"Then why would we hurt Farouk?"
"A lot of government people thought, at the time, that Nasser would be ousted and the Egyptian monarchy would be restored. The Brits wanted their old outpost again in Cairo."
"So why not put a king back on the throne, and control him?" I asked.
"You got it. But Farouk hadn't worked the first time around. Now he was older, still very undisciplined, and totally unacceptable to the Western leaders. His son, however, was the perfect candidate."
Of course, I remembered. After Farouk had lost interest in Queenie, he had sired a son with his young second wife.
"The boy was only a teenager, so he would need guidance from the British and American delegations, they figured. And he'd be very appealing to the Egyptian masses as a return of the last ruling dynasty. The U.S. could prop him up on the throne and we'd all be back in business."
"So Farouk's death could have been a first step in our Allied plan to regain control of the territory, rather than a gift to Nasser from his own followers?"
"It works either way," Lori said.
"So now, Farouk is killed, in Rome," Mercer said. "And what became of all the treasures he had taken there?"
Lori Alvino didn't answer.
"C'mon, Lori, too late to stop talking to us now," Mike said. "The CIA?"
"Or the British Secret Service. Or even the Italian Secret Service. There were enough slices of Farouk's pie for everyone to get a handful."
"I'm thinking," Mike said, "about how that Double Eagle got to Egypt in the first place."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"In a diplomatic pouch. What could be a more foolproof way to move something valuable around the continent, or between continents? Who would know what's inside the little bag? What if the Double Eagle also left Italy in a government pouch?"
"I hate to remind you two," Mercer said. "But the coin that Mr. Stark sold in 2002 was the only one left like it in the entire world."
"That's the one I'm talking about, too," Mike said. "The one Farouk had since 1944-the one in Stark's auction in 2002. What are our choices? The king left it in Egypt when he was deposed, then someone found it and sold it to the British dealer. Lori here says that's not likely."
He looked to her for a sign of agreement and he got it.
"An American CIA agent sat on the nest in Cairo, after the fat man fled," Mike went on. "Someone who knew where to locate the coin, someone who had access to the palace. Other people forgot about the little piece of gold over time, because of all the turmoil in the region, and eventually our guy brought it out on the black market."
Lori picked up on the possibilities. "Maybe the Italian authorities who cleaned out his apartment in Rome found the coin. Maybe even the British agents, who continued to keep a close watch on him all his life. Lots of people have theories about the whereabouts of the precious little object for the fifty years it was missing, but the fact is that no one knows for sure."
I glanced at my watch, as the sky darkened over the East River. "I'm sorry to break this up. It's been most useful for us. I'm afraid I'm taking a couple of days off, and I've got a flight to catch out of La Guardia. "
"Let me know what you need, Alex," Lori said. "Nobody's going to open those CIA files of Farouk's anytime soon. There was too much backstabbing and betrayal in play. None of the officials looks good, in hindsight."
We thanked her for the time and information, and I called a car service to meet me outside the building and drive me to the airport.
The three of us were talking over each other as we stepped into the elevator. Fortunately for us, no one else was aboard.
"McQueen Ransome, Paige Vallis, Andrew Tripping," I said, listing off some of the cast of characters. "They're all tied up with Farouk or the Middle East."
"You got Paige's father, Robelon's father, some nutcase calling himself Harry Strait," Mike added. " Bam.More Farouk."
I went on. "Graham Hoyt fancies himself a collector, on a smaller scale than Farouk, but with obvious delusions of grandeur. Spike Logan gained the confidence of Queenie-enough to wind up with a few expensive gifts that he knew came from Farouk, and a penchant to go hunting for more after she died."
"Nobody," I said softly, "nobody can really tell us how many Double Eagles were stolen. Ten? That's only the best guess. That's only the ones that were identified and recovered."
"You're dreaming big, blondie. And you're missing the point. Even so, even if you found a dozen of them on the floor of Queenie's closet, they were never monetized. Worthless. They're not legal. You heard Bernard Stark. You can't even get twenty bucks for them. Only the one that was auctioned in 2002 was monetized for Farouk."
"But the killer might not know that," I said.
"Yeah, but-"
"Just suppose, Mike. If I heard that a Double Eagle sold for seven million dollars, and I knew where to find another piece that was identical to it, it would never occur to me that it wasn't a legitimate coin. Maybe I'd still move heaven and earth to get my greedy little hands on one."
The car service driver was outside the building, flashers blinking, with the company name and car number displayed on a plate in the windshield.
"Why'd you call for this? I would have driven you to the airport," Mike said.
"I took you away from Val long enough last night. You don't need to chauffeur me around. Call me if anything breaks, guys, okay? I'll be home by the weekend."
I got in the car, slammed the door, and sat back for the slow trip over the bridge and out the BQE to La Guardia.
"U.S. Airways terminal, please."
"What time's your flight, lady?"
"Six-fifteen."
"You live dangerously. Cutting it mighty close. I'll do my best."
When I reached the check-in counter it was almost six o'clock. I showed my photo ID and e-ticket. "We've had some weather delays, ma'am. Your aircraft is coming in from Pittsburgh a bit late. We won't be boarding for another hour."
"How does it look on the Vineyard end?"
The small airfield on the Vineyard gets socked in regularly, subject to all the weather variables of an island surrounded by both cold ocean waters and warmer bays. You couldn't be a Vineyarder if you were unable to cope with the likelihood of getting stranded at an airport because of summer fog or winter storms.
"They've got a minimum ceiling now," she said. "If the visibility holds, you'll get in fine. Stick around the boarding area. They'll try to turn the plane around pretty quickly."
I went through security and down the concourse to the departure gate. There were only three other passengers waiting for the nineteen-seat Beechcraft. I looked for a quiet place from which to make a call and settled into a corner with my cell phone.
I checked my office for messages, and my home machine as well. Jake had called both places, trying to find out whether I was holding to my plan of flying to the country. Assistants had phoned in updates of the cases on which they were working, and friends had left snippets of social gossip to lighten my spirits. The last voice mail, only fifteen minutes earlier, was from Will Nedim. He had finished his first interview with Tiffany Gatts.
"Will? It's Alex. I'm calling from the airport, on my cell. Can you hear me?"
"So far, so good."
"Everything go as planned with Tiffany? You run into any problems?"
"She's a piece of work, Alex. But I guess you knew that."
"Happy to leave her in your lap. I've got all the aggravation I need right now. Did you get anything from her?"
"I think she's ready to roll over and give up the boyfriend, Kevin Bessemer."
"That's a huge step. How'd you get her there?" I asked.
"Don't give me any of the credit. She hates being in the slammer. She's only sixteen, remember? It doesn't exactly seem fair to her that it was Kevin's idea to go break into Queenie's apartment, and now he's running around free, while she's locked up behind bars."
"Does she know where Kevin is?"