In the pale evening light that seeped through the cracks in the ancient wooden sculpture, Lucian examined the smooth, finely carved orb made of lapis lazuli, onyx and chalcedony. It looked as if it might be one of Hypnos’s eyes.
The sculpture lurched. Lucian struggled to stay upright. He slid to one side and put out his hand to stop from smashing into the wall. The orb slipped out of his fingers.
The sculpture was dropping. Fast. Then it leveled off and landed with a soft thud. Wood on metal, Lucian thought from the sound. The sound of the chopper became less intense. Loud metal doors banged shut. Then everything went black.
Where was he? Lucian couldn’t see anything. Could only hear muffled conversation. Then an engine revved, loud and almost angry. They were moving. He tried to figure out what had happened. Pictured it. The chopper had flown to a rendezvous point somewhere close by, probably in the park, and lowered them down to a waiting vehicle. How far away was the next destination? How much longer until they arrived? He couldn’t waste a second. Dropping to his hands and knees, Lucian felt for the object. What if there was a crack in the base? What if the sphere had fallen out? What if he’d found it, only to lose it?
When he finally retrieved it, he wrapped his fingers around it. Lucian couldn’t see the jewellike object anymore, but he knew exactly what he was holding: an orb created by a master sculptor to represent the hypnotist’s third eye.
Dr. Bellmer had described it as the entry point for our unconscious, the portal through which we can access memories of lives lived long ago. Was this third eye the Memory Tool that Frederick L. Lennox had been searching for? Was this the magical talisman the priest from the school of Pythagoras had wanted secreted away inside of Hypnos?
Lucian replaced the object in its leather pouch. What should he do with it now? He didn’t know where the truck was headed or who was going to be on the other end to greet it. Reaching up, he started to put the pouch back in the wooden compartment where he’d found it. The orb had been there for more than twenty centuries; it would certainly be safe there during the rest of what Lucian anticipated was going to be a long and dangerous night. But what if he didn’t get another chance to salvage it?
Lucian pocketed the treasure as once again Hypnos was moving, accompanied by grunts and moans and the urging of a man who spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. This time when the sculpture was set down, Lucian assumed they’d reached their final destination-final, at least, for a while. Standing in the dark interior, he waited, for what he wasn’t sure.
After another few minutes, the man who had been urging everyone to hurry dismissed his workers. Footsteps echoed on a wooden floor. Hinges creaked. The truck’s engine revved.
Lucian pulled his gun out of his shoulder holster. There was no sound outside of this tomb anymore. Had anyone stayed behind? Then he heard a slight noise…a human footstep? Or a rat scurrying across the deserted building? It wouldn’t hurt to wait and be sure before he climbed out of his hiding place. The silence persisted. Finally he figured it was safe. And then, just as Lucian started to push open the door, he heard the electronic click of someone punching in a number on a cell phone and a deep voice echoing in the cavernous space.
“Who are you calling?”
“You,” the more familiar voice responded. “I was calling to tell you everything had worked out and that we were here.”
“Excellent job.”
Footsteps circled around the sculpture as the voice continued. “So this is the god of sleep, the brother of the god of death. We’re almost done with this unsavory job, and I for one will be happy when this…this monstrosity is out of here and on his way back to our country.”
Now Lucian knew. Shabaz wasn’t behind this kidnapping. Nor was Malachai. He pictured the wall in his office, saw all the disparate pieces. The clue was the American-Iranian lawyer, Vartan Reza, who had been killed in Central Park, who’d been working for the government of Iran, going through all the right channels to facilitate the return of this piece of sculpture. The Iranians had hired an even more prestigious law firm to continue that fight after Reza died. That had been done only for appearances. They’d already decided to steal the sculpture. Why? As a political statement? To prove they could infiltrate the museum?
“I’m not sure that’s going to happen.” This was the younger man Lucian had heard before, his words flung out with nervous bravado.
“What nonsense are you talking?” There was a pause. Then a laugh. “Put the gun down.” Another pause. “You understand that if you kill me our government will avenge my death with the execution of your entire family. Are you willing to risk your life and the lives of everyone you care about for that? I’ve already alerted them that I have been worried about your loyalty.”
“I don’t believe you,” the young man said, but the bravado was gone now and the words quivered with uncertainty.
“You don’t have to believe me. You just have to have doubt.”
Very slowly and carefully, Lucian pushed open the door and took in the scene. In the low light he could make out two men, both with drawn pistols. In the silence the first metallic click was a deafening warning. Two bullets flew, one less than a second after the other. Both hit their marks.
A pigeon squawked and flew wildly as Lucian raced over to his prey. The man had dropped his gun and was bleeding profusely from the wound in his hand.
The younger victim was leaning against the wall, his eyes open but not seeing, as a wide stain seeped through the fabric of an expensive sports coat that Samimi must have worn that day because he was going to a private showing at the museum.
SEVENTY-ONE
“I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears,-and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth,-thou livest forever!”
– George Gordon, Lord Byron
Lucian was at the office at seven the next morning. The first thing he did was tag the ancient orb he’d taken from the sculpture the night before, log it in and lock it up. It wasn’t evidence of a crime. Not one that had been committed in this century. Not yet, anyway. Whatever it was, whatever anyone thought it might be, Lucian wanted it safe and protected. He had little doubt Malachai Samuels would kill for it.
At his desk, Lucian sat down at his computer and checked through the reports that had come in during the night in preparation for the briefing Comley had scheduled for nine-thirty. Making notes, he added information to the list of events, excluding remarks and suppositions that defied logic. They went on a private list of mysteries the agency would never be able to help solve.
Was Veronica Keyes the reincarnation of Bibi, the woman Serge Fouquelle had killed in Persia over a hundred years ago because she was in the way of his looting of an ancient crypt? Who had Marie Grimshaw been? Iantha, the young sculptor’s wife who died because of his hubris? Was Deborah Mitchell one of the soul survivors from the past, too? Someone whose story he and Iris Bellmer hadn’t yet found? It didn’t matter now. Still, he wondered who he’d see if he looked into Andre Jacobs’s eyes. Emeline’s eyes. The ghost of Solange?
Had everything come full circle? Had he failed the first time he’d tried to protect each of these souls? Had last night been his second chance?
No. That was the thinking of a crazy man. He was logical, and rational reasoning dictated there was no before, only now. Solange’s soul was not alive in Emeline. She’d made that up just like she’d made up her stalker, to deceive Lucian and distract him and protect her father’s transgressions from being discovered, to keep Lucian so preoccupied he wouldn’t think to explore the obvious solution to the puzzle that had been plaguing him all these years.