The Lost Relic

Chapter Seventy-Two

‘You’d better believe it,’ Ben said to Shikov.

A rasping chuckle down the phone. ‘This is the problem. Why should I believe you have the Dark Medusa?’

‘Because I’m sitting here looking at it,’ Ben said. ‘Let me see. I’d say the egg’s about eight inches high, white gold, diamond-encrusted, with images from classical mythology around the outside.’

Shikov was silent for a moment. ‘And on the inside?’ he said suspiciously.

‘The Medusa herself, you mean? The miniature bust is made of bloodstone, dark with little flecks of red. Scary-looking lady. What are those eyes made of? Alexandrite, isn’t it?’

‘Where did you find it?’ Shikov said, audibly shaken and fighting to cover the tremor in his voice.

‘In Bezukhov’s grave,’ Ben replied. ‘Right where the map said. You were just a little too late, Shikov.’ It was a wild bluff. The Russian had only to ask one hard question, and it was over. Ben knew he needed to steer the conversation away fast. ‘So do you want it or not? I have other buyers interested.’

‘How is this possible?’ Shikov asked. ‘It’s possible because I’m smarter than you,’ Ben said.

‘I want it,’ Shikov said. ‘You must meet me. We will talk.’

‘Right. And then you’ll have your men kill me, for Anatoly.’

‘My son was a worthless piece of shit,’ Shikov said. ‘So was Tassoni. The egg means much more. Trust me. I am a businessman. But I also must trust you to come alone.’

‘You think I’d bring the cops?’ Ben said. ‘Think again. I’m a fugitive, wanted for murder. Tassoni might have been a shit, but he was an important shit.’

‘Then we have a deal. You give me what I want, I give you what you want. The egg, for your life.’

‘Not good enough. I need to disappear after this, Shikov. I want money.’ As he talked, Ben carried the phone into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

From outside the door, Darcey could hear him talking but couldn’t make out the words. She paced, chewing her lip and wondering why he’d shut her out like that. After a minute or so, he’d gone quiet. The phone rang again, and she heard him answer it and talk a while longer. Almost twenty more minutes went by before he finally emerged from the bedroom and she attacked him with questions.

‘Well?’

‘We set up a meeting,’ Ben said. ‘We figured halfway house. Berlin.’

‘What was all that about money?’

‘To make it believable that I really have the egg. Nobody would let it go for free.’

‘Who called you afterwards?’

‘Shikov lost his signal for a minute. He called back.’

‘This RV in Berlin. A precise location?’

Ben nodded.

‘You’re not thinking of going?’

Ben didn’t reply.

‘It’d be madness, Ben. Don’t you see? This is perfect. I’ll call Applewood. We’ll spring the biggest trap in history and stick Shikov in a cage where he belongs. Anybody tries to fuck with us, we have that.’ She pointed to the fax printout on the table. ‘Our ticket to freedom. That information right there is all the bargaining power we need to buy us both our lives back.’

Ben grinned at her. ‘You know, you’re right.’

‘Damn right I’m right.’

‘Let’s celebrate. Did you say there was champagne down in the cellar?’

‘Enough bottles to knock out the whole of Monaco,’ she said.

‘You go and fetch one. I’ll grab two glasses from the kitchen.’

‘Now you’re talking, Ben Hope.’ Darcey trotted down the passage and unbolted the little door that led down to the wine cellar. She skipped down the concrete steps. The cellar was like a maze. Tall racks surrounded her, filled from floor to ceiling with row after row of dusty bottles. She drew one out, brushed away cobwebs. A vintage Moët. This would do just fine. As she ran her eyes over the label, she was thinking about when the bottle was empty and how she was going to haul Ben back in the bedroom and . . .

The cellar door banged shut. She heard the creak of the bolt sliding home.

‘Ben!’ she yelled. She flew up the steps, still clutching the bottle.

There was something on the top step that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. A dinner plate, and on it a whole roast chicken, cellophane-wrapped, cold from the fridge. Next to that was a two-litre bottle of mineral water. Propped against the bottle was a scrawled note that said simply:

Sorry.

B

Darcey beat against the cellar door. ‘Let me out, you bastard!’

But Ben was already gone.