The Eye of Heaven

9

The sunset deepened to a soft gold hue over the Tuscan-inspired waterfront villa. A lofty shoal of cloud streaks hung like colored smoke, all vivid orange and red, a dazzling kaleidoscope reflected off the Mediterranean as the sun sank slowly until it was nothing more than a glowing ember in the sea. The view from the house was as magnificent as they came, which was the reason Janus Benedict had purchased it almost twenty years before, adding to the grounds a tennis court and pool that would have been the envy of most hotels in the area.

Out on the veranda, Janus sat watching the celestial light show, his raw silk navy blazer unbuttoned as a concession to informality as he sipped a 1923 Fonseca Port. He’d purchased it from a store in Lisbon on one of his wine-hunting forays into the region. The ruby liquid had turned amber from age, and the passage of years had imbued it with secondary flavors that more than justified the exorbitant price the seller had demanded.

A micro cell phone chirped from the circular glass table next to him. Janus set his Romeo y Julieta Short Churchill cigar in a crystal ashtray and reached over to answer it.

“Benedict,” he said.

“Sir, we have more news on the Canadian find.”

“Yes, Percy. Do tell.”

“Everyone’s being tight-lipped about it, but I persuaded one of the assistant professors that his financial woes might be temporary if he could give us something usable,” Percy said, his words clipped, delivered with the precision of a laser. Percy was Janus’s go-to man for skullduggery and had performed admirably for decades.

“I’d like to think my generosity knows few bounds.”

“Quite. Anyway, it appears your Fargos have done it again. A most remarkable discovery on Baffin Island. Apparently, it’s a Viking longship, the likes of which has never been seen.”

“Interesting, but hardly earth-shattering. And more important, of little use to me. There’s not much market for Norse antiquities.”

“Nor should there be, I’d think. Beastly stuff. Axes and pelts and the like.”

Janus could tell from Percy’s inflection that there was more, but he didn’t rush the man. He’d get to whatever it was when he was ready. “But it does tend to highlight the incredible success this cavalier couple have in turning up unusual finds.”

“I’ll give them that,” Percy said. “This one in particular is noteworthy because of what was being transported by the longship.”

“I see. What was being transported …” Janus echoed.

“Yes. It appears that it was a hoard of pre-Columbian knickknacks. Pots, statues, that sort of rot.”

Janus sat up straighter, and his heart rate increased by twenty beats per minute. “You did say pre-Columbian, didn’t you, old boy?”

“The very thing.”

“Ah, then I understand what the fuss is all about. That’s certainly a feather in their caps. I’d imagine it will cause quite a stir in academic circles.”

“Quite.”

“Brilliant work, as usual, my good man. And if I know the Fargos, this will be only the first step. They have keen minds and move quickly. They’re sure to use their newfound knowledge to their best advantage, and, if there’s a treasure to be found, they’ll be relentless. I think it’s time to step up surveillance of them. But more sophisticated than the last idiot you sent. I want no more incidents that could tip them off.” Percy had filled Janus in on the botched photography outside the Fargos’ La Jolla home and was livid over the sloppiness.

“Of course. I’ve already taken steps in that regard. This time, with more, er, subtle approaches.”

“I want to be kept abreast of every move they make, is that clear?”

“Crystal. It shall be done. I’ll report on anything that seems pertinent.”

“Where are they at this moment?”

“On their plane. According to the flight plan the pilot filed this morning, headed back to San Diego.”

“Very well. Do whatever you need to do. Spare no resources. My instinct is that watching and waiting should turn up some very interesting results. They don’t stay stationary for long, and when they move, I want to be two steps ahead of them.”

Janus hung up and stared at the phone, then set it back on the table and resumed his appreciation of his fine Cuban smoke. The horizon had faded to purple and crimson, the sun’s final shimmering on the sea replaced by the lights of other estates owned by the privileged and powerful, stretching all the way to Cannes. He took another sip of the liquid gold and sighed contentedly. Whatever the Fargos had planned, he intended to foil. After their interference with his last project, it was personal. For all Janus’s aplomb, that had been a slap to his face, an insult every bit as painful as a blow.

That would not stand.

One of the French doors swung open and Reginald stepped through before closing it softly behind him.

“There you are. You missed the sunset,” Janus said as his brother took the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“I’ve seen plenty of them. What’s that you’re knocking back?”

“Bit of vintage port.”

“Any good?”

“Not bad. You might not like it, though.”

“Probably not. Don’t see how you choke down that sweet stuff. Like molasses to me.” Reginald depressed the button on a discreetly located intercom on the table and called out, “Simon, be a good lad and fetch me a Glenfiddich on the rocks, would you?”

After a few moments of silence, a stately voice emanated from the tinny speaker. “Of course, sir. Very good. Your usual measure?”

“Perhaps a finger or so more. It’s been a frightful day.”

“It will be there shortly, sir.”

Reginald stared out at the darkening water and then removed a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one. He blew a gray cloud at the overhang and tapped his fingers impatiently. A houseboy emerged bearing a silver tray with a single tumbler of Scotch, three-quarters full, with two small cubes of ice floating in the caramel distillation. Reginald downed a third in one swallow as the servant disappeared back inside.

“Ah. At least the Scottish are good at something,” he observed.

“I see you’re in another of your good moods,” Janus said.

“Never better. So what’s on the agenda for tonight? Raping and pillaging?”

“Hardly. I have reservations for five at the Carlton at seven. With the von Schiffs.”

Reginald groaned. “Not them. Anything but that.”

“Behave, Reginald. It’s business. You’ll put on a brave face.”

“The son’s an ass. Takes after his old man. And the missus is a positive gargoyle.”

“Perhaps. But they’re very profitable acquaintances to know.”

Reginald polished off the rest of his drink and held it aloft. “Best to have a few more of these, then.”

“I think not, old chap. Don’t want you to make a scene.”

Reginald’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m a big boy, Janus.”

“Yes. Well then, do behave like one, won’t you? I can’t have you showing up to dinner inebriated, which is where this is going. If you want to pursue your date with a bottle, do so after dinner, not before.”

“Bloody hell.”

“That’s the spirit. Go and find a proper jacket, and have Simon bring the car around. Dinner bell rings in a few minutes,” Janus said, dismissing Reginald, already on to something else.

Reginald’s sneer was lost on him. The younger man rose, stubbed out his cigarette with a curt stab, and stalked into the house.

Janus smoothed his glossy graying hair and finished the last of his port and then stood, taking care to also smooth his slacks and adjust his cravat. It wouldn’t do to appear rumpled to the von Schiffs. The Germans were very judgmental about the little things, and, as he knew, the difference between success and failure often came down to careful presentation.

Reginald was right, though, about the Germans’ son being an idiot.

But enduring a couple of hours with the imbecile would pay handsome dividends, so he’d do so with a smile.

The predatory smile of a raptor.