There was what I believed was a short-sword, bronze probably, given the look of it. It was in very bad condition, and would be in serious need of conservation. Several pieces of gold jewelry, quite lovely, about a dozen gold rings, and an outstanding gold necklace with lapis lazuli had held up rather better. These objects made me just a little bit uncomfortable. They were clearly very old and would certainly qualify as antiquities as opposed to antiques. The antiquities market can be dicey, and it's one in which I try to be cautious. Very often it is illegal to possess, and particularly to take out of the country, objects as old as these. When I do purchase something like this, I insist on the proper export permits and other documentation. I'd rather not spend time in jail, either at home, or, even more so, in many of the countries I visit. I found myself wondering whether Rashid should have these objects at all. Hadn't Briars told me that objects that could conceivably have come from his precious ship were coming on the market? Could Rashid possibly be the source of the antiquities that were causing him so much concern?
Then I heard it: a sound, almost a rustle, or even, perhaps, a shiver. The little puppet soldiers moved, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a louder rattle, swaying on the rails, as if they were all marching to war, sent by some invisible general. "Hello," I said again, but again no one answered. I could feel panic taking over. The shadows became ominous. I was certain someone was down by the front door. In a second the light there went out. Trapped, I moved away from the light of the office, waited until my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and then edged my way toward a window to my right.
The little soldiers were still for a moment, and then started swaying again. I ducked under one of the worktables. Were those footsteps I heard, or was it just my imagination? If someone's there it's only Rashid, I kept telling myself. I'll have a great time explaining to him what I was doing crouched under one of his benches. But I was too frightened to stand up and call his name. I wondered if I could crawl along the length of the worktables, thereby making my way back to the door. But it was apparent this wasn't going to work. Just a few feet along, large boxes were piled under the tables, blocking my way.
The pale beam from the office light flickered for a moment, as if someone had passed in front of it. That gave me an idea of where the person, assuming he existed, was situated. I decided to make my move. I slid out from under the bench and started toward the door. The puppets in this row were larger, some as big as three or four feet. In a way, they gave me some cover, and they didn't rattle the way the smaller ones did. I kept close to them and as quietly as I could, eased my way back to the door. Near the end of the row, I came upon a much bigger puppet. About five feet eight inches, I'd say, hanging from the pipe with a noose around its neck. I lunged for the door, almost knocking Ben over as I burst through it.
11
"Y OU LACK COURAGE, Hasdrubal," the stranger said. "What is a little storm to a sailor of Qart Hadasht?"
Hasdrubal chafed at the ropes that bound his arms and feet.
"Mago here will assume command of the ship. Safat will assist him. We are sailing to our destination with all good speed. You have no backbone," the stranger repeated. "And I have taken what measures I must."
Mago leaned so close to Hasdrubal that the captain almost retched from the smell of the man. "You are a fool," Mago said. "And now all the money is mine." Mago grabbed the captain's money bag and emptied it. Abdelmelqart's pendant, he put once more around his neck, laughing as he did so. "I'll have yours soon and Abdelmelqart's, too."
"You'll have to live to spend it, traitor," Hasdrubal said quietly. Mago kicked him, then pulled an empty sack over his head. "Enjoy the voyage," he hissed.
He knew his ship so well, even lying in the dark and trussed like an animal readied for the slaughter, he could sense what was happening. He heard the groans as his ship hit the troughs, then struggled to rise for the next wave. "We're doomed," he thought. "All of us."
The ship lurched sharply, and he was thrown against something sharp. In pain, he almost missed the touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Hush," Carthalon whispered. "I'm behind you." He felt the boy working away at the ropes at his wrists.
His arms were free. He whipped the sack off his head as the boy tackled the ropes at his ankles. "Quickly," the boy said.
"What is that you are using to cut the cords?" Hasdrubal said.
"Abdelmelqart's short-sword," the boy replied. "It seemed just, somehow, to use it for this purpose."
"Then put it to further good use. Release the slaves, then come up on deck as fast as you can," the captain said.
Mago tried to turn the little ship into the wind as the gale howled, whipping the sea into a frenzy. At the crest of a wave, Hasdrubal looked to the west and, for a brief moment, thought he saw landfall. Perhaps there was some hope. "Drop the sail," Hasdrubal yelled to the men, some of them huddling in terror by the mast. "Now!"
Too late. The mast came down with a terrible crack, the large sail falling like a huge bird onto the deck, trapping many of the men beneath. It smashed through the cedar box as if it were the finest glass. All eyes turned to the cargo revealed, and a collective gasp went up. Mago and Safat moved toward it, hypnotized by what they saw.
The ship lurched again and a wave crashed over the side, carrying a screaming Mago into the sea. Below, the amphorae of oil and wine began to roll. The ship foundered, then righted itself once again. It was the last time. With a sigh, it rolled precariously to starboard. "Jump," Hasdrubal yelled, grabbing the boy.
F IVE DAYS. DO something. I just wanted to spend the day in bed, sucking my thumb. No, what I really wanted to do was get on the first plane home, to my little house, my cat, my friends, and my shop. Catherine had done it. She would have a lot of conversations with the police there, certainly. But she was home, and I wasn't.
Rashid had hung himself. As unlikely as it seemed to me, given our conversation earlier in the day, and the fact that he'd taken out the puppets--why would you go to the trouble of laying out puppets before you killed yourself?--there was no question the signs were there: the overturned chair, and a note in his pocket in Arabic that apparently said simply "please forgive me." I told myself to get a move on. There'd be time for a nervous breakdown later.
"Give me plenty of coins," I said to the attendant at the taxiphone, slapping down several bills in front of him. "I've got a lot of talking to do." Almost as much as Kristi Ellingham herself. I began making my way through her phone bill.
Many dinars and some time later, I knew that Kristi had called Rick Reynold's employer, a Montreal newspaper, a Paris news magazine's offices, and the public prosecutor's office in California. She'd also called the research department of First Class magazine many times.