‘So what happened?’
‘See for yourself.’ Morris went through the door at the office’s rear. Following him, Chase found himself in a small white-tiled morgue, stainless steel fixtures gleaming dully under the bright overhead lights.
On a table lay a body, covered by a sheet.
‘She tried to grab the sidearm from one of the Marine guards,’ said Morris, standing beside the head of the supine figure. ‘He was forced to fire to protect himself and others. The bullet hit her in the face at point-blank range.’ He took hold of one end of the sheet. ‘I should warn you that the damage was considerable.’
‘I’ve seen headshots before,’ Chase told him. But even he was caught off guard as Morris gently pulled back the sheet from her face - not so much at the carnage that was revealed, but by the knowledge that it had been inflicted upon someone he had once been very close to. Had loved.
Jaw tightening, he stepped closer. The entry wound was an inch below the outer corner of her right eye, the skin around the blood-encrusted hole discoloured and burned by muzzle flame at extremely close range. The right eye was missing, the eyelids sunken deep into the socket. The eyeball had probably been torn apart by splinters from the shattered cheekbone.
As for the other side of her face . . . most of it was gone.
He had seen similarly horrific wounds before. The bullet would have flattened and tumbled after the initial impact, breaking apart as it tore through the cheekbone and exploding outwards from the other side of her skull. Half the upper jaw was gone, the remains of the top lip hanging limply into a gaping dark space beneath. The left eye socket was nothing but a shredded mess.
He also knew from the bullet’s path, through her face rather than into her brain, that she had probably remained alive for several minutes afterwards.
‘Cover her,’ he said, voice flat. Morris lowered the sheet over the dark-haired figure. Chase regarded the slim shape for a long moment, then turned to the officer. ‘Why’d you bring me all the way here to see that? In fact, why’d you bring me here at all? We got divorced five years ago - I’m not her next of kin.’
‘Actually, you are.’ On Chase’s confused look, Morris led him back into the office. ‘Since she had no immediate family, she listed you as her sole beneficiary.’
‘Wait, she named me in her will?’ Chase said in disbelief. ‘Why the hell would she do that?’
‘I have no idea. All I know is that she did, which is why you were brought here - to take possession of her belongings and the relevant paperwork.’ He handed Chase a folder.
He opened it. The first item was indeed a will - he recognised Sophia’s signature immediately. And it did name him as both executor and sole beneficiary. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, puzzled, leafing through the rest of the documents, ‘does this mean I’m suddenly a billionaire? ’Cause Sophia was married to two really rich blokes, and after they died - I mean, after she killed them - she inherited all their money . . .’
Morris revealed a small hint of emotion, a faint smile. ‘Unfortunately not. As a terror suspect, all her financial assets were frozen when she was charged. Whether they’re ever freed or not is up to the Supreme Court. But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
‘Yeah, I thought so.’ The majority of the other papers detailed the various frozen bank accounts around the globe. ‘Liechtenstein, the Caymans, Hong Kong . . . it’s like an offshore banking world tour.’ He spotted a Zürich bank address on one sheet with the number of a deposit box. ‘Didn’t know the Swiss gave out people’s bank details, though. Thought secrecy was their big selling point.’
‘They do when terrorists are involved. Like your ex-wife.’
Chase closed the folder. ‘You know, you could have told me what this was about in Dubai, instead of the whole bloody cloak and dagger business.’
‘Not my decision,’ Morris said. ‘But they wanted you to see the body and collect her belongings personally. As well as this.’ He gave another document to Chase.
‘What’s that?’
‘Death certificate. You’ll need it to make any claims concerning frozen assets.’
Chase looked at the certificate, then placed it in the folder. ‘Somehow, I don’t think it’d be worth the effort.’ He glanced back at the morgue. ‘What’re you going to do with . . .’ he almost said ‘the body’, but instead finished, ‘her?’
‘That’s up to you.’
‘Cremate her,’ Chase decided.
Morris nodded. ‘And the remains?’
‘I’m not taking them with me. What would I do, stick the urn on a shelf as a conversation piece? Just . . .’ He shook his head, already ashamed of the tasteless remark. ‘Just scatter them in the sea.’
‘And a service?’
‘She wasn’t religious. Just say that . . .’ He hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘That whatever it was that went wrong, that made her do all those things, it’s over now. And that I’ll remember her as the person she was when we first met, not the one she turned into.’
‘I’ll make sure of it,’ said Morris quietly.
‘Okay, so what now?’ Chase asked after signing a release form. ‘How do I get back to New York?’
‘I assume the plane that brought you here will fly you on.’
‘It’d bloody well better,’ he growled. ‘I’m not paying for another flight . . .’
11
New York City
Nina took a deep breath as she paused at the door. As Rothschild had promised - or threatened - one of the first items on her agenda as the newly appointed Director of the IHA was to hold a formal inquiry into the events in Indonesia. But it had already expanded to cover what had happened the previous evening in the United Nations’ own headquarters. And Nina suspected that no matter what she said, Rothschild would find a way to make it reflect badly upon her.
At least she had heard from Chase, however briefly. But she hadn’t understood what had happened to him - all he’d said was that he was flying back to New York from Cuba. Cuba? But the important thing was that he was coming home.
Not in time to attend the inquiry, though. Another black mark against her in Rothschild’s book.
Steeling herself, adjusting her jacket, she entered the room.
The members of the inquiry were already present: three senior UN officials, a representative from the US State Department, and Rothschild. Once the proceedings got under way, it didn’t take long before Nina started to feel that she was on trial . . . with Rothschild as both prosecutor and judge.
‘So you say you have absolutely no idea of the identity of the man who attacked you last night?’ the elderly professor asked, eyes narrowing.
Nina held in her exasperation. She had already given a statement to the FBI, which in cases of serious crimes was granted jurisdiction within United Nations territory, and she knew full well that Rothschild had a copy. ‘As I’m sure you read in my statement,’ she answered, ‘no, I did not know his identity. Just as I did not know the identity of the pirates who attacked the Pianosa, or who hired them. I only know why they attacked, which was to steal the artefact the expedition discovered.’
‘But why would they do that?’ one of the UN officials asked. ‘What was so special about it?’
‘I don’t know. All I know is that it had writing on it in an unknown language. Unknown to me, I mean. Somebody obviously recognised it.’
The State Department representative flicked through his papers. ‘Dr Wilde, how could these, ah, conspirators have seen the artefact? You say that only a few of the expedition members saw it after it was brought to the ship.’
‘I uploaded digital photos of the artefact to the IHA via satellite link. By the time I got back to New York, all the data on the server had been erased by a virus - including the photos. I don’t believe for one moment that the timing was a coincidence. Someone knew the images were there, and planted the virus to destroy them - and used top-level access codes to do so.’
Rothschild’s
already thin lips tightened still further. ‘Are you accusing someone within the IHA of planting the virus?’
‘No, because there isn’t anybody specific I can accuse. But the only way anybody outside the Pianosa could have known about the artefact is if they saw the photos I uploaded to the server. Once they realised what we’d found, they arranged for the pirates to steal the artefact itself, and at the same time wiped the IHA’s servers with the virus. If Eddie and I hadn’t survived, nobody at the IHA would even have known the artefact existed, because all evidence of its discovery would have been destroyed. But once they found out I had another copy of the photos, the conspirators,’ she said with a slightly mocking nod towards the man from the State Department, ‘sent a man to kill me and erase the copies. The same guy who ended up as a new flag in United Nations Plaza.’
‘These copies,’ the other UN official said, ‘where did you get them? I thought the pirates destroyed all your records of the expedition.’
‘Eddie - Mr Chase - recovered a camera’s memory card from the pirates. I brought it back to the UN so I could continue analysing the artefact.’
Rothschild leaned forward with the coldly pleased air of someone who had just successfully lured an animal into a trap. ‘And as a result, a man was killed right here in the Secretariat Building and a United Nations employee was severely injured.’
‘And I was attacked in my own office!’ Nina angrily reminded her, pointing at the cuts and grazes on her face. ‘Let’s not forget that part, huh? Has there been any news on Lola’s condition, by the way?’
‘Ms Gianetti is in a critical but stable condition,’ said Rothschild.
Nina sighed in relief. ‘Oh, thank God. I really thought she was going to die.’
‘That does seem to happen to people around you rather a lot, doesn’t it?’ Rothschild’s tone grew harder. ‘I’ve been reviewing your official reports on your IHA operations. The Pianosa expedition, Bill Raynes’s excavation team at Atlantis, Dr Lamb in England, two of the IHA’s own non-executive directors, Jack Mitchell, Hector Amoros himself . . . all dead. To say nothing of the shocking number of people who seem to have died as,’ her mouth twisted in distaste, ‘collateral damage.’
‘Jack Mitchell was a criminal and a traitor.’
‘And that entitles you to appoint yourself judge, jury and executioner?’
‘He was trying to kill us! Just like the guy last night. If I hadn’t stopped him, Lola would be dead by now, and so would I.’ She gave Rothschild a nasty look. ‘Which would make things a lot easier for you, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Ms Wilde,’ said Rothschild.
‘I don’t really care, Mrs Rothschild,’ Nina replied, throwing the subtle insult back at her. ‘If I’d died, your job here would be much simpler, because you wouldn’t have to ask the obvious question about what happened last night.’
‘Which is?’ said the first UN official.
‘Which is, how did the man who attacked me know I had the photos? Only Eddie and I knew about the memory card. And I didn’t put the pictures on the server - I copied them straight to my laptop, so again there was no way for anyone to know about them. Only one other person in the entire world knew they existed . . . Gabriel Ribbsley.’
Rothschild sat ramrod-straight. ‘Dr Wilde,’ she said, voice clipped, ‘are you accusing Professor Gabriel Ribbsley of being involved in this conspiracy?’
‘I guess I am,’ Nina shot back. ‘Personal friend of yours, is he?’
‘As a matter of fact, he is. But that’s hardly relevant.’ She banged a hand on the desk. ‘You cannot sit here and accuse one of the world’s leading academics of being an accessory to attempted murder! The idea . . . it’s absolutely outrageous!’
‘Well, why don’t we give him a call, see if he’s got a good explanation for why a man tried to kill me just hours after I spoke to him?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Her hand banged down again. ‘Dr Wilde, this inquiry is not a criminal investigation - if you have any wild accusations to make, you should make them to the FBI.’
‘Oh, I already have, don’t worry,’ said Nina coldly.
‘But this inquiry is here to investigate the catastrophe of the Indonesian expedition, and, in my view, your entire career at the IHA. Regardless of the eventual outcomes, your previous operations establish a clear pattern of behaviour - one of reckless irresponsibility, a callous disregard for the lives of others and an utterly cavalier attitude towards the exploration of priceless historical sites.’
Nina was outraged. ‘What? Now wait a minute—’
‘No, you wait, Dr Wilde,’ Rothschild said, raising her voice as she held up a sheaf of papers. ‘These are your own accounts of your previous expeditions, and they make for alarming reading. You claim to be a scientist, but there’s precious little scientific investigation - just brute force and destruction. It’s archaeology by bulldozer - no, worse than that, archaeology by explosive. For everything you’ve discovered, much more has been lost for ever because of the violence you seem to attract.’
‘Well,’ Nina said through her teeth, ‘maybe the next time some asshole shoots at me, I should let him hit me so the bullets don’t chip anything!’
‘Which is exactly my point. There shouldn’t be people shooting at you. You are not an archaeologist, Dr Wilde. You are a glory hunter, a grave robber, using - no, abusing - your position at the IHA to embark on your own personal quests, without caring about the consequences. Wherever you go, chaos follows . . . and people die. Well, no more. This is something the IHA is no longer willing to tolerate.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning that, until a determination of your degree of culpability in the deaths of the expedition members can be made, as the Director of the International Heritage Agency I am suspending you from your post, without pay, effective immediately. The same goes for Mr Chase.’
Nina gaped silently at her for a moment before rage finally pushed the words from her mouth. ‘This is bullshit!’ she cried. ‘You don’t have that authority! Not without a review by the UN . . .’ She realised that both the UN officials now looked uncomfortable. ‘Son of a bitch,’ she muttered under her breath, before raising her voice again. ‘You’d already decided how this was going to end before I even walked in the room!’
‘The damage to the IHA, and to the United Nations, needed to be addressed as quickly as possible,’ one of the officials said feebly.
She glared at him. ‘Oh, so I get sacrificed on the altar of public relations, do I?’
The other official spoke up. ‘When the investigation clears you, you’ll be reinstated, of course.’
‘If the investigation clears you,’ Rothschild countered.
‘I’m sure it’ll be completely impartial and unbiased,’ said Nina bitterly. She stood. ‘Well, if I’m suspended, there’s no point my hanging around here, is there?’
‘There is one more thing, Dr Wilde,’ Rothschild said. ‘The memory card, the one with the pictures of the artefact . . . what happened to it?’
‘It got wiped,’ Nina answered.
‘So there are no more pictures of the artefact?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’ Rothschild pursed her lips. ‘Let us hope that means an end to the violence, then.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nina. ‘Let us hope.’
She turned away and left the room, closing the door behind her . . . then reached up to feel the memory card, still in her jacket pocket.
Still filled with anger, Nina gathered her possessions from her office, slamming books and journals and mementos of her past adventures into a cardboard box.
She paused as she picked up one particular souvenir - a framed photograph of herself at the White House, receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Victor Dalton for her part in saving New York from nuclear annihilation.
Dalton . . .
Following the FBI’s examination of the room, the telephone had been replaced alo
ng with the broken window. Nina hesitated, then: ‘What the hell.’ She called Lola’s replacement and asked to be put through to the President.
‘Of . . . the United States?’ came the uncertain reply.
‘That’s the one.’
It was a long shot; Nina had no idea if Dalton were even currently in Washington, and was sure he had an infinite number of other concerns. But she figured that she was owed a favour - at the very least, he could return her call.
The response was not immediate, giving her time to finish collecting her belongings. But eventually, the phone rang. ‘Hello?’
‘Dr Wilde?’ said a woman. ‘Please hold for the President.’
Another pause, then a click of connection. ‘Dr Wilde,’ said an instantly recognisable voice.
‘Mr President,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for taking my call.’
‘No problem at all. I could hardly keep a true American hero waiting, could I?’ He chuckled. ‘What can I do for you?’
Nina wondered for a moment how best to address the subject, deciding to get straight to the point. ‘Mr President, it’s about the appointment of Maureen Rothschild as the new Director of the International Heritage Agency. I don’t believe she is the right person for the job, and I think that her suspension of myself and Eddie Chase is completely unwarranted.’
‘Your suspension.’ For some reason, Dalton seemed unsurprised at the news. Surely he couldn’t already know about it?
‘Yes, sir. In my opinion, she made the decision based solely on her personal dislike of me, without any consideration of the damage it would cause to the IHA’s operations and its global security mission.’ Nina had a more forceful - and ruder - version of her argument circling in her head, but thought the diplomatic edit should do the trick.
Or not. ‘Dr Wilde,’ said Dalton, disapproval evident in his tone, ‘are you aware that Professor Rothschild was appointed as IHA Director on my personal recommendation to the Senate committee and the UN?’