The Einstein Prophecy

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Another?” the bartender asked, and Lucas just raised one finger from the glass to say yes.

The bartender poured him another double on the rocks, and Lucas pressed the cold glass to the spot on his forehead where the shrapnel had hit, rolling it back and forth across his skin. Sometimes the pain was sharp but brief, and other times, like tonight, it was a dull ache that no amount of aspirin could touch. All he could do was try to numb the sensation. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror that backed the bottles on display behind the bar, he saw a guy slumped on a stool, with a black patch over one eye, rocking a glass of scotch against his head, and it was clear why the stools on either side of him were conspicuously empty.

It had taken longer than he expected to get things cleaned up in the conservation wing, and once he had, he’d stopped by the hospital to check on the janitor. The nurse at the front desk told him that only immediate family were allowed to visit, but she didn’t look, or sound, sanguine about Wally’s prospects. That’s when the pounding in his head had started up again.

Benny Goodman was playing on the jukebox, and the lights were low. If he went home to Mrs. Caputo’s, she’d fuss over him, and Amy would try to read him her latest book report. All he wanted now was peace and solitude.

Which was why he was surprised, and not altogether pleased, when he heard the door open and close and sensed a woman had taken the stool just two seats over. He stared down into his glass as she ordered a Campari and soda, and only glanced up at the mirror again after the bartender had delivered it.

His gaze was met by a pair of dark eyes staring directly back at him. Startled, he looked down again. Christ, the last thing he needed was someone chatting him up, and, inevitably, asking him where he’d served in the war. But why, he wondered, did she look familiar?

Benny Goodman was replaced by Tommy Dorsey before he risked another glance at the mirror. Even as he did so, she was swiveling on her stool and saying, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Athan?” It sure sounded like she already knew the answer.

He had to turn his head completely in order to see her with his good eye. She was a dark-haired beauty with a tawny complexion, wearing a crisp white blouse under a tweedy jacket.

“Yes.”

“Then allow me to introduce myself,” she said in an accent that bespoke Oxford or Cambridge. “My name is Simone Rashid.”

She stretched her hand across the empty stool, and he shook it. And now he did place her: she’d been at the art museum with the older man. “I’ve come a long way to meet you.”

A long way to meet him? “Why?” he said, genuinely perplexed.

“May I?” she said, moving to the stool beside him.

But this wasn’t really a question either, as she was already settling in.

“We’re in the same general field,” she said. “Antiquities.”

“I’m not a dealer,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. I’m just a professor — an associate professor at that — at the university.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve done a bit of research — that’s my forte, to be honest — and I see you’re also one of the leading lights in Greco-Roman art.”

“Are you a college recruiter?” he said, having met one or two in his time. “Because I’m perfectly happy here, and I have no plans to leave.” Not that the OSS would let him leave even if he wanted to.

“Hardly,” she said, taking a moment to sip her drink. “I work for the Egyptian Ministry of Culture. In Cairo.”

This was getting odder by the minute, though he caught the first glimmer of what it all might be about. He pictured the glyphs on the ossuary.

“I also know that you were assigned to the Cultural Recovery Commission.”

Now it was coming into even greater focus. But he would not, could not, give anything away, so he waited her out.

“And that you’re probably working for them still,” she said with a half smile. “How am I doing so far?”

“So far,” he conceded, “you haven’t struck out.”

“I don’t know exactly what that refers to,” she replied. “Baseball, I presume? But it sounds as if I’m on the right track.”

“What is it you want from me?” The throbbing in his head returned, but he left his chilled glass on the bar.

“I think you know,” she said, but when he gave no indication that he did, she added, “A certain artifact has recently been transported here. An artifact that belongs to me.”

“To you?” He raised a brow.

“My father and I were the ones who found it.”

Lucas had been under the impression that he was the one who had found it. “So that means you own it?”

“It means that it belongs to the Egyptian people.”

“That might not be how everyone sees it.”

“You mean the Third Reich?” she said, dismissively. “Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”

“I mean the United States.”

“But do you intend to keep it?”

Lucas did not know the answer to that one, nor was he immune to the issues inherent in cultural appropriation — no Greek who had ever seen the Elgin Marbles adorning a wing of the British Museum instead of the Parthenon from which they had been stripped was unfamiliar with the feeling. But he still had no idea who this woman really was.

“Conceding absolutely nothing,” he said, even his empty eye socket throbbing now, “I still don’t know what you’re getting at. Are you here to reclaim the artifact in question?”

“Eventually,” she said, “yes. But given the state of the world right now, it is probably for the best that it’s here right now. For safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping,” he repeated.

“And further study.”

She sipped her drink, and he took a slug from his own. He liked this bar, but it looked like he’d have to find a new place.

“I doubt you even know what you have,” she said.

“And you do?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you tell me.”

“In good time, once you’ve learned to trust me.”

She was spot-on there.

“Right now, it’s essential that you understand just one thing.”

He waited.

“It’s more than what it seems. Much more.”

“What isn’t?”

“Now you’re being glib. Don’t be. That box holds secrets you can’t even guess at.”

Whoever she was, he was beginning to think she was unhinged. And for that matter, what proof had she shown that she worked for the Egyptian ministry? For all he knew, she was an Axis spy. Throwing back the last of his drink, he tossed a couple of bills on the bar and slipped off his stool.

“Look, Mrs. Rashid—”

“Miss Rashid, not that it’s of any consequence.”

“Miss Rashid. I’m just a lowly professor, and the work I do is nowhere near as glamorous as you seem to think.”

“You need my help,” she said, pinning him with her gaze.

And God help him, but that look prodded awake something in him that had lain dormant for a long time. Something that had nothing whatsoever to do with ancient artifacts.

“You can find me at the Nassau Inn,” she said. “You will want to.”

Picking up his briefcase, he headed for the door.

“If you open that sarcophagus without me,” he heard her call out as the door was easing shut behind him, “you will live to regret it.”