Tuscan Hoax: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 4), page 17
Go. Jasmin went in the opposite direction and, after a dozen steps, willed herself to slow down. Look normal, she breathed and continued down to the lobby and outside. Once inside her car, she messaged her father:
They know
She backed her car from its spot and drove to the road leading to the main harbor. A half-kilometer later, she rolled her shoulders, unloading the tension. No problem. Now find Zac.
Her mobile rang, and she jerked the wheel, rocking the car. The caller ID showed Eyrún, so she let it go to voicemail, but it rang again half a minute later, from Thierry this time.
“What now? I’m driving,” she said.
“Did you find out anything else?”
“No. Darwin called her from Alexandria. They know.”
“Slow down, darling. Think. Know what, exactly?”
“I don’t know exactly, but she asked Darwin about what a man said and told him not to tell Zac yet. She was referring to someone besides Nahla, so I wasn’t going to stick around.”
“I’ve thought about what you said earlier about Eyrún making donations and ignoring our demand.” Thierry paused and then continued when she made no reply. “I don’t think they’ll risk it. We have the Vatican piece.”
“But it’s fake,” she said, repeating what their expert at the freeport had determined.
“I doubt the Vatican knows it, and César won’t figure it out. I’ve never seen a copy so good. Better than the Albanian Master’s work. I would love to hire him, but he must be long dead.”
Jasmin listened to her father’s almost dreamy voice. He talked about deceiving the Marseilles gang leader, César Olmeta, as if it were a game. She had been trying to distance herself from her father, as his greed had driven him to engage in increasingly unscrupulous relationships. “What if he finds out? You should never have gotten involved with them.”
“Maybe. But it is what it is now.”
She pounded the horn, holding back a desire to scream. Three years ago, her father’s obsession with finding the Albanian Master had led him to a partner with a Marseille art-theft gang. César had promised to help find the Albanian Master if Thierry managed the sale of objects stolen from an heiress’s estate.
But when the sale went wrong and César’s brother was arrested, the gang kidnapped Thierry. In exchange for letting him live, César had asked Thierry to procure a piece from the Vatican Museums fancied by César’s mother.
“Jasmin? Are you okay?”
“Fine. We need to accelerate this. I’m changing the plan.”
“What do you have in mind?” When she told him, he added, “I thought you didn’t like the Marseilles gang?”
52
Eyrún shut off the engine after stopping curbside to pick up Darwin. He had messaged her that the plane had landed two minutes ago. A breeze carried the spa-like maquis fragrance through the open windows. God, I’m overdue for a massage. She slid her mobile in the cup holder and breathed in nature’s aromatherapy. Resting her head against the firm racing seat, she unwound while Darwin made his way off the plane.
Even though she had moved to Corsica to live a slower life, more often than not, she found herself in go mode—a never-ending list of projects and decisions at the ACA. Fortunately, key people like Barry had taken some things off her plate. I should let go of more.
But a breath later, she reminded herself, This is what I want. She and Darwin had created the ACA to combat the fragility of human heritage, train archaeologists from countries with at-risk histories, and provide resources to save the priceless connections to the past. But Jasmin and her partner—father! Dammit. Why? She moved her fingertips in soft circles on her temples.
“Hi, love,” said Darwin as he opened the rear passenger door and tossed his case inside. He got in the front and leaned across to kiss her. “Missed you.”
“Me, too,” she said, grateful for the interruption. She pushed the starter, and the engine roared to life. As she navigated the airport traffic, Darwin asked about her day, and they chit-chatted about the ACA and his journey from Alexandria. When she had rounded the traffic circle onto the T20 toward their house, she shifted to the question that had been burning since this morning.
“Tell me about Nahla. Were you worried? What’s she like?”
“Very businesslike. I had the odd feeling that you two might get along.”
“Seriously?”
“I think so. You’re both pragmatic and sensible. She knows the nuances and frustrations of antiquities dealings like you know the realities of dealing with the energy bureaucracies. There’s the law, and then there’s getting things done.”
Her brows wrinkled as she downshifted for a curve. “I doubt we’ll be doing dinner soon.”
Darwin continued to describe Nahla, saying, “She looks younger than her age.” He recounted the details of their discussion.
During a pause, she asked, “How did she know about Jasmin’s father?”
“Through the Albanian Master.”
“How?”
“He’s done work for her, so I guess he told her, but she didn’t elaborate.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought so. She did say the Albanian Master and Thierry Panchon had a falling out over looted antiquities in the early days of the Lebanese Civil War.”
Eyrún grumbled at running up behind a slow-moving lorry, and, with no place to pass, she drifted back. Besides, they had less than five kilometers to home, and she wanted to focus on the conversation. “What’s the connection between those two?”
“Thierry was a national archaeologist in Lebanon and, through his assistant, got introduced to the Albanian Master. Nahla’s not clear how they fell out, but she made it sound like a love triangle gone wrong.”
They drove in silence the rest of the way up to the house. Once there, Darwin dropped his case in their bedroom and showered off the Egyptian dust and travel fatigue. Eyrún opened a bottle of wine from Calvi and carried it to the back deck to watch the sunset across the far ridge. She had barely managed to drink half a glass when Darwin sat beside her.
“Santé,” he said, clinking her glass. They watched the horizon turn a deep orange as the photons refracted through thin clouds. Soon the cool air sloughing off Mt. d’Oro’s shoulder would warrant a fire.
“What does Nahla think Thierry wants?” asked Eyrún.
“He was working on the Temple of Eshmun—”
“Wait! That’s the name of their company. Is this about something he found there?”
“Maybe. Let me go on.” When she nodded, he continued. “War broke out in the eighties, and Nahla heard many objects had to be moved into safe hiding. But she also heard the records recovered from that dig have gaps, meaning missing artifacts. For example, object B13 jumps to B18. That’s not the actual record, but it’s how it might appear.”
“Does that mean objects twelve through seventeen were stolen?”
“Not necessarily, but in this case, yes. Nahla said Thierry had a reputation for fastidiousness and had flamed people for their mistakes.”
“So, what’s missing?”
“I'll have to research, but Nahla thinks it's a series of large gold objects, including a bull mask.”
Eyrún poured them each a second glass and switched on the firepit gas. Bright orange flames danced, equaling the sky show but providing more heat.
“Where’s the Albanian Master now?”
“She said he went underground three years ago, perhaps because of Thierry.”
“And somehow Thierry and his puppet daughter, Jasmin, think we can find him.”
“Yep. Thierry’s desperate. He's in deep debt with a Marseilles gang who wanted him to fence high-end artwork.”
“Interesting. By the way, I tried a little misdirection today.”
Darwin’s eyebrows vaulted as Eyrún described her fake call near the break room and how Jasmin seemed to listen.
“How did she react?”
“Walked casually back to the lab but immediately called someone.”
“Thierry, I’ll bet.”
“Uh-huh,” Eyrún concurred and then tipped back her glass.
53
The next morning, after working out, Darwin sat, showered, and dressed in the breakfast nook. The sun had climbed over the eastern slope and now slanted through the window, lighting up the steam rising from his cappuccino. During his last set of pull-ups, a thought had struck him to organize what they knew about this debacle.
He had filled half a sheet of paper by the time Eyrún walked in. The sun caught her dark hair, highlighting a few auburn strands. “What’s that?” she asked, switching on the kettle and rummaging in the tea drawer.
“I listed what’s happened so far and what we know about Jasmin and Thierry.”
“I had the same idea when I woke up this morning. The whole damn thing seems so convoluted.” She readied her cup and sliced an avocado while the bread toasted. A couple of minutes later, she joined him at the round table, holding her mug while leaning over the paper.
He touched a pen to the top line. “It all started the first week of April, when we got the donation from the Ajaccio museum. The surprise shipment came in a week later.”
“The Fountain of Salmacis,” she said with a sigh.
“It is a lovely vase,” he agreed. “But the thing bugging me is the timing of Zac meeting Jasmin. It now seems too coincidental that he met an art and antiquities expert with spare time to volunteer.”
Eyrún picked up the story. “And who, right away, starts filling our heads with suspicions about Nahla, someone we hate, and tossing in this mysterious Albanian Master.” She studied the timeline and then added, “You also got Gavin’s spreadsheet of questionable restorations around the same time.”
“True…” Darwin gazed across the main room. “I wonder if that auction piece in LA is connected? I didn’t care about it until I saw the aleph.”
“I think it’s a question of how, not if. Remember, I got raided while you were in LA. By the way, what did Max have to say about the raid?”
“Shit, I forgot to ask. I was so swept up in Nahla's revelations. We can call him now.”
Eyrún nodded, and he tapped to the contacts on his mobile while she bit into her toast. Max answered, and, after pleasantries, Darwin switched to speaker mode. “I’m with my wife, Eyrún, and we wondered if you could answer some questions for us.”
“No problem. Nice to meet you, Eyrún.”
“Likewise, Max. We have a question about the raid on our organization by the OCBC. What can you tell us about them?”
“I know some. Go ahead.”
Darwin picked up the inquiry. “Our attorney said it was a joint operation with the Carabiniere. But something about the timing seems odd, especially with what you told me yesterday about Thierry. Could this be some kind of inside operation?”
Max asked them a few questions about the shipment’s timing and Jasmin’s arrival. Once they had answered, he was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “The timing is suspicious. Warrants take time to get approved, especially for an international operation.” He paused again before asking, “Did the warrants come from Paris?”
“Dunno,” said Darwin, glancing at Eyrún, who shrugged and began tapping on her mobile. “Why would that matter?”
Before Max could respond, Eyrún jumped in. “No. It’s signed by a judge in Marseilles, err…José Antigua.”
“Him!” Max snorted. “I’ve heard, if you toss enough euros in his direction, he’ll sign anything. My guess is, you’ve been set up.”
“Fuck!” Eyrún yelled at the ceiling. “No wonder our lawyers are saying the court won’t respond.”
“They will, but likely not for a year or more. Listen, the freeports are clandestine vaults, untouchable by authorities. And it sounds like the gang’s got its hooks deep into Thierry.”
“I hate this. What’re we supposed to do?” Eyrún asked.
“I recommend you call my colleague in the OCBC Paris branch, Detective Paul Nisard,” said Max.
“He’s OCBC. How can he help?” Eyrún huffed, throwing her hands up and shaking her head.
“I hear your frustration, Eyrún, and I can understand you not wanting to trust anyone in the ODBC, but Paul runs a covert operation inside the department. His team recovered paintings belonging to the French president’s grandmother that were pilfered during the war. Trust me, he’s been given carte blanche at the highest level.”
Darwin and Eyrún looked at each other. She shrugged her approval, and he said, “Thanks, Max. We appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll message Paul that you’ll be calling. See you on Tuesday.”
Shortly after they disconnected, Darwin’s mobile chimed with the contact data.
“What do you think?” Eyrún asked.
“Jasmin and Thierry must’ve been planning this for months.”
“No. I mean, do you trust Max?”
“Richard and Gavin say his reputation is solid, and everything he’s done so far’s been on the level. I’ll call this guy.”
They spent a few minutes discussing what to reveal in the conversation, and Darwin also agreed to use his back channels to verify that Paul Nisard was legitimate. When he had their story straight, he tapped the number. As it connected, Eyrún’s mobile rang.
She answered, “Hey, Barry,” and moved across the room as Darwin’s call went to voicemail. He was about to leave a message when she shouted, “What? Hang on, Barry, I’m putting you on speaker…” She turned back to Darwin. “Something’s wrong. Barry’s at Lupita’s flat. She’s not there.”
She put her mobile on the table and said, “Okay, Barry, go ahead.”
“Like I said, I stopped to pick up Lupita this morning as we arranged, but she didn’t answer my texts or call, so I went up to her flat. The door was slightly open. I knocked and called out, but no answer, so I went in.
“She’s not here. I’m no expert, but it looks like a struggle took place. Chair’s overturned. Her backpack and mobile are on the floor. Either she ran out in a hurry, or—God, I hope not—someone kidnapped her.”
54
Eyrún set a personal record racing down the mountain while Darwin white-knuckled the passenger handhold. He trusted Eyrún’s ability but reflexively held his breath on most corners as the fat rally tires squealed. Twelve minutes later, his heart rate settled as the harbor traffic slowed their approach near Lupita’s building.
They arrived shortly after the gendarmes and were stopped by an officer at the door. They could see the other flic inside, questioning Barry.
“Stay out here until forensics arrives,” said the gendarme. “Your colleague has already contaminated the scene. We will take his prints to distinguish him from any others left in the room.”
“What happened?” Eyrún asked.
“Je ne sais pas. How do you know the victim?” said the flic, turning the questioning on them.
Darwin answered, as Eyrún’s fluency still had gaps and their lawyer had advised against engaging in legal discussions in French. Fifteen minutes later, the forensics team arrived, donned their bunny suits, and went inside. They dismissed Barry, who joined them on the outside balcony.
“This is just terrible,” he said. “I’m no expert, but it looks like a scene you’d see in a cop show.”
“Her mobile and backpack are inside?” Eyrún asked.
“Yes. The mobile is on the area rug, like someone tossed it there.”
“Jasmin! It’s got to be,” Eyrún hissed.
“If so, she must’ve had help. Lupita’s no pushover. She told me about growing up in a tough neighborhood in Kenya,”
Darwin called Zac. When he got voicemail, he messaged:
need to talk to you about Jasmin
Barry and Eyrún talked in the background as Darwin called two more times. He swiped to the find friends app. “Putain!” he muttered.
“What?” Eyrún asked.
“Zac’s on the southern road near Casalabriva.”
“He kidnapped Lupita?” asked Barry.
The three looked back and forth at each other with mouths agape as if their brains could not fathom Barry’s question. “No,” Darwin and Eyrún said simultaneously.
“You two know Zac better than I,” said Barry, “but the other day, Lupita told me Jasmin had him wrapped around her little finger.”
“Where could he be going?” Eyrún asked. Her tone had shifted to action mode.
“There’s a harbor in Propriano.” Darwin held his mobile so they could all see it and reopened the app. Merde. Where’d he go? He zoomed in and out on the map. His eyes met Eyrún’s. “He turned off his mobile.”
55
“Bonjour,” Jasmin said as she answered her mobile a little after nine a.m. A moment later, she added, “D’accord,” and ended the call. She turned to Zac. “Ready when you are.”
He carried their bags down to her car, threw them in the rear hatch of the Mini Cooper, and got in the driver’s seat. She had told him earlier. “I don’t feel like driving,”
Twenty-five minutes later, they were rolling through the hills of southwestern Corsica and passing small villages. Jasmin pulled back the sunroof, cranked up the music, and thrust her arms up into the wind. The swaying beneath her halter top drew Zac’s eyes from the road.
He reached a hand across, but his mobile interrupted—Darwin’s ringtone. “Shit. What now? Don’t answer it,” he said, caressing her through the thin fabric. The device buzzed twice more with incoming messages and then rang again, thoroughly destroying the moment.
“Maybe something bad happened. Can you read the message for me?” he said, placing his hand back on the wheel.
Jasmin grabbed his iPhone and held it in front of his face to unlock it. Then she read the first message.
