The Illumination (11 page)

When Natalie fell silent, D'Amato inched his chair closer to the table. “My gut says there's a connection between Dana's contact with this pendant and her murder in Iraq, and with Rusty Sutherland's disappearance after he handed it off at the Devereaux.” He pushed the pendant from the center of the table to Tyrelle. “Not to mention that on the same day, presto, we have someone breaking into the Devereaux—and it turns out the only thing the thief hones in on is this.”

“An amulet designed to ward off the evil eye,” Tyrelle mused, lifting it by the chain. “You wouldn't believe how many of these eyes I saw in Turkey last year. They've got blue-eye beads hanging everywhere.” The FBI agent shook his head and
set the necklace carefully down on the table. “Even their national airline has huge eyes painted on the tails of their jets. It's wild.” He leaned forward.

“They're so leery of the evil eye that some villagers actually defaced ancient cave murals there—scratched the eyes right off the damn faces. They destroyed irreplaceable ancient art just to stop those eyes from staring out at them from the cave walls and maybe putting a hex on them.”

“In Cappadocia.” Natalie nodded. “I've been there. But the evil eye isn't a big deal only in Turkey, Agent Tyrelle. It's a powerful superstition in a substantial portion of the world. The belief that the evil eye has the power to inflict harm, and the use of amulets like this pendant and those beads you saw to ward it off, dates back even to biblical times.

“It's the reason people began painting their eyes back in ancient Egypt. It wasn't because Cleopatra thought it was glamorous. The Egyptians believed the curse from the evil eye entered the body through either the eyes or the mouth, so both men and women outlined their eyes with kohl for protection as a way of mirroring back the image of the eye. It's why Egyptian women tinted their lips—to prevent evil from entering through their mouths. Fear of the evil eye permeates the entire Middle East and the Mediterranean, and on into Africa and Western Europe.”

“I've got news for you,” Tyrelle said. “It reaches into South Carolina, too. I've seen plenty of pale turquoise window shutters down there outside of Charleston, where my grandmother and aunties live. They all paint their shutters blue, convinced that that color has the power to ward off evil spirits. I suppose that's the same sort of thing.”

“Well, blue's the key color when it comes to the evil eye,” Natalie said. “In the Arabic world people with blue eyes are often suspected of possessing the evil eye, probably one reason amulets to deflect the eye are predominantly blue as well. Sort of like fighting fire with fire.”

D'Amato lifted his coffee cup. “Well, we Italians use red to protect us. You should see how many red-ribboned horseshoes my grandmother has hanging in her house in Long Island.”

“Jews use red for protection, too,” Natalie said. “There's a long tradition of tying red ribbons on their babies' cribs to protect the infants from the evil eye.”

“Like the red kabbalah strings people wear on their wrists,” Tyrelle commented.

There was a pause as the FBI agent drained the last of his tea. “We're getting offtrack here. Let's go back to this pendant. Just how valuable do you think it might be, Dr. Landau?”

“I don't have enough data yet to give you a figure, Agent Tyrelle. All I know is, it's not the trinket my sister thought it was.”

“I think it's valuable enough that someone killed Dana because of it,” D'Amato interjected, “and then tailed Sutherland all the way from Iraq to get their hands on it.”

Tyrelle shook his head. “Slow down, D'Amato. You're making some pretty big leaps here.” He leaned back in his chair. “First of all, we don't know that Sutherland has met with foul play. Maybe he's just gone AWOL. Maybe his disappearance has nothing to do with Dr. Landau's sister. On the other hand, maybe it does—but not because they both came in contact with this pendant. Could be the two of them made some enemies in the course of their work, or uncovered some dirt on somebody who didn't want it exposed—”

“Then explain why the thief in the Devereaux museum was interested in only one thing,” D'Amato countered. “Getting this away from Natalie.”

Tyrelle threw down his pen. “You've got speculation, D'Amato, that's all you've got. Not one shred of evidence. So I'm not clear what you're looking for from me.”

“Just be a sounding board, Luther. Off-the-record.”

“Go on.”

Natalie and D'Amato exchanged glances. “Natalie has some legal concerns about this pendant,” D'Amato told him.

“How so?” Tyrelle's brows drew together in a frown as Natalie hunched forward.

“I'm worried that it might be an antiquity that shouldn't have left Iraq. That's only a guess,” she added quickly. “I have no idea how this necklace came into my sister's hands. Since
her death, I haven't had a chance to check it against my museum's database of missing antiquities, but if it does show up there, I'd appreciate your assistance in giving it back.”

The FBI agent exhaled and folded his arms. “So you're unofficially telling me this might be stolen property.”

D'Amato shrugged. “More or less.”

Frowning, Tyrelle answered him in a voice that was as smooth as honey-laced hot whiskey. “Then I've unofficially heard you.” He turned to Natalie. “But the instant this turns up on either your database or ours, Dr. Landau, we're on the record.”

Natalie breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Agent Tyrelle.”

D'Amato tapped on Tyrelle's small notebook. “Getting back to my theory, Luther—what if I'm right?”

“Like I said, no evidence, D'Amato. But for argument's sake, say the pendant is the common link. Then I'd say whoever's after it has some pretty powerful resources and won't give up until they get it.”

Tyrelle squinted at the dark gold pendant, then looked at Natalie sitting silently, twisting her small paper napkin between her fingers.

“One thing I can do—order the manifests for the flights out of Baghdad on the day Sutherland left, then check the passenger list. See if someone on it sets off any alarm bells. And until we can rule out whether this pendant is a missing antiquity, I'll keep it secured at headquarters.”

He was already extending a hand toward the pouch and necklace, but Natalie shook her head and scooped them up.

“I'd rather you didn't. It's my final gift from my sister. Until we know whether or not it's stolen, I want to hang onto it.”

“You can take all the pictures you want, Luther,” D'Amato interjected, as the FBI agent frowned.

“Your cell phone takes pictures, doesn't it?” D'Amato pressed dryly.

Tyrelle shot him a dark look. “Government issue. Of course it does. But on the chance your theory is right, D'Amato, I seriously recommend that Dr. Landau, for her own safety, turn this over to the bureau just until . . .”

“No.” Natalie had to make him understand. She pushed back her chair and stood up, clutching the golden pendant even more tightly between her fingers. “Not yet. Not until we know something definitive. This is what I do, Agent Tyrelle,” she said quietly. “I have colleagues who can test and appraise the amulet, and I'd like to be in on the process. Please, until you can verify that this belongs to someone else, I'd like to keep it.”

“I have to tell you, I'm not sure you're making the right decision,” the FBI agent countered.

“It's her call, Luther.” D'Amato came to his feet and shrugged into his windbreaker. “So, you planning to get a few shots of this thing before we take off, or are you going to commit it to memory?”

Tyrelle snorted, and snapped six close-ups of the pendant from as many angles, plus three of the pouch and its inscription, then e-mailed them from his cell back to his computer at 26 Federal Plaza.

“Sit tight until noon,” he advised Natalie as she slipped on her black leather jacket. “I should have the manifest by then. I'll get back to you.”

Tyrelle left the coffeehouse first, his strides long and purposeful. He seemed oblivious of the light rain that had begun to spatter the pavement. Natalie paused at the door, and her eyes met D'Amato's troubled ones.

“I'm not sure what to wish for here. Aside from wishing my life had a ‘restore' command, like the one on my computer. I'd love to wipe out everything that's gone wrong in the past two days, and go forward with Dana still alive. I feel like I'm living in a nightmare.”

“Yeah, know that feeling.” He pushed open the door, his expression shuttered.

They'd snagged a parking space near an art gallery down the street. As they retraced their steps through the rain-misted night, Natalie noticed D'Amato's gaze sweeping the street. He glanced from the all-night drugstore to the parked cars gleaming beneath the streetlights, skimming the low-lit doorways, then lingering on a woman walking toward them holding an oversized umbrella. He looked tense. Shivering in the damp air,
Natalie wondered just where D'Amato's nightmares came from. Maybe the pain he suffered, the urge to pop a pill to escape it.

Despite his friendship with Dana, Natalie knew very little about him. But Jim D'Amato struck her as a man more given to questions than answers, and for all those he'd asked her, dozens of questions—about her work, about Dana, about the pendant—he'd shared next to nothing about himself.
Which is fine,
Natalie thought,
because my brain is on overload as it is.

She needed to sleep. They'd done all they could for tonight. Tomorrow might bring answers.

But it won't bring Dana back,
she thought with a stab of pain, as she slid into the passenger seat of D'Amato's Accord.

 

 

 

Barnabas searched her bedroom first.

He worked his way methodically through the oblong room, starting with the frosted-glass jewelry box on her dresser, then sweeping the pale beam of his flashlight into the narrow painted drawers of her antiqued wooden nightstand. But all he found there was a Star of David necklace and a half dozen other pieces of good jewelry, a miniflashlight, a leather-bound address book, and an opened roll of quarters tucked beneath a package of gummy bears. Grimacing, he flattened himself on the wood floor and flicked his flashlight on again to peer under her bed.
Zip. Not even dust bunnies.

The sudden peal of a door buzzer startled him so thoroughly that he jerked up, banging his forehead on the bed frame. He froze, clicking off the flashlight, his heart pounding.

It's only someone ringing her doorbell. Wait it out. They'll go away.

Barnabas wondered who was out there, then told himself it didn't matter. Only the Light mattered. And it had to be either here or with her.

So he waited, motionless, on the floor, in the dark. The buzzer rang a second time, then fell silent. He strained to listen, expecting the sounds of an elevator, but none came.

Once he was certain five minutes had passed, Barnabas resumed
his search, heading now for the tall dresser—avoiding the windows and using his flashlight sparingly, so that no one looking in could detect so much as a shadow flitting through the rooms.

Then he turned his attention to the bedroom closet, the tiny medicine cabinet in the bathroom, the toilet tank. He searched her desk and beneath the sofa cushions, guided only by the pale light of the candle she'd left flickering in the tall red glass, then he checked the kitchen cupboards, and even the freezer and crisper drawers in her refrigerator.

Frustration grated through him.
She must have taken it with her.
He'd wait. She'd come back eventually.

The end of a matter is better than its beginning; likewise, patience is better than pride.

The verse from Ecclesiastes ran through his mind like a mantra, calming him as he made his way through the dark apartment and sat himself down on the sofa to wait.

 

Across the street, in a late-model green Ford, two government agents assigned to the National Security Unit were hunkered down, also waiting in the dark for Natalie Landau to return.

She hadn't answered the buzzer, but they knew what she looked like and what they needed to get from her.

 

 

 

“That was a good move, calling the FBI,” Natalie acknowledged, as D'Amato pulled away from the curb. “I almost feel like we accomplished something.”

“It helps to have friends in high places.” His gaze was locked on the rearview mirror.

“Speaking of which, I've decided to drive up to Albany tomorrow and see what the Ion Beam lab there can tell me about this pendant.”

“Want some company?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but the truth is, I could use some time alone. There'll be enough company tomorrow night during shivah. I just need to roll down the window, keep the radio turned off, and let the breeze clear my head so I can think.”

He didn't answer. He was still fixated on the rearview mirror, but his face had tightened and there were grim lines now around his mouth.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm pretty sure we're being followed.”

She twisted in her seat, trying to see behind them, but D'Amato's voice stopped her in midturn.

“Don't do that. We don't want them to know we're onto them—yet. Get Tyrelle on the phone.”

She punched the numbers he gave her, her heart racing. As she tried to hand her cell to him, he shook his head.

“You talk. I'll lose them.”

Natalie held her breath, waiting for Tyrelle to pick up. After two rings a voice said hello. But it didn't sound like honey-laced whiskey. It sounded like sandpaper. Sandpaper with a Middle Eastern accent, she thought, quickly checking the display to see if she'd called the right number. “Special Agent Tyrelle?” she asked uneasily.