“Wish they’d do that on the roads around D.C.,” Joe said. “It would speed up my commute dramatically.”
Kurt handed Kensington his card.
“NUMA,” the curator said, perusing the card. “I’ve worked alongside your people before. Always a pleasure. What can I help you with?”
“We’re here to ask about the pre-auction reception.”
Kensington put the card aside. “Yes,” he said. “It’s going to be very exciting. The gala will take place two nights from now. It will be done to the nines, with all the trimmings. I’d invite you, but I’m afraid it’s a closed group.”
“What happens at this party?”
“It allows the guests to peruse the lots in a virtual fashion,” Kensington said, “and size up one another, so they can know who they’re bidding against.” He grinned. “Nothing pumps up the prices like a little ego-driven competition.”
“I can imagine,” Kurt said.
“Let me tell you,” the curator added. “People will pay a pretty penny for the right to see something no one else has seen in hundreds or even thousands of years.”
“And an even prettier penny to take it home and keep it to themselves.”
“Yes,” Kensington said. “But there’s nothing illegal about that. And it’s all for the benefit of the museum. We’re a private organization, we have to fund our restoration activities through something more than ticket sales.”
“Do you have a list of items for sale?”
“I do,” Kensington said. “But I’m afraid I can’t share it. Rules and such.”
“Rules?” Kurt said.
“And such,” Kensington repeated.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Kurt said.
A bead of sweat appeared on Kensington’s forehead. “You know how it is, being explorers of the sea. As soon as something is recovered and revealed to the world, people begin to fight over who owns it. When gold is recovered from a Spanish galleon, who does it belong to? The salvage team says it’s theirs. The Spanish insist it was on their ship. The descendants of the Incas say it was our gold in the first place, we dug it from the ground. And that’s just gold, with artifacts it’s even worse. Did you know the Egyptians are now suing to get the Rosetta stone back from England? And the Lateran Obelisk from Rome? It originally stood outside the Temple of Amun in Karnak until Constantius the Second took it. He wanted it brought to Constantinople, but the obelisk only made it as far as Rome.”
“So you’re saying…”
Kensington was blunt. “We expect to be sued as soon as the items are revealed. We’d like to have at least one night to enjoy them without fighting the lawyers of the world.”
It was a good story, maybe even half true, Kurt thought, but Kensington was hiding something. “Mr. Kensington,” he began.
“William.”
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Kurt continued, “but you leave me no choice.”
He pulled out the photographs that Dr. Ambrosini had given him and slid one across the desk.
“What am I supposed to be looking at here?”
“That’s you,” Kurt said. “Not your best shot, I agree, but clearly it’s you. You’re even wearing the same tweed jacket.”
“So I am. So what?”
“The other men in this picture,” Kurt began, “let’s just say they’re not the kind of men you want to be seen in pictures with. And I’m doubting they’re the kind that will end up at your party either.”
Kensington stared at the photo.
“Do you recognize any of them?” Joe asked.
“This one,” Kensington said, pointing to the missing Dr. Hagen. “He’s a treasure hunter of some sort, minor collector. A doctor, if I recall correctly. The other two were colleagues of his. But I don’t see what this has to do—”
“He’s a doctor,” Kurt interrupted. “You’ve got that part right. He’s also a suspected terrorist, wanted in connection with the incident that occurred on Lampedusa yesterday. The others may be part of it as well.”
Kensington’s face went white. The networks had been running nonstop coverage of the story, calling it the worst industrial disaster since Bhopal. “I’ve heard nothing about terrorism,” he said. “I thought it was a chemical accident caused by that freighter that ran aground.”
“That’s what the world’s being told,” Kurt said. “But that’s not the case.”
Kensington gulped at nothing and cleared his throat. He drummed his fingers and then fidgeted with a pen on his desk as a crane rumbled to life outside.
“I… I really don’t know what you want me to say,” he stammered. “I don’t even remember the man’s name.”
“Hagen,” Joe said, ever helpful.
“Yes, right… Hagen.”
“You must be forgetful,” Kurt said. “According to the people who took this photo, you’ve met with Hagen three times. We’re hoping you at least remember what he wanted.”
Kensington sighed and looked around as if looking for help. “He wanted an invite to the party,” he said finally. “I told him I couldn’t oblige.”
“Why is that?”
“As I explained, it’s a very private affair. Reserved for only a few dozen extremely wealthy patrons and friends of the museum. Dr. Hagen could not afford a seat at the table.”
Kurt sat back. “Not even with two hundred thousand euros?”
That got Kensington’s attention, but the curator gathered himself quickly. “Not even with a million.”
Kurt had always assumed the money was to buy the artifacts, but maybe it had another purpose. “On the chance he offered you that money as a bribe, you should understand that these aren’t the kind of people who pay. They prefer to cover their tracks. They might show you the cash. Might give you a down payment or even let you hold it. But when you’ve given them what they want, they’ll make sure you never live to spend it.”
Kensington didn’t reply with indignation, he just sat silently as if he was considering Kurt’s words.
“But, then, you know that already,” Kurt added. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have been gazing out the window as if the Grim Reaper was stalking you.”
“I…”
“You’re waiting for them to come back,” Kurt said. “You’re afraid of them. And, trust me, you have good reason to be.”
“I gave them nothing,” Kensington said in his own defense. “I told them to go away. But you don’t understand, they…”
Kensington went silent and started fumbling with something on the desk before reaching down and opening a drawer.
“Slowly,” Kurt said.
“I’m not reaching for a gun,” Kensington said, pulling out a bottle of antacids that was almost empty.
“We can protect you,” Kurt said. “We can get you safely to the authorities who’ll keep you from harm, but you have to help us first.”
Kensington popped a few of the antacids into his mouth. It seemed to help him find his balance.
“There’s nothing to protect me from,” he said, chewing the tablets. “I mean, this is ludicrous. A couple of collectors badger me about some artifacts and suddenly I’m an arch-criminal? A mass murderer?”
“No one is accusing you of that,” Kurt said. “But these men were involved. And you’re involved with them, willingly or unwillingly. Either way, you’re in danger.”
Kensington massaged his temple as shouts from outside echoed through the building and a jackhammer went to work.
Kurt recognized the look of a man in great turmoil. He seemed to want to rub away the pain, the noise, the stress.
“I assure you,” Kensington said, “I know nothing about those men. They simply wanted, like you, to know about some items at the auction, items I am bound in a covenant of confidentiality not to speak about. But before you get any ideas, I can tell you this: the items in question are nothing out of the ordinary. There is nothing unusual about them at all.”