The Hypnotist

SEVENTY

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.