Hidden Peril Page 17

  And there was no going back.

  “We can’t rewind the clock, Dad. But maybe—”

  “Mr. Dane?” A nurse appeared in the doorway of the waiting room.

  “Yes?” He vaulted to his feet.

  “We’re getting ready to prep your wife for her procedure, but if you and your daughter would like to spend five minutes with her, I can take you back.”

  “Yes, we would.” He started toward the door.

  Kristin fell in behind him. Too bad the woman hadn’t waited a few more minutes to summon them instead of interrupting the first meaningful conversation she’d ever had with her father.

  But perhaps they could return to that discussion before her flight on Sunday afternoon. While they could never recapture the lost years or create the kind of family she’d craved as a child, maybe she and her parents could find a way to bridge the gap and build a closer relationship going forward.

  If her mom recovered.

  This time, Luke arrived at the art museum first.

  As he waited in the shade of the tree where they’d talked after their last visit, he pulled out his cell. Kristin had texted him, as promised, after she’d landed in Boston—but there had been no communication from her since.

  It wouldn’t hurt to let her know she was in his thoughts . . . especially if her father wasn’t offering much moral support.

  He put his thumbs to work.

  Less than half a minute later, as he was finishing up his message, Nick arrived.

  “I see you beat me this time.” The FBI agent flashed him a quick grin.

  “I learn fast.” He slipped his phone into its holster.

  “I figured that out in Richmond during our previous terrorist case. Ready to hear what our antiquities expert has to say?”

  “More than.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  They entered the museum and wove through the corridors to Bishara’s office, where the same administrative assistant who’d shown them in on their last visit did the honors again.

  The man rose as they entered—and Luke had to work hard to keep his expression impassive.

  Their Middle East antiquities expert looked as if he’d been on an all-night bender, eyes bloodshot, hands shaky.

  As he motioned for them to take a seat at the table where they’d met during their first visit, Luke exchanged a quick glance with Nick.

  The other man arched an eyebrow.

  They were on the same page.

  “May I offer you coffee or water?” The curator’s voice wasn’t quite steady as he extended the courtesy.

  “I’m fine.” Nick took the same seat he’d occupied two days ago.

  “Me too.” Luke sat as well.

  Bishara paused a moment, fingers splayed on the table, then eased himself into his chair, as if every movement was painful. “I appreciate you both coming back today.”

  “We’re always willing to listen to information that might help us with a case.” Nick folded his hands loosely on the table.

  But while his posture was relaxed, his eyes were sharp and watchful. Luke could sense the electricity pinging below the surface.

  It matched the energy thrumming through his own veins.

  “What I have to say to you . . . it is a rather long story.”

  “We’re in no hurry.” To emphasize that point, Luke settled back in his chair.

  “Then I will begin . . . at the beginning. When I was growing up in a small town in Syria, my friends and I played in the shadow of ancient monuments. They were literally in our backyard. We took them for granted, without a thought to their antiquity—or historic value.” Bishara unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water he’d pre-set in his place.

  “But that changed, or you wouldn’t be doing what you do today.” Nick continued to watch the man, gaze incisive, tone conversational.

  “Yes. One day, an archeological team came to excavate some ruins on the outskirts of our town. I was fascinated by the work, and by the stories the man who was leading the dig told. His passion for preserving the links that artifacts and architecture provide to our past was contagious. He lit a fire in me that summer which has never been extinguished. I vowed always to do my part to protect this irreplaceable heritage.” The man took a long drink of water.

  “Your teaching career, supervisory work on a number of digs, and high-level positions at two museums in your country would suggest you kept that vow.”

  The tiny smile Bishara offered Nick was tinged with resignation. “You have done your research—as I assumed you would after you observed that I was uncomfortable during our discussion about the black market a few days ago.”

  The man was on the ball if he’d picked up their veiled reactions.

  “Why were you uneasy?” Luke asked. As long as Bishara had brought it up, why pretend they hadn’t noticed?

  “I will get to that—but first I must give you more background.” He wiped a stray drop of water off the table. “Did your research reveal that I have a son?”

  “Yes. Touma. And a wife who died ten years ago,” Nick said.

  “Correct. Did you know Touma is also an archeologist?”

  “No.” Luke frowned. Odd that this piece of information hadn’t surfaced in his reading—but he’d focused more on Bishara’s career than his personal life.

  “Touma is the reason I asked you to come here today.”

  Not what he’d expected to hear.

  Based on the momentary hike in Nick’s eyebrows, the revelation had also blindsided him.

  Before either of them could ask a question, Bishara picked up his story.

  “When I left my country nine years ago to take this job, it was with a heavy heart. But Syria was in turmoil, and terrorism was growing. While al-Qaeda was the dominant extremist group, ISIS was in the wings. A rebellion was brewing, and I feared conditions would deteriorate.”

  “As they did,” Nick said.

  “Yes. I pleaded with Touma to come to the United States with me, but he was finishing his studies and refused to leave. I tried again to convince him after he received his PhD, but instead he took a job with a museum—to preserve and protect our heritage, as he told me. His dedication filled me with both pride and shame. He cared enough to stay. I did not.” Bishara took another long swallow of water.

  Luke was beginning to get a glimmer of where this might be leading. “From what I’ve gathered based on reports in the media, being an archeologist in Syria isn’t the safest profession. The manager of the museum in Palmyra was publicly beheaded three years ago.”

  The man’s name escaped him, but the brutal act against an eighty-two-year-old who’d dedicated his life to antiquities had kicked him in the gut.

  “Khaled al-Asaad. He was a treasured colleague and friend.” Grief twisted Bishara’s features. “They killed him because he would not reveal where valuable artifacts had been hidden for safekeeping. He had spent his life protecting and preserving them, and he did not want them destroyed or sold on the black market. Many others who have undertaken this dangerous defensive work have suffered too.”

  Luke deferred to Nick in case he wanted to join the conversation, but the other man sat back, giving him the floor.

  It appeared the extensive reading he’d done on this topic during the sleepless hours Wednesday night after he’d left Kristin hadn’t been wasted after all.

  “Is your son among them?”

  The man’s breath hitched. “Yes.”

  “Tell us what happened.”

  Bishara wrapped his fingers around the almost-empty bottle of water. “He and his colleagues received word that a group of ISIS fighters, armed with machine guns, was on its way to their museum on a loot-and-destroy mission. No one fled. Instead, they rounded up trucks and loaded as many items as they could. They had just finished when the jihadists arrived and opened fire. Two of the museum staff members were wounded.”

  “Including your son?”

  “No. He was spared that, at least. They
managed to get the wounded into the trucks and took off. The injured staff members were dropped at the office of a doctor who was sympathetic to their cause, and the rest of the staff dispersed the items to safe places and went into hiding.”

  Luke leaned forward. “Is your son still underground?”

  “No. He was discovered by ISIS after he ventured out to take food to one of the wounded men’s family.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A little more than two years.”

  The magic number.

  Luke glanced at Nick. His narrowed eyes suggested he’d linked the timing of the WorldCraft monastery candles operation with Bishara’s story too.

  “What happened then?” Luke could guess what was coming next.

  “They knew he was related to me . . . and the powers-that-be within the organization decided I could be useful to them.”

  Bingo.

  “They threatened you.”

  “No. They threatened Touma. They said unless I cooperated, he would be killed.”

  “Cooperated with what?”

  “A scheme to raise money for ISIS cells in the US by selling looted artifacts. That has never been spelled out to me, you understand. Only my role has been explained. But I know what is going on.” The plastic water bottle crinkled under the pressure of his fingers, and his face contorted. “I had no choice. If I did not do as I was told, Touma would die.”

  “Why are you telling us this now?” Nick rejoined the conversation.

  “The items you asked me to evaluate—those are the exact type of artifacts that are passed on to me to sell. I have seen many cylinder seals and quite a few pieces of jewelry. I’m assuming you somehow intercepted a shipment. It would only be a matter of time until you discovered my role. I hoped, by coming forward and offering to assist you, we could reach an agreement.”

  “What sort of agreement?”

  “If I cooperate fully—provide all of the information I have and follow every instruction you give me so this operation can be shut down and the person running it brought to justice—I ask that you attempt to rescue my son from his captors and bring him safely to the US.”

  Luke looked at Nick. That wasn’t a deal he could make—nor could an FBI agent broker such an agreement without consulting higher-ups.

  But it would be useful to have Bishara on their side. They could do this without him, but his cooperation would help the investigation.

  “Do you know the identity of the leader here in the States?” Nick asked.

  “No. I only know the name he uses in our phone conversations. But I know the names of the people who buy the artifacts—and I have their contact information.” He leaned forward. “It would behoove you to have someone working on your behalf from the inside.”

  A few beats of silence passed.

  “What is your exact role?” Nick asked.

  “The items are passed on to me at a drop location, along with forged provenance. I get in touch with legitimate potential buyers known to me or contact buyers from a list that is provided.”

  “Under what name?”

  “My own.”

  Nick’s eyebrows peaked. “Isn’t that risky?”

  “Everything I am doing is a risk. But using my own name was a condition of the job. It gives the operation a veneer of respectability.”

  “What do you say to these buyers?” Luke asked.

  “The spiel is always the same—a seller has contacted me, the museum isn’t interested in buying the items, I want them to find a home where they will be appreciated. I am able to negotiate a significantly higher price than the items would get on the black market because of my credentials. The buyers send a cashier’s check to a PO box I pass on to them from my contact, and I send the items to the buyers.”

  “You aren’t concerned one of these buyers will get suspicious and talk to law enforcement?”

  “It is possible—but I always ask that the transaction be kept confidential, explaining that I’ll be inundated with calls from buyers if word gets out I’m helping to place items for sellers. The legitimate collectors and dealers I know are grateful I offer them the items first, and the buyers provided by my contact are practiced at under-the-table transactions and very discreet.” He leaned forward. “You haven’t yet responded to my proposal.”

  “Rescuing your son would be difficult given the volatility in Syria.” Nick steepled his fingers. “Do you know where he’s being held?”

  “No—but your CIA excels at finding that kind of information . . . and your special forces soldiers are trained to extract hostages under hostile conditions.”

  “How can you be certain he’s still alive?”

  Bishara pulled out his cell phone, tapped the screen a few times, and angled the device toward them. “Before every deal, I ask for proof of that. This came two weeks ago by email.”

  Luke leaned closer to the screen, as did Nick. A skinny, thirtyish man, with shaggy hair and a beard, was holding a copy of a current newspaper.

  “A shot like that could be doctored.” Luke hated to burst the curator’s bubble, but Photoshop could work magic.

  “I realize that. But every pose is different, as is every background. And I know my son. I have watched him grow progressively thinner and more haunted. That cannot be faked in Photoshop.”

  “Forward the message to me. I’ll have our computer forensics people try to trace the source—but I’m not holding my breath.” Nick leaned back. “What do you want in exchange for your cooperation?”

  “As I already said, my son. Alive. Here.”

  “I mean for yourself.”

  “Nothing.”

  Surprising.

  In a situation like this, most people asked for immunity from legal prosecution.

  “You understand you could be facing a prison sentence for your part in this operation, whatever your motivation.” Luke watched the man.

  He didn’t flinch. “Yes. It is worth the sacrifice to secure my son’s freedom.”

  “We’ll need to discuss your proposal with some higher-level people,” Nick said.

  “I assumed as much. But if the artifacts you showed me are from the most recent shipment, suspicion will be aroused if too much time elapses before they enter the system.”

  “We’re aware of that.” Nick pushed back his chair and stood. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we have some direction.”

  Luke rose too. “You’ll be available by cell?”

  “Always.” Bishara levered himself to his feet. “And you do not need to worry, gentlemen. I am going nowhere . . . nor will I share our discussion with anyone. I want as much as you to bring this man down. Touma is all I have, and his fate rests in this monster’s hands.” His voice rasped, and he dipped his chin.

  “We’ll let ourselves out.” Luke inclined his head toward the door, and Nick circled around the table to follow him out.

  Neither spoke until they were in the hall.

  “Do you have time for a short detour to the café?” Nick scanned his missed calls.

  “Yes.” Luke did the same. Nothing from Kristin—but Sarge needed him for some more work on the homicide ASAP.

  Once they had coffee in hand, they claimed a secluded corner in the café.

  “You must have put in some long hours getting up to speed on the artifact situation in Syria.” Nick gave the café patrons a practiced sweep before shifting his attention back to him.

  “It’s a compelling subject—and there’s plenty of material out there. What’s happening in that part of the world to ancient treasures is a travesty . . . and people like Bishara’s son are risking their lives to stop the plunder and destruction. They’re the Syrian version of World War II’s monuments men—but with far less resources at their disposal.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yes—and given his background, it has to be killing Bishara to help the enemy instead of his colleagues.”

  “I agree he’s a man caught between a rock and a hard place. But eve
n though he’s doing this to keep his son alive, willfully aiding and abetting terrorists carries stiff penalties.” Nick took a swig of his coffee.

  “Curious that he didn’t ask for any consideration for himself in exchange for assisting us.”

  “It would appear his sole concern is for his son.”

  Luke swirled the coffee in his cup. “How much can our people do to help Touma?”

  “Depends on how many resources are allocated, how long it might take to locate him, and how heavily guarded he is.”

  “We don’t have the luxury of time.”

  “I know.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I’ll get with my boss as soon as I return and see how high he wants to take this. As soon as I have some direction, I’ll give you a call. Is Ms. Dane still planning to return on Sunday?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “With this latest development, we might need a few extra days to get everything in place—but I’m hoping we’re ready to go by midweek. Will you alert her to that?”

  “Yes.”

  Nick drained his cup and stood. “I need to get moving on this.”

  “And I need to pitch in with a double homicide.” Luke rose too.

  “Sounds like both of our workweeks are ending with a full plate.”

  True.

  But as they parted in the parking lot, Luke suspected their lives were going to be a whole lot busier next week.

  And a whole lot more dangerous.

  17

  The weekend was gone . . . and she and her dad had never returned to the interrupted conversation about their lack of family life.

  Heaving a sigh, Kristin set her overnight bag down in the foyer of her parents’ condo as her father descended the stairs from the upper level.

  Other than the gray hair, he looked more like the man she remembered from her last trip to Boston. Some of the lines of strain in his face had diminished, and he was back to his usual attire of crisp shirt and knife-crease slacks. Taking shifts to stand vigil over her mom had been smart . . . even if that had meant she’d spent too many solitary hours pacing the hospital hall.

  “Heading back to the ICU?” She checked her watch. The car her dad had ordered to take her to the airport should be here any minute.