The Hypnotist (31 page)

In the confusion that ensued after Nicolas Olshling unlocked the doors and set off the alarm, Lucian had opened the wooden panel in Hypnos’s back and slipped inside the sculpture. He couldn’t know if any of the terrorist team had noticed his action. It was a risk. But that was his job.

As the piece was hoisted up, Lucian put his arms out to steady himself. Twilight streamed through the cracks in the wood, illuminating the coffinlike interior. He’d been inside the copy of Hypnos when he’d put in the GPS tracking device before his trip to L.A., but this was the original, two millennia more ancient and much more precious.

He struggled to stay upright as the sling swung in the air but the wind was strong and a sudden gust threw him off balance. At least the noise of the chopper drowned out the sounds he made when he fell. As long as they remained in the air, Lucian decided it would be smarter to stay down.

He was staring up into the head of the Greek god when he noticed how the wooden supports crisscrossed each other and formed a square in the center. At first, it seemed to just be the result of the way the supports had been constructed, but the
longer he peered at it the more curious its position became. There was something about it…something about this hidden area deep in what would have been Hypnos’s brain if he’d been a mortal man.

The strange configuration looked so familiar. He and Iris Bellmer had talked about…what was it? Then, he remembered.

Telamon had said Pythagoras’s priest had given him treasures to hide inside the piece he’d commissioned.

Slowly and carefully, Lucian stood up and reached behind Hypnos’s eyes. The enclosure was sealed. Working his fingers around its edges, Lucian found a small latch. But years of exposure to moisture had resulted in rot and ruin. Finally, after scraping and scratching his skin, he managed to pry it open and lift up the lid. Inside he felt something brittle and leathery.

The pouch was made of cracked and frayed animal hide. Inside was something small and round. Lucian put two fingers into the pouch and pulled out a single bead, slightly larger than a marble.

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.

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.

Who had been responsible for stealing the Matisse? Now he knew. Jacobs. The framer had hired someone to break into the gallery. He’d planned for everything, except for one contingency—that the teenage boy who had a date with his daughter would be late getting uptown.

Lucian checked his watch again. It was 8:07 a.m. He picked up his phone and dialed Eric Broderick’s direct line. The chief of police was always there early.

“Busy night you had. I was just reading about it in the paper,” Broderick said. “You all right?”

“Never better,” Lucian answered even though his voice belied his words. “Listen, I wanted to let you know you can save the taxpayers some money and call off Emeline Jacobs’s security detail.”

Broderick had some questions and for the next ten minutes
Lucian filled him in, offering as much information as was necessary but nothing extra.

At 8:20, Lucian called the Phoenix Foundation’s legal counsel. The lawyer wasn’t in. Lucian did some more paperwork and tried him twice more. He reached him at 8:59 and was on the phone with him for the next twenty minutes getting the information he needed. Next he checked in with Nina Keyes, who said her granddaughter was doing surprisingly well. “Almost as if the incident was healing.”

When Lucian walked into his boss’s office, Matt Richmond and Elgin Barindra were already seated at the scarred table. Everyone was subdued. Hypnos had been returned to the Met and the head of the Iranian mission to the UN, Farid Taghinia, had been arrested and booked on multiple charges for more than five heinous crimes, but a man had died, and that cast a pall over the meeting. Lucian had shot the gun out of Taghinia’s hand only seconds too late. Ali Samimi was dead before he made it to the hospital.

There was a lot to cover, and the meeting had been going on for over two hours when they finally moved away from the incident at the Met and over to Elgin’s report on what had happened at the Phoenix Foundation the day before.

“Dr. Talmage called me last night.” Elgin almost sounded disappointed. “She said she couldn’t keep me on.”

“She explained what was going on?” Comley asked.

“All she said was that Dr. Samuels was taking a medical leave of absence and it didn’t make sense to have me there without him. I tried to find out more, but she wasn’t very forthcoming.”

“That’s okay. Everything Beryl and Malachai said is on the tapes on our equipment at the apartment,” Lucian said. He had his sketchbook open, and he was drawing the little girl who had been held hostage the night before.

“When did you listen to the tapes?” Comley asked.

“I went over them before work this morning.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Elgin asked.

“No,” Richmond answered. “He never does.”

Lucian ignored the comment. “I was also able to reach the foundation’s lawyer, who confirmed that the co-director of the Phoenix Foundation is on a temporary medical leave of absence. He assured me that Dr. Talmage will cooperate if we need to talk to her about anything, including Vienna.”

“But we still don’t have any proof Malachai was involved in that, do we?” Comley asked Elgin. “You didn’t hear anything else about Vienna, did you?”

“Just what I already told you,” Elgin said. “Malachai said that the Memorist Society’s historian gave him the list of Memory Tools.”

“Knowing there was no way we could ever disprove that, since the historian is dead.” Lucian practically spat the words out as he slammed down his pencil. “I know Malachai is guilty.”

“And we’ll figure out a way to prove it,” Comley said in a calming voice.

“When?” Lucian challenged. “Here we are, still talking about him…and he’s still not behind bars. Not even arrested.”

“No, he’s not. But you saved the lives of I don’t know how many people last night, plus several pieces of priceless artwork. We confiscated enough explosives to destroy the American Wing and the Egyptian collection and to kill everyone in the vicinity. Shabaz will be going to prison. The Iranian government will have a lot to answer for. All that, Lucian. Can’t you give yourself a break?” Comley was looking at him, frowning, waiting for him to say something.

“Ali Samimi was dialing our phone number last night when Farid Taghinia walked in on him and surprised him. He
was
calling us. And in his wallet was a note with the address and phone number of a garage upstate and an explanation that the car is the one that killed Vartan Reza and that it was being driven by our friend Taghinia. I’ll bet it has all the prints and forensic evidence we need to get that murderer, too. Samimi shouldn’t have died.”

“No. No one ever should die,” Richmond said.

“You got that right,” Elgin said.

For a few seconds no one spoke. Comley and Richmond exchanged a brief glance. Lucian saw it. “What?”

“Matt and I were talking before you came in. There’s still some more paperwork but we should have our warrant by the end of the day. Tomorrow morning we’ll be ready to arrest Jacobs.”

“Let me take care of it for you,” Richmond said with a hint of trepidation, as if he expected an argument from Lucian. “You don’t have to deal with them anymore.”

“I think that’s a brilliant idea—be my guest,” Lucian said.

After the meeting ended, Lucian went back to his office. There was paperwork to deal with, but instead of sitting down at his desk, he attacked his wall, ripping down the photographs, articles and bits and pieces of research he’d tacked up. The case was officially over. There were still indictments and trials and plea bargaining ahead, but that was for the lawyers and judges and jury to take care of. His part was done.

He put the stack of photos on his desk. The one on top was of Hypnos, staring at him with eyes that could not see.

Nicolas Olshling and his team had arrived at the warehouse while the police were still working with the crime scene and stayed until two in the morning, when they finally released the sculpture. The head of security and his men carefully and lovingly wrapped Hypnos in thick padding to transport him back to the museum.

Before he left, Olshling walked over to where Lucian was standing and tried to thank him. “It was my job…”

Lucian recognized guilt and failure on his face. “You’ve protected the museum from every possible outside threat for years. Now you’ll figure out how to protect it from inside threats, too.”

Olshling shook his head, too embarrassed to meet Lucian’s gaze. “I should have known something was going on.”

“You can’t know everything.”

Despite what had happened last night, Lucian believed the museum should have the orb that he’d found exactly where Pythagoras believed the third eye was. The god of sleep had protected the mystical object for 2600 years—he obviously knew how to keep secrets. At some point he’d return it to them, but not quite yet.