken into account. As would his kidnapping of the brat, his coercion of Oscar Preston, and this second raid on Paloma’s apartment. Angelo knew he could count on Clark for anything, and Clark did not intend to disappoint him. He had both willpower and a genetic advantage; he barely felt tired even after a full day of physical exertion. The doctors had called it an anomaly, but he considered it a gift. And he used all of it in service to the cause.

Gripping the briefcase, he locked Paloma’s apartment and went looking for a place with Wi-Fi. He settled on an empty ice cream shop, where he ordered a chocolate milkshake. He pulled out a small laptop computer and inserted the disks one after the other.

The thirteenth disc brought him luck. A broad smile spread beneath his plaster-covered nose as he connected to the Internet. Within a few seconds, Rosa’s face was peering back at him from the screen.

“Yes?”

“I did it.”

“You got them?”

“While she was at the museum. You were right: it’s all here, on a CD by some . . . Andel.”

“That would be Handel, you oaf.”

“No, no. It’s a silent
h
. Andel. The full document is here: text and images. You’re brilliant, little cousin. How did you figure it out?”

“I went to Leonardo’s cabin and went through his things.”

“Is that right?”

“What isn’t ‘right’ is what he was doing. He’s ripped off Papà all he could, and then some. I looked through his music collection, and inside a Megadeth album was a piece of paper listing his accounts, payments from clients—stuff like that. Business he’s been doing behind the family’s back for years. It wasn’t the only one. I found several other similar documents. Then I remembered there were music CDs at Paloma Blasco’s apartment, and thought she might have done something similar.”

“They’re not there anymore.” Clark grinned. “Now what? Can I go back to the warehouse? I had to leave the kid by himself.”

“First send me the information on the CD, then wait for instructions. I’ll contact you as soon as possible. And Clark . . .”

“Yes?”

“If you hurt that boy, I’ll pull out every hair in that mustache of yours, one by one.”

The screen went dark. Clark felt aggrieved by the threat. He tried to be friendly and efficient, but Rosa never cut him any slack. He finished his milkshake and began to upload the data from the disc. It was received a few minutes later on board the
Phoenix
.

Rosa finished printing Paloma’s document and ran from Leonardo’s study to the yacht’s main lounge.

“What is it?”
came the guttural voice from the portrait of Angelo Carrera.

“We have it. We have Paloma’s research.”

“And the
Chronicle of Asclepius
?”

“A few scanned pages. But those are the ones that interest us.”

“Dr. Galliano would’ve paid a handsome sum for the original.”

“What does it matter if they’re not the original? I’ve examined the pages, and they’ve been taken from the genuine document. They include everything Dr. Galliano needs to know in order to be satisfied with the Medusa.”

“Congratulations, Rosa; I never doubted you could do it. One day, you’ll be the richest person in Sardinia, by far.”

Rosa looked down.

“That’s not my goal, and you know it,” she said in a steady voice. “You have what you wanted. Now will you please accept my resignation?”

“That, never.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’ve never understood this attitude of yours. You’ve been a natural leader ever since you were a little girl, yet you insist on living a mediocre life.”

“I’m thirty-nine years old; I can live whatever kind of life I want to.”

“Not until you’ve finished what you started. Call Clark and tell him to call off the business with Preston. Now we have the document, he’s no use to us anymore. Have him let the boy go.”

Although that pacified Rosa, her relief was short-lived, as another grisly order immediately followed:
“Once the child is back with his mother, have Clark find a way to get rid of Preston.”

“Are you serious? Kill Preston?”

“It’s necessary to our mission. Any complication that might compromise us must be eliminated.”

“How is he going to compromise us? He doesn’t know anything.”

“Not yet. But all he would have to do is apply a little pressure to Paloma Blasco, and he’d discover everything. And who’s to say he won’t go public in order to score points with his boss? Tell Clark he can choose the method. But first send me that document. I need to see it with my own eyes.”

“You’re sick, Papà. And so is Dr. Galliano. Why did he have to involve Preston? Couldn’t Clark have done everything himself? You’re so . . .”

Without bothering to finish, Rosa stormed out and headed to the study that had been her brother’s, to send her father a copy of the document. She thought again about how Leonardo’s stupid ambition led to his annihilation. She wasn’t like him; she needed to convince herself of that. She would be more than content to throw herself into her gallery-café-school project with Dino, the man for whom she’d left the museum in Verona—and whom she’d been deceiving since the beginning of their relationship.

Rosa cursed her father. She thought again, as she had so many times before, that she was sorry Alvino Nascimbene hadn’t killed him in the attack on the yacht. As always, she instantly regretted having the thought. After she’d successfully sent the document, she returned to the lounge and looked up at the portrait.

“What do you say?” she asked, sounding impatient. “Is it what you wanted?”

“We have it!”
Carrera said with excitement in his voice.
“It’s genuine.”

“Excellent. So we’re done here.”

“Not yet. When you speak to Clark, tell him to be ready to do one last thing.”

“To do what?”

“To eliminate Paloma Blasco.”

Rosa felt a wave of horror overtake her, but she tried to speak calmly.

“I refuse to give Clark that order.”

“As you wish. I’ll give it to him myself.”

“You’re a psychopath! What need is there to kill Preston and Paloma?”

“Dr. Galliano insists on it. Now that we have the document, Paloma Blasco is surplus to requirements.”

“I don’t agree. She can generate a lot of publicity and add value to the deal. Our asking price could triple in a matter of days if she tells the world what she knows about the sculpture. After all, she was the one who discovered it. There are plenty of other collectors in the world crazy enough to pay whatever it takes to own the—”

“You’re ambitious, Rosa, and that’s a good thing. But in this case, we owe our loyalty to our best customer. Galliano wants the sculpture and what it contains, without that information becoming public knowledge. This is not merely a question of collecting. As a doctor, he has a practical interest in the contents of the Medusa, and we cannot let him down. Paloma’s discoveries must not be made public.

“That is why the price includes her elimination.”

29

As Paloma left the museum, she decided she wouldn’t go to her mother’s house or her favorite restaurant, as she normally would. Neither did she want to go home. Over the last few days her paranoia had grown, and there was nowhere left where she felt comfortable. The business with Amanda had hit her where she felt most vulnerable and was making her rethink everything, even the future for which she had fought so hard.

It was still over a month before she had to submit her application to Ricardo, but she was starting to seriously doubt that she would live to make it happen. Her spirits were in shreds and she felt confused. According to Amanda, Oscar Preston was both an accomplice in Hugo’s abduction and a victim of someone who wanted to get his hands on Paloma’s research. Paloma wasn’t buying it. She was convinced that Preston himself was the brains behind the operation, and, for that reason, she didn’t think Hugo was in any real danger. Oscar was an unscrupulous creep, but he wasn’t capable of following through on such a serious threat. She’d tried to speak to him at the museum that morning, but the worm had managed to wriggle away. And Amanda still believed him?

She took a long walk along the streets of downtown Madrid and wound up having lunch in a Japanese restaurant near Plaza de la Ópera. In an attempt to reassert her confidence, she’d put on a pair of high heels she’d bought six months earlier and hadn’t yet worn, and she soon realized that this had been a stupid idea. Her feet felt as if they’d been impaled on nails, so she decided to take the metro back to the museum.

As she stood on the platform, she replayed in her mind the conversations she’d had with Amanda over the last few days: Hugo’s kidnapping. Preston’s blackmailing. It was all insane. Paloma had to choose what mattered to her most: the well-being of her best friend’s son or the study she had been working on for so long, which finally was about to have a proper outlet. She was ashamed that she felt so torn and was on the verge of tears.

Thoughts of Jaime came to her again, unbidden. He always knew what to do. He seemed so controlled, so sure of himself . . . At least, that’s how he’d appeared at the beginning, during their first year of college. Jaime was the only man she’d ever been with, and his sudden reappearance, along with the problems he brought, evoked in her the same state of tension she’d lived in back when they were together. After their breakup, Paloma had decided that work came first, and aside from fooling around a bit on dates, she hadn’t been with anyone else since.

The metro station was full of people. Caught up in a world of her own, Paloma wandered away from the crowd and stood by herself near the tunnel at the left end of the platform. Sometimes she felt as though she was holding the most important secret in the universe, and she was afraid someone wanted to steal it from her—which, of course, someone did. For this reason, she always kept her research document with her, in a little flash drive disguised as lipstick. The drive had been a present from a colleague at another museum who had chased her and then, having gotten the message that she wasn’t interested, left her in peace without making a fuss.

An electronic sign above the platform told the crowd that the next train would arrive in one minute.

Paloma noticed someone position himself beside her: a man wearing a raincoat, sunglasses, and a grizzled mustache. But the most striking thing about him was the plaster cast that covered his nose.

Paloma’s first reaction was to grip her purse more tightly.

The stranger’s response was to grab
her
.

The roar of the train could be heard through the tunnel, and then came the glow from the headlights as it plowed down the iron tracks. Paloma tried to scream, but the man in the raincoat was pulling her against his body, his hand over her mouth. The passengers were watching the train, and most of them were oblivious to her fate. Only a couple of girls saw what was happening and ran to look for security.

Once the train’s headlights had fully illuminated the tunnel, the assailant pushed Paloma toward the track, but she drove her heel into his instep. His scream made everyone turn and look.

The train stopped.

The girls who’d run for help returned with two security guards.

But there was no trace of the train, or of Paloma or her attacker.

The Indiana Jones theme song woke Jaime from his nap. He’d spent the better part of the morning searching the Internet for information about the story Alvino Nascimbene’s wife had told him, but exhaustion eventually got the better of him, and he wound up snoring on the sofa.

He woke from a confused dream about Inspector Kraniotis. In the dream, Kraniotis had jumped into the water before Jaime and Amatriaín, so it was he who was saved and they who died.

Not a very nice dream, he noted as he awoke.

He had to rummage around in the cushions to find his cell phone. “Hello?”

“Jaime . . .” The voice was a tiny, unidentifiable squeak.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Paloma.”

Jaime was immediately brought back to reality. The dream, the sofa, a living and breathing Kraniotis—all were gone. All that existed in the world was that telephone call. “Paloma, what is it?”

“Not on the phone. I have to see you.”

“Where are you?”

“At Café del Real. Plaza de la Ópera.”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

“Hurry, please.”

Jaime made it in twelve and a half. The ground floor of the traditional café was full, and Jaime couldn’t find Paloma in the crowd, so he climbed a narrow stairway to the lounge upstairs. She was sitting in the back, pale as wax. Jaime felt a blend of fear and compassion as he walked toward her.

“Are you okay?”

Paloma wasted no time. “They tried to kill me,” she said.

“Who?”

“A man. Just now, on the metro platform. He came up to me and tried to push me onto the tracks.”

Jaime swallowed. They had found her, and, just as they had him in El Burgo de Osma and on board the
Artemis
, they’d tried to kill her. He searched his mind for a motive that connected the attempts on their lives, and his thoughts turned once again to the university study she had written long ago, and to which she’d attached both their names.

“Your shoes?” he asked, looking at her bare feet.

“I had to leave them. I ran here.”

“What about the police? The metro security staff?”

Paloma shook her head. “You’re not the only one who prefers to solve his own problems.”

“That doesn’t sound good. You have to tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Paloma opened her mouth to speak, but at just that moment someone came up the stairs from the ground floor: a man dressed in black who appeared to be looking for someone. “Let’s go,” she said, pinching Jaime’s arm.

“Is that him?”

“No. But let’s go.”

They hurried down to the street. Jaime took a few steps toward the Ópera metro station before changing his mind and flagging down a taxi. They jumped into the car.

“What did the man look like?” he asked as he shut the door behind them. “Can you remember him?”

“I’ll remember him for the rest of my life. He was a strong-looking man in a raincoat, and he had a mustache. He looked like your stereotypical thug from the movies. And he had something on his nose, like a plaster cast.”

Jaime snorted.

“What is it?” Paloma asked.

“He owes the plaster to me.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. He must be feeling pretty unlucky to have missed killing both of us. You should come to my place. You’ll be safe there.”

“I don’t know about that. They know you. They’re after you, too.”

Suddenly they realized that the taxi driver was looking at them in the rearview mirror, waiting for an address. “Oh, sorry,” Jaime said. “Just drive for a minute; we’ll let you know in a second.”

The driver nodded and looked back ahead as he stepped on the gas.

Jaime whispered, “You’d better come with me to the CHR building, then; it’ll be hard for them to hurt you there.”

He gave the taxi driver the address, and soon they pulled up in front of the old philology building at the Complutense University, beside which stood the headquarters of the Center for Historical Research. During the short walk to the entrance, they glanced nervously at everyone who crossed their path.

Relax
, Jaime told himself. He was starting to see mustachioed murderers on every corner, where he imagined they were plotting to tear them to pieces. Though his nerves were on edge, a part of his mind was calm. Paloma had reached out to him, and this could give him the opportunity to clear a few things up.

They hurried toward the tall brick building. Paloma had never been inside it, though she knew the surrounding area well. Back when she was a student, the large building had still been under construction. When she’d passed by the big yellow sign that read “Construction Works for the Center for Historical Research,” she’d never imagined that Jaime would end up working there, much less that she would one day use it to seek refuge from a potential murderer. She paused and glanced over at the nearby history and geography building, where the two of them had studied, and indulged in a few seconds of nostalgia.

They climbed the five steps to the main entrance, which was framed by a Bramantesque pavilion, and walked through the glass doors that led to the lobby. Then they took the elevator up to the tenth floor. “You’ll be safe here,” Jaime told Paloma.

She walked into an office full of desks with computers. The walls were covered in postcards from exotic locations like Luxor, Varanasi, Cancun, and Istanbul.

“There’s no one here?”

“Not a lot of people come in on the weekend. If they have to work, most do it from home.”

By Jaime’s desk, a glass case nearly overflowed with books stacked in no particular order. Paloma glanced over the spines:
Gods, Graves and Scholars
by C. W. Ceram;
Atahualpa
;
Theories of Art
by Moshe Barasch;
The Holy Scriptures
;
Alexander the Great
;
The End of Atlantis
;
Art and Architecture of the Ancient Orient
, and a complete history of art collection that she knew well. She wasn’t surprised to see a few issues of the journal
Mysteries of Archeology
and a thick volume entitled
Romantic Archeology: Voyages, Dreams, and Adventures
.

Paloma recognized Jaime in those books. Though they’d been leading separate lives for some time now, she’d heard from former classmates that he was a meticulous researcher, and that he knew that his profession consisted of writing reports, conducting interviews, and spending hours in the library. From time to time, he found an opportunity to work someplace under the sun for a while, out in the open air in some far-off city or on an archeological dig. He was as much of a dreamer now as he had been when they were students together, always with his head someplace else. She remembered one time a lecturer had been explaining the influences of Genoese sculpture on Spain in the seventeenth century, but Jaime’s mind had been far away: following Winckelmann through the ruins of Pompeii or discovering a magnificent Mayan treasure in some lost temple of Tikal.

Paloma remembered the first time she went to Jaime’s home, back when he still lived with his parents. He had shared a bedroom with Jules Verne, Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson, as well as with Ian Fleming, Michael Crichton, and Dashiell Hammett. Not to mention the companions from his movie collection—James Bond, Humphrey Bogart, Errol Flynn, John Wayne—and the giant
Raiders of the Lost Ark
poster that hung over his headboard.

There was always an exotic soundtrack playing on his stereo, Paloma remembered. He was a dreamer and yet, at the same time, a scholar. Paloma still couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to combine the two different sides of his life, but he had, and that was what made him different. Maybe that was why she’d fallen in love with him. So many men resigned themselves to taking their dreams to their deathbeds, or to walking past half-open doors to changes they never would make. Jaime had made his dream come true. Through a lot of hard work, and more than a few identity crises, he had forged a personality made of fragments he’d taken from the heroes of his youth. He had been all of them and none of them, and now he was himself: a perfect Frankenstein’s monster sprung from his own hopes and dreams.

She studied him. He looked at her knowingly—that look she knew so well.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Can I get you something?”

“I guess a lime flower tea wouldn’t do me any harm.”

“I’ll go get you some. Try to relax.”

Jaime closed the door to the office behind him. He hadn’t yet reached the elevator when an ominous voice stopped him.

“Where are you going?” He turned to look at Laura Rodríguez.

“Good afternoon, Presidenta. How’s it going here?”

“The usual. Is something up? You seem on edge.”

“No, it’s nothing. It’s just . . . I have a visitor.”

“Someone I know?”