FaceOff (16 page)

Madriani and Alex nodded.

“Much of this, including fires, buildings torched, took place within a stone’s throw of the Museum of Cairo. Have either of you ever been there?”

“I have,” said Alex.

“Then you are familiar with some of the artifacts on display. In
particular, I am talking about Howard Carter’s collection, the treasures from the tomb of Tutankhamen.”

“Yes,” said Alex.

“What does any of this have to do with Spinova’s murder?” asked Paul.

“Bear with me,” said Rashid. “On the night of January 29, 2011, under cover of the riots and fires raging outside the museum, thieves broke in and stole items from the Tut collection. What they couldn’t carry off, they vandalized. Included among the objects that were taken was a priceless gold figurine of the boy king standing on the back of a panther carved from black ebony. It was one of the premier items recovered by Carter from the tomb in 1922.”

“Of course,” Alex said. “It’s a spectacular piece.”

“There is no way to put a dollar value on the object other than to say that it is priceless. The thieves damaged the base of the statue, the ebony panther. They broke off the gold figurine and took it. We have reason to believe it is still missing.”

“Yes, but what does this have to do with Spinova?” said Paul.

“I’m getting to that. When Spinova went to the burned-out consulate building in Benghazi, she was intending to take pictures and perhaps write an article about what she saw there. She was hoping to be one of the first to visit the site with a camera and she assumed that she could benefit financially from the information. However, this all changed after she climbed through one of the open windows of the building because of something she found.”

“What was that?” Alex asked. She was all in now.

“A document,” Rashid said. “It was a classified memorandum from your CIA referencing items stolen from the museum in Cairo.”

“Did you know any of this, Paul?”

Madriani shook his head from side to side.

“Go on.” By now Alex Cooper was all ears.

Madriani had taken out a small notepad from his suit coat pocket and appropriated a corner of the desk to jot down notes.

“The document in question, we are told, reveals the names, the identities, of the thieves involved, including the mastermind behind it. Also, an inventory of what was taken, as well as what was damaged, which the museum has been loath to offer up and which we believe is considerable.”

“What exactly is your role in all of this?” asked Alex.

“We are part of UNESCO,” said Rashid. “The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Specifically my office is charged with enforcing the Convention for the Fight Against the Illicit Trafficking in Cultural Property. It is why we are so concerned about the contents of this memorandum, the one that Spinova found at the consulate and which her killer presumably was after. You see, there is a far more sinister element to all of this.” He paused and looked meaningfully at them.

“According to our sources, the items stolen, and in particular the gold figurine of the boy king, the figure of Tut code-named Surfing the Panther in the memorandum, were transported to Libya shortly after the theft.”

Madriani stopped writing when he heard about the gold statue and its code name.

“They were placed in the care of an artisan whose job it was to craft a number of identical replicas,” Rashid said. “The people at the Museum of Cairo would tell you that the damaged figurine was left behind by the looters. Of course, they had to say this. They even show pictures of it being restored. To say otherwise, given the political upheaval at the time, the change in government . . . well, heads would have rolled, quite literally, of those who were in charge of the museum.

“You see, the gold content of the figurine is minimal. It is its historic provenance that gives it vast monetary value. It is too recognizable to be sold to a legitimate museum, but private collectors would pay a fortune to obtain it for their own personal gratification. Because a buyer could not advertise its possession, the thieves would be free to make multiple copies and sell them to unwary but corrupt collectors at exorbitant prices, each one believing that they had the original item. Those buyers would never be able to disclose the fact that they paid tens of millions of dollars, perhaps more, for false replicas. They would be defrauded without recourse.”

“Makes good sense,” Madriani said.

“But here is the important part. It is the reason U.S. intelligence got involved in the first place. They uncovered the identity of one of the potential buyers who was bargaining for the original figurine. He was willing to pay a huge sum to acquire it.”

“Who is that?” said Alex.

“According to our information, the former supreme leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-il,” Rashid said. “The reason for the memorandum, and again we have not seen the document, but we have sources who tell us that Kim and the mastermind behind the theft had, as you say, struck a deal, an agreed-upon sum for delivery of the figurine. The price, if our information is correct, was half a billion dollars, U.S.”

Madriani whistled as he looked up. “We’re in the wrong business. Still, that’s a considerable inducement for murder. Kill Spinova to keep her from taking her story and the CIA memo to the media.”

“Precisely,” said Rashid.

“How do you know all of this?” Madriani needed evidence.

“It is my job,” said Rashid.

“Perhaps you can obtain a copy of the memorandum, the CIA memo, from the State Department?” said Alex.

Rashid shook his head. “They will not share information with us. Not on this. I suspect it is because of the national security implications surrounding the North Korean involvement. We are aware that the United States is engaged in highly sensitive negotiations with Kim’s son and successor Kim Jong-un, baby Kim, over nuclear weapons in North Korea. They are not going to jeopardize those negotiations over something like this.”

Madriani looked up from his notes. This was dynamite that could turn the tide in his defense of Mustaffa. The problem was there was no way to ignite it. He needed proof, solid evidence. Otherwise there was no way the trial judge would allow him to even mention it in front of the jury.

NINE THIRTY MONDAY MORNING AND
the intercom buzzed on Alex Cooper’s desk. The office outside her door at One Hogan Place in Manhattan, the headquarters for the New York District Attorney’s Office, hummed with activity.

The voice on the intercom was Cooper’s secretary. “Call for you on line one. A Mr. Rashid from UNESCO. Do you want me to take a message, tell him you’re busy?”

“No. I’ll talk.” Alex picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Ms. Cooper. I hope I did not catch you at a bad time.”

“Mr. Rashid. I have a meeting in twenty minutes but I can spare a moment.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me whether Mr. Madriani is still in town?”

“No, he left yesterday morning. Why do you ask?”

“Because I called his office in San Diego. They said he was
out of the area, unavailable for several days. That he could not be reached. I didn’t want to leave a message. What I have to tell him is highly confidential.”

“He was supposed to give his opening statement today.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Is there any way you can reach him?”

“I don’t know. Is it urgent?”

“If he wants to save his client it is vital.”

“What is it?” Alex Cooper already knew more than she should have.

It took Alex almost two hours to track Madriani down through his office in Coronado and from there to his cell phone in LA where she left a message. Just after three East Coast time, noon in LA, he called her back during a break in the trial.

“I hope it’s important,” said Madriani.

“Pressed for time, are you?”

“Just a couple of sharks from the DA’s office working their way up my leg from the ankle to the knee. Nothing to worry about.”

“Rashid has been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday,” said Alex. “He says the DA’s office is about to lower the boom on your client.”

“I thought they already had,” said Paul.

“A witness by the name of Terry Mirza. Do you know the name?” asked Alex.

“I do,” said Paul. “But how does Rashid know—?”

“Be quiet and listen. You don’t have much time. Rashid claims this guy Mirza saw your man dump Spinova’s body in an alley in West LA the night of the murder.”

Mirza’s name was on the state’s witness list but the information had not been released to the press or made public. Even Paul
did not yet know the precise details of Mirza’s testimony, only that he was a percipient witness to the body dump, only sketchy notes from police reports that the cops had left intentionally vague. They had closeted Mirza away since before the trial to keep him out of the clutches of Paul’s investigators, not that Mirza would have talked to any of them.

“Why are you telling me this, Alex?”

“Because I trust you. I trust your reputation. And there are two ways to go at this. I happen to believe that a DA’s job is to do justice.”

“What two ways do you have in mind?”

“Like I said, the DA out there is a good friend of mine. I’ll call him. Maybe he’ll listen to me. Take a hard look at what we give him about Cairo. Let him know he may be sitting on exculpatory evidence.”

“I hope your second idea makes more sense. He’s been stonewalling me on this.”

“Look, Paul. I can’t go rogue here, much as I might like to. But one of my best friends just left the office. Jenny Corcoran. She’s waiting for a background check for an appointment she just got at Justice in DC. She’s a pit bull in the courtroom. She might work with you on this.”

“And you’re telling me I can—?”

“Trust her? Completely. You have my word.”

“So what will you say to the DA?” Paul asked.

“According to Rashid, this guy Mirza is going to tell the jury that he saw your man pull a large plastic bundle from the backseat of his cab in an alley off Lankershim Boulevard the night Spinova was killed. Presumably the reason there was no blood in the backseat of your man’s cab is because she was killed somewhere else and dumped there.”

“That’s their theory,” said Paul. “Lemme get this straight, Mirza can positively identify Mustaffa as the man driving the cab and dumping the body?”

“Rock solid, according to Rashid,” said Alex.

“You’re sure? I need to know how confident he is, whether I can shake him on cross.”

Mirza had ID’d Mustaffa from a photo array. Paul already knew that. He was hoping beyond hope that he could get the witness to equivocate on the identification, just a slight crack in the wall. After all, presumably, he was a disinterested witness with no stake in the case. Was he absolutely, positively one thousand percent certain it was Mustaffa that he saw? No one was ever one thousand percent sure of anything. “It might have been him, I can’t be entirely sure.” This was all Paul needed. Something he could play with and stretch like a rubber band in front of the jury on closing, and hope that it snapped.

“According to Rashid, Mirza will positively identify your client at the scene, and he won’t be burdened by any doubts.”

Paul’s heart climbed into his throat. “Don’t tell me that Mirza has photographs of the body being dumped. And how does Rashid know all of this?”

“No, there are no photos,” said Alex. “Rashid says Mirza will be lying through his teeth.”

“What?”

“Listen carefully. Do you have a notepad? Here’re the details on what Rashid told me. We’re both going to have to move quickly.”

THE CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING ON
Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles had an ominous feel for Madriani ever since the start of the Mustaffa case. Even the courtroom was foreboding, Department
123 on the thirteenth floor. Had Madriani been superstitious, the only thing worse might have been the number of the Beast—666.

Bad news, too, that the DA had been off-put by Alex Cooper’s attempt to intervene in one of his biggest cases. But Alex had surprised Madriani by taking the week off from her own job and flying out to be at the trial, sitting discreetly in the rear of the courtroom—one spectator among many—after her friend Jenny Corcoran confirmed that her presence might help Madriani get at the truth.