The Gold of Thrace (8 page)

“Kitchen,” Enzio said.

Gilberto picked up one of the glasses. “Leave her alone. Have a Bloody Mary. Good for your soul.”

He strolled over to one of the small glass-topped curio tables on the other side of the room.

“You like jewelry?” he asked Tamar. “Something for yourself, for you to wear, perhaps? Something precious to grace your beauty, something worn long ago by another beautiful woman.”

Tamar bent over the table. “Nothing for me, thank you. Just for the museum. But if I did…” She pointed, not to the jewelry, but to one of two small, carved stone figures shaped like a violin, an abstract representation of a woman common in Neolithic sites in the eastern Mediterranean.

“Of course,” Dela Barcolo said. “A goddess. How fitting for you to choose her. You are a goddess yourself.”

Tamar took a step away from the table.

“Friends call me Gilberto. And your friends call you?”

“Tamar.”

“Tamar it is, then. May I call you Tamar?”

Enzio beamed at them and said, “I have to go now and leave you two to your own devices,” as Fabiana called from the dining room that lunch was ready. “I can find my way out.”

The large table was set for two with lace placemats, polished silver, Baccarat glasses, and a small pink rose next to each plate.
Cecile Brunner
, Tamar thought, remembering the tumble of climbing roses in her grandmother’s garden, where each rosebush had a name and a lineage.

The lunch began with ox-tail soup, spiced with a little Scotch, then came Coquille St. Jacques.

At the head of the table, Gilberto Dela Barcolo presided like a king dispensing favors. He exuded charm like syrup, from the tips of his graceful fingers, from his dark Italian eyes, from his charismatic smile.

Between courses, she thought she detected a movement of his right leg searching for a floor-button. Each time he moved his leg, Fabiana would appear a few seconds later to clear the empty plates and bring on the next dish, just as Tamar’s grandmother summoned the maid from the kitchen with her little glass bell.

For a moment, Tamar was a child again, caught in her grandmother’s stern admonitions. Keep your elbows off the table. Close your mouth when you chew. No singing at meals. Always a spectator, always kept at arm’s length, stinging with her grandmother’s resentment through the haunting loneliness, never to see her brothers again.

She found solace only in the past, traveled the world in search of herself, of the memory of her lost brothers, of her lost mother and father. Always a wanderer, always a stranger. Until with Alex she was safe at last, asleep in the hollow of his arm, comfortable enclosed in his affection.

“My family is from Venezia,” Gilberto was saying as Tamar looked down at the table.

The plate was Wedgwood, the dish was veal piccata, and it tasted like ashes.

He patted the bottle of wine and turned the label toward Tamar. “Our coat of arms.” He pointed to the small red shield near the bottom of the label depicting a diminutive sailboat floating on a lake with a castle in the background. “We have a small estate in the hills in the Piedmont where I spent the summers of my childhood.” He tapped the image of the boat on the label with his fork, his eyes dark and soulful, his smile slick and elegant. “Our name means ‘little boat’ in Italian. Viscount Dela Barcolo.” He shrugged. “Of course, we no longer use the title.”

They had just finished dessert when Gilberto stretched his leg again. It seemed to be his left leg this time, searching for another button on the floor. Two wall panels facing Tamar opened. Tamar’s mouth dropped in astonishment as she watched the silent panels move as if by a magician’s wand. Behind them, on mirrored shelves lit from above and behind, was a marvel of artfully arranged Classical Greek pottery—Geometric, Corinthian, black on red, red on black—each resting on a Plexiglas display stand.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Gilberto said, gesturing toward the open cabinets.

He rose from his chair and stood in front of one of the cupboards. “You will like this.” He waved her over. “Come. I’ll show you magnificent things.”

He took a
kylix
, a graceful, shallow cup on a pedestal base with horizontal handles, from its stand and held it carefully in his hands. The cup was smooth black, with palmettes and draped red figures painted around the outside of the rim.

“You want something like this, perhaps.” He turned it over. “You see here.” He pointed to the Greek lettering on the base. “It is signed. Epiktetus.” He turned it back to show her the inside of the
kylix
. “And here, in the tondo.” He pointed to the circle in the center. “A flute player and dancer.”

“Beautiful,” she said.

He looked at her and leaned closer. “Not half so beautiful as you.”

“Is that how you always begin?”

He shook his head and moved closer still. “You hold me with your eyes. Your eyes are magic.”

She backed away. “I’ve heard many a line, but none this smooth.” He was so charming, so good looking that she almost forgave him. “You’re a great salesman.”

“Indeed I am.” He bent over, his mouth close to her ear, and said in a throaty whisper, “And I’m going to sell you my soul.”

I’d rather you offered me a mosaic, she thought, but later, in the cab on the way back to the Euler, all she thought about was what Gilberto said and the way he had said it, not wanting to feel the slight pleasure it gave her.

***

That evening when Tamar stopped in the bar for a bottle of water before she went upstairs, she saw Enzio seated at a table in the far corner. He waved her over and she sat down.

“What do you think of Gilberto?”

“He has quite a line.”

“Be careful,” Enzio told her. “You’ll get caught in it and he’ll reel you in.”

Chapter Eleven

Sofia, Bulgaria, August 11, 1990

Chatham enclosed a note advising that there was more to follow with the packet of drawings that he mailed to the
Illustrated London News
.

Irena had gone to the post office with him. “You will go to London now?” she asked.

She stopped to buy a newspaper at the kiosk outside the post office as they made their way back to the small apartment on Ulitza Rakovsky. The street was misty, the sky overcast.

“I have more drawings to do,” he told her.

“You could take the gold with you.”

“The gold isn’t what bothers me,” Chatham said.

“What then?”

“I want to spend more time on the drawings,” he said. And linger close to Irena with restless dreams of reaching for her in the night on the lumpy bed in Ulitza Rakovsky. “Would you miss me?”

“Certainly.”

He thought of the triumph of marching into the British Museum bearing his find of the Thracian hoard.

“I’ll come back.”

“With the gold,” she said. “When the exhibition is finished.”

Chatham felt a chill of apprehension. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way she said it, moving away from him as she spoke.

“I’ll call for a plane reservation,” she said.

“Today?”

“When we get back to the apartment.”

It began to rain and they hurried through the wet streets, past
bortsi
standing on street corners who followed them with their eyes. Chatham reached for Irena to put his arm protectively across her shoulder, but she was steps ahead of him, running through the rain with the newspaper over her head.

***

“It will be safe?” Irena asked after Chatham made a plane reservation for five o’clock that afternoon.

“Not to worry. We will insure the gold,” Dimitar said.

“The museum will insure it,” Chatham told him.

“They will? They will pay the insurance, the whole cost?”

“Of course,” Chatham said.

Dimitar nodded his head in satisfaction. “That is good.” He clapped Chatham on the shoulder with a smile. “Go now. We pack the gold while you make the arrangements.”

Chatham walked back through the rain with a borrowed raincoat and umbrella to the travel agent across from the stationer’s, and passed more
bortsi
who skulked in doorways to keep out of the rain. He paid for the plane ticket with a credit card that Emma didn’t know about, and crossed the street to the stationers. He sent a Telex to the Keeper of Near East Antiquities at the British Museum, telling him that he was bringing a collection of Thracian gold on loan for a possible exhibit.

He knew the museum couldn’t arrange for insurance until the collection was authenticated and evaluated. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let go of it until he reached Heathrow, wouldn’t let it out of his sight until it was safely deposited in the museum. Now that he could take it with him, he would have time to do the research, have the pieces photographed and tested.

He showed Irena the ticket when he returned. She held it in her hand for a moment, then gave it back.

“You must hurry.” She flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel. “You will be safe?”

“Not to worry. The gold is insured,” Dimitar told her. He turned to Chatham. “It is, yes?”

“As of twenty minutes ago,” Chatham said without a blink. “By Lloyd’s, the best.”

Irena nodded. “Lloyd’s. I’ve heard of them.” She kissed his cheek and reached for the telephone. “You must go now. The sooner you go, the sooner you come back. The plane leaves soon. I’ll call for a cab.” She dialed a number and said something in Bulgarian. She seemed angered with whatever she heard, then gave a disgusted shrug and slammed down the receiver. “The phone doesn’t work.” She held her finger against her lips a moment, as if she were thinking.

“There’s always a line of taxis near the Cathedral of Alexander Nevsky,” Dimitar said. “The rain has stopped now. You could cut through the park to the Cathedral.”

He missed the look passed between Irena and Dimitar. “Why is he
Saint
Alexander Nevsky?” he asked.

Dimitar shrugged. “He was a great hero. He defeated the Swedes and the Germans and saved the Slavs from the west.”

“I always thought that saints were either anorexic women or schizophrenics who thought they talked to God,” Chatham said.

“Oh, Andrew, you are incorrigible,” Irena said. Then she laughed and kissed Chatham on the other cheek and he felt strong and invulnerable.

“You will be safe going through the park?”

“I can handle it,” he said.

“Dimitar can go with you,” she said.

“I have to wait here for a call from a client,” Dimitar said. “Then we can go.”

“He’ll miss the plane,” Irena said.

“I’ll miss the plane,” Chatham said

Irena straightened his tie and smoothed his lapel. “I will miss you,” she said, and moved him toward the door. “Go quickly. The sooner you go, the sooner you come back.”

He picked up the suitcase and felt the heft of it tug at his arm. He moved toward Irena and bent to kiss her goodbye, but she had already turned away. His cheek brushed the back of her shoulder and he kissed the empty air.

“You must hurry,” she said from the door of the kitchen. “The plane leaves in less than two hours.”

Chatham hastened along the path through the park, the weight of the suitcase dragging at his shoulder. He still felt the warmth of Irena’s earlier kiss on his cheek.

Wet leaves and buds lay on the damp earth. The park seemed to come alive, basking in the cool sparkle after a rain. Pigeons pecked at the ground at the edge of puddles left by the rain; twigs snapped in the bushes along the path where dogs prowled and foraged for food.

In front of Chatham, a bulky man, muscles bulging in his tight T-shirt, strolled aimlessly in the dappled light toward the cathedral.

A
bortsi
, Chatham thought, and slowed his pace.

His shoulder began to ache from the weight of the suitcase.

As Chatham slowed, the man in front of him seemed to hesitate.

Footsteps sounded from behind. Chatham turned to see another
bortsi
bearing down on him. Chatham hurried along the path. The suitcase banged against his leg and the sounds all around him seemed to be magnified—footsteps behind him quickening, moving in on him, bushes beside the path crackling with snarling dogs fighting for scraps.

The
bortsi
behind him seemed to speed up. I must be imagining it, Chatham thought. Irena wouldn’t do that.

The man in front stopped, hands on hips, arms bent at the elbow, and blocked the path. He turned to face Chatham, powerful legs spread, smiling, arms open as if in welcome, while from behind the footsteps accelerated, closer, closer.

Dimitar, that’s who it must be, Dimitar did this.

Just for a moment, heart thumping, Chatham hesitated, then took his chances with the feral dogs. He ducked into the bushes, swinging the suitcase in a wild arc at the man blocking the path as he went. The man went down with a soft whimper of surprise.

The dogs bayed at Chatham. One gripped his ankle. He felt a sharp pain and tried kicking at the dog. He swung the suitcase again, this time at the dog. It fell back with a yelp. Chatham careened out of the bushes, his heel landing on the
bortsi
in front of him, still splayed on the path. Chatham kicked him, heard the man groan. He swung the suitcase again, this time behind him. He felt the impact, heard a contact thump, then a grunt and a moan.

The man in front struggled to rise. Holding the suitcase out at arm’s length, Chatham flayed in wide arcs, banged against the temple of the man in front, swung at the
bortsi
behind. Without looking to see what happened, Chatham sprinted out of the park, gripping the suitcase to his chest, his breath coming in agonized puffs, listening for the sound of pursuit.

He reached the bank of taxis and started toward the first in the rank. No, Dimitar may have set that one up in case he got away from the
bortsi
in the park. Not the second one, too obvious.

The driver of the third taxi in the rank opened the door and Chatham jumped in and fell onto the back seat.

“Lock the doors,” he ordered.

The driver reached for the button on the panel next to him and all four doors locked with a satisfying snap. Outside, the drivers of the first two taxis shouted and shook their fists at Chatham.

“The airport. Hurry,” Chatham said.

The driver turned to look over his shoulder as he backed up and Chatham recognized his steely eyes and his scar.

“I know you,” Chatham said. “You’re the driver who brought me to Ulitza Rakovsky.”

The driver maneuvered the taxi out of the parking space and started away from the square. Chatham contemplated the back of the driver’s head.

“You owe me ten leva,” the driver said.

Black and gray hairs stood out on rolls and folds of fat below the cap on the back of the driver’s head.

“I’ll pay you. Just get me to the airport on time.”

The taxi snaked in and out of traffic, along broad boulevards lined with square apartment blocks.

Chatham’s leg began to throb. He looked down and noticed that his cuff was torn and his ankle was bleeding.

“You cheated me,” the driver said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll pay you,” Chatham told him.

The traffic was lighter now, and the taxi accelerated. The blocks of apartments were thinning out.

“This isn’t the way to the airport,” Chatham said.

His ankle was getting more painful.

“Take me to the airport.” He took ten leva from his pocket and tossed it on the seat in front of him. “Here’s your ten leva.”

The cab speeded up.

Chatham reached into his pocket again and threw ten more leva on the seat. “Here’s twenty.”

They passed villas with broken balconies and sagging roofs, speeding faster and faster as they went.

“Stop the car,” Chatham yelled at the back of the driver’s implacable head.

He tried to open the door and remembered that the panel next to the driver controlled the locks. Damn Dimitar.

“I’ll pay you double to get me to the airport.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw scattered villas fly by the window and realized they were nearing the outskirts of town.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

Soon they would approach open country.

“This isn’t the way to the airport,” he shouted to the back of the driver and the car continued to race relentlessly in the wrong direction.