David Leadbeater
Inca Kings
CHAPTER ONE
Kenzie sat as demure and coyly as she was able, practically having to sit on her right hand which had begun twitching about ten minutes ago — just two minutes after she’d walked into this auction house — as it craved for the welcome weight of the hefty katana she preferred to be sheathed over her left shoulder. It wasn’t just an idle craving.
Some of these assholes, they needed to see the glint of that blade, to blink in terror as the razor edge gleamed, to experience that touch of dread as the perfect steel rose before them.
Kenzie managed to hold in an unladylike snort. Pretentious, wealthy assholes.
It could be said that Kenzie harbored more than a single grudge against those in authority and those that had the power and affluence to sway them. But the katana would cut through all that, right here, right now — and put her in prison forever.
Somehow, she calmed herself.
The auction house sat right in the middle of Paris, along the magnificent Champs Élysées, inside a nineteenth century hotel built by one of France’s richest families. Kenzie saw glitz everywhere; from the gilded chandeliers to the ornate doors and paneling, and the glowing wall sconces. A soft hue illuminated the large room and the noise of conversation drowned out all other noise.
The occupants were seated in rows, apart from those that stood at the back, their well-tended behinds parked on sumptuous leather, their jackets and ties clearly a step too far as the room began to warm up. Even the ladies looked uncomfortable in their tight sequined dresses. Kenzie saw more than one bead of sweat popping out of a distinguished brow and hoped the gathered array of Paris’s most expensive perfumes was up to the test.
As for her, this morning she had purchased a little black dress, and tonight she’d slapped on some of Dahl’s aftershave. A quick comb and she was as glammed up as she was ever going to be. But no mind. Kenzie was no stranger to lavish auctions.
The fossil beside her, squinting even through black-rimmed goggles, placed his hand dangerously close to her knee as he leaned across. “First time, lovey?”
“Ah, no.” She tried to affect an English accent. “You?”
The old man looked affronted. “Me? No, of course not.”
He pulled away. Kenzie smiled to herself and took in the room, tuning out the hubbub. Once a trained Mossad agent, then a fierce fugitive, now a… she paused in her thoughts.
What am I right now? Or rather — what am I doing with this struggling band of misfits that somehow still manage to come together to form one of the most effective Special Forces teams in the world?
You’re lost.
The answer was as clear as the decanters and glasses in use all around her. Life had taken her on a nightmare rollercoaster ride, and right now the latest pause on the latest loop was right here in Paris. If she knew what to look for she might stand a chance.
But not today.
Evening had fallen across the Champs, and the well-to-do packed inside the auction house were finally starting to settle. Kenzie half-turned in her seat and passed a glance across those who accompanied her — Torsten Dahl and Mai Kitano — and thought about those who didn’t, primarily Mano Kinimaka who roamed the outside. Misfits among misfits, she mused. Some lost almost as deeply as she.
Several weeks had passed since their last mission ended; complex developments had taken place. But Kenzie was waist deep in danger here, and being the only archaeological relic hunter in the team, the one best placed in the very eye of this frantic storm.
The clock ticked.
Kenzie watched the patrons; seated as she was toward the back she could see 75 percent of the assemblage, although none looked familiar. She took a moment to consult the small booklet she’d been given on entry. They were interested in Lot 59, so time to spare yet. She breathed a little easier. The main worry they had was that one of Kenzie’s old “acquaintances” might be here and recognize her, thus destroying their undercover operation.
Because — the trouble was — they had no idea who they were looking for.
Kenzie considered the developing mystery that still surrounded the Incas and their lost treasures. Her fellow trio of misfits watched from the back and outside. At the front of the room half-a-dozen suited men appeared and mounted a stage. One approached a microphone.
He started speaking in French, introducing the auction. Kenzie spoke the language well and listened as her eyes drifted. Directly behind him hung an electronic monitor upon which would be shown the current object up for auction and the value it attained in ongoing bids in euros, pounds, dollars and other currencies. To the man’s left a space existed for the actual object. Kenzie watched men wearing white gloves bring out Lot 1, a gaudy painting, and place it carefully upon a ledge for all to consider.
Bids began to be fired out over the hushed chatter and the auctioneer pointed, nodded and shouted out each bid. The white-headed hammer clutched in his right hand indicated the current highest bidder during lulls in the bidding and then hovered for a moment. Kenzie saw that sometimes he was having to work hard to draw out another bid from men and women leafing through their booklets, maybe checking ahead to see what else they might buy. In the end though, the hammer came down with pomp and a flourish and they moved quickly on to Lot 2.
Kenzie watched closely, noting the main players and those that left; newcomers and those that skulked in corners, cellphones to their ears. These were the most likely, and the ones the rest of her team would be focused on. But Kenzie found it hard to trust them completely, no matter their proven skills.
She flashed across several noteworthy individuals and stored their faces in her memory for later. Again her fingers gave an involuntary twitch as the woman to her left flicked away an imaginary speck of dust, fingers and wrist jangling with high-priced ice.
“Lot 22.”
And the auction went on. Earlier they had reviewed the physical security and found it strangely lacking. Didn’t anyone ever rob auction houses? You would think not. In contrast, there were surveillance cameras everywhere. Kenzie grimaced. If the cameras were monitored by Interpol she might find herself in serious trouble.
Still, the lots were tumbling nicely. Dahl stayed on the back wall and Mai, finely attired, glided to left and right, moving confidently among the stylish and the grand, whilst Kinimaka had stayed purposely outside, watching as many entries and exits as he could manage. No comms systems today. They were relying on plain, old-fashioned instinct.
“Lot 50.”
Kenzie took another look at the relevant page in the booklet. A dull golden cup stared back quite literally — the dour face that adorned one side of it glaring at her with uncaring, empty eyes. Just a golden cup then, and cleverly disguised by the seller, its true identity known only to a chosen few. Called here The Blind Man’s Cup, it could not be officially declared as hailing from Peru. The Peruvian authorities claimed everything of archaeological value from the region. The auctioneer would not know. The auction house may well have been fed expensive, forged documents as to its origin, but the sellers wanted its sale to be public — for unknown reasons — so here they were.
Waiting for the bids on one single piece of one of the greatest and most notorious unfound treasures of all time.
The eighth piece in the last decade.
Kenzie looked up as Lot 58 was announced, studied the crowd one last time and then gave the auctioneer her full attention. Two minutes passed and then the hammer came down. The woman beside her squawked with pleasure, having obtained a near-naked Roman statue. Kenzie sat hard on her hand.