
# Chapter 1

The Ultralight slipped to the left and dropped precipitously. I panicked and dug my fingers into his shoulder. Essentially we were in a motorcycle sidecar attached to a hang glider with a huge propeller behind my ass. It scared the hell out of me.

"Sorry, Sam."  I loosened my grip and wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt. My jaws ached from clenching my teeth.

"You okay?"

"I've been better. Try to keep this damn thing level, okay?"

He shook his head and chuckled. Heat thermals, he told me, rising from the shimmering desert caused unpredictable drafts. If it's unpredictable then it ain't safe. I held my tongue, not wanting to appear the spoiled princess. Why the hell did I let him talk me into this?

"See that profile? Beyond that ridge?" He pointed to the right and simultaneously pushed the bar left turning us towards the ridge. The move was counterintuitive and I fought the urge to shift my weight. Any movement made the craft move although he assured me — _tried_ to assure me— we were perfectly safe.

I swallowed and turned my head towards the ridge.

"Kind of looks like a large tooth."

"Right. That's it exactly. See how it's not rounded and soft like the natural area around it?"

"Yes." As if I cared at this point. The terrain looked all the same to me, just another sandy hill among thousands. How he could tell one dune from another was beyond me. He pushed out on the bar or whatever the hell was making this thing climb and my stomach dropped. Eyes closed, I white knuckled the back of his seat, willing the gods of machines to deliver us safely, forcing myself not to lean left when the right wing dipped towards the anomalous formation.

"Might be worth investigating." Look," he pointed. "See how those rocks are strewn?"

"Jesus, Boots. For God's sake, keep both hands on the bar will you!"

"Relax, relax. You're in good hands here. I'm going to lose some altitude – _intentionally_ so don't have a fit. I want to get a closer look."

The muscles on his forearms bulged as he pulled on the bar, bringing the ground closer. We were a hundred or so feet above the ridge, circling it slowly in a wide lazy turn. Any slower I was sure we'd drop like a rock. My shirt and pants were glued to me. You won't sweat, I was told. Too dry. Well I had news.

"Look. See that line formed by the rocks? How they form almost a right angle?"

I could barely see the rocks.

"Can you mark that spot on the map?"

I was supposedly the navigator.

"Uh, sorry. I told you I wasn't very good at this sort of thing."

"No problem." He put his hand back and I gave him the clipboard with the map and Sharpie. He checked his watch, scanned the horizon then busied himself with the map. I busied myself with what might be called praying, regretting being so out of practice.

"Here," he said, handing it back. "That's close enough. We've been flying a beeline from the camp and from the time and airspeed I figure that's the spot. More or less."

With shaking hands I replaced the clipboard in the pouch behind his seat. Boots had cobbled together a makeshift pocket out of duct tape. The whole damn contraption looked cobbled together from bits of tubing, wire and duct tape. And every time the engine whined or changed its pitch I figured it had to be the end.

"That's it, Sam. Ready to head back?"

"You got to be kidding." I held my breath, my eyes closed, as he banked and turned. I'd been ready to turn back for most of the forty minutes we'd been in the air —from about thirty seconds after liftoff. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. The scenery was truly spectacular, but fear of dying made it rather hard to enjoy. The ground rose up dizzyingly as we lost altitude in the turn, and my whole body went rigid in preparation for the inevitable crash into the stony desert. I willed myself to relax, get loose. Like a drunk. They don't hurt themselves when they fall, do they? I sure as hell was going to knock back a few if I survived.

Boots heard my sharp intake of breath and laughed.

"Sam. I promise you. This baby is safer than a 747. Even if the engine cuts out we just drift along until we land. Ever hear of a jumbo that can do that?"

"Gimli!" I managed to squeeze out.

"What? Oh, Gimli! Yeah, right."

From the ground the desert was beautiful, but from a couple of hundred feet up it was indescribable. Broad plains between deep valleys, the banks of the wadis dense with oleander. The colours –a hundred shades of tan, shadows purple and deep, delineated sharply by the harsh sun, contrasted against irrigated plots lush and green that occasionally dotted the desert under a sky so blue and clear it hurt your eyes.

We climbed higher then leveled off, slowly enough that my stomach wasn't left behind.

"Sam," he said into the headset. "There's another area I'd like to check out. It's not far out of our way. You okay with that?"

I didn't answer. He'd kill me yet.

"Won't be long, I promise. Hang in; it's only about ten minutes or so out of the way. We'll be back," he checked his watch again, "about forty, forty-five minutes. Instead of an out and back, this little detour will make it a long triangle. Okay?"

"Another ten minutes won't make a difference in the fear factor, so let's do it."

He kept up a general patter about the beauty of the landscape commenting on the ancient armies that fought over water and grazing rights, the people who eked out a miserable living in the harsh land then and now.

"Those crusaders?  Saladin just sat and waited with his men for the heat of the sun to roast them to death in their armour. Just a matter of time until they dropped from their horses. Mind you some of the horses might have collapsed first." He laughed but I was too far-gone to see the humour.

The terrain became a little hillier so he pushed the craft higher, not that we were low enough to hit them.  I concentrated on breathing.

"You okay back there?" I forgot he could hear my every breath.

"Just thinking about the crusaders."

He continued his commentary which helped distract me.

"Probably quite a few sites to be discovered right around us. Enough peaks and ridges for a chain of outposts. I'll have to research the feasibility of trade routes."

"Where are we going?"

"A friend of mind surveyed the area a couple of years back. Said he came across something he thought might be promising."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... he crisscrossed the area in a Jeep. Don't think I could ever get him up here. Andy likes to keep both feet on the ground. Or the sand in this case.

"Can't say that I blame him."

"See that?" He pointed vaguely to the right and traced a wide circle. Might have been an oasis or well way back when. Andy didn't do any digging but told me there were a lot of pottery shards at the bottom of the ridge. Figured there had to be some significant habitation. The top of the ridge –the tell– is about a hundred and fifty meters by about sixty or sixty-five. Forms a rough kind of oval. And encircling it partially about ten meters from the top he thought he could detect the hint of a wall."

"A wall?"

"Well it doesn't look like a wall now. Not after more than two thousand years. But like I said before, the landform is unnatural looking. Not like the other ridges. Erosion and drifting sand and what have you bury abandoned sites real fast here. One season – _one_ season, Sam– you get a couple of inches of accumulation. So figure what can happen after two millennia."

"How can he tell the age of the tell?"

"Pottery. The shards suggest anywhere from four hundred BCE to two, maybe three hundred AD. Late Iron Age.  My guess is it's probably Roman, but it's only a guess. I'll have to see it."

"Amazing. All it takes is a few broken pieces of pottery to motivate you guys to suffer heat, dirt, lack of water, scorpions and a diet of goat cheese and olives."

"You got it!"

"Give me a McDonald's any time."

"Hey, Sam. Give me a break here. What about my team?"

"They're great. But for some broken pots?"

"Not only pots. Small sculptures too, all kinds of clay artifacts. Andy's guess is the place was a cult center, a tourist center for pilgrims or worshippers."

"And this could be important."

"Could be, Sam. Could be."

I'd known Boots for about six years. He lectured at the university where I worked. I taught sociology and consulted with police departments on matters of criminal reform. I was also big on humanizing the penal system and gung-ho on working harder to rehab criminals. Actually my father accused me of being a bull in a china shop when it came to incarcerating juvenile offenders.

We flew in silence, awed by the stark, still beauty. Not a cloud, not a bird— nothing for miles except sandy hills and plains dotted with short, coarse plants struggling to keep the incessant winds from rearranging the landscape. Boots, I knew was lost in imagining ancient armies and cult worshippers. Dreaming of finding the Ark of the Covenant.

"Over there," he said, pointing to a large mound looming ahead. "See how the top falls away to that ledge? That's probably what's left of the wall."

All I saw was a rock strewn bulge about a third of the way down from the top. But it did give the appearance that it might have once encircled the mound. Now it just seemed to peter out, falling away to blend in with the general slope of the hill.

He lost some altitude, still staying well above the height of the tell, and slowly circled the face fronting us in a wide arc. My stomach reacted and I unconsciously leaned away from the tilt.

"Don't fight it, Sam. Go with it. We really are quite safe." I took some slow breaths.

"That's good."

We crested the hill and to our surprise, below us at the base of the tell, were several camels and their drivers. The men, shielding their eyes against the glare, looked up. One man in western clothes got out of the cab of a pick-up.

"Boots!"

"Got it," he said, instinctively veering left and initiating a climb.

"Jesus!" The man by the pick-up was pointing something at us that looked too much like a rifle. An Arab ran over and pulled his arm down. The man with the rifle shoved him away.

"I know, I know! Hang the fuck on."

"Boots!" On the other side of the hill he went into a dive partly, he told me later, to gain speed and get the fuck out of the guy's sight.

"Boots come on! Come on! Move this fucken thing!" I heard the engine change pitch, his right foot working the throttle. Fear of crashing, fear of being chewed by the propeller inches behind me, and fear of being shot out of the goddamn sky was more than enough. I looked at the gouge that suddenly appeared in the strut inches above my head.

"God damn it, if you don't get us out of here, Boots I'll kill you myself!"

"Boy!" he said when we were out of range or at least out of sight.

A quarter of an hour later he said, "Twenty minutes. Twenty more minutes we'll be at the camp. I don't know about you, Sam, but I'm going to need a very stiff drink."

Fifteen minutes later we made out the camp. The main tent, really just a very large canopy, was never so welcoming, not a McDonald's but the Ritz. When they heard our approach all activity stopped, everyone staring up waving and shouting, the basket boys ever ready for an excuse to stop for a smoke.

Boots over flew the camp, then turned to face into the wind, the afternoon breezes carrying the dust raised by the workers sifting debris for small artifacts that the eye might have missed. We floated, almost hovering for an instant, before the wheels touched down, Boots cutting the engine the exact moment of contact. We rolled in a deathly silence coming to a bumpy halt a few yards beyond the camp. An older man dressed as a wannabe archeologist in cargo pants, New Balance trekking boots and a Banana Republic bush jacket with a million pockets shuffled towards us, waving his Gulf War surplus Tilley hat.

"So? How did you like it? I told you it would be great, wasn't it? Nothing to it." He reached for my arm mistakenly thinking I had stumbled. In spite of having kept myself rigid for so long my knees and legs were rubbery.

"I was right, wasn't I? It's an absolute gas. I told you it would be. Knew you'd love it. I can't wait to go up again. Maybe I'll learn to fly it myself. What an experience. There's nothing to it, a few hours of ground school, some theory...What's wrong?"

"Dad. Experience is a word that doesn't come close to describing it."

"You're telling me? It's just fantastic!" Jesus, the man was something else, pushing seventy and still a kid.

"You can take the next ride. _All_ the next rides. My ultra light days are over. Finito! Thanks but no thanks."

"Ah. Sammy, you'll change your mind." I shook loose from his arm and gave him a look that could freeze the bottle of Evian he was holding.

"Oh-oh! That bad, huh?"

"Yes, Dad. You could say that." I walked over to Boots who was checking out the craft. He pulled his hand away from the wing as I approached but not before I noticed the two holes in the fabric.

"I can go you one better," I said, pointing out the gouge in the tubing.

"Yeah? Well I hate to play one-upmanship with you, but take off your helmet." He sat down heavily in the dirt. I collapsed beside him. There was no mistaking the white gash that stood out against the purple of my helmet.

"What...? What's the matter you two?" my father asked. "What's going on?"

# Chapter 2

"First I need a drink."

He ambled over to the shelter he shared with my father. Living quarters consisted of smaller versions of the main shelter and theirs was barely large enough for the two of them. Now that I had crashed their party accommodations were crowded to say the least. As well as the two long folding trestle tables Boots had dozens of those open lattice type plastic crates, holding everything from his laundry, prospector's picks and hammers, trowels, and several broken pick-ax handles. The tools I could understand —but the stuffed giraffe?

The team consisted of twenty-eight people, mostly students studying archeology or related subjects. A few were completing an honors degree but most were in the middle of grad work. One woman was doing a post doc follow up. Following up what I had yet to discover. The support group was made up of anywhere from eight to twelve or so of local people, mostly young boys in their teens and habitual smokers since their birth. They pulled and hauled, doing the grunt work, and disappeared at the end of the day to join their families camped throughout the region, leading a semi-nomadic existence. Situated, as we were over two hundred kilometers from the nearest city, Amman, the camp grew bigger every year with Boots determining the necessity for more and more equipment, and anything else that could feed the illusion that they enjoyed most of the comforts of home.

There were numerous Bedouin settlements throughout the area, some permanent with a dozen or so gray cinder block constructions. Some of the homes were stuccoed in white cement. There was no electricity and no running water. Actually almost no water –running or otherwise. These Arabs farmed small irrigated plots, the water delivered to the farms by tanker with a system of black tubing dribbling the precious resource onto the plants.

They also kept some sheep, a donkey or two and several camels. No homestead was without its own pack of wild dogs.

But these settlements were few and far between, and just as rare and scattered were the tent dwellers, moving with the seasons. The basket boys were tent dwellers. They arrived each morning at the site crammed into the back of a pick-up. Occasionally, to my surprise, a couple of the boys would arrive on the back of a camel.

The camp's living quarters flanked the main shelter and dining area. This is where our Palestinian cook ruled. From the large industrial propane stove, and even larger refrigeration unit run by a diesel-fired generator our cook performed culinary miracles. Like Napoleon's army archeologists run on their stomachs. I'm not sure our cook made up for the other hardships.

I followed them into our shelter. Boots took a folding chair from a worktable and placed it so he could face us, my father electing to sit on the end of my cot.

I made a beeline for my stash. I'm not a big drinker, but five minutes after seeing the camp I knew booze was the only way I'd survive, so I had a standing order with whoever was making the twice-weekly trip into Amman for supplies to bring me back a bottle of whatever. I wasn't fussy, as long as it was alcohol and not beer. Seems I wasn't the only one judging by the number of empties that began to accumulate at the dump. I swear we drank more liquor than water. A thousand years from now, what would archeologists say about our midden? The booze helped. Evenings were, in fact, a lot of fun.

I poured and handed them each a healthy shot of scotch. My father raised his glass.

"L'chaim," he said tossing it back in one swallow. Jesus. I gave him a look and he had the audacity to wink, and holding out his glass for a refill.

"Nathan. Tell me. What has the two of you so spooked?"

"Well, I uh..."

"Someone took a couple of shots at us," I said. "Almost shot us down."

"What? Who shot at you? What are you talking about?

Boots didn't answer.

"Are you sure?" he said to me. "Seems everyone in this country carries a gun."

"You got that right! And they go around firing them off with the least provocation."

"Like celebrating after the soccer game. It doesn't mean anything," he waved his hand as if shooting rifles off in public was no worse than spitting on the sidewalk.

"Right! All night long you could hear the shots. The sky was lit up like the Fourth of July with the tracers. And what did the papers report the next day?  Over two hundred people were hurt. Don't tell me this is just some cultural thing. Jesus!"

"Sam's right. These guys weren't celebrating. There's no doubt we were the intended target. Show him your helmet."

"Help yourself," I pointed to it.

"And if that doesn't convince you, check out the tubing and the holes. Go on, go take a look." I hitched my thumb in the direction of the Ultralight.

He put the helmet back on the bed, and reached for my hand, patting it gently. He'd lost a few pounds in the past weeks and his arms were too thin. There were liver spots on his hands that I hadn't noticed before.

"I guess they weren't celebrating." His tone was so understated that Boots and I both cracked up.

"Not funny, Sammy." He shook his head.

"No," Boots agreed. "Not funny at all."

"Why anyone would want to shoot at a couple of people cruising around in that... that... contraption!" Now it was a contraption. Earlier he would have argued it was the best thing since sliced bread.

"I've been thinking about it. That site. There would be no reason for Bedouins or anyone else for that matter to be out there. According to the maps it's not a stopover. There's no grazing and certainly no water in the vicinity. Not even a settlement for miles." He helped himself to another drink

"No. There has to be something going on there. And besides. It was the guy in the truck who had the rifle. He shot at us. Not the Bedouins."

"That's right!" I said. "As a matter of fact didn't one of the Bedouins try to stop him?"

"I don't know. I was kinda concentrating on trying to get us the hell out of there."

"Well, it looked that way to me. Why else would the shooter have knocked him away?"

"I don't know, Sam. I don't know."

"Well," my father said. "I want to look at that contraption." He stopped at the edge of the shelter, a dark shape back lit by the intense light. "That site," he said. "Is it the one you told me about?"

"The one Andy surveyed, yes."

"Well, maybe he was right."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, if it was important. As a center of worship..."

"I don't see the connection."

"I don't know, Nathan. I'm just thinking out loud. But could there be– could there be something that would attract looters?"

"Looters? I doubt it. The only treasure –if that's what you're thinking– would be artifacts of a historical or archeological significance. It's highly doubtful there'd be anything of material value. Always a possibility of course, but treasures? That kind of looting would have occurred hundreds of years ago."

"Well, I just thought... maybe..."

"I wouldn't rule it out entirely, but it's not very likely."

"I guess you're right. From what I've read most of the tombs that were discovered in Egypt had already long been stripped of anything valuable."

"That's true, Gregor. But..."

"But what?" I asked.

"But...this isn't Egypt."

"Egypt or not," I said, "The bottom line is we were almost killed. And I don't really give a damn whether it was looters or treasure hunters or a bunch of the local boys letting off steam. We should have told Abdul as soon as we touched down. Where is he anyway?"

"Abdul left about an hour ago," my father said. "Went to Amman with the supply truck. Said he had to do some work at the ministry and won't be back for two or three days."

"Well, that's great!"  He rummaged through a stack of papers and reports on the table.

"If you're looking for your phone, it's in your shirt pocket."

"Thanks," he said and went outside.

"Had to leave a voice mail," he said returning. "That it was important, but I didn't say why."

"Well, I guess for the time being there really is nothing we can do. Apart from hoping those guys don't decide to trail us to our camp."

"That site is more than thirty miles from here as the crow flies. And there is no way they can drive as the crow flies."

"No, maybe not. But they did have camels."

"Sam, come on. You know how long it would take by camel? Besides they have no idea which direction to go."

"I hope you're right, Nathan."

"I'm sure of it. Being followed is one thing we don't have to worry about."

Somehow his words didn't reassure me.

"Well, I guess until you hear back from Abdul, there's not much we can do."

" Dad. There's _nothing_ we can do. And don't look at me like that."

"What? What am I doing? How am I looking?" His hair, what was left of it stuck out in gray tufts over his ears.

"I know what you're thinking. You're just itching to go up in that... that...Chitty Chitty Bang Bang! Don't even think about going _near_ that contraption."

"Okay, okay. I'm just going to check out the damage. That's all. Relax already, you'd think I had a death wish." He paused before stepping out into the glare and looked at Boots, who said nothing, doing his best to make himself invisible.

Relax! If one more person— another _man_ told me to relax...

"I know this is really upsetting, Sam," he said when my father was out of earshot. And to tell the truth I was scared shitless." He refolded the map he'd been studying and stuck it amongst a jumble of papers in a crate.

"But there's nothing we can do until I can get in touch with Abdul. I don't speak Arabic worth a damn so there's no point contacting the police. Besides I'd have to get in touch with the Authorities in Amman. And even if I contacted someone who spoke English well enough, you've no idea what kind of red tape we'd be tangled in. I don't want to jeopardize my research grant or have my dig permits revoked. It took a lot of political diplomacy so I could investigate this area. The least threat of danger, or anything shady we'd be sent packing."

"Getting shot at is hardly your fault."

"No, but the government certainly won't want to be on the hook if something were to happen. There'd be a lot of ass covering. Can you imagine the repercussions?"

"I guess. I had no idea archeology was such a political game."

"Better believe it. What with the Middle East being a powder keg anyway, and the fact that trade in illegal artifacts is almost rife, any dig team allowed to excavate is operating under rather tenuous circumstances.

"In any case, it doesn't matter who I report this to, they can't get here or do anything before Abdul gets involved. Besides he's the one in charge, given he's with the Department of Antiquities. If this does turn out to have anything to do with looting or whatever, he's got ultimate authority."

"Makes sense."

I flopped down on my bed to keep the room from spinning. I'm not what you would call a good drinker, rather prone to throwing up if overdo it. How did I ever get talked into coming to a place where a real toilet was hundreds of kilometers away?

I sat up slowly and poured some bottled water on a soiled tee shirt to wash my face. The water was warm enough to brew tea.

"I think I'll go and help with the pottery washing." Boots paused before exiting.

"I think it would be a good idea if we kept this to ourselves for the time being. You know, just the three of us."

"Of course. No need to alarm the others. Most of them are kids."

"My thinking exactly."

I never felt so alone.

And it had little to do with being shot at. Or the lack of running water.

No, the problem wasn't the place or the people. Grudgingly I have to admit I'm a person who likes to be in control. And it has taken me years to realize and admit that my own selfish single-mindedness was the main cause of my divorce from Geoff. I want to pull the strings, make decisions, to be the one in control. I was a million miles away from being in charge and I wasn't enjoying it. And being so far out of my element I wasn't much of an asset to the team. Never mind being a cog in the machinery, I could hardly function as a spare part.

I flipped the blanket over the cord that was strung in front of my sleeping area dividing it from the rest of the room. I had the dubious good fortune to be the only person enjoying coed accommodations and that blanket afforded my only privacy. I peeled off my shirt, dropped it on the cot and removed my bra. Using my shirt I dried myself as best I could. No sooner had I dried under my breasts I was sticky and clammy again. Men certainly had it easier. If they had a problem they could strut around with their legs apart. I thought of Geoff, wondering what he was up to.

The shirt went into the laundry bag and I hunted through my things for the least wrinkled tee shirt, but who was I kidding. Checking that the curtain was secure I removed my shorts and changed into fresh panties. The shorts went back on. With the exception of underwear archeologists seem to wear the same clothes for days at a time. Hell, underwear too for all I knew. Or wanted to know.

You could go around in the filthiest clothes and no one commented. But step outside without your sun block and the whole team descended on you. Periodically during the morning work sessions someone would remind the group that it was time to 'block-up' or take a drink, but by late afternoon the threat of cancer seemed to have diminished and most of us went around in tee shirts, shorts and sandals. And in my case, no bra. At thirty-two, I was older than most of the women here, but reasonably fit. I swam and jogged several times a week, so packing any extra weight wasn't a problem. But even though I wasn't suffering from terminal droop it was easy to see that the other women would have found my bras a couple of sizes too big.

I ran a comb through my hair in an attempt to straighten the tangled curls and spritzed myself liberally with perfume. I was more than a little self conscious about the shortage of water. Reasonably dry and comfortable, now that I was unfettered, I went to help with the pottery washing.

Mara Semler was the ceramic authority. And every afternoon she held court behind the dining shelter where the team met to wash and clean the pottery shards recovered from the morning's dig. Since all our water was trucked to the site it was at a premium to say the least and strict conservation was practiced. The shards were left soaking in plastic buckets to soften the dirt and accumulated deposits. With toothbrushes and wooden picks we'd go at the shards vigorously brushing and scraping away centuries of accumulated dirt. It was a mindless activity that I actually enjoyed, requiring a brush, a pail of water and a happy disposition. I guess two out three wasn't bad. It was also a good time to socialize with the rest of the group.

After the shards were cleaned, they were laid out to dry on a long table. The next day they would be read. Mara would gather the students and volunteers to discuss and date the pieces, placing them in their historical time frame. Iron Age. Late. Early. Roman. See the finger and throwing marks. Note how the more recent pieces are thinner, the Roman samples less robust than the early Iron Age. More refined.

Although this wasn't my idea of a vacation, I had to admit I was learning something. Only by destroying a site, we were told, could archeologists piece together the fragments of history. Consequently only reputable archeologists were allowed to dig. Government regulations were strict, protocols had to be observed. And of course, to ensure we didn't destroy the sites through negligence, nor smuggle national treasures each dig had a government official keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings. Abdul was our minder. But he was also a valuable contributor. I hadn't been there that long but could already see his subtle influence at work. He didn't hesitate to get down on his knees in the dirt, offering gentle instruction, showing by example when to use a pick, a trowel, or a heavier tool. Nor did he hesitate to bark harshly in Arabic at the basket boys who took every opportunity to squat on their haunches and smoke cadged cigarettes.

As I approached I could hear laughter and my father's voice as he entertained the group with some outrageous story or silly joke. And by their reaction it was easy to see how much they adored this gnomish old man. Of course this only encouraged him and in spite of the fact that he drove me nuts I was pleased. He loved teasing and goading me, and when he succeeded in getting me into a lather, he'd laugh and tell me to loosen up.

"Hi, Dr. Milland." Mariko was an exchange student from Japan studying soil chemistry and at eighteen, was the youngest member of the team.

"Sam, please. I feel old enough as it is. Or better yet," I said putting on a serious face, "call me Sam, Dr. Milland is my father."

That brought a few laughs, but I was still the second banana. Walt, a bright young twenty-two year old, wearing a bandanna on his head like a pirate, was furiously scrubbing away at a shard that once might have belonged to a large bowl or urn.

"Sam," he said to me. "Sit here. I want to talk to you." He up-ended a bucket and patted it with a muddy hand. "Your father was just telling us about your..."

'Don't believe a word he tells you. That man lies like a rug."

"Sammy! Is that any way to speak about your father?"

"Sounds a mite disrespectful, if you ask me," Walt said taking his part. "Considering he saved you from a deep embarrassment with the archbishop."

"Archbishop...? What have you been telling them?"

"Gregor," Walt continued, "was telling us about the time you were at a fundraising dinner and you got the hots..."

"The hots!" I threw a sponge at him.

"I didn't say hots, Sammy, I didn't say hots." The sponge caught him as he jumped up, leaving a muddy splotch on his impeccably pressed Chinos. Walt too, faced a barrage from the group.

"Sorry, sorry. I apologize," he said contritely. "He said hit– you were about to hit on the archbishop."

"That's just as bad."

"Did he really look like Antonio Banderas?" Walt just didn't know when to quit.

"I suppose he does. If you can picture a seventy year old Banderas. But my father gets a little confused." I tapped the side of my head and whispered, "You know he's no spring chicken... more like an old buzzard." They objected of course, taking the old buzzard's part, but I forged ahead.

"Dad, you must be thinking about the other bishop."

"What other bishop?" he said sitting back and twitching his lips.

"You know," I prompted but he wouldn't take the bait.

"We have this neighbor," I told them. "Not actually a neighbor because he lives across the street and quite a few doors away. Is that the bishop you mean?" He didn't answer, his lips working a mile a minute.

"This neighbor is– how can I put it? A bit eccentric."

"Eccentric! The man's a certifiable nut case!"

"Is that a medical opinion, Dr. Milland?" Mariko said, cracking everyone up.

"This eccentric," I continued, "sits, weather permitting of course, sits on his front steps reading his newspaper. And if weather doesn't permit, he shrouds himself in a purple blanket and wears what looks remarkably like a matching tea cozy on his head."

"What?" Walt said, "You're worse than your father."

"Yeah? Well guess who christened this guy the bishop?"

Timing the laughter like an old pro, my father intoned, "You have to admit, Sammy, the man does look very ecclesiastical."

"But what I want to know," Walt persisted, "is did you hit on him or not?"

I leaned over and put my hand on his thigh, my breast pressing against his upper arm.

"What do you think?" I said huskily.

He colored and shook his head, "You too, are really something. Should take your act on the road.

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourselves. Didn't know pottery washing could be such fun." Mara sauntered over, dropped her cigarette and casually crushed it under the heel of her shoe. I don't know how she managed to keep herself looking so presentable. Her camp clothes were clean. Her shorts and shirts crisp and pressed. And in spite of the insidious dust her loafers gleamed. No wonder she hit it off with my father.

Mara squatted on an up-turned plastic box and started to clean a shard and smiled at my father. Jesus, if he didn't puff his chest.

"Don't scrape. Brush as much of the grime and dirt off the artifact as you can." She demonstrated.

"These deposits can be tough to remove and sometimes need more soaking. Centuries of seasonal rains leach minerals from the soil and coating the pottery."

She put the piece back into the pail and swished her fingers in the water to clean them. I gave up trying to stay clean and just wiped my hands on my shorts or tee shirt. Not Mara. She fanned her hands in the air to dry them.

"Okay, gang. Make sure each piece remains with its friends, okay? The contents from your pail–and don't lose the tag. The contents of your pail all go into the same bag. That's the mesh bag. And don't forget to switch the label from the pail to the bag." She drilled this home every afternoon.

She got up still waving her hands.  "We'll read pottery after dinner. Seven o'clock sharp. I'd like to see everyone, especially those of you getting credit for this session." I resisted the urge to stand up and salute.

Mara nodded and turned towards our tent. She was a slim woman, of average features but with a rather disproportionately large behind.

"I'll go with you," my father said almost falling in his haste to get up. "I want to ask you some questions about this piece. Looks like well, I'm not sure..."

"Certainly," she answered and held out her hand. Jesus, Dad. She's thirty years younger. I watched the two of them head towards the shelter, heads together studying a dumb piece of broken crockery. She was taller than him, but not by much. He was talking away, unconsciously slipping into a pseudo British accent as he did whenever having what he considered an _intelligent talk_. In spite of being short he looked remarkably like the actor Ray Milland. The phony accent was the clincher.

Walt looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. "Professor Semler can be pretty demanding." I hoped he was referring to the academic expectations she had of her students.

"She certainly knows a lot about the history of pottery."

"Oh, yeah. That she does, that she does." Walt was not all that impressed with the woman.

"Oh, yeah," he repeated. "Old Mara knows her pots. _And_ her pot," he added softly leaning towards me.

He stretched to his six foot three frame, picked up his mesh bag and headed to the long table where the shards would be laid out for Mara's analysis. Tall and good looking with wispy blond whiskers struggling to become a beard, Walt had a lot of appeal given his linebacker physique, but at twenty-two he was already married. Had been for three years.

I went back to work scrubbing at a piece Mara would probably call a diagnostic. To my untutored eye the piece appeared to be part of a shoulder and rim of a large bowl. These pieces gave valuable information when properly read or diagnosed, so were considered much more important compared to the thousands of other shards. And it was quite thin too; compared to the others I'd come across, with parallel grooves, the throwing marks left by the potter's fingers. I looked it over carefully, suddenly realizing that centuries had passed since the item had last been handled. I drifted back in time imagining his shop, the clay, his children running around playing. How long ago? Two thousand years? Twenty-five hundred? The piece as large as my hand was really quite delicate and pinged when I flicked it with a finger. I could see stacks of his bowls piled in his shop. Mud. Water. Fire.

"Sammy, you're still here? Can't help it, can you.  It's like time-travel. Magical." He sat down. The others had all left while I'd been daydreaming, but magical or not I longed to be home. With running water. And a toilet. One that flushed. A week and a half down, three to go.

I put the pieces in the bag then dumped the water into the storage vat. The dirt would settle and the water recovered, to wash more shards. Occasionally we had to top up from the huge tank that served the camp. Everything had to be brought in. Water. Food. Snacks.  And of course, booze. Even Diesel fuel for the generator, not to mention gasoline for Boot's toy.

The scary part was the gasoline. To my dismay I discovered that the gasoline was stored behind my cot about two feet from my head. In Jerry cans. Not those safety containers we use back home. When I suggested the container be moved further away Boots was aghast.

"In the sun!  Sam, you got to be kidding."

That night was the first time in over a week that I was able to get a decent night's sleep. Fatigue finally overcame my fear of the gasoline bomb, and I managed to sleep a couple of hours before being roused by my father at five AM. We needed to be working by six at the latest to accomplish anything. The sun was so powerful, so energy sucking that we shut down the dig by noon or very shortly after. I was counting the days. How the others could endure more two months of this was a mystery I didn't want to solve. And my father? The tougher the situation, the better he seemed to like it. I surely had to be his adopted daughter. He'd already been out here the best part of a month already, arriving with Boots at the start of the season to set up the place. He didn't seem to be suffering, but I was concerned about his weight loss. His pants were so loose that they were scrunched when he cinched his belt. Every morning he bounded out of bed and nudged me awake. And if I was testy, which I was, he'd laugh.

I put my pottery on the table then headed over to our shelter leaving him to examine the display. Maybe a nap before dinner would put me in a more positive frame of mind.

I flopped down on my cot and hunched my laundry bag behind my head, no pillow of course, but hey– I am pretty spoiled. Maybe I'd skip dinner and sleep in. A lot of the kids stumbled out of bed about two minutes before they were needed at the site, mechanically going through the motions of working their picks and trowels for an hour before they were fully alert.

# Chapter 3

Abdul was sitting on a folding chair sipping tea from a small glass, one foot resting on an empty wooden crate. What looked like a lettuce leaf was stuck to the side of the box. He wore a khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow and secured by the epaulets. Both breast pockets were stuffed; one with folded papers, the other with half a dozen ballpoint pens. The pockets of his matching cargo pants bulged. I figured him to be in his forties but I find it hard to judge a balding man's age. He was attractive. A dark skinned Arab, slightly taller than me. His thinning hair, black and shiny was short and recently cut. There was no fuzz growing on the nape of his neck. And typical of most of the Arab men I'd seen he had the traditional mustache, meticulously trimmed. Nizar, our Palestinian cook, hovered, grinning and bowing as he replenished our tea from a dented and fire-blackened kettle. He smiled at me showing a gold tooth. Two deep wrinkles bracketed his mustache.

"Shukran," I said, thank you. It was the only Arabic I knew. He nodded and mumbled something. I smiled back in the way people do when they haven't a clue what the other person is saying.

Abdul had flown back immediately after he got in touch with Boots. It was late, about two AM and the whole camp was buzzing, the adrenaline rush much in evidence as everyone scurried about the dining shelter getting in Nizar's way.

Mush had commandeered the stove and was scrambling eggs with chopped onions, creating omelets and toasting bread on the gas burners. Nizar didn't seem to mind, but his smile froze if anyone else, including Boots, went near the stove.

Forty minutes earlier we'd been awakened by the whump-whump of the helicopter. Boots had given fair warning to expect visitors, but excitement had been hard to contain. My father hadn't even gone to bed wanting, of course, to be the first on deck when Abdul arrived.

"Shukran," I said again, placing my hand over the glass to keep Nizar from refilling it. After three glasses I'd be running to the latrine all night. I sipped the hot, sweet tea spiced with cardamom and continued working on a rather large piece honey and nut pastry. What Nizar was able to produce under such adverse conditions was nothing short of a miracle. A month here and I'd gain pounds. Of course I was feeding my misery. My father, on the other hand, stayed away from the sweets and pastries. Salads, of which the variety was considerable, and chicken, were the mainstay of our diet and fresh fruit, though limited to oranges and watermelon was plentiful. So if you didn't eat like a pig you'd probably have to tighten your belt a notch or two.

"Abdul," my father said. "By the looks of your men, you must think this is pretty serious."

"Quite, Dr. Milland." His voice was soft, but carried weight. I had to lean closer and concentrate in order to hear him.

"Tomorrow–today actually," he said looking at his watch. "At first light, we go. Mr. Horowitz has agreed to show us the way."

"You have room for passengers?"

"Dad." I gave his arm a squeeze. No way was he going.

"Not for civilians, I'm afraid. Mr. Horowitz will just point the way for us."

"My Ultralight averages forty to sixty miles an hour. When I'm the pilot. And that's with a following wind! Took us about forty-five minutes to get there and a bit less on the way back for obvious reasons."

"I think we can do a bit better than that," Abdul said. "The distance according to the map is what? About thirty-five, forty miles?"

"That's my best guess."

"How many can your helicopter seat?" My father asked.

"Leave it, Dad."

"Okay, let's do this." Ignoring my father, Abdul got up, raised his hand and made a circular motion, then said something in Arabic to his men huddled at a table near the stove, chain smoking and drinking tea. They laughed and raised their glasses to my father. Two pilots and four support –all six armed to the teeth. Holstered side arms on their hips and machine pistols on the table. Members of a special force to combat the smuggling and loss of national treasures Abdul told us. More like a small army of mercenaries, I thought. Mush, whose name was Harris Gerber, was distantly related to the Gerber baby food king, was sitting with them spooning pureed apricot over his eggs. The rest of us had stashes of booze; he kept cases of the apricot mush. Abdul pointed to my father and they all laughed again. My father was oblivious, but Abdul noticed my discomfort.

"I told them your father wanted to be part of the –what would call it? A mission? And you had reservations."

"And that's funny?"

"No, not really. I'm sorry. It's a cultural thing. Please understand. Daughters here aren't quite so influential."

"Can you tell us," my father interrupted, afraid I'd jump on my feminist high horse. "Why such a speedy reaction with the helicopter and police?"

"Dr. Milland..."

"Gregor, please."

"Yes, Gregor. We suspect, and I stress the word — _suspect_ a smuggling operation."

"That was my first take on this." Boots was fidgeting, rolling his glass between his palms and periodically raising it to his mouth to drain another drop from the empty glass."

"You needn't come with us you know. Your indication on the map is quite clear. I'm sure the pilot can locate the place."

"No. No I want to do this. I'm more familiar with the visual aspects of the terrain."

"Okay, if you are quite certain."

Boots nodded, and my father impatient for more information, cleared his throat.

"I was saying," continued Abdul. "Smugglers. It's quite common actually. More than we care to admit. The range of activity is very wide. From tourists concealing a few shards of pottery in their dirty laundry to some rather large relief panels looted from ancient palace sites. It's all illegal of course, but the pottery scraps don't concern us at all. Pottery is the most common artifact since 6000 BC. Even in Amman, in the middle of the city. Scratch the surface of any vacant patch of dirt and you find pottery. Oftentimes right on the surface. No, these bits of pottery are not the problem."

"There are of thousands of sites in the Middle East," Boots added. "And since the war..."

"Yes," Abdul interrupted, "since the Gulf War. Iraq in particular, because of the heavy sanctions imposed by your Uncle Sam. For decades Iraqis were very careful. Very strict. Virtually nothing got out. But as Boots said, since the War people are selling everything. It won't be long before all the sites are irreparably damaged."

"I don't understand what it has to do with the war."

"Because of hard times, Sam. Hard times." Abdul paused to light his cigarette exhaling twinjets of smoke through his nostrils. "The sanctions –economic and trade restrictions– have hurt the country enormously, especially the wealthy business class. And in order for them to maintain their affluent lifestyle, they are seeking to raise cash by selling off valuable artifacts. Many of these families have vast land holdings that are expensive to maintain, and often enough there are historic sites on their property. Private property. Until recently the landowners were very protective, very possessive of their country's treasures. However, as I've mentioned, they are selling vast amounts of priceless objects to keep financially afloat."

"It can't be that easy," I said. "Aren't there strict penalties for doing this?"

"That's true," Boots said. "But you've got to catch them."

"Right," Abdul agreed. "Unfortunately it's not only the smuggling and looting of artifacts, legal or otherwise. Weapons have become a big part of the problem. Not to mention the drug trade. These artifacts, the patrimony of the Middle East, are sold, traded and ultimately become guns and bombs. Lebanon, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and my beloved Jordan have a shameful hand in this business.  And that my friends, is a major worry. I don't have to explain why."

"You included drugs?" My father said, surprised.

"Oh yes. Drugs too. It's all entangled. Even art stolen from Jews. Many Nazis, who escaped after the war, did so with a lot of stolen wealth. And paintings are easier to convert to money than antiquities. But that's a story for another time.  These Nazis didn't all end up in South America."

I remembered that Germany had been allied with the Ottomans. It was conceivable some would have found a way to hide in the Middle East.

"Well," Abdul said, standing to stretch. "Not much chance for your people to get any sleep."

"Who can sleep? Besides if I can't join your little escapade I'm at least going to stay awake. No way I want to miss anything."

"Dr. Gregor, this isn't Hollywood, you know." He said this without any hint of a put down. "And it may in fact prove nothing. Just a routine exercise."

"I understand, I understand. Just a precaution, I know. An investigation."

"Not even that, Gregor. At this stage we are just looking. Just an observation."

"Let's not lose sight of the fact that Boots and I were shot at."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten. I didn't mean that I was taking this lightly, but we mustn't jump to conclusions. What do you people say?"

"Look before you leap," I offered.

"That's it, Sam. And now," he said looking at his watch, "I think we had better prepare. It'll be light soon."

The sky was losing its inky blackness as a purple glow crept into the eastern sky. Abdul went to his men. Cigarettes were extinguished, machine pistols checked and the men headed towards the helicopter. Not an investigation, he said. Why did they look like an invading force?"

"Sammy, get some sleep, you seem a little pale. There's still a couple of hours." He patted my arm and sidled over towards Mush and Mara who had their heads together studying the top plans of their field. I headed back to our shelter and not because he had suggested it.

Boots was lacing up his boots, looked up and said. "I doubt we'll get much work done on the site today what with all this excitement. Can you pass the word to the group that we'll make it a camp day? Get caught up on paper work and so forth?"

"Sure, I can do that." I watched him tie then retie the laces. The man was a wreck.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing."

"Don't go, Boots. You're tired and as nervous as a cat. They've got the map."

"No, like I said. It's easier this way. I've got a good visual memory. And besides what if my map is wrong? No, I'll be all right. But shit. These guys are carrying a lot of firepower, know what I mean? For looters?"

I thought so too. "It's their uniform. Probably dress that way for a picnic."

"Yeah. Anyway wish me luck." Uncharacteristically he came over and gave me a hug. I hate physical contact, but under the circumstances I gave him a squeeze and even kissed him on the cheek.

Boots went off to board the helicopter, the dig team standing back from the rotor wash shielding their faces from the buffeting sand.

He couldn't avoid telling them why Abdul had returned in a helicopter with a military escort. He'd filled them in briefly but they were dying to know more. I felt like a fish in a glass bowl as they watched me, waiting to pump me for more information. In fact I really had nothing to add.

We were looking for clues, he told them earlier.

For potential dig sites.

Apparently we surprised a small group of men.

They fired at us.

No we weren't hurt.

I watched them become a speck in the lightening sky they headed back to the shelter. Maybe I could get a little sleep before they returned. When I sat down to remove my boots I was overcome with a wave of nausea so sudden I had to grip the edge of the cot to keep from falling over. Instead of passing it got worse. If I didn't head straight for the latrine I'd be sick on the spot. I barely made it, throwing up violently into the pit. Although lime and water was poured into it daily the smell would have made an alligator retch.

Gradually the dizziness subsided and I was able to compose myself. Back in the shelter I hunted for my toothpaste and a clean shirt. I was drenched in sweat. After cleaning my teeth and rinsing with bottled water, I changed my shirt. This was all I needed. A million miles from civilization and I was puking my guts out. Well, my father was a doctor. Small consolation considering where the hell I was.

About mid morning I heard the rhythmic thump of rotor blades, and somewhere in my subconscious I imagined the opening scenes from _M*A*S*H_. My father was shaking me.

"Sammy, they're back, come on." He left the shelter. The room had stopped spinning and I got up slowly. Except for a gnawing hunger I felt fine.

By the time I made it out of our shelter the helicopter had taken off again, having first discharged Boots, who was now besieged by the group. My father, like a kid at a parade kept standing on his toes to get a better look over their heads.

"We cleared the rise, and when we pulled over the top we saw them running to the pick-up. One guy jumped in behind the wheel, the other one barely managed to jump in the back before his buddy took off. Abdul kept yelling at them through the loud hailer, but they kept going, as if they could get away. They got about a hundred yards before hitting a boulder. Man you should have seen them. It went up about five feet, I swear, then flipped on its side. Man, it made my teeth rattle."

"My God, Nathan! Were they hurt?"

"The one riding in the bed was thrown clear and probably broke his arm. It was twisted kind of funny. The other guy was badly shaken up but I don't think he was hurt."

"That's it?"

"Well, when they saw all the guns pointed at them they stopped dead in their tracks let me tell you! He was breathing hard from the excitement. "There was no way they could get away. With or without the truck."

"Then what?" I asked.

"Well the helicopter lands and Abdul gets out with his four hired guns. That machine is noisy let me tell you, but the way Abdul was yelling they knew the guns meant business. They knocked them flat, and cuffed them. And I do mean _knocked_ them. That guy with the broken arm was yelling –crying actually."

"They arrested them?"

"Sure as hell looked that way, Gregor."

"But they hadn't done anything..."

"Well, when the truck tipped... a crate fell off. It broke open and several pieces. Several large slabs fell out. I was told to stay on the helicopter, but I could see quite clearly that they were carvings –stone relief carvings. That's was all Abdul needed."

"What about those two guys?" I asked.

"They hustled them into the helicopter. The one with the broken arm was really moaning and crying, the other guy telling him to cool it. He was really yelling at him until one of Abduls guys jammed his rifle into his gut. Man I could almost feel it. These guys are rough, let me tell you."

"No one else?" I asked. "What about those Arabs and camels that we saw?"

"Don't know, Sam. "Those two guys were the only ones there."

"What about the stuff that fell off the truck?" My father asked, handing him a shot of scotch.

"Thanks. They left them there. There was quite a bit and I don't think we could have put it in the helicopter. At this point it was getting crowded."

"Abdul just left the stuff lying there?"

"Not exactly." He took a sip. "He left two men to keep watch or guard. Said he'd arrange with his department, the Department of Antiquities to recover the items.

"But I wouldn't mind going back myself to have a real good look around. Know what I mean?" he said very softly to my father.

Mush heard. "Me too. This place has gotten kind of dull."

Boots looked at him.

"What I mean, professor Horowitz, you know. With the smugglers and all. I didn't mean the dig was boring. It's just that maybe checking that place..."

"Mush," my father said. "When you're in a hole, stop digging!"

"I thought those bones you uncovered had you pretty worked up," Boots said when the laughter died.

"They did, I mean they do. But they were lying a bit too close to the surface to be very old. Less than a hundred years is my guess."

The bones had caused quite a stir when first found. Especially since they were obviously the remains of a very young child. Speculation went from murder to ritual sacrifice. Mara had told us there was no evidence suggesting sacrifice or ritual murder. Bedouins, she said, often buried their dead in abandoned sites. The proliferation of rocks would be more than enough to protect the remains of the deceased. Of course I imagined all kinds of intrigue.

"And the basin and loom weights?" Boots asked him.

Managed to move the basin. Took eight of us. And the loom weights have been tagged. And we took pictures of everything before the stuff –the artifacts were moved."

"Sounds like you're on top of it."

"I'm just finishing my report actually."

"Great. If Abdul says we can check out the place I'll need an assistant. You up for that?"

"You kidding? I'll be done by this afternoon." He got up to leave.

"Well, don't forget about pottery washing, we'll need you there too," Mara said.

"Just joking," she added when his face dropped. "Go on. Go write your report. But I want to read it before you give it to Boots. Make sure you get everything right about the skeletal remains."

"Thanks, Mara. I will.

"He's a bright boy," she said when he was out of earshot. "If a bit irreverent."

She'd caught him entertaining us, playing ventriloquist with the baby skull, and had dressed him down for being so disrespectful. She'd shamed me too as I had probably laughed the loudest.

"Can I help?" I said to Boots after the group dispersed. I really had no specific skills relating to archeology, and if we weren't digging today, there'd be little to keep my mind off my deprivations.

"Can you draw?"

"Draw? No, not really."

"Too bad. We need sketches of the more interesting pieces. Anyway you can help me record the items. No photocopier out here and everything has to be in triplicate. One for me. One for them. And one for customs."

After helping Boots complete his clerical work, I left him and spent the afternoon helping Mara. The rest of the team was busy writing their papers and reports or maybe just goofing off. Digging was hard work. Hard, dirty and often demoralizing in the intense heat, and being so far from home and civilization didn't help. The team, though young and energetic, suffered the pangs of homesickness, so Boots didn't crack the whip on camp days. Actually, he never cracked the whip; his own energy and enthusiasm was motivation enough.

Mara and I had finished the paper work on the pottery, bone fragments, and pieces of charred wood. The bones had yet to be identified, too small for immediate analysis. My imagination ran wild. The charred wood, Mara told me, could have been the result of the settlement being sacked by an invading force. Then again, accidental fire would not have been unheard of. But I preferred to imagine an invading army putting the town to the torch. Mind you, maybe the bones were the remains of a two thousand year old meal. Unless the bones proved to be human. Cannibalism anyone? Like I said. I've an active imagination.

Boots burst in as I sorted paperwork.

"Sam! Where's Mara?" he shouted, startling me.

"I'm here," she answered, crawling out from beneath the table, dragging a box of prospectors' picks and trowels. "What's the matter?"

"Abdul just called. Those two men? The ones left at the site? They've been killed?"

# Chapter 4

"Oh my God," she said. "And you think...oh those poor men."

"It could have been me too. I wanted to stay with them," he said tugging his hair. "Thank God. But those men."

Mush hauled a chair over and Boots collapsed into it, dazed.

A bottle of scotch materialized. Mush poured. Several coffee-stained mugs were on the table, and I wiped one out with the tail of my shirt. Mush added a healthy shot and I gave it to Boots.

"What did Abdul say," my father asked.

"That's it. That no one was to stray from the camp, and that he'd be here as soon as he could."

"He brought his team back? The investigators?"

"Yes. He's at the site with them now. The helicopter is taking the two men back to Amman. When it returns they'll pick him up and bring him here. But no one leaves the camp, not even to go to Amman for supplies."

"And no more scouting in your contraption, either," I said.

"Yeah. I think that's what he meant actually."

"Well," Mara said, "we've enough supplies for a few days. As long as we ration the booze." That thawed the ice, laughter easing the tension.

"And tomorrow," she continued, "we'll get back to digging. There's a good chance they'll shut us down so we should get as much work done as we can."

"Shit!" Mush said, grabbing the bottle.

"It's a strong possibility." Boots tugged at his socks, rolling them up and down.

"They can't!" Mush said. "We need every minute as it is. I was hoping to reach the floor before we closed up for the season."

"I know, Mush. Believe me, I know. We've worked hard. All of us. But if they decide to pull the plug, there's nothing I can do."

"Shit!" he said again.

"In the meantime, we'll carry on. But keep in mind we may have to close down sooner than we'd like."

"And given that it'll take two to three days to wind everything up, it might be a good idea to be as organized as possible. Let's not create more work than we can handle."

"Yes. Good point, Gregor," Boots agreed. "But I'll check with Abdul and see if I can work something out. But don't get your hopes up."

"And I was counting on exploring that site with you."

"There will be lots of sites. You've your whole career ahead of you," Boots told him.

"I know, I know, and I'm really sorry about those two men. I didn't mean to sound selfish. I know there'll be other seasons. In the meantime I think I'll go pester Nizar. Anybody hungry? Mara?"

"No thanks. I've eaten enough of your omelets to last a lifetime. My cholesterol is probably through the roof!"

"You mean through the canvas."

"Go! Go bother the cook."

"And speaking of cholesterol," my father said to her. "Care to join me in a walk around the camp?"

"Walk!" Mush called over his shoulder. "To get your heart rate up, you need something more aerobic than walking."

My father laughed, and shook his head. His heart was pounding away just fine. Mara, a bit embarrassed, threw a pottery shard, hitting Mush in the head.

They went for their walk. Not hand in hand, but close enough. Spare me.

I headed for our shelter afraid I'd see them disappear behind a dune.

Boots was installed at his table reading his notes into an old Radio Shack cassette recorder. I mouthed a hello and waggled my fingers at him. He shut the machine, pushed away his papers and yawned.

"Oh, sorry about that. I am totally beat."

"No wonder. The last couple of days have been something else."

"For sure. But it's the same for me every season. I really try to get a lot of rest before the season starts. And no matter how much sleep I get when I'm here I just get progressively more tired. By the time I get home, there's nothing left of me."

"My father should be exhausted too. Apart from losing some weight he's thriving. I just wish he'd slow down a little."

"Your father is amazing, Sam. I try to limit his dig time to an hour or so, but he is cagey and knows when I'm giving him busy work."

"I appreciate that. Even if he doesn't! He has such a stubborn streak."

"Runs in the family, does it?"

"Thanks!"

"Just an observation." He reached for the scotch holding the bottle up to me.

"Why not!" He poured two healthy shots.

"You know. If it wasn't for your father, I wouldn't have this dig."

"Really! Why is that?"

"He's been funding it for the past three years. You didn't know?"

"I knew he contributed."

"More than a contribution. I owe him big-time. My grants would have covered a _normal_ dig, but it takes a lot of bucks to set up a camp like this. The equipment. The generator. Stove. Fridge. And the pickup truck too. That alone is a big chunk of money."

"I had no idea."

"Oops. I guess I let the cat out of the bag. I thought you knew."

"Only that he'd been helping out a bit."

"It's more than a bit, Sam. I hope you won't mention this to him."

"No, I won't let on."

"I find it a bit embarrassing actually. But my greed overrides my embarrassment."

"Don't be. He can afford it. I'll tell you something too, if you promise to keep it under your Tilley."

"Sure."

"Several years ago, he put some money in a stock. Some biotech company, he supposedly got a tip on. The company came out with a drug that was very effective against AIDS." I took a sip, adding, "He made out very well."

"That's amazing."

"Yeah. He kept at me after me to invest too. But, like you said– my stubborn streak. I'm still the rebelling child doing the opposite of what daddy says."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. He thinks the absolute world about you."

"Oh, I know that. Still."

"Yes, still. It's tough being the child. No matter how old you are, you're still their kid. And in your case, an only child."

"And he does spoil me."

"Hey. Don't knock it."

"True. That does have its advantages, which also carries responsibility."

"That's the biggie, isn't it?"

"Better believe it. Parents want their children to grow up strong and independent, to stand firm and stick to their own convictions. Finding that balance between being true to yourself and pleasing your parents can be difficult. Responsibility can be a debt."

"I can see that, especially if you don't have siblings. Being an only child can be a burden, but I doubt your father feels you owe him."

"No, I'm sure he doesn't. I _know_ he doesn't. But sometimes, more now that he's not so young, I feel I should be more indulgent of him. I'm all he has." I held my glass to him for a refill.

"He can really turn my crank, you know. I swear he goads me into reacting, into taking the opposite stand. Then I've got the guilts."

"Not easy being a daughter of a psychiatrist."

"No! It sure isn't. And don't you dare laugh!"

"Oops, sorry. I guess having a brother or sister would have helped."

"You said it." Actually I did have a brother. He was older by three years, but had died at the age of seven. My father never got over losing his son. And to make matters worse, my mother was implicated in his death. My brother had drowned, my mother charged with negligence. The shock and accusation of his death affected her mentally, and she was committed to an institution where she died. To this day I don't know if she'd been responsible or not for his death. And my father could never talk about it. Perhaps he was unsure himself. He did mention to me once that closure was impossible. My brother's body had never been found. He knew he was dead. But without the body and a proper burial, he'd never really rest or know real peace. Talk about guilt. As the surviving motherless child, he doted on me. Indulged me. And yes, he could tease me unmercifully. I guess I did turn out okay. But I was more selfish than I liked. I worked on that; I really did. Guilt too, is a hell of a motivator. So says my therapist.

I planned to help Mara with the pottery washing but I was feeling queasy again so I headed to my cot. The smell wafting from Nizar's kitchen was nauseating and I had to detour to the latrine, overcome with a sudden urge to vomit. After some unpleasantness I went back to my tent and rinsed my mouth, then back out behind the tent to spit. Soaking a cloth from the bottle I wiped my face and hands, the tepid water not refreshing.

I lay down hoping for the queasiness to abate and dozed off.

"Sammy. You okay?" I opened my eyes at the touch of my father's hand on my shoulder.

"How are you feeling? The heat getting to you?" Playing doctor, he felt my forehead.

"I'm better now, but I threw up again. Maybe it was something I ate, or the heat. And the smell from whatever Nizar is making set me off." Usually the aromas were mouth watering.

"Jesus, Dad. What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm a doctor."

He was checking my pulse, looking into my eyes, lifting the lids with his thumb.

"Do you feel pain anywhere? Stiffness? Soreness? Did something bite you? There are scorpions everywhere."

"No, no, no, and no."

"Okay, okay. Take it easy."

He put his hand on my head again, and I pushed it away.

"Well you don't have a fever."

"I'm fine, I tell you. Just the heat. Maybe a bit too much scotch last night."

"I don't think it's the heat, or Nizar's cooking. And you're not hung over?"

"No. I am not hung over."

"Then I can think of only one other thing." He reached for my hand, tilted his head, and smiled.

"Sammy, my dear," he said grinning like a fool.

"Jesus, what's got into you anyway?" I pulled my hand away and sat up slowly to keep my head from spinning.

He kept grinning.

"What? What?" He kept smiling.

"No. No way," I said shaking my head.

"No way? Why not? What are you, a nun?"

"Oh God. That's all I need. Just great!" I sat on the edge of the cot watching the old fool grinning at me.

"And wipe that grin of your face."

"Sammy, given all that's happening here, you should consider making plans to get back home. There's a flight to Montreal day after tomorrow."

"I was hoping to stick it out. It's what? Another month?"

"A bit more like six weeks. But there's no reason for you to stay given that you might be pregnant. You need to get back and see your doctor. And Geoff." He was still grinning from ear to ear.  I was at a loss for words.

I really did want to stay, to finish what I had started, and contribute to the expedition. And I did try to avoid acting like a princess.

"I'm proud of you Sammy. I know this trip isn't a cup of tea for you, but you have helped enormously and pulled more than your share of weight. You're not quitting, you know, if you choose to go back. And I think you should."

"You've got a point, Dad. The last few days..."

"I know, I know." He patted my hand solicitously and I didn't mind.

"You're the doctor," I said and hugged him.

"If I am up the stump, as Geoff would say, he's in for quite a surprise!"

"He'll be thrilled, mark my words. He'll be thrilled." More hand patting.

I was glad he thought it was okay for me to go home. I didn't want him to see me as a quitter, or hear me grumble about the conditions. I had promised myself that I could, and would cope with the two months of one star accommodation. One star would be luxury. It was going to be an adventure. My adventure. A departure from my coddled life. Who said, "Adventure is an attitude towards discomfort"?

Anyway, my adventure was going to be short lived. And truth be told, I was in fact, disappointed.

And speaking of adventure. Six weeks, he said. I'd know how long for sure, after seeing my gyno. And Geoff. We were close, which is an understatement given my circumstance. And we did love each other. We both knew the score, neither one of us having fallen off the turnip truck. But it was a bit of a shock. Jesus. We were in for more than a few changes. _I_ was in for a few changes. God, just thinking about it gave me a headache. And a warm feeling too, actually. I wasn't over the hill, but I was climbing fast.

How to break the news to Boots. That I was leaving the dig, which in fact might come to an abrupt end anyway. I'd need a reason. A lie. I hated lying. There is no upside. Just then my father returned.

"You know, Sammy. Tell Boots the truth."

"Come on, Dad. We don't know for sure. I didn't pee on the stick yet. I'm not superstitious, but I won't go around saying I'm pregnant until I am certain." I shook my head bringing on a dizzy feeling.

"Okay, okay. Of course you're right. But no harm in expressing it as a maybe."

"A maybe! A maybe! Dad. Are you serious? I haven't even spoken with Geoff. And you want me to break this news to the world first?"

"No, no. Of course not," he said placating. "Of course not. You need to tell Geoff. I'm stating the obvious, here," he chuckled. He paced and rubbed his hands. Jesus, the man was already outside the delivery room. And no way in hell, would he be inside, doctor or not.

"Leave it to me. I'm a doctor." No kidding, I wanted to say.

"I'm a doctor," he repeated. "I'll tell him, I'm quite concerned about your vomiting. And that it's my opinion you return home. Get checked out properly, you know. I'm not an expert on tropical diseases." I rolled my eyes.

"Dad, you are going to make this more complicated that it already is."

"Well, what is your plan then?"

"I'll just say I've been puking for a few days. The heat, the shit and the flies have gotten to me. And that I've felt crummy for several days." Which in fact was the truth.

"Okay, that works. I'll back you up."

"Don't over play this. Boots is no idiot."

It wasn't Boots that should have concerned us. No sooner had I started to explain about the nausea and that the vomiting had me whipped, Mush, who uncannily is always within earshot, piped up with, "Are you pregnant?"

The stunned look on my father's face gave the game away.

After some discussion I decided that indeed it was best if I returned home. The team was disappointed but understood. Mush even volunteered to drive me back to Amman, to our center, where we were established with other teams at the Canadian Institute for Archeology, which we referred to as the CIA. This raised quite a few eyebrows whenever anyone of us said we were with the CIA. And given the political climate in that part of the world, this was not a wise admission. But Mush liked to push the envelope.

The flight would be a long one. The best choice, actually the only choice given that I wanted the first available flight out, included a stop in Paris. Eight hours! I could at least shop. French perfume anyone? And of course a little something French for the man in my life. And I don't mean mademoiselle in a maid's outfit. What do you get a prospective father, if in fact that is what Geoff was?

I'm not quite sure how I felt about the whole thing. I was happy on one level, but also apprehensive. Having a child was not something I had ruled out, but I had never really given it much thought. Subconsciously perhaps, getting pregnant was what I wanted. We didn't always practice safe sex, so I can't deny wanting a child. Geoff liked kids. I knew that. And while married we never ruled out having a family, the plan being that we'd wait until I'd completed my doctorate and then, and then things fell apart. We divorced. My fault, if I admit it.

I was too driven, focused on my academic pursuits and didn't give Geoff much consideration. I loved him. Still do. But selfishly, I took him for granted. So Geoff took the initiative and left. He said he felt he was holding me back. Not true. But Geoff being Geoff would not allocate me any blame. I know his nose was out of joint because I didn't have enough time for him. For us. He felt lost, began to drink, gained weight and let his own career slide.

It took some time but he got his act together, and we've resumed our relationship as well as our commitment to each other.  And I work at being less selfish. Not that easy. My therapy sessions have taught me more than a few unsettling things about myself.

My father was easy to shop for. A silk scarf or tie. He'd even appreciate a gag gift. But Geoff was another matter given the present situation.

Back in my room at the C.I.A., I packed the few remaining clothes that weren't needed at the dig. We'd been advised to pack light and apart from multiple pairs of underwear, and a good deodorant, what else would an archeologist need in the field? So it all fit easily in one travel bag. My laptop would be a carry on.

That done, I booted up my laptop and sent Geoff an email. I gave him my flight details and said I would take a cab home from the airport, no need for him to play chauffeur.

There was no Internet access at the dig of course, but on two occasions I cadged a ride back to the C.I.A. with whomever was on a supply run so I was able to email Geoff. Considering his work and the time difference I didn't even bother to use the phone.

And now I was on my way home with two bits of news. I'd hear plenty about my folly in the ultra light so I decided it would more than a little prudent bring up the family news first. Ultimately this should fit in the good news department.  The other item I'd ignore. No doubt my father could be relied on to bring it up the first chance he had and Geoff would have a fit. But knowing him as I did, or thought I did, he'd not fly off the handle given the potential of my so-called delicate condition.

The flight was an ordeal. Paris should have been fun, even if just for a few hours. I could have taken a cab to some shopping area and been back for my connecting flight with plenty of time to spare. But as luck would have it, I was nauseated and spent too much time in the Lady's trying to keep it together. I had a wicked headache, and a sore stomach from all the retching and although I was hungry, ravenous actually, the smells emanating from the eateries were off-putting.

But hunger won out and I figured I could chance something light. It was either faint from starvation or throw up from eating. Some choice.  I decided a salad should be manageable. Maybe chicken or tuna, something plain and bland and without dressing. And tea, with lots of milk. It turned out to be a good choice. I lingered over an hour, eating slowly, and ordering a second pot of tea, trying to stretch the time. I managed to kill more than an hour, but after the fisheye stares from several servers I figured I had overstayed my welcome. Not pressing my luck, and to avoid experiencing first-hand Parisian manners, I paid and left. With several hours to go.

Airports are shopping malls, if you're in the mood but I had to force myself to browse the concourse, frequently resting and sitting on the many benches. Thankfully, my one bag was not difficult to deal with. So with a fair bit of walking, and resting and another pot of tea in another over priced restaurant I killed another two hours. Between tea breaks, I'd purchased a couple of paper backs in a variety store selling miniature Eifel Towers, greeting cards and other tourist junk. Sara Paretsky and Patricia Cornwell would be my seatmates. Strong female protagonists, overcoming adversities. Just what I needed. How would they have handled almost getting shot down over a desert?

The next day, I think it was the next day –the flight was so long and disorienting– I got out of the cab in front of my home on Aylmer. My father owned the building, which consisted of two spacious residential units, each the mirror image of the other. He gave me my half as gift, claiming that since I lived there I should unburden him of the sky-high taxes and start paying my own way.

I let myself in, reset the alarm and went around turning on the lights. It was far from dark, the late afternoon June sun filled the front rooms, but I'd been deprived of electricity long enough. Had it only been two weeks? Lights. Hot water. A bath. Yes, a bath!

After unpacking and putting the clothes in the hamper, I laid out my pajamas and robe on our bed and drew the bath. I'm normally a shower person, but not this time. Before shedding my travel clothes I called Geoff and left a message saying I was home. Then I stripped and slipped into the hot comforting water.

I hadn't felt this relaxed in what certainly seemed more than two weeks, and I almost dozed off. But after twenty minutes I got out, dried off and put on my pajamas and robe to luxuriate. Geoff, I knew would soon be ringing the doorbell. Speak of the devil.

"Sam, I missed you!" he said, entering and hugging me even before the door was closed. "I'm glad you're back," he said kissing me. I mean I'm sorry you had to bug out early though. Pretty primitive I guess."

"Primitive enough. But I'm glad to be home. And I missed you too."

"What about Gregor? If I know your father, the rougher it is, the better he'd like it."

"You got that right!" I said leading him into the living room.

"I don't know what he's made of. Of course he does tend to take charge and when you lead there's less stress. Or so I'm told. Mind you, Boots is still the boss and he does handle my father amazingly well."

He sat down, pulled off his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Any beer left? I could use one."

"Guinness and Stella."

"Get you something?" he said from the kitchen.

"No thanks. Jet lag." If I was pregnant alcohol was a no-no. I thought about all the scotch I'd knocked back. He returned with the beer in a glass. I'd never seen him swig from the bottle.

"You've lost weight," he said studying me. No wonder with all the puking.

"Just a couple of pounds. It was so hot, I didn't have much appetite."

"Yeah, that'll do it. So your father; he's going to hang in, is he?"

"Of course he's going to hang in. Another two months." I wasn't about to get into the possibility of a shut down because of the shooting and murder of the guards.

"Got to admire the man's grit. Here's to him," he said raising his glass. Yes, I thought, here's to him.

He drained his glass, and took it to the kitchen. I could hear him rinsing it out.

So," he said, returning. "I'll head off. I am glad you're back, but I can see you're wiped out. You should hit the sack early."

"I can't wait to get to bed, but before you go." I got up and went to him. He stood at the door ready to leave.

"Before you go, Geoff, I have something to tell you." His expression changed suddenly, his face registering a kind of shock, as if he thought I was about to 'dear John' him.

"No. It's good news. Well, I think it's good news."

"Sam. Spit it out. I'm dying here. What's going on?" I reached out and hugged him.

"Sam?"

"I think I'm pregnant."

"What?" His face cracked in the widest grin I'd ever seen on him.

"Really? Oh man. That's great! You sure? Oh wow. That's wonderful." He was hugging and squeezing.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't mean to."

"Geoff," I laughed. "I won't break. Actually I haven't been to my gyno yet. But you know my father. He thinks it's a foregone conclusion."

I told him about the nausea, the vomiting. He listened, riveted to every word.

"You'd better get some rest. You look exhausted." I should go you so can get some sleep. You going to be okay?"

"Yes, I'll be fine. I'm not sick you know, just tired." I stood on my toes and kissed his lips.

"You're not disappointed? It's not confirmed yet."

"Are you nuts? I'm thrilled. This is terrific. Gregor must be over the moon."

"Does the word ecstatic come to mind?"

"Okay. I'm going. You get to bed. And call me tomorrow."

After a long embrace and more kissing, and a bit of squeezing in the right places he left. And I went to bed.

The next morning I awoke feeling refreshed and quite rested. I lay back and luxuriated for a few minutes, grateful not to feel nauseous. That was short lived. No sooner had I swung my legs out to get up I was overcome with vertigo. Gagging with my hand over my mouth I barely made it to the toilet. Thankfully the spate was over quickly and with the dizziness gone I took a shower, conscious of moving too quickly. I felt much better after and hoped this would not be a false start to my day. Gingerly, I proceeded to tidy up, moving slowly, no jerky head movements, then headed down to the kitchen. I was hungry, but wary that whatever I ate might not stay down.

There was bread in the freezer. Easy to thaw in the toaster. Yogurt that passed the sniff test, and several wrinkled nectarines that went into the garbage. And I had coffee. The pint of half and half miraculously also passed the sniff test. A grocery run was in order and while the bread toasted and the coffee brewed I made a list. Geoff would be over, if not to check on me during the day, definitely for dinner.

I felt fine now, but wasn't sure if I'd be in the mood to cook. Thea Maria my father's quasi housekeeper was an older Greek woman who did some light housekeeping as well as keeping his fridge, and mine, stocked with a variety of traditional Greek dishes.

Thea Maria was wonderful. Probably in her fifties, but by her looks alone she could be anywhere from late fifties to early seventies. She came to us thirty years ago, shortly after my brother died and my mother institutionalized. My father deeply mourning both losses needed help on the domestic front. An important career, a young daughter and a large house to maintain were too much for him. So enter Maria. She and her husband Costa came from the Old Country. It was an arranged marriage that actually worked. Maria and Costa opened a restaurant on Pine Avenue, about a ten-minute walk from our home. Costa was a tough taskmaster not much given to entertaining thoughts of equality regarding women's rights. Did I say he was a Greek from the Old Country? Costa more than met his match when he married Thea Maria who decided it was prudent to seek work outside the family business. Working for my father saved us all. Costa lived and my father and I had stability.

Now that Thea Maria is older, she spends far fewer hours with us, hours that I treasure. Basically she cooks Greek-style for us and always makes something special for me– her _koritzi mou_. She's a big woman in all ways and I love every bit of her, from her steel-grey hair tied in a bun with a million Bobby pins to the enormous mole on her neck. In fact Maria is scary looking. The skin around her deep piercing eyes is black and pebbly, her eyebrows heavy and dark. She's wonderful. She's a hugger and cheek pincher and I'm told it's quite normal for old _Yia-Yias_ to mime spitting at you for luck. And sometimes it's not mimed.

True to form, the freezer revealed a mousaka casserole. Enough to feed eight!

Later that morning I called my doctor and lo and behold got an appointment for that afternoon. Given the state of our Medicare system this was almost a miracle. Someone had cancelled and could I be there in an hour. "Yes", I said. I could be there in fifteen minutes even at a slow walk. Driving would take longer. Construction, potholes, one-way streets. Urban living.

Nabila David –pronounced Daveed– was a Hindu woman, married to a Christian Indian. Her husband Rasheed was an engineer, and taught at the Université de Montréal. Both were educated in India.

"Dr. Milland," she greeted, never calling me Sam in a professional setting.

"Dr. David thanks for taking me so quickly."

She waved her hand. "Come in, come in." She led me to her consulting room and indicated a chair. The room was invitingly decorated in tones of beige with Indian motifs on the walls and little bronze Ganeshas and Shivas displayed in a dark wood cabinet.

"What can I do for you? Are you felling ill? You do look a little pale." S he assessed from behind her desk.

"No, not ill exactly. Morning sickness."

"Oh," she said raising an eyebrow and smiling. "When and how long has this been happening?

"This is the second week."  I explained the circumstances and why I cut short my time at the dig in Jordan. She insisted on hearing all the particulars, including my father's involvement, as they knew each other professionally.

"And Gregor, how is he? He must have been in his element out in the desert and helping –how shall I put it– running the show."

We both laughed. "You _do_ know my father. If he can direct and lead, he's in heaven."

"I'm sure. Now you. Morning sickness or medically, Hyperemesis Gravidarum, usually begins during the sixth week of pregnancy and sometimes as early as the fourth week. Generally it doesn't go beyond fourteen weeks. But it can worsen in the second month."

"Gee, thanks!"

"Oh, I know. Not pleasant. Not at all. But you know, Sam, actually morning sickness is a good thing. You're experiencing it in the morning you said, but in fact the nausea and vomiting can occur any time in the day."

"So far it's mostly mornings. A couple of times in the afternoon though." She nodded.

"As I said, it's a good thing. Caused by a rise in hormones. Human chorionic gonadotropin –hCG if you want to know. Characterized, as I'm sure you know, by enhanced sensitivity to smell and odors. Sometimes a particular smell, or food, can give rise to vomiting."

"Yes. At the dig the kitchen smells set me off." And at the airport too, I didn't add.

"Believe me, I remember. And very clearly! As I was saying, morning sickness is understood to have evolved to protect the fetus against toxins ingested by the mother. Functional adaptation. Let me be blunt, if I may. Mothers who don't puke are more likely to miscarry. So, as I said, it is a good thing."

"If you say so. Mind you, when I'm hanging my head over the bowl it doesn't feel much like a good thing."

"I'm sure. But come into my examining room. Please undress and put on the paper gown. There's a box of them there, and get on the table."

I did so, and moments later she entered in a white lab coat, her stethoscope around her neck, and pulling on a pair of surgical gloves.

"Okay, you know the drill."

She did her thing, all the while delivering a calming patter of questions. What was my diet like? Sleep patterns. Was I exercising? Did I drink or smoke.

"I've never smoked and I still jog several times a week. And I belong to a gym and use the pool regularly. Except for the last few weeks." Then I admitted, "But I did have a few drinks."

"I hear concern in your voice, however recent studies show that low to moderate alcohol consumption is not associated with elevated risks to early fetal development. But that being said, I would still advise total abstinence. From alcohol I mean."

"Definitely," I said.

"Okay. It's important to keep fit. Towards the end, you may need to cut out the jogging. But until then stay with it, but don't run any marathons. But before you dress I want my nurse to draw some blood. It won't take long. Then you can dress and we'll talk in my office.

When the nurse was done I dressed, knocked on her door and went in, she looked up from writing her notes and nodded to the chair.

"By the way, when was your last period, do you remember?"

I told her we generally practiced safe sex but not always.

She laughed. "It's the _not always_ that gets us. So how long no period?"

"Maybe six weeks, but I'm guessing." She continued writing.

"Okay, she said, putting the pen down. "That does it. You're fit. Healthy. Still young so there are no warning bells." Just then the light on her phone flashed.

"So how do you feel about becoming a mother? And Geoff?"

"Oh, Geoff is thrilled. You should have seen him. You'd think I had suddenly become a porcelain doll."

"Yes, but you Sam."

"I'm happy about it. Maybe the whole idea of motherhood hasn't sunk in yet. I'm certainly not disappointed. Not at all."

"Oh good. I'm glad to hear that. Happy for you too." She paused then added. "And Gregor?"

"You kidding? He's over the moon. But at the moment he's still in Jordan at the dig. This won't be news to him, he was already convinced I was pregnant."

"That's it for now. I'll call you if there is anything amiss. Don't look like that, Sam," she said noting my expression. "Everything will be fine. Really."

She got up and opened the door for me.

"Marlene," she said. "Would you set up Dr. Milland's next appointment please?" Her parting comment to me was, "Take care, Sam, and _exercise!_ "

I walked back home, taking the longer way, to enjoy the day, the weather and the euphoria.

# Chapter 5

I got home about four o'clock. Geoff had left me a message but I had turned my cell off at the doctor's and had forgotten to turn it back on. He answered on the first ring, his voice frantic.

"Where were you? I was worried."

"I'm fine. I was able to get a last minute appointment with my doctor, you know her, Nabila David, my gyno. My phone was off, sorry about that."

"Well?"

"Well what?" I teased.

"Sam!"

"Okay, okay. Looks like we are going to be parents."

"No shit! That's great!"

"She'll confirm later from the tests, but there is really no doubt. And the sticks I peed on have been shouting _Mommy and Daddy_."

"Oh, Sam." His voice cracked. "I'll see you for dinner, around six-thirty or seven. Can't get away sooner."

"That'll be fine. See you then. Love you." Jesus. That was the first time I ended a call like that. Did domesticity happen that fast?"

I had enough time to make a grocery run. What to get? A couple of rib eye steaks. Idahos for baking. A bag of prepared greens for a salad, dressing included. Probably Caesar. That made me think Caesarian section. God. I hoped I didn't become one of those expectant mothers always imagining what could go wrong. I checked the fridge again and the pantry in case there was anything else to add to the list. No way I'd run back out for missing items, and went down to our garage and got in to my Jetta. There were several grocery stores in the area, but nowhere to park close. There was a Metro on Sherbrooke and Jeanne Mance and another in the concourse opposite Place Des Arts, and a few independents on Ste Catherine. But if I wanting parking, I'd have to head over to the Super C on Upper Lachine off Cavendish. The drawback was driving and because of traffic and perpetual roadwork the trip would take at least an hour.

Steak and a simple salad, Greek Style –meaning no lettuce. Did I mention I was a great cook?

Geoff started with a Guinness having arrived at seven-thirty. I sipped sparkling water with a slice of lime. No wine and no scotch for the foreseeable future. I could handle that.

It was warm enough, so we ate outdoors. My father, years ago, had our adjoining verandahs extended, creating a large enough space for a picnic table and top-of-the-line gas grill. We could easily entertain a group of twenty people without being cramped. More, if we spilled out into the grass challenged yard.

We ate and talked, discussing everything except parenthood.

"What about the dig? Will Abdul shut it down do you think?"

I'd only mentioned that there had been some trouble and that two of Abdul's men had been killed guarding the site where the suspected looters were storing stolen artifacts. I steered clear of mentioning how Boots and I had almost been shot out of the sky. I dreaded bringing that up. And dreaded his reaction too. So I lied by omission. I knew eventually it would come up and I'd have to face his ire, fueled on two fronts. The first being the danger I voluntarily put myself in by agreeing to fly in Boots's contraption. The second would be lying about it. As far as Geoff was concerned lying by omission was still a lie.

"It's a good possibility. If there is looting and robbing of antiquities, those sites are being destroyed and from what I've learned this is really big business over there."

"Big business? You better believe it! According to Joan, enormous sums of money are involved. Furthermore all these millions link to the illegal arms trade and what have you."

Joan was a colleague. A Filipina in her late twenties loosely partnered with Geoff, and attached to the RCMP Anti Terror Task Force. Ninja, as her colleagues called her, was quite petite at just over five feet, very fit and a martial arts expert.

"I'd gathered just before coming home," I said, "that the dig was in fact going to be shut down. Boots was hoping otherwise of course, but he was planning for that eventuality."

"Have you heard from Gregor?"

"No. He can call or email from the CIA, but you know Dad. He's probably so caught in what's happening, contacting me is the last thing on his mind." I was leaning back in the deck chair, my feet up on the table, when my cell rang.

"Jesus. Speak of the devil." I reached across and answered.

"Your ears must be burning."

"Hi, Sammy. Why's that?"

"Geoff and I are just finishing a couple of barbecued rib eye's and talking about you."

"You're not drinking are you? No wine. No scotch."

"No, Dad. I am not drinking." I rolled my eyes at Geoff.

"Reason I'm calling is the dig has shut down. Abdul pulled the plug. So I'll be home day after tomorrow."

"That's too bad. I think. Actually not, given what happened."

"You're right. You're right. Boots is not happy understandably, but he gets it. And he's concerned for the teams' safety. Most of us are on the same flight back."

"Did you charter a jet?" Geoff stifled a laugh and went for another beer, miming did I want another bottle of water. I shook my head. I'd be going to the john all night.

"No, Sammy I did not charter a jet. Boots and Mush however are staying behind for a few days. I offered but you know Boots. They'll be at the CIA finishing up papers, doing reports, but I'll be back in a couple of days."

"Sorry this had to stop so abruptly, but I've been worried about you. I can't say I'm disappointed you're coming home. I'm looking forward to seeing you."

"Me too, Sammy. Me too."

"So. Have you seen Nabila?"

"I have. I am." I didn't mention turning the pee sticks blue.

"I knew it, Sammy. I told you." I could hear him chuckling thousands of miles away.

"So what's with Geoff? What'd he say?"

"Talk to you soon, Dad." I hung up and related it all to Geoff.

"Good. Given the circumstances I'm glad he's coming back, but knowing Gregor, I'm sure he'd rather stay. No way he decided to return on his own volition."

"You got that right. And as easy-going as Boots is, he's also assertive.  My father wouldn't have argued with him."

We tidied up and went in. It was late June, the Montreal days hot, but the evening was cooling rapidly, dampness in the air.

Settling comfortably in the living room, both of us on the sofa. I leaned back into the cushion and propped my legs on Geoff's lap, enjoying a foot massage.

"Sam, we need to talk." He continued the massage, gradually moving up my legs.

"Okay," I said.

"I'll go first. In case you haven't noticed, Sam, I am thrilled about us having a child together. And in case you haven't figured it out, I want to be fully involved with parenting. If you let me of course. It's important our child have two active and fully engaged parents. I know you have no financial needs to worry about, but I want to pull my share."  He kept caressing my thighs.

"Of course, Geoff. How could you think otherwise?"  I reached for his hand. I was tearing up.

"Now my turn," I said clearing my throat.

"You know, this place is just as it was. As it was when we were married. Same furniture. Same living room." Although there were several more paintings, thanks to my father the art collector.

"The kitchen too. I've changed nothing. Not even our old bedroom, as you well know." I squeezed his hand. "It's still your home, even if you haven't lived in it a while. I still consider it our home, Geoff." At this point I almost broke down.

"Damn it, Geoff! You fucking well better move all your shit back here!"

He reached over to hug me and given how I was sitting it was awkward, so I moved into his arms and hid my face in his shoulder to avoid a crying scene. I'm not usually given to tears. But now? Hormones? Jesus.

"Sam. I couldn't want anything more. Well maybe one thing."

"What's that?"

"Your elbow. Get it out of my ribs." That broke the spell.

"So," I said. When can you move in? Soon I hope. We have things to do. A nursery to decorate."

"And cupboards to child proof." We both laughed, both drying our eyes.

"I don't have much to move you know. Clothes. Books. My music. My furniture is all Ikea, so no loss there, believe me! My lease has another year, but I'll ask around and try to sublet.

"Good. The sooner, the better. And there's plenty of room here, as you know. Our bedroom. My study. The spare room can be for the baby and the other bedroom is pretty much as you had it for your home office.

I was prattling away. The tension of how we would resolve our relationship finally draining away. I hadn't felt this relaxed, happy, free even, in a very long time.

We just sat. Holding each other. It was dark now.

"You must be tired, exhausted."

"Not that exhausted." I got up, took his hand and led him to the bedroom. Our bedroom.

The next morning after an encore performance I made breakfast while Geoff showered and dressed. Neither of us cared for big or prepared breakfast on a working day. Geoff was content with a toasted bagel and cheese. I was a cold cereal with milk person. Coffee was a given. This morning however, I played the domesticated little woman and made pancakes. Hopefully, I'd keep it down.

"What smells so good?" He was knotting his tie and sniffing the air like a hungry bear.

"Pancakes. And bacon. With real maple syrup."

"Sounds great. What's the occasion?" I was waiting to turn the next batch and he nuzzled my neck.

"Figured you needed something substantial to get your energy level back." Besides I was sick of Nizar's cooking and Mush's omelets.

"Go sit, while they're hot." I nudged him, put them on the table and pushed the syrup closer to him. He'd already poured our coffee, and we sat eating companionably and quietly as if we'd been doing this most of our lives. And in a way, I supposed we had.

"Thanks. This was really nice. But I ah...don't expect you to ah... cook breakfast every day. I'm used to eating, how shall I say– somewhat more simply."

"You mean having a stale bagel standing over the sink while choking down a cup of coffee?"

"I don't choke it down," he said with mock indignation. "I sip."

"Okay, my bad," raising my hands in surrender.

"Go," I said. "Leave that." He'd started to clear the table.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. How hard is it to stack the dishwasher. Go."

"Okay, I'll call you later, if I can. Meetings again. Joan has Intel on some of the suspects. The last few months the RCMP have been keeping tabs on a number of young people that they suspect want to head off to Turkey or Iraq."

"I saw that on the news. What's with these people?"

"Yeah. I don't get it either. These kids –and they are just kids– still in their teens. They get radicalized and want to get over there and fight. Some have joined ISIL and many have already been killed. You heard about the brother and sister who got caught at the airport? They weren't even Arabs. Got it in their heads to join some rebel group over there."

"It's awful, I know. How does this happen? Most of these kids come from normal homes." I made air quotes. "Middle class families. Their parents must be devastated."

"No doubt. But I got to get moving." He pecked my cheek and left, giving a brief wave from the car as he pulled away. God, what a world. Parenthood was not a walk in the park. The twenty-first century would be an enormous challenge to anyone raising kids.

I set about cleaning the kitchen. Clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, polishing the stove, essentially going through the motions, doing busy work. The day ahead was going to be a long one. I was not cut out to be a stay-at-home person.

Occasionally Thea Maria did much of the tidying up. She had keys to both our places and in my case it was so she could leave her little _koritzi –_ her little girl– casseroles of Greek cooking. And whenever she made a delivery she also, to my embarrassment, did a few chores. No amount of telling her the food was more than enough, she just waved me away saying, _"Eeneh tipotah, koritzi mou. Tipotah." _It's nothing my dear. Nothing.

So to avoid giving her work to do, I found myself becoming more of a neat freak. Jesus. And just wait until she heard I was pregnant. The cheek pinching and good luck spitting would be endless. My eyes welled at the thought. Jesus! Hormones again?

Just then the phone rang. I recognized the number. The CIA.

"Hello."

"Sammy, it's your father."

"Who?" I couldn't resist.

"You father. Your father." He was shouting now.

"Oh. Dad. You still at the CIA?"

"Yes, Sammy. Don't you have call display?" Caught.

"What's up? Everything okay?"

"Of course everything is okay. Just wanted to tell you I get in tomorrow, late afternoon. And don't you and Geoff come to get me. I've got it covered."

"Okay. But ring me when you get to the door, so I can help with the bags. I doubt the cabby will lug your stuff up our enormous flight of six steps."

"Not a problem. Freddy's driver will be picking us up. Don't worry about my bags."

"Freddy? Who's Freddy?

"Hannah's husband. I thought you met him."

"Oh, Right. No I haven't met him." Hannah, I knew. She and Freddy were friends of Boots, and lived in Amman. Occasionally Hannah made the long drive to help at the dig.  They were very well off. Freddy owned a string of international art galleries. Well off was an understatement.

Okay, then. I'll see you when I see you. Just wanted to give you a heads up. If the flight is on time it'll be late afternoon."

"That's great. And I'll make dinner so no worry on that score. Geoff can't wait to see you either."

"Thanks, Sammy. Listen, I got to run. What? Sorry, Sammy that was Mara. See you tomorrow."

Mara. What an old goat. I caught myself talking out loud and laughed. How old was Mara anyway? Past child bearing I hoped. Jesus. I closed my eyes willing myself to think other thoughts, trying not to imagine the old geezer with a kid younger than his own grandchild. No. No way. Can't happen.

With my kitchen chores over, I changed the bed linens, cleaned the bathroom ensuite– just a lick and a promise, then took a long slow shower. It was barely nine o'clock and the long day loomed ahead. Now what? No need for a grocery run.  Thea Maria would no doubt be popping into my father's to make sure the place was as it should be. Then of course, she'd check my place too. I should call her, let her know I was back, and deter her from coming. As much as I loved her, I wasn't ready for a visit that inevitably would entail a blow-by-blow account of my condition. The thought of putting her off brought on the guilts, so I picked up the phone. After the niceties I got her to understand that all was in order. Her English was better than she let on, but I knew she wanted me to practice the little Greek that I knew. I'd learned quite a bit from her over the many years –and the swearing I picked up from Costa– so we communicated quite effectively.

She agreed to wait until my father had a couple of days to settle in after his trip before coming to visit. And cook of course. That accomplished, it was still not yet ten o'clock.

I'm rarely bored. But the last several days have knocked me for a loop, and I couldn't settle. I went to my office and booted up my laptop and took to answering emails. Several from Harry– my office mate at the university. I started to answer but stopped and decided instead to call him. Harry, who had a very lucrative law practice, was a sessional lecturer, but he put in more than his share of office hours to be available for students. His philosophy was to give back. The time he devoted to office hours exceeded his time in the classroom. But that was Harry.

Thrilled to hear from me, he insisted I'd let him take me to lunch and agreed to meet at our office at twelve-thirty, and together we'd walk to Maison Alcan for lunch. I went back to answering emails, several from students thanking me and saying how much they enjoyed my classes the previous term. I liked the feedback, the compliments encouraging. And that kept me on my toes.

It was a nice day, warm, but not oppressive. The walk was leisurely and short, and not much of an aerobic benefit, reminding me to heed Nabila's words and get back to the gym and my running. With that thought I picked up the pace; one benefit of walking to work was improved flexibility. I dodged students on bikes, skateboarders and one longhaired Fine Arts professor on roller blades. John was a fiber artist. He deftly circled around me from behind tapping my shoulder. Thinking someone was grabbing my purse, I flung it out catching him on the shoulder.

"Whoa, Sam! What the fuck?"

"Idiot!" I said. Get back to looms!" He laughed and circled me again almost getting clipped by a cyclist.

"Serve you right!" I said as he skated away.

I was still grumbling to myself when I entered my office, to a pungent cloud emanating from Harry's pipe. So much for the _Non Smoking_ policy. Bob, the custodian was leaving as I entered. Bob the Letch true to form eased through the door as I was coming in, making sure to rub against me. Morning sickness not withstanding, Bob made me want to retch. I slammed the door and turned around.

"What?" Harry was losing the battle to stifle a laugh. Being harassed by Bob was a great source of mirth for him.

"Nothing, Sam. Not a thing." He proceeded to dab his eyes with an enormous silk hanky he'd pulled from his jacket pocket.

"Sam, you need to give that man something for his efforts. Every time Bob sees you..." He didn't finish the thought, just shook his head still chortling.

"I'll give him something. A knee you know where!" Actually I fantasized poking him in his lecherous eye. An unbidden image came to mind of the old man in his bed from Poe's _Tell-Tale Heart._

"I hear you Sam. I shouldn't laugh." I stared down at him, but I could never get mad at Harry. Not for a second

He was resplendent as usual. A blindingly white shirt. Paisley silk tie knotted Windsor style. And a summer weight medium grey suit, with a subtle pink pin stripe. The hanky, of course, matched the tie. I'd check out the shoes and socks later. Just looking at him made me feel like my own clothes came from a thrift shop. They didn't. But taste was another thing. Maybe Harry should come with me when I shopped.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Yes."

"So, shall we head out? Or do you have something here needs to be done?"

"Nope. I'm all set."

"Wait." He glanced into the hall. "All clear," he said elegantly offering his arm.

"All clear?"

"Bob. Wouldn't do for that old homophobe to see us arm in arm."

"Oh, Harry. He already thinks I'm a dyke." Another bout of choking laughter.

"Which one of us is the beard?" he said, still trying to catch his breath.

After weaving through the crowded campus we exited Roddick Gates and proceeded along Sherbrooke after crossing at the lights and stopping to comment on the bronze sculpture. The _Student_ was sitting on the back of a park bench, feet on the seat, and a laptop on his knees. The artist included a squirrel and a box of French fries."

"Did you notice his laptop," I asked him.

"You mean the _pear_ , rather than an Apple?"

"That's great news, Sam. I'm so happy for you. Wondered why you ordered sparkling water."

"Thanks. I guess it's _aitch-two-oh_ for the next eight months." I was quite animated.

"And I gather by your subdued exuberance, that Geoff is happy too. And your father is getting gold trimmed birth announcements printed."

"Yes, Geoff is ecstatic. He's treating me like I'm a fragile piece of china. And you're probably right about my father."

"When is he coming back?"

"Tomorrow, actually."

"That soon?" His eyes went wide and his fork paused midway to his mouth. "What gives? I thought there was a couple of months to go."

I told him the whole story. He was beside himself, agape, and taking my hand.

"Good grief, Sam. Oh my. How awful." When Harry was taken aback, he lowered his voice, and used very uncharacteristic speech.

"Are you okay? I mean really. That was a rough ride. Literally. Good grief being shot at. My God, you could have crashed!"

"Yes, I'm fine. I really am. It was scary, that's for sure. But I've never admitted just how frightened I was until now. I thought that was it. The end. But Boots was cool. He flew that Rube Goldberg contraption like an ace and it wasn't until we got back that we realized just how close we came to getting killed. One of the struts and been hit. And there was a bullet gouge in my helmet.

"Sam." He was whispering now. "Your father must have been apoplectic."

"My father was quite sanguine about it. And that's a sure sign of how scared the event made him."

"Well, small wonder. God, Sam. If anything had happened to you..." He let the thought hang. He had more than a vague idea of my family history.

"Well then," he said abruptly. "Enough of the doom and gloom. Are you up for dessert? If you ask for the Rum Baba, tell then to hold the rum." More choking laughter.

We both opted for the Rum Baba, and made small talk over the dessert and coffee promising to get together soon.

"I'm considering a party– maybe not a party exactly but a small get-together, say next week. For my father. Sort of a post archeology dig party. Boots. Hannah and her husband, Freddy. A few others from the team. You and Georges of course."

"Sounds delightful. Not sure if Georges will be able to make it. He's got a contract for another health center in Germany, so he may be out of town. But count me in for sure."

"Okay. And not to rain on Georges' parade, I hope he can make it. You know how my father likes to buttonhole him and talk about his projects." Georges was an architect, who designed award winning healthcare facilities.

"Oh yes. Just get them together..."

At this point he called for the check and we headed back. At the gates, he hugged me, kissing both my cheeks. Once, twice, three times. So European. He continued on to our shared office and I headed home. For some reason I felt I was walking on air. How lucky was I to have not one, or two men in my life, but three. Three men, whom I believed loved me without condition. I picked up the pace anxious to get home. I didn't need anyone to see my tears.

I kicked off my shoes, put my jacket in the hall closet then put several Loreena McKennett CDs in the player. I was in that kind of a mood. Her music, although a little haunting, was very comforting. I loved _The Lady of Shalott._

Her music always put me in a good mood. Sounds odd, considering the haunting quality, but I felt we shared a connection. Her fiancé had drowned in a boating accident. My brother had drowned. I didn't remember much about him. Three-year old memories can be quite vivid. And mine were. But they can also be false. I often wondered if my memories were in fact true. Of course, this I could not discuss with my father. He still suffered. And his suffering was painful to me. I'd live with my memories, true or not. And if truth were told, those memories when they surfaced were pleasant. I had a vague recollection of my brother pulling me along in a coaster wagon. I also recalled being pushed on a swing. But I think I was too little to sit on a regular swing, and was probably too heavy for my brother to hoist into one of those box-like swings with the wooden bar to hold onto. But that's what I remember. Being pushed higher and higher squealing in delight. True or false, I don't know. But does it matter?

I must have dozed off coming to when my cell rang,

"Hi, Sam. How's the little mother?" Don't call me that!

"I'm fine. " I yawned. "Must have dozed off, sorry." I yawned again.

"I had lunch with Harry, then fell asleep on the sofa when I got home."

"Can't really talk, just wanted to hear your voice. I'll be home about sevenish." Did he say home? I looked at my watch. Jesus, I'd slept about two hours.

"Okay. What about dinner?" I wouldn't be very hungry, nor did I feel like cooking. Thea Maria's mousaka was on hand though.

"No problem. I'll grab a pizza on the way. Will that be okay? You probably had a decent lunch, knowing Harry.

"Pizza's fine.

"Didn't I see a mousaka in the freezer? That would do if you'd rather.

"Okay, eagle eyes, I'll haul it out. It should thaw in time for dinner."

"That's great. Listen I got to go. See you later."

I took out the casserole, covered in foil and put it on the counter, on top of an oven mitt. After he arrived, twenty to thirty minutes in the oven should do it. I'd make a salad. There was also a loaf of garlic bread in the freezer that could go in the oven with the casserole. There. Dinner made.

The mousaka was good, he said. He liked Greek food, especially Thea Maria's. And my salad was... salad. I filled him in on my lunch date but I didn't mention my encounter with Bob the Letch as he always sided with Harry to get my goat. And if the three of them were together –meaning my father as the third party– you could count on one of them to bring up Bob the Letch and his amorous leanings for me. Did I mention that they could be very aggravating?

I still hadn't mentioned my little mishap in the air over Jordan.

After an easy kitchen clean up we cuddled on the sofa with the intent of watching some television. That didn't happen.

The next morning, while Geoff used the bathroom, I made coffee. Just coffee. I did check that we had bagels and Brie and thankfully we did. Brie and a bagel. His idea of Gourmet Delight.

"Listen," he said, munching. "I'm still looking to sublet. But this weekend. Do you mind if I start hauling my bits and pieces over?"

"Of course not. My father will be back, and no doubt he'll want to help with the pull and haul."

"I'm afraid he'll be disappointed. Two or three trips in the car will do it."

"Doesn't matter. If it's okay with you let him tag along."

"Sure, he's great company. Never think he's a shrink."

"Why, because he doesn't psycho analyze you? Believe me, he's always in my head."

"When's he due back? Today I know, but what time?"

"In time to eat. I told him I fix dinner, and I'm on my own for it, as I am out of Thea Maria delectables."

"I've got my fingers crossed for _dolmades_. Why don't..."

"Don't say it." I put my hands up palms forward. Don't even think about me taking Greek cooking classes."

"Sam! Give me a break. I was going to say, 'think of something nice' I could get for her. As a thank you. She does cook with me in mind you know."

"In that case, Geoff. Think of something nice for Thea Maria _yourself!_ "

With Geoff going off to detect or do whatever detectives do, I looked forward to another empty day. It was going to be a long summer; classes couldn't resume soon enough. I needed a project or something to research.

Occasionally I consulted with police forces. Lecturing on crime or criminology. Stuff I really enjoyed doing.

What was in vogue now, was training police officers to be sensitive, especially when it came to race. Not to profile. Study demographics. Community needs. Issues like poverty. Unemployment. Single parent –read mother– families in low-income areas. And yes discrimination. Both racial and gender. And the abuses suffered by native women. This at the hands of police officers! Sexual assault of these women, in distant native communities was, if you believe the reports, almost commonplace. With little or no education, very few resources and problems with alcohol and drugs, these women were easy prey. Abused by the very people sworn to protect them was anathema to me.

Tough issues. Tough problems. Tough finding solutions. And now bad cops.

It only takes one bad cop to taint the profession. And the good ones –and most are good –take the rap. Lets face it; it's not an easy job, not knowing whether or not you'll come home at the end of your shift. Stopping a motorist for a broken brake light. Or a call to a domestic disturbance. Even stopping a schoolyard fight, can turn ugly. Stress.  Stress. And then more stress. So as to profiling, how could you not? Think metro station. A disturbance is reported and the police are called to the scene. Several people, a half dozen of a particular visible minority or _ethnicity._ Say a minority typical of that neighborhood, the area served by that particular metro stop. That same area where most of the crimes are perpetrated by said minority or ethnicity. What goes through your mind? What are you going to think? Tell me. What is a police officer going to think?

Don't jump to conclusions. Don't profile. But if they've been called to that street, to that corner, to that metro station, where crime is disproportionate, isn't it normal, actually prudent, for police to be wary and apprehensive? Of course to say that smacks of discrimination. Political correctness sometimes overrides common sense.

Sadly, common sense can add to the aggravation. The feeling of mistrust, and hatred even, that such a group, or ethnicity harbors for the police does not bode well and furthers racial tensions.

What to do? Hire more visible minorities? I didn't have the answers. I don't think anyone does. But what I do know is that it is unacceptable to be arrested simply because you are driving while black.

What a dilemma. And now we have the added problem of terrorism. Covered faces. Bodies swathed in Muslim garb. More racism. Resentment. Suspicion. Reasonable accommodation. No face coverings in public service. No face coverings if you want to heard in court by a judge. It never ends.

Recruitment of fragile and fringe youths by ISIS, and ISIL. Young, impressionable youths, both male and female. Many are non-Arabs and non-Muslim, trying to get to Turkey, or Iraq so they can fight. They are ready to die. And to kill.

I didn't envy Joan. And I feared for Geoff.

Kitchen cleanup took all of ten minutes. Now what? It wasn't even eight o'clock. Again I killed more time. Made the bed. Did laundry. Had a shower. At least I'd only thrown up once, just after getting out of bed, again barely avoiding making a mess. And to avoid disturbing Geoff with my retching, I used the downstairs powder room. Thinking about it almost brought on another spell of the pukes, but with slow deliberate breaths the feeling subsided.

It was a clear day, sunny and breezy judging by the trees swaying in the back, so I decided to go for a run. Hopefully my new developing hormones wouldn't betray me. I put on my less than sexy sweats and a tee shirt. It was too warm for a hoodie. I put my keys in my pocket with a wad of tissues in case I had to bend over the curb, and headed out. I wended my way to Sherbrooke and headed west to Atwater, then down the hill to St Antoine, hanging left and proceeded to Guy. Another left up to Ste Catherine, a right to University and up the hill and home.

I worked up a good sweat. My tee shirt was soaked and my sweats clung to my thighs. Shorts would have been better, but they made me feel immodest. My wet tee shirt didn't. Go figure.

Even after another shower, it was a long way from noon.

I decided to check the course demands for the fall semester. I'd been reading Karen Armstrong's books. Some historical background on religion and morality might provide perspective on how societies evolved, especially the three monotheistic religions. Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. And given the state of world affairs, especially since the atrocities of 911, trying to understand the mindset of terrorists might be worth considering. My own field essentially was criminology. Nevertheless I couldn't downplay the historical past as it impacts current thought and cultural behavior. Maybe I could tie it in with the recent events of our dig. Personal experiences enliven lectures. For the most part teachers are seen as _tellers_ not _doers._ You know what they say– Those that can, do. Those that can't, teach. And when you do, you become a kind of celebrity. Or anomaly. In any case you have their attention. What can I say– I love the attention.

The day went quickly to my surprise and I was satisfied with my work; I'd develop the sessions more fully in the next few weeks. In spite of having to stick to fairly strict curriculum guidelines, I was confident my work would satisfy academic requirements as well as be sufficiently engaging. Maybe they'd be motivated to do their own work in a timely fashion and not ask for extensions. Fat chance.

I was finishing typing when my cell rang.

"Hi, Geoff." I put him on speaker so I could finish the last few sentences.

"How are you today. The tummy demons behaving?" The tummy demons. Who was this man?

"They acted up once this morning."

"Great. Listen, I hope you didn't plan dinner." His voice expectant.

"Not yet. Why? You want to take me out?" I joked.

"Yes, actually. Let's pick a place on Duluth. Maybe that Polish place. We can walk over."

"Oh, that sounds good. Their mixed plate is one of my favorites." As long as the smell doesn't make me sick, I didn't say.

"Me too. I always promise myself to try something different but..."

"When do you want to do this?"

"I'll be another hour, so let's say six or so."

"Good. I'm finishing up some school work for the fall session, and I'll be done by then."

We said goodbye, I saved and closed my files, and Googled the restaurant to check the menu. Why, I couldn't say. We both would order the mixed platter. We knew each other's appetites, and not just in the food department.

The next day was hot and humid with no breeze and no going out for a run. But I did get more course work done. I was quite productive. I was also productive twice during the morning, my guts turning inside out. Nausea. Sweat. Run to the toilet. Repeat. How much longer was this going to last? Nabila said fourteen to sixteen weeks. My God, that was more than three months! Happily, by late morning the vomiting was over and I felt great, but paying the dues was exorbitant. Maybe the thrill of not puking elated me. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

I had planned a barbecue on the deck. Grilled steaks and booze for the boys, a large salad and water for me. And don't forget the cigars. What would Freud say? So by the time my father called from the airport to give me a heads up I had everything in hand.

"Yes, Dad. On the deck. No, Geoff won't mind doing the grilling." Heaven forbid a woman do the outdoor cooking. "Yes, Geoff will be here in time. It's all under control." Give me a break.

"What about drinks? You know what Geoff likes."

"Dad, this isn't the first time..."

"Okay, Sammy. Okay. Just checking." I'm sure he was laughing.

"Got to go, Freddy's driver is here. He'll drop Hannah and Freddy first, so I'll be along in forty-five minutes or so."

"Okay, Dad. Look forward to seeing you. Bye." He was still talking.

"I'm hanging up now." Jesus.

This time of day, there'd be traffic and an hour was optimistic, so I had time to relax with my feet up, and read, actually re-read a couple of journal articles. I'm not a workaholic, although both the men in my immediate life would argue otherwise. I read, and listened for the car but missed his arrival when I went to the bathroom, suddenly overcome with nausea. False alarm, thank God.

When I went next door, he was already inside, Freddy's driver following behind and putting the bags on the floor just inside the door. He didn't look the typical limo driver. No uniform, no patent leather billed cap. Casually dressed in a navy Polo and Khaki chinos and what looked to me like very expensive shoes.

"Hi, Sammy. This is Joseph, Freddy's driver. He was kind enough to drag my bags up for me."

"Hello," I said, extending my hand. "Thank you. He took my hand, and leaned towards me, as if for a kiss. Fortunately before I could pull back he whispered, "I had to insist." He held my hand long enough for me to notice the gold Rolex. Driver, indeed.

"He _can_ be a bit obstinate."

"Sammy, I'm right here," he sang.

"Thank you, Joseph, he added. "And please tell Freddy or Hannah that I'll be in touch."

"I'll do that, Dr. Milland. Good bye Miss," and he left, pulling the door closed.

"I'm really glad to see you." I hugged him briefly and kissed the top of his head, after taking his Tilley. He looked like he just came off the dig. Tanned face, white lines where the sun didn't reach his laugh wrinkles. The shoulder tabs of his quasi-military shirt were buttoned to hold the rolled sleeves and he still wore his shorts. The man was a dead ringer for Lord Baden Powell.

"Nice tan, I said." For a physician he was more than a little stubborn about using sunblock.

"I'm glad to see you too. And glad to be home." He patted my arms and stood back.

"You've lost a bit of weight, Sammy." I gave him a look.

"It's okay, looks good on you." We both laughed. He couldn't help himself being both a doctor and father.  I survived.

"I'm fine, Dad. Still puking, but it's over fast and then I feel pretty good."

"Okay. No more third degree. Promise. Look, Sammy. I need a shower in the worst way. And clothes. Proper clothes. So if you don't mind."

"No, go ahead. But come right over as soon as you're ready. You must be wiped out."

"Not really, I slept on the plane. I always do, you know. I'm not a nervous nelly when it comes to flying." I knew he was thinking of my near mishap with Boots.

I had no sooner returned than Geoff arrived.

"Hi, Sam. How are you, is Gregor home? He removed his jacket and tossed it on the chair below the antique mirror.

"Yes, my father is home," I said, picking up his jacket and hanging it the closet.

"Sorry," he said, embracing me distractedly. "How is he, is he okay?"

"Of course he's okay. He'll be along after he gets cleaned up; he's still covered in sand. It was a long flight." He took off his tie, tossed it on the chair vacated by his jacket then threw himself down on the sofa.

"What a day."

"That bad, huh?"

"Meetings." Whenever he had a rough day, or couldn't discuss his work, the answer was always 'meetings'. He loosened his shirt collar and put his feet on the coffee table without removing his shoes, then realizing this, immediately put his feet on the floor.

"There's time for you to have a shower if you want. I'd offer to wash your back," I wiggled my eyebrows, "but my father will be along soon."

He got up and hugged me. "That's the best offer I've had all day."

"It had better be!" I kissed him. "Go. Then you can do your macho chef thing with the steaks."

Ten minutes later he was back. What is it about men and speed washing?

I tossed him his _Kiss Me I'm Polish_ apron, then he carried the plate with the steaks out to the deck. I followed with the rest of the table settings.

"I'm here," I heard my father call.

"On the deck, Dad."

"Hi, Gregor. Good to see you." A handshake turned into a quick embrace, which was a bit more than a man hug. I went back into the kitchen oddly pleased. They had always hit it off. My father had suffered more over our divorce than I did. Now that we were a couple again, he was over the moon.

I played with the salad, doing my best to eavesdrop. Geoff was fiddling with the grill controls, my father relating something about the dig. A couple of times Geoff looked over his shoulder towards me and I heard them laugh, acting not like my lover and father, but two pesky older brothers.

I couldn't hear them, but I could watch and see them immensely enjoying each other's company. My father, dressed impeccably as usual, knife edge pleat in his grey slacks, pale cream linen shirt, with sleeves rolled two turns and his fringe of white hair just touching the tops of his ears. He was still fit and held his own in Jordan, but he was getting older, I thought, remembering his hands dotted with age spots. Geoff's hair, showing signs of grey, was curling over his ears, and needed a trim. He was still fit, and carried his weight well on his six feet two frame. He'd given up the heavy drinking fueled by his unhappiness in our marriage, and had gone back to being a regular in the Police gym. Fit, slim, and smart, what more can a girl want? How had I missed this the first time around?

"You can put the steaks on if you like." I came out with a plate of vegetables and dip. "Shall I bring out a couple of beers?"

"Gregor?"

"No, thanks. I'm good. But you go ahead." He reached for a raw carrot and scooped some garlic dip.

"I'll have a Guinness, if you don't mind.

"How long for the steaks?" I asked.

"Let's wait about ten minutes before I put them on"

"These gas grills," my father said, " they sure beat using charcoal. By the time the coals were hot enough you lost your appetite. Or you were to full after eating all the hors d'oeuvres."

"Now," I called to them, "you just have to worry about running out of propane."

"That's why I keep a spare tank, Sammy. Don't mind her," he said not quite in a whisper.

"I'm right here," I said mimicking him. They were both laughing now. O to have a sister, I thought. I continued mixing the greens, straining to listen to their almost inaudible banter, periodically punctuated with a naughty laugh. Did I really want to hear? Jesus, was I the butt of their humor? Was paranoia part of pregnancy?

"Anytime you're ready, Geoff." I handed him the glass of beer with a slice of lime, then went back for the salad.

"Now, I'm off duty," I said sitting down and putting my feet up on a chair. "Anything missing, you know what to do."

"We're good, Sammy. Relax." God, if he told me one more time to relax.

"What are you drinking, Sammy? Where's your water." He made to get up.

"Geoff will get it, Dad. Relax!" They both looked at me.

"What?"

Geoff went for the water. My father looked at me and shook his head. For once he kept his mouth shut.

The steaks were perfection, as was the salad. My father was in his glory. His daughter pregnant. His ex son-in-law not so ex. He usually enjoyed a cigar after dinner, but the two cigars in their aluminum tubes remained in his shirt pocket.

"Go ahead and smoke," I told him, pointing to them.

"You sure, Sammy. The smoke won't bother you?"

"Not at all. Not out here anyway. Besides it'll keep the bugs away."

He extracted them and handed one to Geoff.

He sat back, with his feet crossed at the ankles, puffing contentedly. Impeccably dressed, except for the slippers. Uggs.

Geoff puffed too. He wasn't a smoker, and I knew he hated the taste, but he never refused to join my father in an after dinner smoke.

"So, Gregor. Fill me in on the last few days of the dig. A bit of trouble with looters I understand."

"Yes. And two men were murdered too. Two law enforcement men." He looked at me. I held my breath, hoped he's steer clear of my mishap in the air.

"The looting of antiquities," he continued, "is a very big, and very lucrative business. We just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Boots was devastated that his project was shut down, but he gets it. Still he's disappointed of course and hopes he can resume next year."

"From what I've learned, traffic in stolen artifacts and the looting of national treasures is an enormous problem. And the proceeds of selling this stuff ends up buying guns for the terror groups." He puffed trying not grimace.

"Yes, so I'm told, but I really don't know anything other than what I heard at the dig. And that wasn't much. Abdul wasn't at liberty to discuss the investigation."

"You seem to know a bit about this," I said to him."

"Joan, as you know, she's on the anti-terror task force. And stolen art and antiquities has been figuring in. The looting of national treasures, especially since the Gulf War has really taken off and the sums of money involved are absolutely enormous. This business just about dominates the black market."

"Really?" my father said. Jesus. Where has the man been?

"I know that drugs and the opium trade from Afghanistan was linked to the illegal arms trade. But art?"

He knew that, didn't he? Abdul had even discussed this very topic and now he acted like this was new to him. He reached over the railing to tap ash into the yard. There was a slight tremor in his hand.

"Yes. As I said, especially since the Gulf War. But I'm not really up on it. Joan is the ah, expert."

This went on for a bit and finally my father dropped the bomb.

Casually he mentioned that Boots and I had a rather close call, wanting I suppose to give credence to the looting and terror groups problem.

Geoff didn't react. Not so anyone might notice. Anyone other than me, that is.

He kept talking and kibitzing with my father, asking casually if he'd ever gone up with Boots in his contraption as my father referred to it. What was it like and so forth? Before he could answer I interrupted.

"Dad didn't go up, not that he didn't want to, but Boots..."

"I know, Sammy. Nathan always had a cockamamie reason for me to just sit my ass down at camp. I'm no invalid you know." He never used what he called coarse language, but he clearly was still annoyed at being literally grounded.

"As I was saying," I continued, "Boots wanted me. For one thing," and I looked at my father, "it has nothing to do with him or anyone else thinking your not fit enough."

"Right, Sammy. Right. He told me it was a weight factor." He shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. "I weigh less than you do."

"Tell me, Sam," Geoff said. His brow was deeply furrowed, his voice barely a whisper now. "Tell me what happened. As you were actually up there, in this... this what are they called? Ultralights?" He made airplane wings with his arms.

I retold the story, again for the fourth or fifth time.

"Boots just wanted to scare the shit out of me. You know Boots. Always wanting to get a rise out of someone. Pun intended."

They didn't laugh. "Anyway, it's pretty much like my father said. There were these men below. Standing around a pick-up. One of them raises his rifle and starts shooting. He misses. Or so we thought. And Boots hightails it back." I mentioned the hole in the fabric but not the bullet gouge in my helmet. Thank God my father for once kept his mouth shut. As much as he delighted in teasing me, he knew Geoff, and cared for him well enough not to burden him with the details of my almost fatal consequence.

Geoff reached over and took both my hands in his. Unusual as he never displayed his emotions physically in public.

"God damn it, Sam. Why didn't you tell me? God damn it. His eyes welled and at this point my father stood and rubbed his hands together.

"Where's the scotch, Sammy. The Good Stuff." He knew where it was and went to get the bottle and glasses. He took longer than necessary, giving us a moment.

"I'm sorry, Geoff. I wanted to tell you. Really. But I didn't want you to have a heart attack. No one was hurt." He was about to say something, and I added quickly, "I know that's not the point. I'm sorry. I can see how upset you are. I'm sorry Geoff. I really am."

"Yeah, yeah. I know you are. I know that. I'll get over it. It's just... I'm glad you're okay. You and Boots. But that doesn't come close to how I feel. Okay. He was still holding my hands and said very softly. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you. Especially now. We're a family now."

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. At this point the bartender came in with the good stuff.

Between the scotch and cigars the atmosphere grew heavy with smoke and light from the consumption of Good Stuff. My father didn't spare the scotch, and poured two or three for Geoff to his one. Cigars, he puffed with abandon, but scotch he savored, sipping slowly, swirling the contents to release the aroma. The more he poured, the more they laughed. My father played Geoff like a Stradivarius, loosening him up. In the morning he'd have a hell of a headache.

I checked my phone; it was almost one-thirty.

"Dad," I pointed to the time. Geoff was weaving on his way back from the bathroom grinning like a fool. He'd pay for this tomorrow.

"Time for these old bones to hit the sack. I've an early session, and I need at least six hours of shut-eye." He got up and started to clear the table.

"Leave that, Dad. Come, I'll see you out."

"I know my way. Look after your husband." He pushed my hand away. On his way out I heard him laugh. "I hope he doesn't get morning sickness."

Geoff was in a good humor. He never overdid it, at least not since the old days. A couple of beers or a scotch or two with the Old Bones over the course of the evening was generally his limit. But I knew that booze could make for a slippery slope. I banished the thought, finished clearing up, and went to bed. Geoff was already dead to the world.

He didn't have morning sickness, but I sure as hell did. Geoff in fact had gotten up well ahead of me. I think I heard him in the shower but I might have been dreaming. But when I was overcome with nausea, it was no dream. I almost made it to the toilet in time. Retching and trying to clean the mess at the same time caused more retching. The session with the porcelain throne was intense, violent, but thankfully brief. I showered and put on fresh clothes and went down. I couldn't stand the thought of roaming around in my pajamas and robe.

"Morning, Sam." He was wearing his dishtowel apron and came over to kiss me. From the last step we were the same height.

"You're pretty chipper this morning."

"Considering," was all he offered. "How's Gregor? He did knock a few back."

"I'm sure he's fine. You weren't feeling any pain."

"Don't I know it!" he said pouring me some coffee. "And it's back to the Gym too."

"You've been going, haven't you?"

"Sure. Three times a week, but I'm going to aim for five. The StairMaster will not be _my_ master!"

After he left I had a second cup and read the paper. There was a good article on faith and religion versus human nature in terms of responsibility for wars and strife. I cut out the article planning to discuss it with Harry. And good food for thought with my classes. Most religions and ethnicities were represented at the university, and my own classes had Jews, Christians and Muslims. And given this mix debate was guaranteed. Debate, in my classes was generally civil. Not always cordial, but civil, which wasn't bad considering most were barely past adolescence, their brains still developing. I slipped the article along with a sheaf of others into a file folder. I'd amassed a lot of material this way, which found its way into my lectures and journal articles. Maybe there was a book in there.

I was playing solitaire with all the clippings, sorting and arranging, when Boots called.

"Hi, it's good to hear from you. I see you're still at the CIA. Almost time for tea." Jordan was seven hours ahead.

"Yes, just about. How are you anyway? We haven't talked since you left."

"I'm fine, thanks. Still pregnant."

"So it's official then? That's terrific."

"Very official!"

"Actually, I'm trying to reach Gregor, but he's not answering. No problem is there? He's okay?"

"Yes, he's fine. But he has patients today. Sees them at home and doesn't answer his phone when he's in a session."

"Oh Good. I was a little concerned. He was quite wound up before leaving.  I was afraid all that excitement was getting to him."

"You kidding? The man was in his glory."

"I'm relieved. We got the dig squared away. The season was a lot shorter than I would have liked, but we did get a lot accomplished. Your father is amazing and not just for his financial help which was an enormous boon, but with the physical stuff too. Anyway, we're all squared away and hopefully, my fingers are crossed, we can resume next year. Think you'll come back?"

"I'd love to," I lied. "But now with a baby."

"Of course. Forgot that for a second. Maybe when he's a toddler. Can't start archeologists young enough!"

"You never know, Boots. Do you have a message I can give my father?"

"Thanks, but I'll try him again later."

"Sure. Early evening is best for him. Of course that'll be quite late for you, won't it?"

"Not a problem. I've been burning the midnight oil. Still have a number of reports to write and a proposal– read begging letter– for next season. So I'll try to get him tonight. Your time that is."

"That'll be fine, I'm sure. When will you be back?"

"Next week. Figure Tuesday or Wednesday. Depends when I can get a flight."

"Looking forward to seeing you. And getting caught up, if you know what I mean. By the way, I'm planning a barbecue, you know, for the group. I figure the weekend you get back. I hope you'll join us."

"I wouldn't miss it. Thanks and good talking to you, Sam. Stay well. Oh– and regards to the three of you! Bye for now."

The three of us? Jesus, I hoped he meant Geoff and not me with twins. At least he didn't call me _little mother_.

I put my stuff away and decided to go for a run while I could without waddling.

That didn't happen.

# Chapter 6

This time it was my father. "Hi, Dad..."

"Sammy, can you come over? Now please."

"What's the matter? You okay?"  I was already at the door.

"I'm fine, Sammy, I'm fine. Just come over. Please."

"What's going on?"

"Relax," he said seeing my face. "Come." I followed him into the kitchen where he'd set the table with two cups of coffee with cream and sugar ready and plates with baklava, linen napkins and forks. Jesus, all this urgency for his version of a kaffee klatch. My heart was still furiously beating.  Seeing my face, he said.

"You look like you've seen a ghost. You okay?"

"You kidding me? You call sounding like it's some kind of emergency." I was waving my arms like a lunatic and talking louder than I should have.

"Sorry, Sammy, didn't mean to upset you. Everything is fine." Now he was looking at me like I was some hysterical pregnant adolescent. The man could press my buttons.

"I was worried, Dad. The way you summoned me."

"I didn't summon," he said indignantly, rising to his full five feet six and closing his eyes.

"Okay, not a summons. But I got spooked, okay? Can we leave it?" Jesus, count to ten I told myself.

"So, sit now. I made the coffee, but I can fix tea."

"Coffee's fine. Thanks." I had to work at keeping the ice out of my voice.

"And Maria's made baklava. You'll have a piece?"

"Yes, I will. Thank you." I fixed my coffee and took a sip, and a nibble of the pastry. Delicious of course.

"So is this just a coffee invitation, or have you something else on your mind?"

"No, nothing else. Just that we haven't had coffee together or a chat in a while." That damn near teared me up, and I tried to cover up with a hit of coffee.

"What was last night?" I asked.

"Ah," he said waving his hand, a trait he'd long ago picked up from Maria. She did this whenever she wanted to change the subject, or toss away a compliment.

"Okay, Dad. Come on. Out with it." The baklava was cloyingly sweet.

"Nathan called."

"When? I was just talking to him. Said he couldn't get you."

"Well, he did. Just before I called you. I had a cancellation."

"So. What's up?"

"Asked if I'd go back to Jordan."

"Go back!"

"Yes. Go back."

"He just told me the dig was shut down and he was finishing up the paper work. What's to go back for?"

"Well, he ah..." Uncharacteristically the man was a loss for words.

"Uh oh. What's the deal?"

"He uh, wants to continue the survey. You know. From the air. It's the best way he says to spot any geographic anomalies."

"You not serious! After what happened? He wants you to go up in that thing? Worse than that is that you are even giving it some thought. Are you out of your mind!"

"I told him that it was a dumb idea." He said no such thing.

"Abdul told him that they'd been all over the place but found nothing more than the stuff that fell out of the pickup, which incidentally were cave carvings. His investigators located the cave. According to Nathan there are a lot of similar sites all over the Middle East and lot of wealthy landowners are making a fortune selling off what they find. In any case, the stuff wasn't particularly significant, archeologically speaking."

"So what you're saying, in essence, those artifacts weren't very valuable."

"Right. Right. Not much value."

"Well, then. Why the hell were they trying to shoot us out of the sky? Did Abdul explain that to Boots, because I would sure like to know."

"Nathan want me to take photos as he flies over."

"Dad, answer the question. What are you thinking? Fly around and take pictures. You've no idea of the danger you're putting yourself in. Abdul didn't close the dig for nothing. And as for Boots. Just wait until I get ahold of him."

"I know. I know that." He rubbed his face. "I know that but..."

"But you still want to do this. Fly around in that dumb contraption, looking for God knows what. Not only is Boots out of his mind, but you're certifiable too!" I pushed my cup away and coffee sloshed on the table.

"Dad. Please do not do this. Be realistic."

"I told him as much. Said you'd kill me. I put the blame on you."

"But you didn't exactly refuse, did you?"

"Not exactly."

"Jesus, Dad. What does _not exactly_ exactly mean?"

"I said I'd talk to you."

"And that's what we are doing now, right? And you have my answer. If that means anything."

"Of course it means something, Sammy. It means everything. I'll get back to him, tell him..."

"No, Dad. I'll call him. Believe me I have plenty to say. He's out of his mind to even think of doing this whatever survey. And to try and involve you? Just wait. When I'm through giving him a piece of..."

"Sammy. I'll handle it. I'll talk to Nathan. Please you've more than made your point."

"Okay. But this isn't over between Boots and me. Believe me. I'll have a chat with the man when he gets back."

"I can only hope by then you're not so angry. Don't spoil a friendship on my account, okay? He wouldn't intentionally do anything hurtful, you do know that, don't you?"

"Yes," I said. "I know that. I'll go easy on him. I promise."

I could see him wrestling with himself or his conscience, wanting to say more. But he followed his own advice. When you're in a hole, it's time to stop digging. He nodded at me, his lips twitching with restraint.

"I hope we are clear on this, Dad."

"Yes, Sammy. We are clear on this. I'll call him."

"Thank you." I wanted to add a few more choice words myself, but I didn't.

"I've got to get back," I said looking at the time. "I want to go for a short run, while I am still capable."

I got up and put our dishes in the sink. He didn't have a dishwasher, but he did have a cell phone. And after almost getting killed by an intruder, he'd also installed an alarm system in both our places. Talk about bolting the barn door after the horses have run.

"Maria will be along later, so leave the dishes. She gets quite upset if there is nothing to tidy up."  For someone considerate to a fault the man could be quite dense. I went home a bit too wound up to go for a run. But on second thought that was the reason I should pound the pavement, to rid myself of the festering toxins. And to diffuse my anger at Boots.

It was warm, in the high seventies, with little or no breeze, modesty not withstanding I pulled on a pair of cargo style shorts with all the pockets. How long before the front of my pants needed an elastic gusset? I always carried ID and a few Toonies and of course my keys. Occasionally I had to stop to buy water but so far had never needed to return home by bus. I was hoping to be out for a good hour, but the heat might change that. The way I felt I might need more than an hour to rid myself of stress and anger. Go right at the bottom on my steps and right again onto Pine cruising along to Avenue du Parc, my head on a swivel, minding the traffic. I crossed Pine and headed up the hill to Mont Royal. In no time my tee was drenched. My pace wouldn't win races but I'm a steady even runner. I did pass a few joggers, but was overtaken by many more than I passed. Girls, women, to be politically correct, university students most of them, running singly or in pairs in neon colored Lycra shorts and sports bra tops gradually pulling away from me. And the boys, yes they were boys wearing cut-offs and wife beaters, showing off muscular shoulders and arms. Youth. Beauty. Their whole lives yet to unfold.

I plodded along, keeping a steady pace, uphill to Mont Royal. The city maintenance guys were keeping the grass at bay and the smell of fresh cut grass was pleasant, not yet overpowered by the fumes of buses and the hundreds of cars roaring along. I started to huff a bit when I passed the monument on my left. The lions couchant imperiously gazed at me and I pushed harder. At the top I waited for the green light, then crossed, turning right onto the bike path along the park that used to be called Fletcher's Field, and now named after Jeanne Mance.

It was downhill from here. I got my second wind and picked up the pace. I felt good, so I continued to St Antoine. I stopped at all the intersections, dodging pedestrians and delivery vans, but at Ste Catherine, I cheated a bit and waited for two light changes before crossing. At this point I had several options time and distance wise. I could hang a right at any of the intersections and gradually make my way home, but I felt good so I'd play it by ear. In spite of the concrete and fumes, downtown is quite scenic– urbanly speaking that is. There is any number of historic buildings along St Antoine. Most were the former stately homes of the city's prominent and wealthy men. Brewers. Bankers. Shipping magnates. Fur Trade Barons. Geoff and I had occasionally walked the area, leisurely sightseeing and learning about our city's past immortalized in bronze plagues. But not far from here, and a bit south you'd find yourself in much lower economic strata.

I hoped I hadn't bitten off more than I could chew, and continued to Atwater. Another hill. I took a short walking break, then tackled the hill, pumping my arms. The hill leveled and I reached Ste Catherine before the burn in my legs made me scream. I felt great. A bit of a rise to Sherbrooke and from there it was a piece of cake. Flat, lots of intersections. And Sherbrooke was very green. Hotels. Art Galleries. Bentleys. Mercedes. BMWs. Even the occasional Rolls.

I still felt great, but was beginning to tire, so I slowed the pace, left my anger behind and headed home. It was a good run.

The next several days were uneventful. Boots apparently, and according to my father, had also taken the more prudent course, and would return as planned. I still wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but that urge diminished as the days passed. Geoff was busy investigating and going to crime scenes, which were more than enough in a city this size. Joan was still working with Interpol. Art, or rather, stolen art was high on her agenda. Tracing stolen works of art wasn't easy. Follow the money, she said was key. But with dummy corporations, electronic money transfers and bank secrecy laws it was a daunting task.

"And still we persist, we have to," she told on one of our rare runs together. "We've the best technology, and brilliant cyber specialists and still they elude us. And the arms trade is solidly linked to the stolen art market. And I don't just mean the looting of antiquities. And don't get me going on the drug trade."

"How does that work?" I asked. "I get the drug thing. And how those enormous profits buy guns and support the terrorists. But art?"

"In some ways, it's a safer route. There are fewer middlemen. With drugs you need the growers. And that's another whole issue. You need growers. Processing. Packaging. Delivery systems. Sales teams.  The whole business profile. With art it's a different story. Steal it. Sell it. Buy guns.

"Nothing to grow. Nothing to harvest. No Labs. No chemists. There are fewer links in the chain to break."

"A bit more streamlined. I see that. But it can't be easy to get rid of the art. Besides they'd only get a fraction of its value, wouldn't they? With drugs, lets face it, there's an enormous market." I'd read somewhere that if twenty–dollar bills were analyzed, most would show traces of cocaine.

"Yes, you're right. Fenced art is heavily discounted for sure. But often enough art is stolen to order. Word gets out –how shall I put it? A wealthy collector wants something by a particular artist or school. _The Thomas Crown Affair_ , and that movie with Sean Connery are not exactly science fiction."

"You're kidding."

"Not that far fetched you know. The order is placed so to speak, and the piece or pieces are located. Sometimes whole collections are stolen. Museums have been robbed. The Gardner Museum in Chicago, twenty-five years ago. Nothing recovered. And in the seventies, the IRA stole from private collectors to sell or swap for the release of political prisoners. There's a whole history. It goes on and on. And now. Today it's even a bigger business with unspeakable consequences."

"I had no idea. Still, it can't be easy to unload a Van Gogh for hundreds of millions."

"No," she laughed. "It isn't. But even ten cents on the dollar goes a hell of a long way to fund terrorism. And since the Gulf War," she added, " the looting of antiquities has become –and get this– a _multi-billion_ dollar business."

"You're not serious!" I said, stopping in mid stride. We were on Ste Catherine Street. I'd become so engrossed I hadn't noticed we passed the Gay Village and at Papineau I took the initiative and crossed to the other side to head back. I was reaching my limit, but Joan was just warming up.

"You've no Idea, Sam. Since the Gulf War the looting in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan –all the _Stans–_ is nothing short of a crime against humanity. Shrines, Temples, anything to do with religion or has historical significance. Nothing _sacred_ is sacred."

"And nothing can be done?" I asked. "To stop the looting?"

"Very little. Few countries. Especially those I've mentioned are at war or suffering from civil strife. The looters pay off the village elders or the villagers, who essentially have nothing. They don't care about a few stone carvings. They want to survive. In some cases it's take the money and look the other way, or starve. I know what I'd do."

I thought now about our discussion and couldn't figure a connection to our dig. These slabs it turned out were looted artifacts. But again, why there? As far as I knew there were no temples in the area. At least none that I'd heard about. Did Boots know of any?

One weekend taking a break from dig work, a bunch of us went to Petra. The JETT bus was comfortable enough, if you don't mind clouds of cigarette smoke and the cloying smell of aftershave lotion. The Treasury fascinated me, as did the other structures carved from the living rock, by the Nabateans back in the first century, who had apparently abandoned the area after an earthquake.  The area is riddled with caves and passages, and according to a lecture I had attended at the CIA, given by an archeologist from Brown University, Petra is threatened by vandals and looters. I saw first hand the bullet gouges in the urn above the Treasury.

Paintings, I could understand. But large stone works? A Picasso. Rembrandt Vermeer. Small enough to transport You can roll up a canvas, damaging to be sure, but as far as transport and concealment it was a hands down winner.

But stone slabs? What was going on at the dig anyway?

My father was more than enthusiastic when I mentioned my plan for a get together of the dig team, and Geoff was more than keen to meet the 'archeologists'. "Especially Mara", he said winking and raising his eyebrows."

"Don't encourage the old goat. She's young enough to be my sister!"

"Or step-mother," moving out of wet dishcloth range.

Harry agreed to come and yes, Georges too. I had yet to get confirmation from Hannah and Freddy, but it would be a full house –literally– with the other principals of the team. And by the time of the party, two weeks later, Hannah and Freddy had also confirmed, so barring anything untoward we were a go.

I was still throwing up most mornings after waking, but I was down to just the one retching session. Halleluiah.

Thea Maria had insisted on cooking for me and without giving any offence I convinced her that preparing baklava for fifteen to twenty people was more than enough. Of course this pleased her enormously and I was treated to a round of cheek pinching. Thank God, we were past the good luck spitting. It took me a while to figure out how to limit her. If I asked her to prepare something specific she was elated, and less likely to go off the deep end toiling and cooking. It seemed to work.

With some final checking of party inventory I was ready. Food. Beer. The hard booze compliments of my father.

"I'll get in some Good Stuff," he insisted. "What about soft drinks and bottled water?" I noticed your pantry was low." Jesus. Did he check my underwear drawer too?

"That would be good, Dad. Thanks." I bit my tongue, a wonder I didn't have a speech impediment.

"What about Ouzo?"

"Got a bottle of that too," I said. Ouzo, that licorice flavored Greek liquor that turned milky when you added water, was far from my favorite. But my condition, so to speak, precluded my imbibing anyway. At the dig, most of us enjoyed an evening drink, sitting under our tent shelters in dim light. There were jokes and laughter and someone with a guitar. Like Girl Guide camp, but with booze. I enjoyed an occasional drink myself. Well, maybe more than one.  After seeing Nabila, I did some research reading up on Alcohol Fetal Syndrome. What a horror. For sure it was caused by excessive alcohol consumption, but I could find no evidence as to when the fetal damage occurred or how much alcohol would prove detrimental. There was no clear evidence. No booze for me.

The first to arrive was of course Geoff. My father was back and forth second guessing my decisions, organizing, rearranging, what glasses to use, where to put stuff.

"Dad. Go sit. Everything is fine. I looked around. "We can use some extra glasses," I said.

"Good, idea, Sammy. Good idea. Give me a minute; I'll go get some. A dozen? Yes. Give me a minute." I rolled my eyes and looked at Thea Maria who just shook her head.

"Take your time," I encouraged. Geoff was on the deck determining where best to put the grill. Apart from real glasses and cutlery I insisted that we use paper plates. Thea Maria didn't approve of course. I told her every one had spent weeks eating in a tent, picking sand out of food, and shooing away flies. Paper plates would not offend them.

By eight o'clock most had arrived. Joan, Geoff informed, would be along later. All I had to do was figure a way to give Thea Maria a break. Asking her to leave would be cruel. If she stayed she'd continue working like a slave. She was no spring chicken, and I felt guilty about how hard she worked to please us.

"Dad." I said. "Dad," I repeated a bit louder." He looked at me quizzically, not used my almost inaudible voice. I nodded towards the living room. Out of earshot, I said. "Thea Maria is knocking herself out here. Maybe you can..."

"Maybe what?" he interrupted. "You know how she'll feel if I ask her to slow down."

I grimaced.

"Relax, Sammy. She's fine." He looked towards the kitchen. "Look at her. She's in her glory." Then in a phony voice said so she could hear, "Got enough glasses now?" and went through the kitchen and out to the deck, to do his greet and meet as the guests arrived.

"Hi, Harry," he said gripping his hand. "Where's Georges, couldn't he make it."

"Yes, I'm here, Dr. Milland," Georges said, pronouncing his name the French way.

"Please, it's Gregor. My daughter is the doctor." That brought a round of laughter. I suppose it's funny the first hundred times.

"Okay, Gregor. And how are you after your little adventure in the sandbox?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Just fine. And Sammy too. No doubt you've heard. I'm sure Harry has filled you in."

"Yes. That business with the airplane. Ce n'est pas un avion, c'est plutôt... it's more like a..." He turned to Harry. _"Comment dit-on cerf-volant?"_

_"Merci,"_ then to my father, "like a kite with a _moteur_."

"Yes. It was very scary business."

"And on a happier note, I hear you are going to be a _Grand Papa_. _Félicitations."_

_"Merci, Georges, merci._ _Il me fait plaisir."_

_"Entendu,"_ Georges replied.

Gradually the other guests arrived. I greeted them at the door and steered them to the deck where my father entertained them. He had an amazing knack for putting people at ease, getting them to interact.

When Freddy and Hannah arrived, Boots was right behind them. After hand shakes, and kisses they went through the kitchen to the deck. Boots hung back, seemed reluctant to enter.

"Come in, Boots. I won't bite you," I said with my hands on my hips. He grinned broadly and handed me a large bouquet of yellow roses he'd been holding behind his back.

"How are you, Sam? You look good.

"Roses and sweet talk. I forgive you. You're off the hook." Awkwardly, and trying not to crush the roses he hugged me.

"Where's the gang? And your father."

"All on the deck. Grab a beer from the fridge. There's other booze on the sideboard if you prefer. I know you and my father did like a scotch. Or two."

"Thanks. I'll just go and say hello first. Thanks."

Just as I turned to shut the door Joan approached calling my name, she was holding a skinny bag with colored tissue peaking out.

"Hi," I said, glad you could make it. Geoff said it might be iffy."

"Nothing that won't keep." She handed me the bag. "Wine, she said, "but not for you", and stepped back to appraise me.

"Motherhood agrees with you. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks. And for the wine too."

"You haven't gained any weight."

"Not yet. I'm still managing to get in a run a few times a week. We should get together."

"Good idea. I haven't run as much as I like lately, I've been pretty busy. But definitely we should hit the streets. Maybe next week?"

"Sounds good. Go on out to the deck. My father will introduce you," I told her as Mara arrived also with flowers. And another bottle of wine.

"I got the bag from _Dix-Milles Villages,"_ she said handing it to me.

"It's beautiful. Come in. Come in. They're all outside. I think you know everyone, except for Harry and Georges. Come, my father will fill you in. Geoff's the cook tonight."

I led her to the deck, the noise and laughter loud. Since we co-owned the building our neighbors, although not out of earshot, were not that close. But knowing my father he no doubt had forewarned them about the raucous group he'd be entertaining. He was good at the pre-emptive strike. I hoped he hadn't invited them too.

Geoff was getting teased about brushing up on his kitchen and parenting skills.

"I'm way ahead of you. I've already enrolled in Lamaze classes and I'm doing my breathing exercises. I even bought one of those breastfeeding bras, like De Niro had in that movie." My father was laughing the loudest.

"I can see him now," some one said. "Breathe. Push. Breathe. Push. OOPS!"

It was going to be a long night judging from the laughter.

Thea Maria was arranging sweets on a platter. She'd covered the dish with a paper doily from a package stashed somewhere in the pantry that I didn't know was there.

"To make nice for the people," she said. In her accent people became _pipple_. And alternating on the platter with the baklava were shortbread-like cookies sprinkled with icing sugar. They were delicious but a disaster to eat. One nibble and a cloud of sugar covered your clothes. And ready to go was a copper pot for the Greek coffee. Or Turkish depending on your politics. My father loved the stuff. Thick, foamy and sweet. Geoff liked it too. Or so he said. But I challenged him once, saying that he enjoyed it simply to please my father.

You'd drink Buckley's Cough Syrup I accused, if you thought my father endorsed it. He just laughed.

_"Effahristoh,_ Thea." Thank you Auntie.

_"Tipotah, tipotah,"_ she replied.

Geoff was taking steak orders now. They'd all be medium, just barely red inside. But knowing the crew and having seen first hand what they wolfed down at the dig, raw meat would not have been a problem.

I poured myself a glass of sparkling water over ice and went out. No fewer than four people jumped up to give me a seat.

"Let her stand. Let her stand," my father said. "It's not even two months!" But he got up and insisted I take his place, with applause now replacing laughter.

"Thanks, Dad. Have you been counting the days?"

Instead of looking abashed, he answered with, "Yes, actually. From that first blush I saw on your cheeks at the dig. What's it been Geoff? About six weeks?"

"You're asking me?" There was so much laughter and foot stamping I was sure someone would call the cops.

"Good one, Geoff. Good one." Jesus. They should take their show on the road. My father, who is not easy to one up, was standing beside me smiling and looking like a tufted owl, his few scant hairs standing up over his ears.

There was a lot of small talk, little groups of two or three coming together and reforming as topics became more or less interesting. Boots generally being a center for fielding questions about the status of the project, the dig team especially concerned about the continuing excavation as a few depended on research that needed to be ongoing. Tough enough to earn a PhD, but when something beyond their control, like politics interfered and put an end to research, that could be devastating.

"There's enough for at least five more years," he said. "And the way things have been progressing we could have several newly minted PhDs. Remember that mosaic floor we uncovered? At the moment it doesn't look promising, given what went down this summer, however I am optimistic, so don't get a job teaching high school yet". There were a few very half-hearted chuckles.

This went on most of the evening, and gradually by midnight, the food was gone. Thea Maria's sweets had been the biggest hit. Around eleven-thirty, my father had finally convinced her to call it a night, and insisted on putting her in a cab. She knew not to argue with him, but I was fair game in that department, considering she'd been my unofficial stepmother. He'd pay the driver and add a good tip, making sure the man understood to wait until she was safely in her home before driving off.

As time wore, it was just Joan, Harry and Georges who remained. Georges, feeling a bit like the odd man out wanted to leave. My father, who could sell sand in the Sahara, coaxed him to stay. Geoff, who'd had only one beer –not that I kept track– was sipping the Good Stuff. Georges passed on the cigars, but I could tell he liked the Good Stuff too. Eventually, Joan left, leaving me with the puffers and sippers.

"Joan couldn't stay?" I asked Geoff.

"She's really tired. This investigation has her working twenty-four seven." He shrugged, indicating the discussion was closed.

"And Mara?" I turned to my father.

"Mara? Mara what?"

"The way you two were canoodling."

"We weren't canoodling."

Harry was chuckling, his eyes darting between us. Georges wanted to know what canoodling was and when Harry explained, they both laughed. My father doing his best to look indignant failed.

"What do you call it, Gregor? It sure looked like canoodling to me."

"Don't you go and side with my daughter. I need all the help I can get, she's a handful you know."

"I was speaking to Boots," Harry said, changing the subject. "About the ah, mishap."

Geoff's mouth was firm; my father took another sip.

"Well, actually I was referring more to the two men who were killed rather than the other..."

"All related," Geoff said.

"So I'm gathering. According to Boots, who got it from– what's his name? Abdul– he's the overseer?" Boots had nodded off in his chair, making little snuffling noises.

"In a way," I said. "He's with law enforcement and attached to the Department of Antiquities."

"Right, right. According to him, those guys were in the thick of the looting trade."

"That's what I understand. But at that point I came home abruptly."

"That's right," my father confirmed. "Mind you Abdul certainly didn't confide in me, but he did say they were looters. That it was dangerous for us to stay, and for the dig to continue. They're ruthless and would not hesitate to kill anyone who interferes. As we saw. It's a very big business."

"A billion dollar business," I added looking at Geoff. Geoff I suspected knew more than he let on about this. Joan hinted at that.

"Yes. The sums are enormous," Geoff interjected. "As are the consequences the money is used for. Obviously I can't discuss what I know about this or what's going on in your area," he nodded at Boots still dozing. Suddenly, as if he had a sixth sense, he jerked awake and sat up.

"Oops. Sorry folks. Hope I didn't snore."

"Like a freight train," my father said.

Boots, quite abashed mumbled an apology, moved closer to the table and reached for a piece of baklava.

"He's joking," I said. "Don't mind him. But you must be exhausted. The last couple of weeks must have been dreadful."

"Yes. I am. What with closing the dig and Abdul quizzing me. Getting the reports written and the paperwork properly filled out and filed with the Department of Antiquities. And add jet lag to the mix, I am quite done in. It just caught up with me." He reached for the coffee carafe but it was almost empty.

I'll make some fresh."

"No, no, Sam. Thanks. There's about half a cup. Thanks."

I sat down and said, "We were just talking about the looting and the huge amount of money it generates."

"Yes, it's a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. And not only in the Middle East. Laos. South America. Anywhere there's a war, poverty and unrest. Places with histories and cultures centuries old. Thousands even."

"Yes," Geoff said. "It's a problem on an international level. Joan, as you know is one of my colleagues, and she works with a number of agencies. Essentially she liaises with anti-terror forces. Internationally. I really can't get into this for obvious reasons, but I can say this. The theft and looting of antiquities, works of art, the drug trade are all pretty much all linked to the illegal arms trade."

_"Mon Dieu,_ Geoff. How does this looting of the national treasures and illegal arms, how do they relate?"

"Basically they sell the antiquities and the art, and use the funds to buy guns and ammunition, not to mention explosives too."

"And they can buy those things? You make is sound simple."

"Georges, you have no idea. The money is mostly cash. And everybody likes cash. Even legitimate manufacturers. No one refuses cash. Sometimes they should, but that's another story. The legitimate arms producers sell the merchandise when you show the money. Bribes are paid of course. Phony papers are written up. There is always someone willing to do this. If the paper work looks legit and the money is ready, no one asks questions. These guys know how to make it look above board."

"And then," Harry interjected, "the guns and what have you are smuggled to wherever they are needed. There are so many fanatics. Jihadists, terrorist organizations. From what I've read and heard their networks are intricate and very hard to detect. Or infiltrate."

"Yes," Boots agreed. "And they are very alert, always one step ahead of law enforcement. Abdul said that the guys they apprehended, the ones suspected of killing his two men, were smugglers. The stuff in their truck, although not particularly valuable, a lot of private collectors would still be willing to pay good money for them."

"And from what Freddy said earlier," Harry continued, "many of these sites are destroyed willy-nilly. What they can't sell or turn into guns and such they destroy. Much of Iraq's cultural history is literally being bulldozed to the ground. A dog in the manger story if you ask me. A very interesting man, by the way."

"Oh yes," my father said. "Owns a number of art galleries, internationally too. Lives in one of those converted condos. The ones in the former Ritz Carleton." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "His son manages the gallery they have on Sherbrooke. It's walking distance from here. So's the condo."

"As a matter of fact," Boots said, "Hannah asked me to oversee a pickup for the gallery. It's being shipped, literally, and I have to go down to the docks."

"What's that about?" I asked. "Did Hannah ship something from the dig?"

"No, not from the dig. Freddy's business. Some artifacts that he had warehoused in Jordan." He looked at us. His expression uncomfortable.

"In the light of what we've been discussing," I said, "this sounds a bit fishy, don't you think?"

"I didn't at first. She'd mentioned this to me while we were still at the dig. Just casually, you know? In conversation. It was well before any of this stuff went down. But now? Yeah. It does sound a little bit fishy." He held his hand up, thumb and forefinger barely apart.

"When is this stuff arriving?" Geoff wanted to know. "And why you? Where's his son? What's his name –Rajah? It's his business, why you?"

"Like I said. When she asked I thought nothing of it. Freddy deals in all this stuff. Sculpture. Antique jewelry. Roman coins. Paintings. You name it. So I said sure, I could do it. She said she'd do it, but both she and Freddy would be away. I never even thought about their son."

I stared at him. "Boots. That sounds pretty odd."

"Yes it does. But like I said, at the time it didn't. And now I feel like an idiot repeating it. Doesn't make much sense. But I said I'd do it. And now if I change my mind..."

"So change your mind," I said. "It's not like you've nothing to do. I'm sure they'll work it out without you."

"Hang on a second," my father said, stubbing out his cigar. "I know at the time this was a perfectly plausible request. But now I'm not so sure. What did Hannah and Freddy say to you tonight?"

"About the pickup? Nothing."

"Nothing."

"No, Gregor. Only that they appreciated me helping. I can't hardly call them now and refuse. _That_ will sound fishy. And as well you know, they too have been generous in their support of my research. That kind of complicates things for me."

I wondered how deep Freddy dug into his pockets to support Boots. As far as I knew, my father had pretty much funded the whole effort. Curioser and curioser.

"When are you supposed to pick up the shipment?"

"Not pick it up, Geoff. See that the container gets unloaded and that everything corresponds to the paperwork. And mind where they're placed in the shed. Then I call the gallery and ask for Joseph. He'll come and pick up the container."

"And that's it," I said. "Check and identify, than call this guy Joseph.?" I think I knew who this Joseph was. I looked over at my father who'd made the connection too.

"Yes."

"Doesn't make sense." Geoff was leaning forward, his arms on his knees, and looking up at Boots.

"Why not," I asked.

"Off hand it looks like someone is setting Boots up."

"Come on. Setting me up for what?"

"That I don't know. But given all the talk of looting and smuggling and Freddy's business? I don't know. I still ask– why you?"

"Okay, okay. Let's take a breather," my father said, and poured scotch all around.

"Good idea," I said. Harry and Georges were all ears wondering where all this was going.

"Look at it this way," Geoff was telling us. "If this is all above board, then no problem. A bit odd to involve Boots, but not a problem. _However_ if something shady is going down, and I'm _not_ saying it is, Boots could end up holding the dirty end of the stick."

"I don't get you," my father said. And before Geoff could answer Harry piped up.

"If there is something fishy then Boots can be caught in the middle."

"Go on," Geoff encouraged. Harry's eyes twinkled.

"As I was saying gentlemen– and lady. Let's say Freddy is somehow involved with this nasty business and with his art galleries, it's not that big a stretch. Considering what happened in Jordan, at the dig? And with Abdul? Let's not be naïve here. This Abdul... Hameed I think Joan said. If he's law enforcement and serves with the Antiquities Department, I'll bet my Meerschaum," he patted his hanky pocket, "that he's got his finger on Freddy's pulse."

"And maybe that shipment is already being watched?"

"I don't doubt that, Gregor. Given how pervasive smuggling is and Freddy's connections, how could Abdul _not_ know what's going on?"  Harry reached for the Good Stuff and poured a shot. Georges declined with a little wave.

"Am I an idiot or what?"

"No, Nathan," my father said. "Not an idiot but certainly an _or what."_ A few hollow chuckles.

"I'll get cracking on this and talk to Joan. If there's anything to this, I'll get back to you Boots. In the meantime don't sweat it."

"Right. Don't sweat it. Just what I need a damn swat team on my ass."

"Not hardly, Boots. Not hardly. It may be just business as usual for Freddy. But to be safe, I'll get Joan to dig around. In the meantime try not to worry. When are you to do this anyway?"

"Not sure exactly. Hannah said she'd call me with the date the ship is supposed to dock. That and the shed where I'm supposed to go."

Several days passed before we heard back from Boots. I still had bouts of nausea, nothing severe, but some mornings were worse than others. By mid-morning though I could count on the rest of the day to be puke free.

One afternoon as I was organizing some research, I heard my father coming in.

"Sammy, you here?" Where else would I be?

"I'm in my office. Coffee is in the kitchen. And some baklava too." It was getting dry, as neither of us ate desserts as a rule.

I heard him rummaging around and I entered the kitchen as the microwave beeped.

"How old is this coffee anyway? It's stone cold."

"Fairly fresh, just left over from the party." He ignored me.

"What brings you over this time of day? Appointments over?" When he was in session he drew the window shade of his consulting room, a reminder not to be disturbed. But unless I went out on the sidewalk to check how could I know.

"A few in the evening, but nothing now, so I decided to drop in. For a visit you know?" He took a swallow and grimaced.

"I can take a hint. I'll make a fresh pot." I took his mug as he was raising it to his mouth.

"Three minutes." Baklava is more than a little sticky and he was licking his fingers. I tore of a length of paper towel and handed it to him.

"Elegant," he said. I ignored him. Then I lifted his dish to put a placemat under it. He ignored me.

The coffee was ready and I poured him a fresh cup. Not in a mug.

"Okay. Let's visit, and before you ask, thank you I'm fine. Feel great. Nausea pretty much over once I'm up."

"That's good, Sammy. Good. Good."

"And Dr. David said the ultra sound shows two heads."

"That's Good, Sammy. That's... what?"

"Hah! I knew you weren't listening. What's up? Come on, out with it."

He chuckled, shaking his head and wagging a finger at me. I'll get you back, you know." I didn't doubt him.

"Okay." He was wearing a brown Harris Tweed jacket, over an open necked pale yellow shirt. From the inside pocket he extracted a folded piece of card stock and pushed it across the table to me.

"What's this?"

"Read it, Sammy. Read it."

"Looks like an invitation." Across the top in embossed script was the name of Freddy's galleries that he'd named after his wife. Below the name written in a smaller font was: _Specialists in Art and Antiquities of the Middle East._ And inside:

_You are cordially invited to view and inspect a recently acquired rare collection of relief carvings, column capitals and small votive objects. Included in the exhibit is Jewelry in gold and semi precious stones. These artifacts date from the Hellenistic_ _and Roman periods. Circa_ _300 BCE to 300 CE and have been acquired from several private collec tions. HANNAH is proud_ _to represent and serve as agents for a number of collectors. Several collectors due to personal circumstances are reluct_ _antly parting with their treasured collections. Understandably they wish to remain anonymous. _

This is a rare opportunity for discerning buyers to acquire exquisite and beautiful Old World artifacts.

"Interesting to say the least," I said. "Especially in the light of our late night discussion."

"I thought so too. What do you make of this?"

"I don't know. At this point I don't have an opinion." I read further. Freddy had written a more personal note to my father.

"Gregor," I read aloud.

_Please plan to attend._ _Given your discriminating tastes and interests in art you will find the collection to be more than a little interesting. The other evening, which __was delightful by the way, your daughter mentioned some of the pieces in your own collection. This invitation includes your daughter and Geoff too. And his lovely partner –Jane is it? She's also_ _welcome._

_We hope to see you. I kno_ _w you will not be disappointed._

It was signed Freddy.

I folded the invitation and handed it back.

"I can tell you, Sammy. I _am_ more than a little interested, that's for sure." He put the card back in his pocket. "But you know how my suspicious mind works."

"What do you mean?"

"Anonymous collectors. Personal circumstances. Hah! Something fishy about this, Sammy. Something fishy," he said wagging his finger.

"I don't see what you're driving at?"

"Anonymous collectors. Personal circumstances. Reluctant to part with their treasures." Looking at me as if that suddenly made it clear.

"I'm not sure that's particularly suspicious behavior, Dad."

"And why not?"

"These collectors– whoever they are– wouldn't you agree that they must be quite wealthy?"

"If this is legit, then yes."

"Okay, assuming this is legit, and we don't have cause to believe otherwise."

"You don't have cause."

"Let me finish. Assuming this is legit. A lot of very wealthy people, especially in Europe, and I'm thinking say England. Many are land rich but cash poor. Maybe they have to sell off some of their art, or artifacts or whatever so they can keep afloat. Isn't that what Abdul said?"

"I remember. I just don't buy it. I think Freddy is just too slick."

"Oh, I've no doubt he's slick. You don't get to be Freddy, with a chain of international art galleries without being a little slick. Obviously he knows his business very, very well."

"He no doubt does. But there's something about this. Call it a feeling."

"I'm saving my judgment," I said. "First I want to see what gives with Boots and that shipment he's worked up about."

"I see your point, Sammy. I shouldn't jump to conclusions. By the way, have you heard from Nathan?"

"No, I haven't. Actually we haven't spoken since the party. I've been meaning to call him."

Anyway, I better get back. I need to review my notes for tonight's sessions. Thanks for the coffee. And sweets." He got up and began to tidy the table.

"Dad. You don't have to tidy up you know." I took the plate and cup from him putting them on the counter.

At the door, he said. "Fill me in after you talk to Nathan. And don't forget to tell Geoff about the invitation."

"What was the date?"

"Two weeks from today. Keep it open. I hope we all can make it."

"No worries on that score. If you have suspicions, you can bet that Geoff and Joan are skeptical too. Wild horses wouldn't keep them away."

He waved and left. Unlike me he went down the steps then back up on his own side rather than just step over the cement divider. How long before I was doing that?

To avoid forgetting I immediately called Boots, and had to leave a voice message. "Boots. It's Sam. Call me." Terse enough? I'd hardly ended the call when the cell rang startling me.

"Just left you a message."

"That's why I'm calling. Guess what?"

"You got an invitation from the Hannah Gallery." A pause.

"How'd you guess?" He sounded alarmed.

"Relax. We got one too."

"What do you make of it?"

"I'm not making anything of it. It's an invitation to what is essentially an art show."

"Kind of weird, considering all that's happening."

"Boots, nothing is happening. Unless you've heard something more about the shipment. Have you?"

"Yes, I did actually. Day after tomorrow. Do you think it's the stuff we're invited to view? A bit weird if you ask me."

"I suppose it's possible, but I don't see how that's weird."

"Whatever. Say, will you come with me."

"Where? To the docks?"

"Would you mind? I'd feel better. I'm not that keen going on my own." I could imagine he was dry washing his face with his hands and pacing.

"Of course, if it'll make you feel better, sure." He could fly in a motorized kite high above cliffs and ravines, but something about this had him quite spooked.

"Okay, then. Thanks. I'll pick you up, say around elevenish day after tomorrow. That okay."

"Yes, I told him. "But we'll take a cab from here. I've no idea what the parking is like down there. Besides we'll be free to walk around. And I'll treat for lunch; there are some nice places on Rue de la Commune, not far from Nelson's monument."

"Sounds good. But I doubt I'll have much of an appetite." Give it a rest I wanted to say.

"Lighten up a bit, okay? It'll be fine."

"I hope so. Anyway, got to go. See you Thursday.  Oh, I'm sorry, I never asked how you are. This has me so wrapped up."

"I'm fine, thanks for asking. I'm feeling quite good actually." I discovered that if I got out of bed slowly I had less vertigo.

I had a follow up appointment with Nabila that afternoon. Routine, she told me. There was nothing untoward from the tests, other than to confirm what the whole world new. I'm pregnant.

"Sam, good to see you." She opened the door wider and ushered me in. "You look great. You're feeling okay?"

"Absolutely. Except for the nausea, that is."

"And how is that going? Severe? For some it can be quite debilitating."

"Not at all. At the beginning it was two or three bouts. The first when I had hardly gotten out of bed. Even before getting up, and that I can tell you can make you move fast!"

"And now?" She was staring at my file and writing.

"Now, just after I get up, and I don't have to make a mad dash for the toilet."

"Good, good." She put down her pen and folded her hands on her desk. "The nausea, I mentioned at our last visit, is due to a rise in a hormone. Human Chorionic Gonadotropin."

"I remember. HCg."

"Right. HCg. So I won't bore you again with the details. Why don't you go next-door. You know the drill."

After the exam, I dressed and went back to her office.

"Have a seat, Sam. A couple of things, I want to mention."

"Oh-oh, sounds ominous."

"No, not at all. I'm sorry, didn't mean to alarm you. Nothing to worry about. You're in excellent health. Excellent."

"Okay, but you're about to drop the other shoe." She laughed.

"Just a slipper. A paper bootie." I tried to keep the worry from showing.

"Let me ask a few questions. Are you Jewish?"

"No. I was baptized, but don't remember the event." I managed a smile, but my heart was beating in my throat.

"Okay. How about ancestors? A Jewish grandmother or grandfather."

"Not that I know off. Where is this going Dr. David?"

"You've a marker. A genetic marker for Tay-Sachs."

I didn't know much about genetics. Only that Mendel and his pea experiments established a basis for inheritance. But I did know that Tay-Sachs was fatal for children. Jesus!

"That sounds bad. Now I am scared."

"Don't be. There's nothing at all to be afraid of. I promise you. This is just a marker. You needn't worry."

"Why not? Tay-Sachs kills babies. I know that." I spoke louder than I should have, but given the circumstances I wanted to shout.

"Sam. I'm sorry my bedside manner is not better, but let me explain. There's nothing to be worried about. You are fine. Your baby is fine. The tests don't indicate any problems. None at all."

"But," I persisted. "Tay-Sachs is serious, isn't it?"

"Not in your case. Not for you or your baby." She came around and sat in other chair facing me at an angle. Our knees almost touched.

"Let me explain. First of all, you don't have Tay-Sachs. Obviously." She said dismissively. "Secondly just because one has the marker doesn't..."

"You mean by that, that I am a carrier." I didn't make it a question.

"Yes, carrier. That's right. But the thing about Tay-Sachs, is _both_ parents have to have the marker. Both parents have to be carriers. And then there is only a one in four chance a child will inherit both traits. You need that mutation or gene from both parents if the condition is to be passed on. Okay so far?"

"So far, I'm with you," I said, not yet out of my depth.

"Now, as I've said. You're a carrier. That's it. And as for Geoff? Of course a test can determine whether or not he's a carrier. But the odds are very highly unlikely that he's carrier."

"Why is that?"

"Unless he's a Jew. Or has Jewish ancestry from Eastern or central Europe. As in Ashkenazi Jews. Or if he has –and I concede this is possible– French Canadian heritage. From western Quebec or New Brunswick. Or if he has Cajun ancestry from Louisiana. Otherwise I'd say the possibility for Geoff to be a carrier is very, very remote.

"As far as I know none of that applies to Geoff."

"There you go. See?" Then she frowned. "This isn't any of my business, but given the circumstances I really have to ask. Please don't let my question upset you."

More than you've been doing?

"Okay," I said.

"Geoff is the father, isn't he?"

"Of course, he is." I must have looked stunned."

"Of course he is," she repeated. "My question was not meant to be insensitive, Sam. But given our talk, I really felt I had to ask."

"I understand, Nabila. But today has been a bit overwhelming. Normally, I'd have found that funny." My sense of humor had taken a hit. Fear of incurable genetic diseases for your unborn child can do that.

"Well, I do apologize.

"Of course he's the father. As far as I know." At that we both laughed.

"Let's leave it at that." She patted my hand and stood. Time to go.

"Don't forget to ask Marlene to schedule your next visit."

I did so, and left. Both of us were very relieved.

When I got home, I immediately stripped and took a shower. I'm not prone to panic attacks. But when she said I was a carrier for Tay-Sachs I was suddenly drenched in sweat. Jesus. Can babies in the womb perspire too?

My cell rang as I was drying off. I didn't answer, but the ring tone I had programmed told me who it was. Right now I didn't need to be psychoanalyzed. Right now I needed to talk to Geoff. Right now I called him.

"Hang on a sec, Sam." Jesus. I didn't even to have time to respond and I was on hold. I almost hung up, but he was back on the line.

"Sorry about that. I'm all ears now. How'd it go with Dr. David?"

"That's why I'm calling."

"Everything okay?" His tone went from jocular to how he spoke with Ouellette, his boss.

"Yes, everything is fine. Me. Our baby. Healthy as a horse."

"Well, don't start whinnying or pawing the ground." I rolled my eyes. My father would have loved that.

"Are you busy?"

"Busy? What do you mean? I just got out of another meeting. With Joan and the boss." He lowered his voice and said, "You know what that was about. But we're done for now. What's up?"

"Nothing. Nothing's up. But I miss you.

"I'm on my way." He hung up.

I'm not usually needy, but my doctor's appointment had shaken me. I believed her, and knew there was nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, a lingering doubt persisted. I started to cry and abruptly scolded myself for succumbing to tears. I'm not a teary person. Even as a child, if I skinned my knees or fell, there were no tears. I'd steel myself and watch dispassionately as my father or Thea Maria cleaned the scrapes and scratches.

Barely fifteen minutes had passed when I heard his car pull up. I opened the door as he was about to insert his key in the lock.

"You okay, you sounded a bit agitated. How was the appointment?"

"Yes, the appointment went fine." My eyes welled.

"Sam, what's the problem?" he said gently and taking me into his arms. "Why the tears? What did the doctor say?"

"Everything is fine. Really. Just hormones. Just once I'd like to see a man pregnant."

"I ain't going to volunteer that's for sure!" We both laughed, me through tears.

"By the way, are you Jewish?"

He stared, poker faced and said, "What can I show you?"

"Nothing I haven't already seen."

"Okay. What's with the jokes? You're avoiding something and now _I'm_ worried."

I told him.

"As far as I know, I have no Jewish ancestry. So in that regard there's nothing to worry about. And my family originated in Scotland or Ireland, so no French or Cajun. We're safe on that score too. The name's London not Londres."

"Okay, so there is no need for you to be tested. You know, to see if you're a carrier for Tay-Sachs."

"And unless both parents are carriers, there's no risk for the baby, right?"

"That's what Nabila said. But I still don't get how I have that gene."

"Have you spoken with your father?"

"No. I came right home and you're the first person I've spoken to."

"In any case, there's nothing to worry about. Unless there's something else you haven't told me." We were sitting on the sofa. I took his hand and squeezed.

"No, that was it. Believe me I'd tell you if there was."

"Then I'd say you over reacted and it's probably just..."

"Don't you dare say hormones!" I punched his arm.

"Hey, that hurt!"

"Suck it up, big boy!" A bit of wrestling on the couch followed.

"As much as I enjoy nibbling your ear, what are you really going to feed me for dinner?"

"You are out of luck on that score I have nothing prepared. Furthermore Thea Maria has been dragging her heels and there's nothing Greek, for her _Yeoff_ to eat."

"Let's go to that Greek place with all the bad art of villages and goats. Near the old train station."

And that's what we did.

# Chapter 7

Boots called and confirmed our plan for Thursday.  Neither Geoff, nor Joan knew that the plan included me. Ostensibly Boots was going to confirm that the shipment arrived and was intact, then contact Freddy who would dispatch someone to pick up the container and deliver it to his gallery. That someone would be Joseph. Boots, I knew, was still apprehensive and over reacting. Overthinking was how Geoff had put it. I doubted that there was anything untoward about the shipments and I didn't share Geoff's skepticism when he told Boots to be wary, but I'm not the cop.

The next morning, about ten, my plan was thwarted. Boots did arrive but not alone. Joan was with him, Boots in tow.

"Hi, Joan. Didn't expect you too. What's up?"

"I'll tell you what's up, Sam." She went directly into the living room, took a dead stop and turned to face me.

"Sam. What were you thinking? You do know the potential if something goes wrong here, right?"

"No. Not really. What potential are you talking about? I doubt that..."

"Let me finish," she interrupted. "First –and get this– you stay away."

"What?"

"You heard me. You do not go near the place."

"Then why are you letting Boots go? The potential of whatever you're referring too is must surely apply to him too."

"Boots is just doing what he agreed to. If there was something fishy about this shipment and Boots had backed out or changed his mind, then Freddy might have smelled a rat. So we have to go forward. We've got undercover people in the vicinity. Geoff is coordinating –and by the way– he isn't thrilled with your plan, but I don't want to tell tales out of school. Now. Boots will be fine." She looked at him dry washing his face, "If he keeps it together."

"I'll be fine. Give me a break here, Joan. I'll be fine."

"I'm sure you will. I'll be with you. And we've our own people there to watch the show. Just take it easy, okay?" She squeezed his arm. Boots at six feet two and well over two hundred pounds was patted and consoled by a woman less than half his size.

She turned to me, shaking her head. "You stay put. You have stuff to do, or somewhere to go, do it. But the docks are out of bounds. Got it?"

"Yeah, Joan. I got it." I got it, but I was really pissed.

"I get it, Joan," I repeated with a little less venom. "You're probably right."

"Yah think!"

"Okay. You are right. Happy?"

Joan laughed. "What are we– twelve? If it's any consolation, I've no doubt you'll hear all the nitty-gritty details later. Come on Boots."

They left.  Boots with is chin down and Joan almost bouncing in anticipation. I closed the door and thought with a little dread about what Geoff would have to say. Jesus. I was missing my autonomy.

I tried to keep busy. I should have gone for a run. The way I felt I could have run up Everest. Instead I stayed home fuming and feeling sorry for myself.

I heard nothing from them until late afternoon. Geoff didn't even call. He had to be pretty miffed. Tough. Late afternoon, about four-thirty Boots called. I was working on my lecture notes –what else?

"How did it go? I've been frantic to hear."

"No sweat. It was a big fizzle."

"What do you mean, fizzle?"

"It was just as Freddy said. Hang on." There was muffled talking. "Sam? Geoff says we'll fill you in later. Joan and I are at the gallery and Geoff is going back to his office, but we'll meet up at your place in a half hour or so."

"That's fine, but it'll be dinner time." More muffled talk. I had nothing prepared and they could starve for all I cared.

"Joan says to tell you she'll spring for pizza. Better revise the time to an hour."

No sooner had we disconnected, I heard Geoff coming in.

"I'm in the kitchen," I called. I could hear him hanging his jacket in the closet, then footsteps approaching.

"I guess you heard?" No hello or hi Sam or how's the little mother. He sat at the table, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar, rolled his sleeves to the elbow. I was wiping the counter and watched out of the corner of my eye, could see him grimace as he searched how to continue.

"Geoff," I said. "You're right. It was pretty dumb of me. There was no telling what might have gone down. I'd be pretty mad too, but thank God, it all went okay."

"I'm not angry. Okay, maybe a little. But it's not about me getting mad. You're not a rash person. You're methodical. Logical. Sensible. But planning this with Boots? To participate in something like this? Based on my _not inconsiderable_ experience and the suspicions that abound regarding Freddy and his business I felt –Joan and I felt– there was a chance of something going down and I didn't want you anywhere near."

"I don't know what I was thinking. I didn't think Boots was in any danger, but it wasn't my call. I know that. And had something really happened that warranted your intervention, or the cops. I could have screwed things up."

"Exactly. Don't you get it?" He stood and embraced me. "Sam. You can be so God damned bull-headed. If Gregor knew what you'd been up to, he'd take it out on me. And for good reason."

He was right. My father teased me and unmercifully at times. But he harbored a few old-fashioned notions. Geoff was responsible for keeping me out of harm, protecting me. Especially given Geoff's occupation.

"Well, _I_ sure as hell won't tell him." Even if he did blame Geoff –and he would– he wouldn't exactly let me off the hook.

"Right. But I won't lie to you or Gregor. We can play it by ear. Let's not make a big deal out of this."

"The others should be along in an hour. Coffee?"

"No. I think I'll have a beer." He took a Guinness from the fridge and reached in the back for a lime. I handed him the heavy glass beer mug. His Guinness mug.

With slow deliberation, he cut a thick slice of lime, squeezed it into the beer then dropped in the slice. He cleaned the knife, put it back in the drawer and wiped the counter and folded the dishcloth. I wanted to scream. When his rituals were over, I got myself a bottle of flavored water. The doorbell chimed. Thank God.

Boots carried two large pizza boxes, the aroma tantalizing for a change and went into the kitchen followed by Joan. Geoff played host insisting I take a load off, his words. Joan, whom we'd both known for a few years felt quite at home and busied herself getting plates and setting the table.  Boots had brought a six-pack of beer and had popped open a can. Joan grabbed it from him and poured it slowly into a glass. She handed it to him saying, "We're not at a dig, Boots!"

He just grinned. I knew he was attracted to her, and I made a mental note to see if a romance brewed. Might be easier to ask my father.  He missed nothing.

"Anybody home?" Speak of the devil.

"No, Dad. Nobody home." He sauntered in casually dressed to the nines. He'd be a fashion icon even if he was shoveling you know what.

"Hi, Dr. Milland." Joan got up quickly. "Take my seat and have some pizza, there's plenty to go around."

"Sit, Joan. Sit. I'll get a chair from the hall. And please call me Gregor.

Geoff scooted sideways to make room and Joan filled another plate with a large slice.

"So, folks, what's shakin'?" Jesus, who was this man? I looked at him, and of course was ignored.

"So. Tell me. How'd the meet go?" He was unfolding a paper napkin.

Geoff looked at Boots as if to say, it's your show .

Boots wiped his mouth, took a sip of beer and proceeded to fill us in on what had transpired at the docks.

"Smooth as silk. We got there and went to the shed office. The manager or whoever is in charge said they were still unloading. Another hour, he told us. We could wait in the office or watch them unload as long as we stood out of the way. We took one look at the office, which was a real dump, and decided to watch the ship. There were several being unloaded so he came out and indicated which one was ours. 'You can walk around, that's not a problem,' he said. But we were told to keep well away from the crane unloading the containers. For the crates and smaller stuff the stevedores use a sling.

"So we walked a bit and came back to Freddy's ship and watched the men bring up the smaller stuff from the hold. There was another guy there and we struck up a conversation. "You got something coming off this tub?' he says. He was wearing chinos and one of those cloth jackets with leather sleeves with _Jenkins Outer Wear_ embroidered on the back.

"Yeah, I told him. Something from the Middle East." Here Boots looked at Joan.

"Apparently, I wasn't very discreet in telling him that. Anyway, this guy, Jenkins I guess, said he had a load of sweaters coming from Asia, about a dozen large cartons. Said he didn't import enough to use a container, and was always missing a few cartons. His insurance covered his losses, but it was a hassle for him to put in the claims, so he was down there checking his shipment.

"It was a hot day today, as you know. Suddenly this guy, Jenkins starts to swear. 'Look at them! Look at them! The bastards are all wearing my sweaters!'

"So this guy leaves, he's really steamed, and a guy in a uniform comes along. He's holding a clipboard, one of those metal ones. He's got a gun and a shoulder patch says CBSA."

"That's the Canadian Border Security Agency," Joan informed.

"Now I'm really sweating and my mouth is dry. 'This your container,' he asks? 'I need to see your paperwork and check the contents.'"

He stopped and popped another can of beer and poured it into his glass.

"Go on Nathan," my father encouraged.

"Now I was having a real fit. I represent the owner," I told him and showed him the papers Freddy had given me. He looks at them and sticks them under the clip on the clipboard and breaks the seals on the container. By now my heart rate is through the roof.

"He opens the container and it's filled with all kinds of shit, pardon me, like household goods and stuff. Bureaus and bedroom stuff. And boxes. Lots of boxes. He has my papers and he's checking that the contents match. Everything is labeled and some even have dates written on them. He checks to make sure it all matches both lists. Mine and the one he has. I tell you I was sweating bullets." He took a sip.

"Then he shuts the container and says, 'okay, buddy. Sign here.'

"My hand was shaking so bad and I was so spooked I don't even know what I signed." Another sip.

"Then he thanks me and tells me to have a good day. Have a good day. As if."

"See?" I said. "All that anxiety for nothing."

"I don't know. I'm still a bit suspicious."

"Still suspicious? Why?" I asked.

"What if he was lying? What if there really was something wrong and they were waiting to follow the container and see where it went."

"The paperwork said where it was going, didn't it?"

"Well, yes it did. But that doesn't mean it'll get there." I glanced at Joan who was rolling her eyes.

"Okay," I said. "What do you do next?"

"I called Freddy, like I was supposed to. Told him where the container was in the shed and told he could pick it up when he wanted.

"I've got a few questions, Boots. This container?"

"Yes,"

"Where did it originate from?"

"The contents?"

"No, not the contents. We know the contents. If it's antiquities, we know where they come from. My guess is the looting. But where was the container shipped from?"

"From Aqaba. It was shipped from Aqaba," Joan said. "Jordan has an international shipping industry.  Freddy's container probably took a good forty to forty-five days. The ships have routes to stick to and Freddy's container may even have been transferred to or from another ship. The manifest would have all the info.

"Why are you asking," Boots said to me.

"I'm not sure. But given he has his own private jet, it seems a long and a round about way to ship his stuff."

"For one thing," Joan said, "it would be more economical. With the different ports of call it would be cheaper, even if longer, than using his own plane.

"Another alternative is to smuggle his goods. The smuggling routes through Lebanon and Turkey are dangerous and risks are compounded," Joan said, "by all the people involved along the way. The thieves who prey on smugglers and the smugglers themselves have no compunction when it comes to killing. As we well know. Shipping by boat, even if the time delays are long, is the safest. And given that Freddy has galleries throughout Europe and elsewhere it's probably his preferred method."

"And another thing.

"Go on," Joan told me.

"Why did you," meaning Boots, "or anyone for that matter have to go to the docks to meet his shipment?  We've neighbors a couple of doors down, from the UK."

"Right!" my father said. "The Pearsons."

"Yes. They used an agency that took care of everything. From preparing the necessary documents to supervising the packing and getting the container in the UK to the unloading and clearing of Customs at this end. And the delivery to their home."

"I can't give a definitive answer," Joan said. But you don't have to use an agent. Of course using an agency certainly simplifies shipping for someone like your neighbor. Even for a business for that matter. But Freddy? Given our suspicions I'd say he wants to control every aspect himself. The fewer people involved, the better for him. Considering all the shipping he does, maybe he prefers to act as his own agent. And in this case with Boots at this end as his representative.

"Besides," she added. "If Freddy acts as his own agent he can deal with people one on one."

"You have a point?" I said.

"Yes. One on one, he can grease a few palms, know what I mean? Not unheard of to bribe someone to look the other way. Maybe it's not so easy at this end, but in the Middle East? It's almost a way of life in a lot of places."

"Okay. I get it." I still wasn't satisfied.

"And that's when I called Freddy. He said he'd send a truck and I didn't have to hang around."

"Right," Geoff said. "And the CBSA agent –the customs man– was one of us, or rather knew of our involvement. Had there been a problem, we'd have been all over that container like white on rice. And we had people on Freddy too."

"Did you leave at this point?" I asked. "You and Joan?"

"I certainly wanted to, believe me! But Joan said we should wait and see who Freddy would send. We didn't have to hang around long. About twenty minutes later a flatbed pulls up. And the guy riding shotgun gets out, says he's Joseph and that Freddy sent him. We compare paper. Believe me I wasn't about to let anyone take off with Freddy's stuff with out checking. We waited till the container was loaded and _then_ we left."

"Of course," Geoff added, "we had eyes on the truck and followed it to Freddy's.

Boots got up for another beer. "And that was it."

"Yes, as Boots said, that was it. We followed the container. It did go to the gallery where they parked in the back. The area is very commercial and deliveries are in the back where we had someone watching. Freddy came out and watched as the crates and boxes were unloaded and brought inside.  Nothing suspicious. Of course we couldn't see what was in the crates. And no way could we justify looking, since the paperwork was correct. If anything is not kosher it wasn't apparent. Freddy had crossed his t's and dotted his i's. And the truck left with an empty container.

"And now, here we are," Boots said. "Drinking beer and eating pizza."

"So any anticipated problems were in fact non-existent."

"So it appears, Sam." Joan continued, "Nevertheless, Freddy Malek is still on our radar."

"Are you kidding?" I said.

"Not at all. Although it seems above board, we haven't closed the investigation. And by the way none of this can be repeated. I know you have a kind of vested interest," she told the group, "given your involvement with archeology."

"Of course, Joan. Goes without saying. Goes without saying."

"No, Gregor. And you too, Boots. I have to say it. And emphatically too."

"I hear you, Joan." He raised the can, drained it, and stifled a belch.

"Now. What about this invitation to Freddy's gallery? The HANNAH."

"We go, Nathan. We go!" my father said. "We go with eyes open."

"We go with eyes open, and with mouths _shut_." Added Joan.

The next day was uneventful. I did a grocery run, which was usually a short trip. My father's list consisted of a number of things Thea Maria needed. And that necessitated hitting the ethnic grocers as well as the mainstream-white bread shops. And since shopping in the city was not car friendly the task was less than a fun experience. Parking in most areas alternated street sides depending on the day of the week. Geoff got nailed once and paid a heavy fine. He'd been so incensed at seeing the ticket on his windshield he angrily jumped in his car and squealed across the street. Guess what? The next morning, he got another ticket for being on the wrong side. There were bizarre time and seasonal restrictions too, regarding snow removal and street cleaning. And occasionally you'd discover your car gone. Not stolen, but towed for some weird and unfathomable reason. Add to the mix the difficulty of finding a parking spot legitimate or otherwise. But I am persistent, and got the job done without incurring any citations.

Later, still bored out of my mind, I went to my office hoping Harry would be there. He was teaching a summer evening course for adults in the continuing education section. As well as his academic responsibilities during the fall and winter, he offered a course on _The Law and You._ Basically it covered what most people want to know, such as consumer rights. How to handle rip-offs, such as being bilked by lawn care providers and guys you pay to clear snow from your driveway, but don't show up. It was a popular course he told me. I should sign up.

As it happened he was in. I could smell his pipe from down the hall. I don't know how he got away with it, especially since Bob was so intensely homophobic. For some reason Bob the letch didn't report him.

I knocked, waited a beat and entered. Bob, who never knocked, caught me once adjusting myself, so I was conscious of surprising someone in the middle of –let's just say, a personal experience.

"Hi, Harry. Thought you'd be here."

"Sam! Sorry. Let me get the place aired out." He bounded from his chair to the window, opening it wide. It was a struggle since it was rarely opened.

"Don't worry about it. I rather like the smell."

"No, no, no. Second hand smoke is as bad as first hand. And now, you with a baby."

Finally it was open and he fanned and waved a file folder. His pipe he'd already extinguished.

"I should give up the damn thing. George has been on my case."

"Do you smoke that much?" He often had it going in our office.

"Not that much. Not like I used to. It's a bowl or two, or three a day. And I don't inhale.

I looked him.

"I know, I know. You can still get mouth cancer. Throat." And as if to prove the point he erupted in a fit of coughing, made worse by his laughing.

"Are you going to live?" Jesus, he was red as a beet. Overweight, didn't exercise. Goddamn pipe.

"I think Georges has a good point, Harry." Easy for me to say.

"Oh, I get it. I do. I'm not addicted."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, really. Truth is, and I'll deny I ever said this," he added in a whisper, "but the truth is I quite like the image of myself. You know, pipe in hand, use it as a prop etcetera and so forth."

"Oh, Harry. You are so Sherlock Holmesian."

"My secret is out! Anyway, what brings you here, you don't have a summer session."

"No, nothing until September. Truth is, since we're telling truths, I got bored out of my mind and hoped you'd be here."

"I'm touched, Sam. You've got something on your mind then?"

He could read me too

"Yes and no."

"Which is it?" he laughed.

I gave him a rundown of the events with Boots and Joan. Whenever talk was serious Harry was an intent listener, rarely interrupted, always focused and thinking.

"But the powers that be, meaning Geoff and his partner –Joan? They have misgivings."

"Exactly. And I've had to eat a bit of crow for thinking otherwise. Not to mention overstepping the bounds and acting out of turn. I admitted that it was kind of dumb of me."

"Geoff does have a point. You do see that?"

"Yes."

"And you did, or were about to act rashly. What were you thinking anyway? That's not like you."

Oddly, his criticism didn't irk me. From my father, I would have reacted differently.

"What's Gregor say?"

"My Father. Of course he agrees with Geoff. Can't say I blame him."

"Good that you see it, but at the moment the point is moot. Tell me about the upcoming exhibit."

I'd mentioned Freddy's invitation.

"It's a pre-exhibition exhibit, for lack of a better word, to view the pieces. For people who plan on bidding. Not that I'm in any position to bid. My father can hold his own in the art market, but certainly not me. Paintings though have a provenance that's established and can be verified, especially newer works. If they've changed hands there's a record, a history of the transactions."

"But you're thinking with antiquities it's quite a different story. How does one determine authenticity and provenance? Especially now, given the looting and illegal trade in antiquities."

"Just what I'm thinking. And according to my own research, and I admit, it's only based on my internet searches, it's almost impossible to determine whether the pieces have been acquired legitimately or not. Or if they've been looted."

"And that's why this is such a problem.

"But what I find upsetting is that someone associated with Boots and his archeology might be involved in this."

"Surely, you don't think that Boots is in anyway is involved?

"No I don't. But what if someone on his team, or say Freddy is. I'd hate for Boots to be implicated."

"I see your point." He was toying with his pipe.

"If Freddy is dealing in illegal antiquities. What if the money goes to fund terrorism?"

"That's a big leap, don't you think? Terrorism?"

"That's just it. I don't know. It scares me. I worked with Hannah. And I met Freddy a few times too.  I hate to think that, to jump to conclusions, but the more I think about it, the more I question. And I know Boots is a more than a little agitated. He's holding something back."

"Boots? What makes you say that?"

"I can't put my finger on it. Just that he's been acting a bit out of character about the shipment and meeting the boat."

Harry began to pack his pipe.

"And the worst part, according to what I've researched, is that the antiquities and the huge sums generated from their sale, more than likely do fund terrorism. Guns. Ammunition. Explosives."

"Didn't I read somewhere," putting his pipe on the desk blotter, "that ISIS or ISIL, maybe even the Taliban– hell! Maybe all of them," he said gesturing wildly, "have been stealing this stuff right out of museums."

"Yes. I saw that too. And another thing that's sad is that many of the very wealthy have absolutely no scruples whatsoever. They buy this stuff on the QT. Pay millions. No way they don't know, or suspect where their money is going."

"Oh, I don't doubt that all, not at all. But let me change the subject a bit. I don't think of myself as one of the very wealthy, but I'm thinking maybe I can get in on the auction."

"Whatever for? You're not a closet collector, are you?"

This set him off on another coughing and laughing fit.

"No, I'm not in the collector's closet. And as for the other? Well dear, I came out of that one a long time ago."

"Oops," I said. "Wrong word choice." He was mopping his face and eyes with a voluminous expanse of grey silk.

"Now that you mention it, both you and Georges are invited to the opening. It totally slipped my mind until just now. Sorry."

"That's great! Georges will love it. Me too of course. Realistically, as regards to the auction, I doubt I move in the same rarified circles as Freddy and his entourage so I'll settle to being a contented browser. He's probably got a hand picked group of potential bidders."

"You can bet I'm not on that list either. My father, on the other hand, may want to nod or wave his paddle during the bidding. However we've been invited to view the exhibit, I'm sure, simply as a courtesy."

"Do you know the date?"

"Yes, it's a couple of weeks away. My father has the invitation so I'll confirm when I get home and call you."

"Good, good. Georges will love this."

"I'm glad you were here, Harry," I said getting ready to leave. "I needed to bounce my thoughts off someone other than Geoff. And my father."

"Anytime, anytime. And you can come to the house, you know."

"Thanks. I really appreciate your insights."

"All I did was listen." He got up and closed the window.

"I better get back. Now that we're together I'm doing more cooking."

"What's tonight's menu?"

"Nothing fancy." Harry was a gourmet cook. "I'm roasting a chicken with potatoes and planning to do it Thea Maria's way with lemon juice, but I'm not so sure it will compare."

"A little hint, Sam. Baste it frequently. Every fifteen minutes, not more. You don't want the chicken or potatoes to stick to the pan."

"Thanks, I'll remember." I managed to leave without seeing, or being seen by Bob. It was hot, so I took my time, walking leisurely. Hot, but a beautiful afternoon.

I washed the chicken under cold-water, dried it with paper towels the way Thea Maria did and placed it in the pan breast side up. The peeled and quartered potatoes went around the chicken. I drizzled a bit of olive oil over the chicken and potatoes then added a generous amount of lemon juice, squirting it right out of the bottle. Boiled baby carrots and cauliflower would complete the dish. Not very colorful, hopefully it would appeal to the nose if not the eye. The secret according to Harry was frequent basting.

An hour and a half, she said. So I set the timer, and remembering about basting, I set the microwave timer to beep fifteen minutes after the oven came on. I was safe for at least an hour so I relocated to the sofa. With my feet on the coffee table, my journals and a bottle of water, I read.

Of course I fell asleep.

I awoke disoriented to an odd sound and a fleeting shadow just beyond the hall towards the kitchen. Jesus. A year ago, my father had been mugged in his own home, the intruder making off with a painting. With my heart pounding I looked around for a weapon and grabbed a lamp, carefully pulling the cord to unplug it. I got up with the lamp ready to strike when Geoff drifted quietly out of the kitchen in his sock feet.

"Sam! What the... sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." He rushed to me and took the lamp. "You're white as a sheet."

"You'd be too! Why all the tiptoeing and sneaking around? You gave me a fit." I pushed him.

"You were asleep when I came in. Surprised you didn't hear me."

"Well, obviously I didn't." He took both my hands and I resisted pulling away, he was, after all, comforting the little mother.

"I took off my shoes not to startle you."

"How'd that work out? Huh? You're lucky I didn't brain you. And don't you dare laugh! I can still reach the lamp."

"What smells so good? Was Thea Maria here?"

"The chicken!"

I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a potholder. Sure enough the chicken and potatoes had stuck to the pan. I shook it vigorously to dislodge the chicken, leaving a bit of skin.  A few potatoes would not survive. Damn. I had to force back tears.

"I had the timers set to remind me to baste. I didn't hear the timers. I didn't hear you. Jesus. I never nap or fall asleep reading. Never." I was still trying to dislodge the potatoes.

"At least it smells good," I said shutting the oven door.

"It smells fantastic. A few stuck potatoes won't matter."

"No, I guess not." I found the baster.

"Better late than never," I said basting and shaking the pan. I also added another shot of lemon juice.

"When will the chicken be ready?"

"Another forty-five minutes."

"Why don't you go back to what you were doing. I can handle the basting and do the vegetables."

"Okay," I mumbled. He was the better cook. I could boil water. And I've roasted chickens too. Even without Harry's basting hints they were never a disaster. But I'd never fallen asleep on the job.

"Great! Everything is under control. Go do your thing. I don't want to be one of those men who are useless in the kitchen."

"Yeah, right."

"What? What's so funny?"

"You are so transparent." He tried to look confused.

"Nothing, Geoff. Not a thing." I hugged him. "Just keep on being you, okay?"

"I'll try, but I do like being other people."

I kissed him. "I'm going back to my sofa. Put your shoes on and don't tiptoe. Got that?"

"Got it."

When I awoke, Geoff was sitting across from me, his shoeless feet up on the coffee table. He was reading one of my journals.

"My God! I feel asleep again. What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty." He closed the magazine. "Dinner is still a go. I put the veggies on hold, so it'll be about ten minutes. You hungry?"

"Famished. Give me a minute to get my bearings back." I yawned and stretched.

"You sure I shouldn't just carry you up to bed and tuck you in?"

"The last time you tried that, we didn't get to the tuck-in part."

"Ah those were the days," he said and ducked to avoid the cushion.

"Do you think your father's had his dinner yet? There's more than enough."

"Don't know if he's even home," I said heading to the bathroom.

"He's home. I heard him put the Jag in the garage.

"Call him. He'd love an invitation." He'd eat a second dinner just to be sociable.

The chicken was fine. Potatoes had survived.

"That was great, Sammy. Delicious."

Of course the table talk centered around the antiquities market, looting and smuggling and of course Freddy. Eventually when the talk of Freddy died down, the question of my maternal health came up. I asked him the big question.

"Funny you mention that, Sammy. I haven't thought about our family history in years. Not in years. Not since...

"As it so happens," he said tucking into his bowl of ice cream –I'm no Thea Maria, "there is Jewish blood in our family. My grandfather, your great grandfather," he said pointing his spoon at me, "was a Russian Jew."

"Really!"

"Yes. The subject of our heritage– your heritage never came up. It's not a secret, but it just didn't come up. And as time went on, with just the two of us, well..."

"I know, Dad. There was no reason to research family history. Had you or mom had siblings..." I was beginning to feel awkward.  The subject was giving him some discomfort.

"Same with my family, Gregor. I've no siblings. Parents died quite some time ago. Nobody left to discuss roots or ancestry. And over time this loses importance. We just carry on with our lives."

"Very true, Geoff. That's very true. Had things worked out differently for Sammy. And me too. Whose to know?"

"So, I've a great grandfather who was a Russian Jew."

"Yes. And as far as I know, he came over as a young man in the eighteen eighties. Married a local girl, probably not Jewish. So if you're a carrier for Tay-Sachs. I guess we have the answer."

"What about you, Gregor."

"Me? Oh, I see your point." He rubbed his face. "I don't know. Maybe I'm a carrier too. I should get tested."

"Doesn't matter," I said taking his hand.

"No, I guess it doesn't. Still. One likes to know these things."

"Especially if you're planning on seeing more of Mara."

"Sammy! Bite your tongue. Show some respect!"

Geoff wasn't sure whether or not to laugh.

"Sammy, a wicked step-mother is just what you need!" he said shaking a finger at me and laughing.

"And on that note I'm leaving. Thanks for feeding me. It's been a busy day and I didn't have the energy to heat anything up." I saw him out and waited until he was back in his own place before I shut the door.

It was business as usual for the next few days. More research. I was preparing an article on the indoctrination and radicalization of adolescents and young adults. What caused these kids to join extremist groups? In particular the Islamic factions responsible for so many atrocities in the Middle East, and elsewhere. And these kids, I called them kids, but many were well into their twenties. Nor were they necessarily Arab or Muslim. Many came from a so-called normal background. Normal of course, is a subjective term, but there was nothing normal about the choices that led them to join these groups and head for Turkey, or Iraq. Some were kids on the fringe, ripe for the picking so to speak, that didn't fit in at school. They had few friends and were often loners. Some liked guns. They had trouble accepting authority. Had dropped out of school. Came from broken homes.

But again, they also came from middle-class families or better. Their parents were educated. Many of these supposedly at-risk kids have been to college too. So was there a profile? And what about violent videogames? Online game sites and chat rooms where the like-minded hang out, sites that are trolled by radical groups looking to recruit members to their cause. Trolling for kids, the disenfranchised, looking for purpose, recognition.

One misguided soul was given a handgun by his mother. She'd bring him to the shooting range. Quality time for mother and son. Big shock when he rampaged through a school shooting up the place.

It wasn't a stretch that so many of these kids were lured, recruited to join ISIL and fight for Allah.

Some articles had author links so I bookmarked those sites for further investigation. You can't be too careful.

I logged off.

I had time for a short run before getting domestic to greet my man. At least he didn't carry one of those black lunch pails, the kind where a thermos bottle fit under the lid. Bob the letch carried one but it had to be the last one on the planet. These days construction workers and laborers carried coolers that held food for a week I'm sure.

My running shorts still fit as I'd barely started to show, although the elastic band didn't give quite as much. And my breasts could be tender so I'd purchased a sports bra. A bit snug, but a lot less jiggle. On the way out I checked the mailbox.

I didn't get to run.

A post card. Addressed to me. Sort of. Thea Sara, it said, with my address beneath.  My full name in fact is Sarah Ann. But I can't remember anyone calling me that. I was Sam to everyone. Sammy to my father. And no one called me Thea. That's aunt or auntie in Greek.

The message on the left side was in Greek. I can't read Greek but I do recognize the characters. I was confused. Could it be for Thea Maria? Suddenly it dawned. The picture, an ocean vista stretching to the horizon. Blue and white cottages typical of the Mediterranean, specific to what I associated with Greece. Much like the bad art in the restaurant. I checked the stamp but it wasn't Greek. From the characters I thought it could be Israeli.

Lee-Ann.

I'd last heard from her over a year ago. That time the card was from Greece. No message. Just the card. And no signature.

Lee-Ann was my best friend –or had been. She'd come back into my life after a number of years, having become a Lee-Ann I did not know. An accomplished artist, who exhibited her work internationally, she travelled extensively, and over the years we'd drifted apart.

Although I did not know it at the time, Lee-Ann was an Israeli assassin, part of a team calling themselves the Hounds of God. Wherever her works were shown, some high profile businessperson or politician died, and as it turned out, Lee-Ann was responsible.

After some years she came back to town and back to my life. We picked up our friendship and met regularly for lunch. Her daughter Sarah, my namesake, was my Goddaughter. One day, over a year ago, the three of us met at my office and went for lunch. Lee-Ann had parked up the hill from the university and on our return we were confronted by a student demonstration in full swing. It became a violent confrontation between Jews and Arabs. Four Hassidic Jews, students, had been gunned down. Sarah and Lee-Ann were caught in the crossfire. Lee-Ann was wounded but poor Sarah, barely six years old, was killed. As it turned out killing the four Jewish kids had nothing to do with Lee-Ann getting shot or Sarah's murder. In fact it was a secondary shooter who was gunning for Lee-Ann. The two issues were unrelated. She'd been targeted by a rogue Israeli agent. Bill, Lee-Ann's husband, had also been killed by this rogue agent. Bill was an arms dealer. It turned out that some of the arms, in a convoluted series of sales, had ended up killing Jews. This agent, who had a very twisted sense of justice killed Bill and was after Lee-Ann. He was also instrumental in the plot to disrupt a Peace Summit taking place at the time. A bomb was detonated, several people were killed, and Geoff was wounded. Although Lee-Ann was not implicated in the terrorist plot she was nevertheless sought after by law enforcement agencies for her other alleged crimes.

Lee-Ann managed to get away.

Several weeks later I got the first post card.

That first card was simply that. Just the card. No message, just the card telling me that she was safe. And probably in Greece. But I'd learned not to take any thing from Lee-Ann at face value. We'd been close at one time, close enough for her to chose me as Godmother for her child. Godparents are a Christian tradition, but progressive and reform Jews have adopted the practice. Ironic, given my discovery of a Jewish background.

I sat on the sofa, put the card on the coffee table and stared at it. A good shot of the Good Stuff beckoned. After all that had happened a year ago –the murders, my abduction, the bomb at the Peace Summit –my feelings for her were still very confused. On one hand I missed her. And Sarah certainly. On the other hand, I wanted to throttle her for all the lies and deception. I picked up the card and studied it. Looked at it every which way, not sure what I expected to find or jump out at me. Apart from the brief message in Greek there was nothing. As I said, I don't read Greek. Of course I could get Thea Maria to translate. No, that wouldn't work. Lee-Ann was, if not a fugitive, certainly what Geoff would describe as a person of interest. If there was something compromising in the message I didn't want Thea Maria involved. And other than Thea Maria I didn't know any other Greeks. At least none I wanted to trust reading the card.

Geoff, for the time being, I'd keep in the dark. Lee-Ann was far from his favorite person. And I thought about telling my father but decided that too could wait. Of course the way that man could read me I might as well just confess.

In the end I decided to first discuss it with Harry.

So I called him. He didn't pick up so I left a voice message. Nothing alarming, I told him, and to call back as soon as he could.

I'm a reasonably accomplished woman, but these three men have appointed themselves my guardian. I'm far from fragile. Reasonably fit. Can figure things out, which includes programming the TV remote. Nevertheless these three think they wear chainmail and ride large destriers and I'm their damsel in distress. And now that I am the _little mother_ I'm conscious of the phone messages I leave to these shining knights.

My cell rang, startling me. I'd fallen asleep. Again.

"Hi Harry, thanks for getting back."

"Of course, Sam. How are you?" He sounded breathless.

"I'm fine, but what have you been doing? Moving furniture?"

"No, not exactly. How can I help?"

"Do you by any chance read Greek?" I knew it was a long shot, but with Harry one never knows.

"Greek? No, not a word. I can say _tikanis_ and _kalimeara_ to your Thea Maria, but that's it. How are you and good day, won't get me far as a pickup line." That set him off in another choking laugh.

"I do have a bit of law school Latin though. Why do you ask? That's a weird and out of the blue question."

I explained about the card. He'd met Lee-Ann and was involved briefly when he represented my father in his capacity as a lawyer.

"Ah. And for obvious reasons you don't want to run this by Thea Maria."

"Exactly. As I don't know any other Greeks I'm out of luck."

"Actually, I'd say you are in luck."

"How do you mean?"

"It so happens that my clever and wonderful partner can help."

"You mean Georges?"

"Of course I mean Georges! I'm no bigamist, you know."  Please don't choke, Harry.

"George," he said, recovering, "had the benefit of a classical education. Went to a private school run by the Jesuits. Latin and Greek, he's told me often enough, were a heavy part of the curriculum."

"Really? You think he'd want to take a look?"

"Definitely. He'd be delighted to show off a bit."

"That would be great."

"When, and I guess more importantly where, would you like to do this?" I hesitated and I could her him chuckling.

"Oh, Sam. What a tangled web we weave."

"I know the damn quote, Harry. Don't rub it in!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry. But there's no way this will end well, you know. You can avoid telling Gregor, but Geoff? Sorry, Sam. That doesn't compute."

"Since you have all the answers, what do you suggest?"

"How about you and Geoff come for dinner tonight."

"Tonight? That's a bit short notice."

"You've other plans?"

"I'm thinking of you. A bit abrupt to expect you to entertain us for dinner."

"Entertain? Sam. It'll take no time to put on a simple repast. And Georges will be more than delighted to see you, both of you. Providing Geoff can make it. I know his schedule can be unpredictable."

"In that case the three of us."

"The three...? Oh, the three of you." God, if he choked it'd be my fault.

"But to answer your question, I'm sure you can expect Geoff too. He's been home for dinner most nights. But don't go to any trouble, okay?"

"You let me worry about that. Just break this Lee-Ann business to him in a way that won't give him an ulcer. He has enough pain. Don't think for a second that I haven't noticed that he still favors his left side."

"Yes, but it's getting easier. Just don't let on that you've noticed."

"Not to worry. So, how does seven-thirty sound? We'll have time for a good chit-chat before dinner."

"That sounds fine. We'll see you then."

Since I'd missed my run, I now had plenty of time on my hands until Geoff came home so I called to give him a heads up. This morning he suggested we should eat out. And we were.  I had to leave another voice message, but this one was easy. No alarms would go off. A few peals of joyful bell ringing maybe, but no alarms. Eating at Harry's was always a culinary experience.

After dinner, while the men nursed brandies, I made do with a cup of his special blend.

"There's this little ethnic grocer on the main and Kemal, the Armenian owner, grinds a combination of beans for me. Quite good, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," I agreed. A lot of so-called specialty coffee is a bit too acidic and gives me heartburn. But this was good.

"Not like that stuff my father boils in the funny looking copper pot."

Georges laughed. "Greek coffee. Or is it Turkish?"

"Actually, it's Armenian, according to Kemal. And don't get these three in the same room! Wars have started over lesser arguments." Harry was refilling my cup and I stopped him half way.

"Thanks, Harry. It's good but I do need my sleep."

"Tell us," Georges said, after Harry finished pouring. "I am anxious to see this famous _carte postale_."

Fetching my handbag I said, "I'm sure Harry filled you in on the history Lee-Ann and I share.

"We both share," Geoff interjected."

"What about me?"

"Okay, Harry", I laughed. The history the three of us share with Lee-Ann."

Georges was studying the picture, turning over and examining the writing.

"Very nice scene. Looks like one of the Greek islands. Reminds me of a place I visited back when I was a student. Beautiful, just beautiful. And no economic crisis."

"We thought a trip to Greece would be a great holiday. And it would too, if not for the financial crunch the Greeks are facing. I don't think it's the right time."

"We will go eventually," Georges said. But Italy would work don't you think, _Cher_?"

" _Absolument. Bien sur."_

"Okay you two polyglots. I'm anxious to her what Lee-Ann had written to Sam."

" _Un instant mon ami. Ça fait pas mal longtemps_. Oh, sorry about that. It's been a while since those kindly Jesuits beat our heads with Greek and Latin grammar."

"Do you think your Classical Greek will help?" I asked.

"Actually, we studied Hellenistic Greek. Classical or Hellenic Greek was the language of the philosophers, like Homer, Plato, and lasted until Alexander the Great. The Hellenistic period is what followed..."

"Georges..."

"What? Oh, _pardon._ I can get carried away at times, _pardon_. But to answer your question I think I can help. One of my friends at the seminary was Greek and we used to write to each other in Greek. The practice was more for me of course and I learned some Modern Greek as a result. But as I said, it has been some time."

"Seminary?" Geoff asked.

"Yes," he laughed. At one point I considered entering the religious life.  However", he added, looking at Harry," a celibate life was not for me."

"Harry laughed loudly. "He wasn't concerned about celibacy. He didn't want to miss out on carnality!"

" _Mon Dieu,_ Harry! _Tais-toi!"_ Be still. The more Georges admonished and feigned shock, the louder Harry laughed.

Geoff and I were used to their couples bantering, but I sensed him to be a bit uncomfortable with how freely they alluded to their relationship. But Geoff was uncomfortable with anyone showing intimacy or physical affection. He needn't have worried. Both Harry and Georges, in spite of their close relationship, were far too cultured to put on a display. Words for sure. And the bawdier the better. Harry could out curse a longshoreman. But that is where it ended.

"Okay, back to business," Georges said, looking at his partner, still laughing and wiping his eyes.

"Let me see." He took a few moments to read and asked Harry if he'd mind getting him some paper and something to write with.

We watched as he wrote, and scratched out, and wrote again. A few minutes later after a final rewrite he handed me the paper. The message was quite short. Both in words and content.

Hotel Dan Tel Aviv. Your room is ready. Plane ticket with open dates held for you at Spiros Travel Agency. Hope you can make it. I know how much you like antiquities.

She'd signed the card in Greek, but with my name. Sarah Ann.

I read what Georges had written a couple of times, and handed it to Geoff.

"Is that it?" he asked Georges.

"Yes. My Greek is a bit rusty after so many years, but yes, that's what Lee-Ann has written. Is there some meaning there for you, Sam?"

"Not that I can tell. I haven't heard form her since, what? A year ago?"

"About that," Geoff agreed.

"She doesn't say much."

"That's for sure." He handed me back the paper.

"That's Lee-Ann for you," Harry added.

"And that's not enough information for you to go traipsing off to Israel," Geoff said giving me a pointed look.

"Doesn't this arouse even a little curiosity?"

"More than a little," Harry said. Seeing Geoff's look, he didn't elaborate further.

"Well, I'm very curious," I said. "And what is she driving at? About how much I like antiquities. That woman is more than a little infuriating."

"You got that right." Geoff got up and began to pace.

"It's not my place to comment," Georges said, "but given what Harry has told me about what happened last year. Those murders and that bombing. This sounds like it could be quite _dangereux_. That message," he pointed to the card, "says virtually nothing. To me it's a lure."

He picked up the card and said to me. "Have you any idea why she would want you to go to Israel?"

"I have no idea at all. Nothing."

Geoff stopped pacing and said, "It's getting late, and tomorrow is a working day so we should let this go for now."

"Yes. Thanks so much for dinner. And the Greek lessons, Georges."

"My pleasure. It was a fun puzzle for me."

"We love having you two," Harry added. There's no need to have an excuse like a puzzle for us to get together you know."

The men shook hands and we left.

Geoff was quiet on the drive back, but once inside he said.

"We should bounce this off Gregor."

"Geoff, he'll have a fit!"

"No, he won't. If I know your father, he'll want to be on the first plane and fly off to Tel Aviv, himself."

"You know? You're right about that. That's why we shouldn't tell him."

"I know, I know. But let's give the man some credit. I think we do need the benefit of his wise counsel."

Jesus. His wise counsel. Where does he come up with this stuff?

"He'll find out anyway," I said, "so you might as well tell him and save some time. I swear the man had ESP."

"He doesn't need ESP. Whenever you have something to hide you look guilty as hell. You're not hard to read."

"Really!" I said, my hands on hips."

"Yes, Really."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. My face is an open book." I kicked off my shoes and sat on the sofa.

"I'm cursed," I said. "Jesus. As a kid he always knew when I was in the cookie jar."

"Accept it. You're like Washington." He sat beside me and began nuzzling my neck.

"Who?"

"Washington. Like George you cannot tell a lie."

"We're not talking cherry trees." He kept nuzzling.

"Tomorrow," he cooed. "You can talk to him about Lee-Ann's post card."

"Me!" I said pulling back. You want me to tell him? How about we _both_ tell him.

"Okay, okay," he said trying to recapture the moment. "But you talk. I'm better at moral support."

"Moral support my foot. When it comes to my father, you're chicken. It's not as if you're asking him for my hand in marriage." Oh-oh. Me and my mouth. He looked at me, waited a beat and grinned.

"Weirder things have happened, Sam." Then he added, "It's your gig. But I'll back you up."

"Really? You'll back me up. All this time I thought Lee-Ann was _persona non grata_."

"Is that Greek? Where's Georges?"

"Not funny."

"You're right. In spite of the history we have with her, and the fact that unlike you, she can lie. In spite of that and that she's an assassin..."

"Alleged assassin."

"Okay, alleged assassin. Hard to reconcile, but part of me did like her. And since the two of you were so close, I think you should look into this postcard business."

"Like how? What are you thinking?"

"Well, for starters. You can call that hotel. See if, in fact, you do have a room booked. And just maybe she's a guest there herself. Then I'd check out this airline ticket. Who ordered it? Who paid, and so forth. Same with the hotel. There has to be a paper trail."

"Okay. That makes sense."

He got up and said, "I feel like some ice-cream? You?"

"Just some water. One of the flavored ones."

I don't know how he could be hungry after the meal Harry had served. I was still stuffed. Lamb medallions in some kind of sauce with tiny carrots, fingerling potatoes and caramelized onions. I'd passed on the dessert. Normally Harry wouldn't take no for an answer, insisting that you at least have a taste. One taste and he knew you'd be hooked. But given my so-called delicate condition he just smiled at me knowingly. How many more months of these little indulgent looks?

He brought the water, sat down and began working at the ice cream.

"Then what?" I shoved myself back into the corner and swung my legs up onto his lap.

"Then we'll have a bit more info." He was scraping the bowl, the noise grating, then put it on the table. My feet were sore and my ankles looked swollen. As if reading my mind he began kneading and massaging my feet. Heaven.

"You know," he added. "Israel too, has problems."

"No kidding," I said, my eyes closed.

"I mean with looting. Like the rest of the Middle East. And we know it ties in with terrorism, but sometimes? Maybe it's just about money. Think Freddy."

"We don't know if in fact Freddy is involved with anything illegal. What about the presumption of innocence?"

"Come on. Where there's smoke..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Where there's smoke, there's you and my father with cigars."

"What? Give me a break here. But you do have a point. I'll take it easy with the stogies."

"Don't bother. Neither one of you smokes in the house. And please don't mention second hand smoke to my father. He'll be very upset if he thinks that _I think_ he's doing something harmful for us." I patted my belly. "Besides I haven't seen him with a cigar since our party."

"Of course not." He made like a twelve year old locking his lips and throwing away the key.

"But back to Freddy." He hesitated. "Sam, you know I really can't talk about this, right? It's an ongoing investigation."

"Of course, I get it. Really. And I know Joan is in the thick of it."

"Right. So suffice it to say that Freddy is someone that is –how shall I put it– someone of concern."

"Okay. And now, back to Israel."

"Yes. Let's say you _do_ go to Israel. After checking it all out of course. What we said. She's your friend and she did reach out to you."

"Sure. But let me amend that. She was my friend, whether or not she still is, is the question."

"Okay, you're right about that. But. Just so you know, if you do take this trip. Go to Israel and meet with Lee-Ann. Just so you know, I'm getting Joan involved, given Lee-Ann's mention of antiquities."

"Good idea. It's as if she knows more about what's happening than we give her credit for."

"Don't read too much into this. But keep an open mind and be wary. I know she's your friend and all but."

"Yes, but. It's an issue of trust." No trust, no friendship I thought.

"Exactly." He got up and took his dish to the kitchen, leaving it in the sink. I resisted the urge to put it in the dishwasher.

After some teeth brushing and face washing –we had his and hers sinks– we went to bed. Both of us too tired for acrobatics.

The next morning Geoff had barely left when I heard my father at the door. He poked his head in and called out."

"You decent, Sammy? Can I come in?"

"Sounds like you're already in. And yes, I'm decent and I've already poured your coffee."  I heard him close his door and knew ten seconds later he'd be here.

"Am I that predictable?" He entered the kitchen and sat at his customary place. Immaculately dressed, of course. Crisp dress shirt, blindingly white. Blue tie with tiny gold smiley faces, and sober grey pinstriped suit.

"What's with the smiley faces?"

"Huh? Oh, the tie."

"Yes, the tie." I brought his coffee to the table. No sugar, but a generous amount of half and half.

"Well, you know. The kids." He didn't elaborate. He donated part of his time to visiting young kids, mostly under ten years of age, in the oncology unit. Just a visit he insisted. You know, cheer them up a bit. He always brought gifts. Coloring books. Stuffed toys and the like.

"Lost one. Last night apparently. Six-year-old girl. Leukemia."

"Oh, Dad. I'm so sorry. Did you know her well?"

"Well enough. I'd visited her many times. Mostly in a group setting. It's good for them. To get about and be with other kids. It's a tragedy. And tragic too. But you know something...?" His voice trailed as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Abruptly he was back.

"You know, Sammy, what is absolutely amazing about these kids is that they are so fucking cheerful. It's heartbreaking." He leaned over and patted my hand.

"And how are you feeling. I forgot to ask. You must think me insensitive."

"Dad! That's the last thing I'd think about you."

"Well I didn't ask. Little Julie was the only thing on my mind this morning."

"That's how it should be. Can I do anything? I can see how sad this has made you."

"No, no. I'm fine really. Of course it saddens me.  As a physician. As a parent. Oh her poor parents." He shook his head.

I knew he was thinking of my brother, his son. And my mother. Guilt washed over me. I got up and got busy at the sink wiping the counter, folding the dishcloth. My memories of my brother and my mother had dimmed with the years. More guilt. Oddly I thought of Lee-Ann. And how our friendship had waned. And how my feelings for her vacillated between caring and cursing her.

This was no time to be thinking about her. One look at my face and he'd want to know what was eating me.

"I'm off, Sammy. Thanks for the coffee. Don't want to dwell on the downside. As they say, God taketh away and God giveth." He reached over and gently patted my stomach. Jesus. Go already before I collapse into a puddle of tears.

"I'll stop in later, if it's okay."

"Of course it's okay." What's got into him?

"Come for dinner, okay? Pot luck." I'd no idea what to serve.

"Love to. What can I bring?" Dinner I almost said.

"If you've any baklava left, but just for you and Geoff."

"Sure, sure. See you later." I saw him to the door. He could have easily walked to the hospital, but at some point last night or early this morning he'd parked the Jag at the curb in front to the house. It was a longer drive than a walk but he of course enjoyed parking privileges in the hospital lot at the top of the hill.

I closed the door and burst into tears. I'd never heard him use the ef word. And the reference _God giveth_ and _God taketh_ away. Jesus. That was a new one too. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I'm not a crier. Really. Hormones be damned. A Jewish grand parent. The ef word. God references. What the hell? I guess my pregnancy was affecting him too. And now, more accurately tonight, I had to spring this Lee-Ann thing on him. Those tangled webs. I was slowly being enmeshed.

# Chapter 8

Oddly, and to my incredible surprise, he thought a visit to Israel was a good idea.

"Why not?" he said. We were on the deck, he and Geoff turning the air blue.

"It'll be good for you. Get you away from the Freddy business. You've been brooding too much. Far too much."

"I don't brood,"

"Okay, Sammy, okay. Not brood. Wrong word." He sneaked a look at Geoff, who tried unsuccessfully to shrink and disappear into his chair.

"And never mind exchanging knowing looks with... with the father of your grandchild." Jesus. The man could be infuriating.

Failing to suppress amusement he tapped ash over the railing into the yard.

"All I meant was that you should get away a bit. The dig wasn't exactly fun for you. You need a holiday. A break."

I was about to protest, but he was right. Weeks digging in the sand, shaking sand out of my underwear, picking sand out of my food was not fun. Not to mention constantly over turning my desert boots and every other container hoping not to find lurking scorpions. No, he had that right. It was not fun. Sometimes I thought that I had to have been adopted.

"No, you should go, Sammy. How much more time do you need to spend preparing for the fall semester? She's your friend."

"Did you forget, Dad, Lee-Ann set me adrift in the damn raft?"

"No, I didn't. Not for a second. But that raft saved you. She saved you. Her partner wanted to shoot you then and there. Didn't you say that?"

True. Being set adrift had been an ordeal and I had almost died. I cursed her for almost killing me. But that raft was the alternative to as my father put it– her partner shooting me then and there.

"How about this then? You know Joan is up to her eyeballs in her investigation. And Lee-Ann's message is certainly a bit cryptic, don't you agree?"

"Yes. She never does or says anything off hand." I had learned the hard way that her scatterbrained demeanor had been a guise.

"You can bet," I said, "she's got a motive. She wants me to go. And she figures my curiosity will propel me. And that's what bothers me, the fact she reads me so well."

"As I was saying. Since the looting is endemic to the area, and Lee-Ann did mention your interest in antiquities, Joan, I'm sure, can justify a trip to Israel. As part of her investigation."

"What are you getting at? You mean we both go?"

"Yes, sure. Why not? On one hand if it's only about Lee-Ann wanting to get together with you for fun and games, then no problem. If on the other, it involves more than that, well you have Joan in your corner."

"Joan or no Joan. I don't entirely trust Lee-Ann. Not entirely."

"Do you have a better idea?" My father asked.

"How about this? How about I get in touch with her first. Or try to. From here."

"How can you do that Sammy? Did she give a contact in the card?"

"No, but I can call the hotel she mentioned. Maybe she's registered there. Ask if she's a guest or leave a message. I don't know. As I said, I don't trust her, and as much as I do want to see her, I don't want to go in blind."

"All the more reason Joan accompanies you," Geoff said. "But your idea to contact the hotel is a good one. It also tells her she just can't snap her fingers and you'll jump."

I gave him a hard look.

"You know what I mean.  Lee-Ann is more than a little manipulative. She's trained for this subterfuge." He made quotes in the air.

"What if you can't reach her?"

"You can bet one of your _Ken Danby's_ she'll be checking. She'll watch to see if I've called to confirm the room. Or the travel agency to see if I've picked up the ticket, whatever." I took a sip of water and moved my chair slightly to avoid the smoke.

"No, Lee-Ann will get back to me. Definitely."

"You're probably right," Geoff said, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray I'd made in a high school art class. It was a lump of garishly glazed clay, which my father seemed to cherish. Unlike Lee-Ann I had no artistic skills. I thought of her incredible talent as a painter and how that talent served her as an assassin's cover. Did I ever know the women?

"I'll call tomorrow. Leave a message to get back to me. And not by postcard."

"Good idea, Sammy. Good idea. And now if you don't mind, I'll leave you two. These old bones need their rest." His bones must have aged considerably since the dig.

"I'll see you out, Gregor."

My father got up and ambled his way to the front door moving stiffly. I knew that little Julie's passing had deeply saddened him. Geoff opened the door and the three of us went out. On the sidewalk, I bent and gave him a peck on the forehead.

"I'll let you know about the hotel. And yes, before you ask, right after I call."

He chuckled, and went up the stairs holding the handrail.

"What are you waiting for?" he said before closing his door."

"Just to remind you to set your alarm."

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he said shaking his finger. "Lee-Ann isn't the only one who can read you. "I appreciate you, Sammy. I..."

He was about to say more, but only added, "Goodnight to you both." And closed his door.

We sat on the steps still radiating the sun's warmth. The sky was clear, but there were few stars. I sat there thinking about my father. About Lee-Ann. Should I go? I wanted to at first, but now wasn't so sure. My father seemed suddenly more fragile.  Certainly able to hold his own at the dig. But he was getting on, and of late I was conscious of not wanting to be too far away from him. Life was fragile. Perhaps I shouldn't give him such a hard time.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"What?"

"You're a million miles away, what's on your mind?" He took my hand and kissed the palm.

"Just thinking. It's a beautiful night. The moon. The crickets. Even the traffic on Pine has a kind of calming hush."

"You know you don't have to go. I thought this was something you wanted."

"I did. I do. Oh, I don't know. Actually I figured both you and my father would throw a fit. I'm beginning to feel a bit like I'm some kind of bait."

"Bait? For what?"

"Oh, Geoff, I don't know. It's just... it's just. I don't know anymore."

"Okay, so play it by ear. You follow up tomorrow as you planned. If you do talk to her, sound her out. Why'd did she contact you? Why now? See what she says. And if you don't like the answers, don't go."

"Right. Reading Lee-Ann is harder than reading ancient Greek."

"No kidding. Anyway, see if you can reach her. That's the first step. Then you can decide what you want to do. If it's above board take the trip. Relax. Sight see. No shortage of tourist stuff that's for sure."

"Okay. That's what I'll do. And not to change the subject..."

"But you will," he said kissing more than my hand.

"Geoff, pay attention!"

"I am paying attention."

"Not my neck! To me!" Jesus.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Oh–oh. Oh nothing always means something. What is it?"

"My father."

"Gregor? What about him?"

"Do you think he's getting old?"

"Getting old," he said deadpan. "We're all getting old, but I don't think that's what you mean. Is he okay? Something you haven't told me?" He was sounding alarmed.

"No. Nothing like that."

"Then what? What are you thinking? He's not ill or sick is he?"

"No, Geoff he's not sick. Not as far as I know. And I would. But lately he's a bit nostalgic. Wistful. And tonight he moved like he had some discomfort walking, you know?"

"Well, yes. Sometimes he does move a bit stiffly. But only after he's been sitting for some time. Me too. If I don't get up and move my knees complain. And I am a lot younger. I don't think it's anything to worry about."

"Maybe you're right. It's just... you know," I shrugged.

"I get it, Sam. We are mortal. And don't give me that look. What I mean is that it's normal to think about our parents as they age. And we worry about them. Time passes fast and then speeds up the older we get, that's for sure."

"I know that." I had nothing to add.

"Besides the man is fit. Has a lot of energy. And he kept up with everyone at the dig too, didn't he?"

"All true."

"So relax. And another thing."

"What?"

"The way you two banter? He lives for that. Don't start treating his with kid gloves. Otherwise he'll think that you know something about his health that he doesn't."

"You're right. I hadn't thought of that. He would."

"Come on," he said pulling me up. "It's getting late. As beautiful as the evening is, one of us has to work in the morning."

The next day, I Googled the hotel. Pretty upscale at five hundred and more a night. Lee-Ann had money, and plenty of it. Given the chance, I'd take the room, the luxury and the holiday. I jotted down the 1-800 number and placed the call. Tel Aviv was seven hours ahead, late afternoon.

"Hello," I said to the concierge. "I'd like to leave a message for Miss Sarah Ann." Be assertive, my father told me growing up. Act like you know exactly what you want. Don't ask permission.

"Certainly, we can do that. What is the message then?"

"Just to call this number."

"Any name, Miss?"

"No, no name. Just my number." I gave it to her.

"Will that be all?"

"Yes, that's all. Thank you."

"Our pleasure."

That was easy enough.

Shortly after lunch my cell rang. The hotel.

I answered and she said, "Sam? Thanks for getting back to me."

I was not enjoying this.

"Sam," she repeated, lowering her voice. "I need your help."

"The last time I helped you, it damn near killed me. Why would I stick my neck out again after that fiasco?"

"I don't blame you. And I am sorry. Truly." I knew she was, but decided to play the hard-ass anyway.

"Tell me then. Why should I help this time?"

"I'll come to the point. I can't talk about it on the phone. But I really do need your help. I need you to come here." After a beat she said, "Please."

"You've got to tell me something, Lee-Ann."

"I know. You were on the dig. And your father too."

"What dig?"

"Give me a break, Sam. Let's just say I have a vested interest. You know?"

I said nothing.

"You there?"

"Yes."

"An interest." I didn't answer.

"Sam. The looting."

"Go on." My voice flat.

"Not on the phone." I waited

"You've become hard, Sam."

"Gee, Lee-Ann. You think?"

"Looting. Interpol. Israel." Another beat. "Bribes."

"What does Israel and Interpol have...?"

"I'll tell you when you get here."

"You make that sound like a given. As a matter of fact," I lied, "Geoff is quite adamant that I don't. You haven't said anything to convince me."

"Okay. Okay. You're right not to trust me. But I'm at a point where _I_ don't know who else to trust."

"And you think you can trust me, after all that went down?"

"Yes I do. Absolutely. Let's just say in the antiquities market there are a lot of players. Okay?"

"I know that, Lee-Ann. And I also know the stakes. But you don't want me to get into that on the phone, do you."

"That's right, I don't."

"So we're at an impasse. I want more information, but you can't tell me over the phone. You have a problem, Lee-Ann."

"I was hoping you'd come and I could fill you in face to face."

"Not a chance." A long pause, but I waited her out.

"Let me call you back. Twenty minutes." She hung up.

Damn she was infuriating. Nothing was straightforward with her. But she was right. I was more than curious. And curiosity killed the cat. After arguing the pros and cons with myself, occasionally speaking out loud, the phone rang.

"I thought you couldn't discuss this over the phone?"

"I'm not calling from the hotel. But let me get to it. As I said, I don't trust anyone. I'm going out on a limb here, that I'm making a few assumptions. But I'm betting you you've some idea of the illegal aspects of the antiquities market. You were on a dig. You worked with a close friend and colleague. You have a good idea of the implications."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"Let me finish. Interpol, in conjunction with law enforcement agencies, is heavily into tracking antiquities. The origins, destinations, the transactions and so forth. It's tied to the illegal arms trade and of course there are links too, to terror groups."

"I read the news, Lee-Ann. What has this to do with me?"

"I'm involved with these investigations too. But the thing is, some of the players, and I mean people in law enforcement _and_ Interpol are in fact part of this problem."

"Okay, but my question still stands. Why me? Believe me when I say I am not sticking my neck out for you."

"Hear me out, Sam. Please hear me out."

"Go on."

"Like I said. I can't contact some of the people I need too. I have to stay below the radar. And you're the only one I can contact and trust to help me reach out."

"Goddamn it, Lee-Ann, you're not making any sense!"

"Don't hang up. Sam?"

"I'm here."

"Thank you, Sam. There are people I need to reach out to. And I need to do it through you."

"Through me."

"Yes."

"That still makes no sense. I don't know any one."

"Yes, you do."

"Geoff?" She didn't answer.

"So why me? Just call him. Nothing to do with me, Lee-Ann."

"No, I can't do that. I need you to be a go-between. If I reach out to Geoff there's a record. I can't have that. Not yet. Not now."

"Lee-Ann this is pretty weird."

"I know it is. Or at least appears that way to you. But believe me I don't know how else to do this. I wouldn't ask if I didn't believe there was another way."

There was a long pause where neither of us spoke. She was first to break the silence.

"So, can I expect you, Sam?"

"Can you tell me anything more?"

"I can, but there's too much to say on the phone. I really do hope you can make it. Besides it's quite beautiful here. Weather is great. The beach is close. It'll be a bit of a holiday and we can catch up too."

"I'll think about."

"Good enough, Sam. Good enough."

"It'll have to be. I'll call you. At the hotel." I hung up. I didn't say goodbye. Nor did I say when I'd call. I wasn't so sure that I would.

I checked the time. I knew my father had patients, and his appointments would run until late afternoon. Geoff was busy and interrupting him with my news would serve no purpose other than to distract him. It would be several hours until I had them both together and by then I'd be a nervous wreck. Call Harry? No. Not fair to tell him before Geoff or my father. I could go for a run, but I was way too agitated.

I decided to do some research before making a decision. The more information I had, the better I could read Lee-Ann. Going in cold was not an option I was prepared to take. There was a crisis in the Middle East. No surprise there. ISIS. ISIL. Taliban. Hezbollah. Arab Spring. Where to begin? Information abounded on the looting and destruction of the Cultural Heritage of Lebanon, Iraq and Turkey. The patrimony of so many of these countries was systematically being destroyed and sold piece-meal to unscrupulous collectors. They were just as guilty by fueling demand and pouring money into the illegal trade, much of it funding terror groups.

And not just private collectors; museums too had a hand in these purchases.

Every dollar they spent in the acquisition of looted and stolen antiquities made them complicit in the violence and killing, the bombing of embassies, churches.

Buying looted antiquities was tantamount to dealing in arms.

Geoff called as I was winding down my research and I briefed him on my contact with Lee-Ann.

"Quite a chat," he said without humor. "But keep your eyes open. She can be manipulative."

"Don't I know it. That's why I'm trying to get as much information as I can. You know about this looting business. I had no idea how big it actually was."

"We've talked about."

"I know, but reading the reports –international reports from various news agencies made it some how more real to me."

"Well, it's real all right, very real. Just ask Joan."

"Still it's smart to get as much information as one can. Like they say, knowledge is power.

"By the way how are you doing? Hope this isn't giving you a lot of stress."

"You kidding? Of course it's giving me stress. Lee-Ann has a knack of always being one step ahead."

"Not this time, Sam. Ninja is on top of this. She has resources that even I don't know about. So you can count on her to be a step ahead."

"I am counting on that, believe me."

"Good. By the way, what's for dinner?"

"We are having _kota stin katsarolla_."

"Come again."

"Chicken in the pot." You need to brush up on your Greek!

"So dinner is compliments of Thea Maria."

"Yes. I got off easy again."

"Sounds like the woman should get a raise." He laughed.

"Need anything else? I can stop on the way home."

"No thanks. I got it covered. I mean Thea Maria got it covered. There's macaroni elbows, tomatoes and her secret ingredient cinnamon."

"Sounds great. And get your father to join us, okay?" He paused. "This kota whatever. Maria usually makes enough for an army, right?"

"That's for sure. Why do you ask, are you planning to bring a guest?"

"Well, sort of."

"Sort of? What do you mean sort of?"

"Thought I'd ask Joan. But I don't want to spring this on you at the last minute."

"No, it's fine. A good idea actually."

"And Gregor really likes her too."

"Don't start! I'm hanging up now." I did which ended his laughter.

Our dinner was essentially ready-to-eat, providing I didn't burn anything during the reheat. But now that we had extra guests so to speak I did need a few things. After checking the larder –my father's word– I walked to the grocer at the corner of Sherbrooke and Park. Of course one baguette became two. Then there was feta cheese, black olives and a couple of tomatoes. And a cucumber. And to round it all of, fresh strawberries, blueberries and whipping cream. Like I said, the meal was basically ready-to-eat. No cooking.

Joan insisted on clearing up with me. "Let the men-folk enjoy their cigars," she said. That done we took our berries and cream and joined them smoking and sipping the Good Stuff.

"Have you been in touch with Lee-Ann after your initial contact?"

"No, not yet. Figured on doing that tomorrow after we discuss our own plans." Besides I didn't want to appear too anxious.

"Okay. Here's what I suggest we do. Check with the travel agency holding your ticket. I'll get a ticket on the same flight. If that's a problem, I'm betting your ticket can be changed to coordinate our flights."

"And your hotel? She has me booked into something quite pricey."

"Don't worry about that. Whatever it is, it'll be covered."

"Okay."

"I imagine," my father said, who'd obviously been multitasking, Interpol, whoever has quite a budget."

"Yes, Gregor. Since nine-eleven they've pulled all the stops. Mind you they do keep strict tabs on our expenses, but yes, basically money is not a problem. I won't be shopping in that hotel boutique, that's for sure. In fact I won't be shopping at all." She looked at me."

"What about you Sammy. Think you'll shop? You could do with a few pairs of stretchy pants." He was just out of arms length, but a strawberry wouldn't miss. I gave up the idea, as a vision of him falling out of his chair to avoid the missile came to mind.

At that point Joan said, "Time for me to call it a night. Thanks so much, Sam, for including me." In a lower voice she added, "We can talk more tomorrow."

"And it's a pleasure to see you again," my father said. He got up and offered his hand. "We must do this again."

"I'd like that," she answered.

"And on that note, it's time for me to head home too. I'll walk you out. By the way how are you getting home? I'll be glad to drive you." Jesus.  Dad she's younger than me!

"Thank you, Gregor. My car is just a few doors down."

They left together and after I shut the door I could see them through the living room window. I don't know what he was saying, but it had to be funny. Or she was being polite. They shook hands and I swear he held her hand longer than necessary. They parted; she got into her car, giving him a little finger wave as she drove off. Spare me.

Geoff was watching me, grinning like an idiot.

"What?" I said, throwing my arms wide.

"Nothing, Sam. Nothing at all."

"Yeah, right. You men. The two of you!" Now he was laughing.

"Give him a break," he said.

"Give him a break? You want me to give him a break? Geoff, he's got forty years on her."

"So, you feel threatened? To have potentially a younger step-mother?"

I chased him into the kitchen trying to whack him with a sofa cushion. The brute, being stronger, turned the tables.

The next day I got all my ducks in a row. Confirmed that Joan could be on the same flight. I booked her ticket and reserved a room for her in the same hotel. My father, the old fool, insisted he be billed. And business class doesn't come cheap.

"You sure you want to do this?" Of course he did.

"I mentioned this to her last night. When we were leaving."

"And she thought it was okay?" I couldn't believe it.

"She didn't. So I said how about I just make up the difference between what her expenses allow. Just so she could be close to you."

"Ah. So she's actually doing you a favor?"

"Yes. I said I wanted her to be in the next room, if that was possible."

As it turned out it was possible. Her room was adjacent and we shared a connecting door. I was a marionette and he was pulling my strings. Was I being unfair? He was indulgent and spoiled me, and it made me a bit selfish. I was working that.

When the details were ironed out, I called Lee-Ann. Reception rang her room –my room actually. To my surprise she answered quickly.

"It's a go. I'll come."

"Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate this. You've no idea."

"Don't get too enthused. You might have a change of heart."

"I doubt that. How do you figure?"

"I'm not coming alone." I explained.

"If that doesn't work for you, I'll cancel the trip. It's not a problem."

"No, it's fine. I get why you want to do it this way. It's fine, and probably a good thing actually. I do remember Ninja." I didn't react.

I gave her the flight particulars and rang off.

Done. For now. What all this cloak and dagger stuff would lead to, I had no idea. My next step was to give Joan the details, and of course tell Geoff, which my next two calls accomplished.

My father, being my father, insisted I make copies of all the documents, even my passport and leave them in a safe place, meaning in his care. Why not, if it pleased him. The flight would be a good fifteen hours. I'd hoped it would be direct, but that wasn't in the cards. One stop in Frankfurt then on to Tel Aviv.

"And take my card," he insisted.

"I've got cards. Besides my room and flight are taken care of. And if I shop, I think I can manage that."

"I know, you can, Sammy. I know you can. But let me do this okay?"

"You're too generous. But okay. And thanks." He backed away before I could give him a hug.

We were next door in his place and I followed him into the kitchen. Our homes were mirror images of each other and the sensation always took me aback. I'd grown up in this house, and when the unit next door came up for sale, he bought it. I moved in after marrying Geoff. Rent-free of course. Shortly after our divorce he'd given it to me.

"The taxes are killing me, Sammy. You'd be doing me a favor." Right.

As a physician and psychiatrist, the man wasn't exactly in the poor house. Not by a long shot, especially not after investing in the pharmaceutical company. Those shares made him a fortune. And on top of that he was a shrewd investor in the art market. Over the years he'd purchased several works by a not as yet popular Montreal painter. Part of a group of painters that became known as Les Plasticiens. Hard Edge painters. Those paintings, eight and ten feet wide and as tall were stored in the basement, too big to be displayed in our home. We did have ten-foot high ceilings but he wasn't about to move walls. Sadly, Molinari died and the paintings skyrocketed in value. You guessed it. He sold them, made a few million and plowed some of the money back into the art market. This time it was Danby and Coleville. And Forrestall too.

Very unlike the Hard Edge School, these artists were dubbed Magic Realists. And you could hang them on the walls. Now, both Danby and Coleville have passed, and again their paintings are worth a fortune.

So I didn't feel at all bad when he put his hand in his pocket.

The next few days were spent packing and unpacking my bag, trying to decide what to take, what to leave. I wasn't going to a desert dig.

"Sammy. Go shopping," he said, grabbing my jeans off the sofa. I took them from him and threw them back on the sofa.

"You're right. I could do with some new stuff. But on my own dime! No, don't say anything." He shook his head, working hard not to comment.

"Fine, Sammy. Have it your way." It cost him.

"It's a vacation. Not a shopping spree."

"It's a vacation," he mimicked. "You'll be a couple of weeks. "You need more than the one bag."

"You're right. And that's why I've decided to take your Platinum card. I'm pretty sure I can buy another bag, or two, and fill them while I'm there." I looked at him, hands on hips. I didn't say, "Happy now?"

"Okay, Sammy, okay. But jeans you can buy here. I just want you to enjoy yourself."

He went home and I finished packing, making sure there was nothing airport security would confiscate. Nail files. Scissors. Shampoo or anything with a questionable liquid. I wasn't much for beauty products but I wasn't taking chances, especially with our destination. I wondered if Joan would be armed, and how she would manage that.

The flight left at midnight. My father, of course, insisted on driving us to the airport. And since nine eleven if you were flying internationally you had to be there at least two hours before flight time. The wait was always nerve wracking, and Geoff's impatient pacing added to my agitation. My father on the other hand was enjoying himself. He was a people watcher and being a psychiatrist he was fascinated. Besides Joan was there, a ready audience, laughing at his lame jokes, touching his arm. Give me a break.

Eventually our flight was called and after handshakes and hugs we boarded. The attendants smiled and led us to our seats. Joan stowed both our carry-ons in the overhead bin then settled in her pod.

"Nice way to travel, thanks to your father. Otherwise I'd be back there with sheep and goats."

"Bite your tongue! I flew tourist on the way back from the dig. Part of the way I did have goats for company."

"No camels?" she said deadpan.

I braced for takeoff. Held my breath and gripped the armrests.

"You okay? You're white as a ghost."

"I will be. As soon as we're off the ground." I let out a breath.

"Takeoffs and landings are the worst," she said.

"Thanks, I feel so much better now."

"You hear the one about the blond? Pilot says we've lost one of our two engines so our flight will be two hours longer. The blond says, I hope we don't lose the other one, we'll never get down." Joan laughed. I didn't.

The flight was almost thirteen hours, and with the stop in Frankfurt I had to endure another landing and takeoff. Joan read my discomfort and didn't regale me with disaster jokes.

The flight was fine. There was only one white-knuckle moment when we hit a patch of turbulence. There are no atheists in foxholes. None in airplanes either.

Apparently the inflight meals and snacks were very good. I had no recollection of eating or anything being served. Except for several bathroom breaks and three short walks in the aisle that Joan insisted I take to avoid cramps and clots forming in my legs. Thanks, Joan. Just what I needed to hear. She also followed her own advice and did her best to keep my mind occupied. I appreciated her efforts, but the mundane chatter didn't help.

Thrilled beyond measure to land safely in Ben Gurion, I had to fight the urge to kiss the ground, and with just our carry on bags we avoided the long wait at the carousel and headed directly to the taxi queue with me leading the way. I'm not fond of airports either.

I walked quickly dragging my bag, concentrating on my beeline to the taxis.

"Sam," Joan said grabbing my arm. She nodded to a woman waving and calling my name.

"Over here." Lee-Ann was waving her arms.

"Sam." She hesitated then rushed forward and embraced me. "I'm really happy you came, Sam. You've no idea."

Joan stood a step behind me, watching.

"You remember Joan?"

"Of course I do. How are you, Joan." She extended her hand. Joan took a second, reached out and said, "Lee-Ann."

"Okay. Let's get going. I've a taxi waiting. She grabbed the handle of my bag and went ahead. After the bags were stowed and we were installed she instructed the driver.

"It's about a half hour, maybe less if the traffic cooperates.  And we're on the beach. Well, a very short walk."

Twenty minutes later we were there. It was hot. Early afternoon and the sun blazed. The AC in the cab didn't work and even with all the windows open the cab was a sauna. When we entered the hotel lobby I was hit with an icy chill that plastered my blouse to my skin.

"Wait here," she said and went to the reception desk, returning with our key cards. We've two rooms side by side." She gave us our key cards, and said to Joan, "You've got a suite like ours but no one to share with. Sammy and I will have to endure each other." She laughed.

"If that's a problem, Lee-Ann," Joan said coolly, "I'd be more than happy to share with Sam. I certainly wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Joan," I said, but before I could go on, Lee-Ann spoke.

"It's okay, Sam. I deserved that. You've no reason to trust me," she said to Joan. "And you too, Sam. I know that. But's let's go up. And after you've heard, you've both heard what I have to say you'll feel differently. At least I hope you will."

She looked at us but we didn't respond.

"Okay, then. Let's go."

I took my bag and we headed to the elevators.

The rooms were spectacular. Not exactly like Hannah and Freddy's condo, but luxurious to say the least. And she was paying for both suites, which I knew would cost her thousands. Did I feel bad? Not a bit.  I was glad too, that my father was off the hook for Joan's room.

Lee-Ann opened the connecting door to Joan's suite, and if she was taken aback she covered it well. She pulled her bag into the room, hefted it up onto the bed big enough to sleep four.

"Nice room," I heard her call. "Great for a porn shoot."

That broke the ice. Lee-Ann and I both laughing now.

"What?" she said coming back.

"A porn shoot?" I said.

"Looks like the interior of a Texas whore house."

"And you know that how?"

"Sam. That's a story for another time. A bottle of scotch time."

"I'll hold you to that," I said.

"Okay you two. Glad to see we're friends now."

"Don't jump to conclusions, Lee-Ann," Joan admonished. "The jury is still deliberating."

"Fair enough."

"Okay, then. Leave the door open, Joan, so we don't have to yell at each other."

"I may even remove it," she said, returning to her suite.

One bed was still unmade, so I put my bag on the other, a rather large single. I unpacked and stowed my stuff. Two pairs of jeans. Several tops. One dress. A pair of heels. And of course more underwear than I would need. Plus the shoes I wore, a cross between jogging and old people's walking shoes.

I put the blouses on the closet hangars hoping the wrinkles would fall out. Lee-Ann sat on her bed and watched.

"You look, good," she told me. "Put on a few pounds, but it looks good on you."

"Thanks, I think. Actually I'm about two months pregnant." Her eyes went wide.

"That's wonderful! Geoff?"

"Of course, Geoff!" Why does everyone ask that? "What? Were you thinking, Robert Bellamy?"

"No, of course not. I meant was Geoff happy?"

"Liar, but a nice recovery."

She got up and hugged me. "I'm so happy for you. For both of you." Her eyes brimmed. I knew she was thinking of Sarah. I was too. Hardly a day went by that I didn't, now that I was carrying my own child. She wiped her eyes and sat down on the bed.

"What's next on the agenda?" Joan asked coming into our room.

"We have dinner reservations. The hotel has a terrific dining room. We have plenty of time to relax and freshen up before dinner. And don't worry about dressing. It's not that fancy as long as you're not wearing beach clothes.

"Relax, Lee-Ann. I did pack a little black dress."

"So did I," I said. "But it's not black and it's not that little. But so far I don't need an elastic belly gusset."

"There's still time for that. God, I remember the awful outfits I had."

"Something for me to look forward to." I hoped I had another of couple of months.

"You two carry on with the mommy talk. I'm going to have a nap."

"Good idea," I said. "Flying really stresses me."

"You guys are no fun. Get your beauty sleep. I've my laptop

and there's Wi-Fi, so I can do some work. I'll call you in time. Go."

I had a quick shower and got under the covers. The AC had brought the temperature down to a chill so I burrowed in. I turned towards Lee-Ann working on her laptop, about to ask what she was up to, but fell asleep. In what seemed like only minutes I felt a gentle shaking. I bolted up completely disoriented.

"Wow! You were really out." Joan said.

"What time is it? I feel like my head just hit the pillow."

"You've been asleep almost three hours."

"Really! Where's Lee-Ann?"

"Right here," she said coming out of the bathroom and toweling her short hair.

"Our table is for seven-thirty. So there's no rush. Figured you'd need a few minutes to join the living."

"Glad I already had a shower," I yawned. "You two are chipper, didn't you have a nap?" I said to Joan.

"About an hour, so I'm good."

"What did you guys do while I was sawing wood."

"We went to check out the shops. You can get just about anything without leaving the hotel. A bit pricey though," Lee-Ann added.

"You can say that again! I bought some blouses and two pairs of designer jeans. Last year's models, so I didn't break the bank. And some lotion and conditioner."

"How about you?" she said to me. "There's still time to shop if you want."

"I'm fine for now. Give me five and I'll be ready." I looked at the two of them.

"Don't worry, I won't wear jeans." They looked ready for a night on the town.

We turned a lot of eyes on the way to our table. Mostly from the older set, liver spotted men with expensive gold watches. In spite of their wives they ogled, forks poised midway to their mouths. The women, for the most part, were late middle age– brassy blonds, with plunging necklines, lots of jewelry and crepey skin. Who else could afford this place?

In fact we were three quite attractive women. Lee-Ann and I were similar in height and build, but Joan at five feet nothing was a knockout in her so-called little black dress.

Our waiter, I'm sure, figured neither of us had an imagination as we'd all started with the cold cucumber soup and identical salad. Caesar. Lee-Ann and Joan shared a bottle of wine, and disappointedly I made do with water. Sparkling this time. A small indulgence. After the soup, Joan got right to the point.

"Spill, Lee-Ann. What's with this cloak and dagger stuff anyway?"

Lee-Ann put her fork down, wiped her mouth, then looked at us.

"Those two men," she said, "the ones killed at the dig?"

"Go on," I prompted. How did she know about this?

"They were working with Abdul."

"We know that," Joan said.

"What you don't know, is that they were also working with my group."

"They're part of the Hounds...?" I felt her nudge my foot.

"What hounds? Sam? You mean the Hounds of God? I thought we were done with that hit team and their rogue agents."

"We're tracking smugglers and looters," Lee-Ann went on, ignoring Joan's comments. "And I'm sure I don't have to explain how lucrative the illegal antiquities market is."

"No, you don't," said Joan. "And as a matter of fact, I'm attached to Interpol. We're investigating along the same lines."

"Well isn't this great!" Lee-Ann said. "It's amazing how the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing."

"I'm a bit lost here." I said. Listening to these two was like watching a tennis match. "I know those two men –Abdul's agents– were killed by smugglers. But you two seem more clued in. Help me out here."

"Of course, we're more clued in. Unfortunately, both Joan and I are at a disadvantage. Our two agencies are not in sync." She pushed her plate away.

Talking to Joan, she said, "I don't know how much Sam has told you about us. About our history. We've been friends for quite a long time. Sam was Sarah's Godmother. I'm sure you know the circumstances of how she died."

"Yes, I do. And I'm so very sorry, Lee-Ann."

"Thanks. And...and... Oh hell! You know who the Hounds of God were. Are. And I'm sure you know about my role as one of them. How my career as a painter was instrumental in how I carried out _my missions_. But that's all I'm going to say about that. But yes, the hounds are still a force to reckon with. So let's confine ourselves to the business at hand. The looting. We have to get on the same page here."

"Yes, we do," Joan readily agreed.

"And as I've already told Sam, very briefly and I am sure not entirely to her satisfaction, but I told her in a phone call that I don't trust the people I'm working with. And that's a hell of thing."

"So why call, Sam?" Joan wanted to know.

"I'll get to that. My fellow agents are probably okay. They've a job to do, and they do it. But it's the ones pulling the strings who are my concern. In fact I suspect they are in fact some of the top players in this racket. There is so much money involved it's not hard to be corrupted. And I'm not talking out of turn here."

She took a sip of wine and signaled the waiter for another bottle. "I'm sure you are aware of this," she told Joan.

"We do have suspicions," she answered. "But so far that's it. Just suspicions. So far we've not been able pin-point anyone."

"Sounds like Abdul should be the one at this table. Sure as hell, not me!"

Just then the waiter arrived and Lee-Ann cautioned me again under the table. I was tempted to kick her back. He took his time pouring and waiting for Lee-Ann's approval.

"Just hear me out," she said, when he was out of earshot. One of our agents, an Israeli Interpol agent, was fencing antiquities. He was a middleman between looters working for ISIL and collectors. He had, for want of a better term, a database of wealthy collectors. His database included lists and descriptions of what they wanted. Not just antiquities, but art too. Paintings and such. But for our purposes our focus is on the looted antiquities.

"Museums were ransacked, sites looted and destroyed. They used earthmovers and heavy equipment bulldozing the cultural history of Iraq, Lebanon, Turkey to get the antiquities, then destroying what they couldn't use. Sworn enemies of Israel and Arab countries were working hand in glove. Politics and enmity were put aside so they could line their pockets. Millions and millions of dollars. And of course a lot of this money went to fund terrorism."

"What are we getting into here? What am I getting into Lee-Ann? I'm not hearing anything that explains why I'm here. For two cents I am so out of here!"

"Okay, okay. Don't get upset."

"Don't get upset? Are you out of your mind, of course I'm upset! Jesus, Lee-Ann." I started to raise my glass, but put it down, my hand was shakings too much.

"I do need your help, Sam. And Joan too, now that she's here. Like I said you're they only one I can trust. The two of you."

"You better explain, how you expect us to help." Joan said.

"You better believe that! What can I do anyway? I'm not an archeologist. I was just a volunteer. And I'm not law enforcement. I'm just a college professor. I know nothing from looting."

"I know that, Sam. That's not where I need your help. As I said, Abdul and I are working the same investigation."

"Then why isn't _he_ here?"

"Let me finish. I think Abdul is part of the problem. The Hounds compartmentalized their operation using a system of isolated cells or teams. And since very few teams were aware of the other cells __–and I include myself here– although I can only speculate, I feel quite certain that those two men who were killed were in fact connected to the Hounds of God. And given the investigation they may have been onto Abdul. And if that's the case, he may have been instrumental in having them killed. Abdul's no fool. He in fact _may_ have been on to _them._ "

"But the Hounds are all Jews, aren't they. Abdul and his men are all Arabs."

"How hard is it for Jew to pass as an Arab do you think?" she asked me.

"I can't believe it!" Joan said. "We've been working together, coordinating our efforts. If what you say is true, we've a big problem."

"Okay, you two. You don't need me. This is not what I bargained for coming here. This is way out of my depth." I pushed away from the table.

"Maybe we should hear the rest of what she has to say," Joan said to me. What the hell was this, a tag team?

"Thanks, Joan," she told her.

"As I was saying it's a question of trust," she continued. "I'm not confident in my people, some of them. And I don't know who I can rely on or who I can confide in. Suspecting one taints the whole group. And the stakes are too high for me to take a chance. People are getting killed. My people. And I don't mean my team. And since I have my suspicions regarding Abdul, I sure as hell am not going discuss my lack of confidence in the people I work with. I'm not on a suicide mission."

"This puts me in a bit of a bind," Joan said. "In regards to Abdul. Specifically, I'm with the anti-terrorist task force. Not the looting and illegal trade of antiquities. My investigation has to do with illegal guns and drugs, and the funding of these terrorist organizations. This antiquities business seems to have just crept into my work because of the ties to my investigation. And now you've enmeshed me in your own quandary.  Unlike you, Lee-Ann, I do trust the people on my team. I won't be withholding information from them. As a matter of fact I intend to share what we've been discussing. And I'm hoping you have more to add. And let me emphasize I'm no lone gun, Lee-Ann."

"Okay, I get that. Fair enough. But we can still help each other. I've got a lot of resources, but I can't use them. I'm afraid to."

"So you've said. You've no one to trust.  But if we're to help each other, and I gather that means helping you, then you've to make some choices. Either you trust me, or you don't. It's really that simple. If you don't, that's fine. We don't work together. But if you do trust me, I won't work in the dark. Got that?" Lee-Ann nodded.

"That being said, Let's move on. We've work to do." Joan finished her wine. "Come on, let's get back to our rooms."

She stood and looked at us, adding, "Why don't the two of you talk this over. I'll see you upstairs." She headed to the elevators.

"Well?" I said to Lee-Ann.

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Sure you do. Like she said, either you trust her or you don't." It was my turn to head to the elevators. I entered the car as the doors were closing.

"Hang on, Sam." I held the door. She got in and we went up in silence.

We changed out of our dinner clothes and went into Joan's suite. She had kicked off her heels and her dress was strewn on the bed. She was pulling on a pair of sweats. Even in ratty sweats the woman looked great. I patted my stomach. The jeans were getting snug.

"Want anything from the mini bar?" she asked pulling out a bottle of white.

"Bottled water, if there's any." She tossed me a bottle, then poured wine for the two of them.

"Okay," she said. "We talk. You first, Lee-Ann."

I commandeered the sofa for myself with the two of them opposite me in club chairs. Pregnancy has its privilege.

"Let's start with what you know, or _think_ you know, about Abdul and his two men that got killed. First let me give you some background from my perspective at the dig. I told them about Boots and I almost getting shot down in his ultra light. Joan knew the story, but for a change this was news to Lee-Ann.

"That had to be horrifying!" Lee-Ann said.

"More than you can imagine. When Abdul investigated in the chopper, they caught the guys who shot at us. There was no doubt they were looters or smugglers. They had a bunch of stuff in the pick-up. Relief carvings and stonework cut from some ruins."

"I'd heard as much," Lee-Ann said. "I haven't been there of course, and Sam, maybe you can confirm, but my take on this is that the smugglers were using the caves in the area to store the antiquities."

"Apparently. And not just there. The whole Middle East is riddled with caves."

"And weren't the Dead Sea Scrolls discovered in a cave?" Joan asked.

"That's right. Caves were shelters. Used by shepherds, monks. Didn't John the Baptist live in a cave, Sam?"

"Let's get back on point," I said. "Smugglers. Artifacts. Antiquities."

"And guns, drugs, and terrorists." Joan added.

"Okay," I said. "I get all that. But how to figure Abdul Hameed is mixed up in this? He struck me as someone very concerned about saving the cultural and historical heritage from these thieves."

"Maybe he started out that way. Now, I'm not sure." Lee-Ann got up to get another bottle of wine from the mini bar.

"I'm convinced," I told her.

"Abdul is perfectly situated to take advantage for personal gain." She filled both their glasses and sat down.

"One," she said, "he's an expert in antiquities. Two. He's very much aware that there are literally thousands of sites to loot, are being looted, and have been looted. Three. He's got more than a good idea where these sites –potential sites are located. Not obvious to outsiders, but the locals, the villagers, believe me, these people know where to look. They live in the shadows of these ruins." She paused for a top up.

"Me too." Joan help up her glass.

"So, yes. Abdul is perfectly positioned to use this information for his personal gain. And number four, which is the biggie in my opinion, is the fact that he's in law enforcement. What could be better than that?"

"Okay. Certainly makes sense the way you describe it. And if you are right, he can use all those resources. Law enforcement databases. Access to Interpol and so forth. If he is one of the bad guys, we have to be more than a little wary of how we proceed here."

"Exactly my point, Joan."

"Great," I said. "Good to see you two making nice-nice. But tell me, Lee-Ann. What the hell has this to do with me? You said you needed my help. How? Why have you dragged me here? I'm still waiting for an answer."

"I didn't drag you anywhere, Sam. It was your choice. Don't project blame and as a matter of..."

"Whoa, you two. Time out. Take a breath, both of you. Sam's right lee-Ann. And I want to know too. Why did you drag her here? And don't get worked up. You manipulated her."

Lee-Ann was about to protest.

"No. Do not deny this. You want her help, and mine too. What's your agenda anyway? Give, or we're both gone."

Lee-Ann sighed, momentarily admitting defeat. But I knew her.

"Okay, damn it. Okay." She took her time answering, working on her wine.

"I do need your help. Both of you, since you're here too. At first I figured Sam was a good bet, since she was part of the dig. On the team."

"I wasn't on the team. Just a volunteer."

"A volunteer then. I know you and Boots are friends. And that your father helped out. With the funding too." Jesus. Where did she get her information?

"I was in fact hoping you had some insights. I don't know what exactly, but I hoped you could put me in touch with, or convince Geoff to hook me up with someone at your end. Turns out Joan would be the better bet. A better liaison."

"That still doesn't answer my question. Why me? And now, why us?"

"Because I have no one _else_ to turn to."

"I'm a professor, not law enforcement. What did you, or do you, expect me to do?"

"I know that. But you and Boots are good friends. And he has contacts."

"So." Joan said.

Lee-Ann leaned forward. "Freddy Malek"

"Freddy?" Joan said.

"Yes, Freddy. Hannah and Freddy have been on our radar for a while."

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," I said. "His art galleries. That what you're alluding to."

"Yes." They'd finished the bottle and Lee-Ann went to the mini-bar.

"They've been on our radar for some time," she repeated. She pulled the cork and poured for both of them.

"I'm not sure I'm following." I said. I knew about his galleries and the shipment that had spooked Boots.

"We're sure he's involved with the looting and using his galleries to sell the antiquities. Sell them through his galleries and legitimizing them that way."

"That's crossed our minds too. Go on."

"A container was shipped to his gallery just recently. The one on Sherbrooke Street."

"We know all about that container. I was there, Lee-Ann. With Boots."

"Now, I'm confused."

"Really? I find that hard to believe," I said.

"Boots had some concerns," Joan said. "And we followed up. As it happened, the goods were legit."

"That surprises me," Lee-Ann said. "I'd have put money on a bet the container had looted antiquities."

"Like I said, all the stuff was legit. Nevertheless, he's still on our radar."

"Legit?" Lee-Ann said. "His string of galleries is a perfect cover for his looting business."

"You make it sound like a done deal," I told her.

"When you hear hoof beats, don't think zebras. His cover is perfect. This is what we've been investigating, or trying to. And knowing that he was at the dig –both he and his wife– puts Freddy in the right place. This isn't the only dig where he spends time.  He can keep tabs on what's going on.

"And that's why I called you. Given that you were there and that you and Boots are good friends I thought just maybe there was an outside chance you had information. Besides, I missed you, missed what we had. More than you can imagine."

"For the record," I said, "the same goes for me."

"Okay, enough with the mutual admiration."

"What is it you want Sam to do?"

"It's a moot point now. Essentially, since I don't know who to trust I needed a way to reach out to Geoff, to both of you, as I knew you two were partners, or at least worked together. And I knew your investigative work related to mine.

"It sounds convoluted to be sure, but I knew I could count on Geoff and you too, through Sam. There was no way to contact either of you directly without making myself vulnerable, more vulnerable actually. I'm being watched; I know that. My calls are monitored. I'm followed. And there are other issues too, that I will leave unsaid for the moment. Contacting Sam wouldn't raise a flag."

"As it turns out you don't need me at all. Just go directly to Joan."

"Actually, I do need you. I still can't deal with Joan directly. I can't expose myself. And since we are here let's coordinate. Instead of continuing on separate tracks."

"And by that you mean Joan should share what she knows, right?"

"It'll be reciprocal," she said a bit testily.

"It had better be. But tell me," Joan said. "Given you've more of less cut yourself off from your on investigative team, what can you give? Have you got anything to pass on now that would be helpful?"

"I'm not cut off, Joan. But to answer your question. Your investigation should include Freddy Malek of course, Hannah and Abdul. Especially Abdul's relationship with Freddy."

"I'll certainly take this up with my superiors, that's for sure. Is there anything else I should know?"

"I've nothing to add at this time. But when I do, I'll get the information to you."

"So my role was simply to be a messenger."

"Sorry, Sam, but yes. I didn't expect you to be able to help personally. I was hoping that through you, you could put a bug in Geoff's ear. I knew he'd get the right people interested."

"You have accomplished that," Joan said.

"So it seems, and I'm grateful Joan." She took a good swallow. The bottle was about done.

"One more thing." She said.

"Jesus. Now what?"

"Take it easy," she said, and turned to Joan. "As to the Maleks. They have a son. ."

"Rajah?" I interrupted. "You mean Roger?"

"I guess he prefers Roger. Sounds more Western, more WASP. Rajah on the other hand."

"I get it Lee-Ann. What about him?"

"Again no proof. Nothing concrete."

"Because Rajah slash Roger manages the art galleries?"

"Exactly."

"I didn't know that," Joan said. "I'll add him to the list." She filled her glass draining the bottle. "By the way, what's WASP?"

"Some one like Sam," Lee-Ann said and laughed.

"I guess that's an inside joke."

"I hadn't given Roger much thought," I said. "But given the family business it's smart to keep him in mind."

"For sure," Lee-Ann said.

"Why, for sure?" I asked. He's only about twenty-four or five. Barely out of school."

"He is young, I'll give you that. But more importantly he's an art expert with a Master's degree in Art History. In Middle Eastern Art I might add."

"When you put it that way, he does sound worth looking at," Joan said, taking notes.

"Rajah slash Roger," she looked pointedly at me, "to continue, knows a heck of a lot about antiquities and architecture of the Middle East.  And I'd add Greece and Italy."

"And put that altogether with the family business. Who better to know what's going on in the illegal market?"  She got up and rummaged in the desk for more hotel paper.

"And anything legal too," I interjected.

"Of course," they agreed.

"However," Joan continued, "it would be irresponsible of us, I mean Law Enforcement to ignore the _other_ possibility."

"You two are beginning to scare the crap out of me. You make it sound like we were hanging out –my father and I– were hanging out with a gang of international thieves and murderers." I really could have used more than flavored water.

"I started out as just an interested party, a volunteer. I wouldn't even have gone, except that my father helped finance the project and thought it would be fun for both of us to participate." I got up and got a bottle of water and another bottle of wine.

"And now," I said returning to my seat, "you've got me tangled up in some kind of international looting and smuggling business with links to all kinds of terrorist activities run by people I know and have even worked with.

"It's time for me," I said vehemently, "to get the fuck out of here! I'm gone on the next flight! You two can do what you want, or need to. But I am gone."

I got up and went to my room fuming, angry and frustrated. I undressed, threw my clothes on the floor and got into bed.

"I'm sorry," Lee-Ann said. They'd followed me and stood at the end of the bed.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I certainly don't want you to jeopardize yourself."

"Really!" I sat at and faced her. "Could have fooled me!"

"Had I thought you'd be in any danger I wouldn't have called you. You have to believe that, Sam." I didn't answer.

"I know you were at the dig. And know some of these people. And I get it if you want to go home. But I think you're reading too much into this."

"Reading too much into this? Working beside people who you suspect of being part of some international conspiracy of being part..."

"I hear you, Sam. But apart from the three of us, and your father and Geoff of course. Who knows you're here? No one." I didn't answer.

"Why not treat being here as a vacation. I'd like you to stay. A week or two weeks. We can patch things up." I stared at her, not quite in disbelief.

"I know," she went on. "I've been less than forthcoming."

"Yah think?"

"And a real bitch too. Okay, I admit it. But come on, Sam. We know each other well. And you know no matter what, I'd never put you in harms way." Did she forget that bit about putting me adrift in the life raft? I gave her a look that could kill.

"I know what you're thinking."

"Really? Do you?"

"Yeah, I do. How do you think the coast guard found you?"

I just stared.

"I know it took days. And I'm sorry about that. But believe me. The first chance I had I alerted them."

I had thought somehow my cell phone had been tracked. I'd not been able to get a signal, but made regular attempts to use it, hoping against hope that that maybe a signal was going out. And that's what I'd been told after the helicopter plucked me out of the rubber raft. And none too soon. After a week, I doubt I'd have lasted more than a few more days.

"You never mentioned that. It was touch and go for a while and I damn near died anyway."

Joan was mute during all of this but her eyes never left us.

"No, I didn't. There really was no point at the time, what with the plot to bomb the hell out of the Peace Summit, so I decided to say nothing. Making excuses after the fact was not something I wanted to do, nor something you'd want to hear. But for what it's worth, I did plan to have you rescued long before it happened."

"Gee, thanks Lee-Ann. Thanks a hell of a lot for nothing. Now if you don't mind I need to get to sleep."

"Good idea," Joan said. "We need to take a breath. Sleep is more than in order."

After three bottles of wine those two should be comatose in about five minutes. I lay with my eyes closed but I knew I wouldn't sleep. A few minutes went by and the light in Joan's suite went out. Lee-Ann got into her bed and put out her table lamp.

The room was dark except for the moon shedding a cool light. I watched the shadows shift as it crept across the sky. I could see Lee-Ann, the blanket rising and falling. Her breaths, rhythmic and slow, periodically punctuated by little gasps. Did she sleep well? Did she dream? I thought of Sarah. Lee-Ann didn't deserve that, no matter what life she led.

I loved her. God, this was complicated. How could she sleep? Those assassinations, murders actually. How could she sleep? I'd have been tormented by guilt, knowing that my child died as a result of the life I led.

Yet I believed her. I believed fervently that she wouldn't put me in harms way, not intentionally. Unknown to me at the time, it turned out that she did have a fall back plan to have me rescued, a plan that had come close to failing. I often told my students, there's no crime without intention. Easy to say, but quite another thing to believe.

I wanted to forgive her. Not for the assassinations, or according to the law– _alleged_ assassinations, but for putting me in harm's way, intentional or not. I'm not sure I have that much charity in me. I had almost died because of her. Geoff went through hell believing I was dead, and my father tortured by the thought of losing another child, his only child. He'd have bankrupted himself to find me, sending out search and rescue teams in what was almost a fool's errand. Maybe I could let her off the hook. Maybe I should. I did survive. But I'd never forgive her for putting my father through absolute hell. I fell asleep. Soundly and dreamlessly.

The next morning, thankfully, I was nausea-free. Maybe my hormones were sorting themselves out. In any case I didn't throw up. No drenching sweats and no retching. Small mercies, but I take what I can get.

We were rested and in good moods, which I attributed in my case to a good night's sleep. I couldn't speculate for the other two.

"I'm starved," I told them. The three of us had slept late.

"Me too," Joan said.

The breakfast room, unlike the dining room, was completely informal. One could actually wear beach clothes, Lee-Ann informed.

It was a wide-open expanse, brightly lit by the harsh Mediterranean sun. The glass partitions were open letting the ocean breeze drift through. By mid-morning the partitions would be closed and the AC would kick in. Our waitress indicated a table in the center of the room, but we opted to sit where we could enjoy the breeze.

Food was displayed buffet-style. Breads, rolls, muffins and a wide assortment of fresh fruits, and of course coffee, filled a long table. Cereals were also available in brands I recognized, the logos, anyway.

I ate more, considerably more than I usually do, as our agenda for the day was still undecided. Unless, of course, the other two unbeknownst to me had something planned.

We ate companionably considering.

Lee-Ann spoke first between mouthfuls. "There's an excellent museum not that far. We should check it out. It'll give the two of you an excellent idea of what comes out of the ground in this part of the world. And maybe some insight as to what law enforcement has to contend with.

"Stuff like what the looters and smugglers are into?"

"Yes, Sam. And I don't doubt that the museums here have questionable artifacts. Who knows exactly how they acquired their collections? With antiquities provenance can be a problem."

"Really," Joan said.

"Not everything of course. Most dealers and archeologists are reputable. And purchases from private collections may be documented.

"But where did these private collectors get their pieces?"

"Good point, Sam."

"I'm game," Joan said. When and where shall we go?"

"I'm guessing," I said, "that you have something in mind."

Lee-Ann checked her watch. "It's not that far. And if you don't mind a little walk?" She looked at me.

"Sure. I'm up for a walk. I haven't been for a run in a while."

"Okay, then. There are two museums. Each one's about an hour's walk from here. Unfortunately they are in opposite directions. We should chose one for today, and leave the other for tomorrow. One is shorter by about fifteen minutes."

"We can do both," Joan said, "if we walk to the farther one, then take a cab back to the other. And if we're up to it we can walk back to the hotel from there. Forty-five minutes you said?"

"More or less."

"I'm fairly sure I can keep up. Being pregnant hasn't robbed me of my fitness, Joan."

"I know you're fit. But it's damn hot here and..."

"Joan," I said.

"What?"

"When you're in a hole. Stop digging."

"Okay, okay. You got me."

"Fine, it's settled. But I need a few minutes."

"Now?" Lee-Ann asked. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No, I'm not going to be sick. I need to make a couple of calls."

"Not unless they've been up all night." She checked her watch. "It's barely five in the morning there."

"Damn. I forgot all about the time difference. Should have checked in last night." Jesus. Geoff would be worried. They both would. Damn.

"When do they get up? Are they early risers?" Lee-Ann asked.

I was too agitated to answer.

"Wait until noon or so," Joan said. "There's a seven hour difference."

"Good idea. My father should be up by then."

"Relax, Sam. You call one, and he tells the other. Let's go."

"Okay, but my phone won't work. I didn't get a new card for it."

"Sam."  Lee-Ann held up her phone. "Mine does. Let's go. It'll be damn hot soon, and we're in the sun the whole way."

We left the hotel and headed north on Ha-Yarkon, getting directions from Google Maps. Lee-Ann had printed them out on the room printer courtesy of our quite upscale accommodations. We went at a leisurely pace, wending our way, relying on Lee-Ann to navigate. It was a beautiful day, not yet too hot, but by noon it would be a challenge to stay outside. I'm no stranger to hot and humid. But Israel? Jordan? The mid-morning temperature could reach thirty-five Celsius. At least Jordan was dry, and as much as I perspired it evaporated. Lots of salt stains but no ugly wet spots.

In our ball caps and tee shirts and jeans we were a far cry from the hot chicks of the previous evening. I paid no attention to where we were going, just ambling along, enjoying the sights, the sounds and the smells.

"Almost there. You can see it from here. Another five minutes should do it. How are you doing, Sam? Heat getting to you?"

"No, I'm fine. Glad I put on sunblock though."

"I'd like to say that you get used to it, but I never have."

At the entrance Lee-Ann handed me her phone after checking the bars.

"Why don't you try them now, unless you think it's still early back home."

"No, it should be okay. Thanks."

They both went in to give me some privacy. I found a spot of shade and punched my home number.

"Hello..." his voice questioning.

"Geoff, it's Sam. I'm on Lee-Ann's phone."

"Sam!  You okay? I expected to hear from you yesterday."

I explained my confusion about zones.

"But you're okay, you're fine?"

"Yes," I assured him. Every thing is fine." I gave him a brief rundown.

"And now we're about to visit a museum."

"That's good. I'm glad you're playing the tourist. A vacation is just what the doctor ordered." He laughed. "But use the phone okay?"

"I will. I promise. And speaking of doctors –can you tell my father I called? I was going to call him had you not been home."

"Sure, sure. Just after we hang up. I can hear his toilet flushing, so he's up."

"Don't I know it! Beautiful old building, but those walls."

"Good thing you're not a screamer."

"Maybe you need to try harder." I could hear him laughing.

'But other wise, how are you? Good?" He meant was I puking.

"No nausea today. But it is very hot."

"Be sure to drink. Easy to dehydrate in the heat. You're on holiday don't let heat stroke spoil it."

"I will don't worry. We decided to walk and we brought water so we're good."

"Other than that?" I knew he meant Lee-Ann.

"We are also good on that front too. Tell you all about it when we get back."

"If there's nothing else."

"That's it for now. I know you're off to work, so I'll say bye."

After saying again he'd tell my father and some telephone kisses we ended the call.

"Everything good?" Joan asked, when I joined them inside.

"I've been ordered to have a good time."

"Let's make that happen."

The museum was interesting. What museum isn't? We took our time checking out the archeology and antiquities exhibits. Urns. Amphorae. Mock digs were set up and displayed so you could walk around and pretend you were on a site. Surprisingly real considering my recent experience. Relief carvings covered most walls but whether they were authentic or reproduced for the benefit of tourists, I couldn't tell.

"Some are reproductions," Lee-Ann told me when I asked. "Otherwise the walls couldn't take the weight. The urns and vases are real and go back over three thousand years. And this one is supposedly some Babylonian or Sumerian goddess." Lee-Ann pointed to a block like sculpture in dark stone about two feet high. The goddess was a seated figure, very blocky, with symmetrical proportions. Her skirt or dress was incised with various triangular wedge shapes.

"I take it, those marks are some kind of inscription in cuneiform?"

"Yes, but don't ask me to interpret."

Interesting, but in truth after almost two hours I was getting bored. Old coins, oil lamps, some in clay others in bronze were fascinating to be sure. Grinding stones, two flat discs about eighteen inches in diameter and four or five inches thick, placed one atop the other. The top stone had a hole in the center where grain was introduced. Near the rim was another hole, smaller that held a wooden peg a bit thicker than a broom handle. The user, a woman no doubt, turned the top stone by rotating it with the stick to grind the grain. Hard work, judging by the size of the stones. Another stone was even more primitive. Loaf-like and about the size of a fat baguette it was pushed back and forth across seeds and grain to crush them.

I called them over.

"At our dig," I told them, "one of our team was an expert on old bones. A skeleton of a woman had been unearthed earlier in the season and she pointed out to us that the knees and hips showed severe arthritis. The woman would have been in a lot of pain and it might have been due to doing this kind of domestic work. And those bones were only a hundred years old or so."

"How old was the woman," Joan asked. "I mean when she died.

"Marci figured late thirties. Not much more."

"Really? Huh. Gotta love supermarkets."  Joan said.

"She also said that in some of the villages women still ground grain the same way."

"Really?" Joan said. "Instead of bombing and killing _infidels_ they should consider leaving the Dark Ages."

"Have you two seen enough?" Lee-Ann asked. We had.

"Shall we walk back and grab a late lunch? Or do we find a cab and move on to museum number two?" Lee-Ann looked at me, like I was some old granny.

"I vote to walk," I said. "But you two are probably tired by now."

"Who are you two?" Joan asked, removing her cap and wiping her forehead. "An hour walk in this brutal heat? And since it's late and I'm starving, I propose we go for lunch. By cab!"

Back at the hotel, we headed straight to the dining room. It was icy and we shivered, laughing at the sudden contrast. And even before finding a table we were at the food bar grabbing bottles of water consuming the contents before we were even seated.

"I've been on some long runs, "Joan said, "ten miles and more. But back home I've never been as dehydrated as that walk to the museum made me." She got up and fetched three more bottles.

"I think it was all the booze that dried you out," I said.

"That sun is wicked!" Joan rolled the cool bottle across her forehead. "I was hungry, but I'm not much for food right now, let me tell you."

"We should eat. And stay hydrated. They have some cold soups on the menu. What could be more refreshing? That cucumber soup was really good." I said closing the menu.

"Soup, I can handle. I doubt I have the energy to chew."

"Let me do the honors."

"No you won't." She was suddenly the Ninja again. "You stay put. I'm not the one with a bun in the oven."

That cracked us up, including the eavesdropping wait staff.

"The whole place is an oven. What the hell is the birth rate here anyway?"

By now we were almost hysterical."

"Okay, you two. Take it easy."

We settled for Lee-Ann's sake. Clearly she didn't like the attention we drew. The kitchen staff behind the serving table did their best to ignore us, and in spite of our disheveled looks, Joan drew quite a few stares.

The soups were excellent and refreshing, and with large portions of green salads we were more than satisfied.

"Now what?" Joan asked when we were done. I waited until the waiter left with the chit I had signed and said, "My treat."

"Thank you Doctors Milland. You are both too generous." Joan toasted me with her water.

"Me too," Lee-Ann added.

"My pleasure. Don't embarrass me, please."

"Now what?" Joan repeated. I'm too young for an afternoon nap."

"Let's talk upstairs. I don't like being the center of attention." She indicated with a slight nod, over my shoulder. I'd seen the two men on the far side of the room.

"Don't turn around!" she hissed at me.

"If you're referring to the two guys who were in the dining room last night, I'm surprised they haven't been over to hit on us."

"Yes, the same two. Both in their thirties. Taller than average, about six feet. Both with short hair, one a bit curly."

"And," I added. "Broad shouldered, slim waists. With chest hair showing where their shirts are open."

"You're very observant, Sam."

"Not really. I was just describing Joan's taste in men."

Joan managed not to laugh, and said in a lowered voice, "That's pretty accurate. However, I've been noticing that they are trying very hard to _not_ appear interested in us. And I can tell you, that's not working for them. And do not turn around. Either of you. Lee-Ann had been trying to shift position to get a better view.

"Last night," she said, "I saw one of them using his knife as a mirror."

"Come on," I said. "You're not serious."

"As a heart attack."

Lee-Ann demonstrated by holding her knife perpendicular to the table and I could clearly make out everything on the table.

"Okay, I'm convinced. A knife is an excellent spy device, and a great tool for shy guys to spy on hot women in restaurants."

"Shy? Do they look shy to you? Don't turn around!"

"Make up your mind, Joan." I was going to laugh but they both looked deadly serious.

"You guys are starting to make me nervous. Again. What's going on? You know something I don't?"

"Let's go. Come on, Sam. We'll continue this upstairs." And getting ups she leaned to me saying, "Be discreet and you can eye-ball them on the way to the elevators."

Lee-Ann led with Joan. I was a step behind, lagging a bit so I could take a sneaky look, but they had me so rattled I didn't dare.

"What's with this cloak and dagger stuff?' I said, closing the door.

"Probably nothing." Joan kicked off her shoes, went to the mini bar and brought out three bottles. Water this time.

Lee-Ann flopped on the bed. "Thanks," she said, catching the bottle Joan had tossed. Mine, she handed to me.

I propped my pillows and faced Joan in the upholstered chair.

"We're listening," Joan said. "Tell us about our admirers."

"They may in fact, be just that. Admirers."

"I like the sound of that," I said.

"You're a dog, Sam."

"I've been called worse. By better women."

"Okay, you two. Enough. What's on you're mind?" she said to Lee-Ann.

"Your dig." She pointed her chin at me.

"What about it? And for the record it's not my dig."

"Whatever. As I said, and as you know, Abdul has been investigating this looting business. He also over sees a number of dig teams. Sound familiar? Boots's project was just one of several. Abdul works for the Department of Antiquities, basically for Law Enforcement."

"We _know_ all that."

"Right. He's been tracking the movement of artifacts."

"Lee-Ann," I said. "This is just a rehash, what's your point?"

"Just hang on, Sam. Let me finish."

"Sorry, go on."

"Abdul has been zeroing in on a network. Stuff comes through Iraq, that whole Mesopotamian area. It filters down through Jordan and then smuggled into Israel."

"Now we're in Israel?"

"Yes, Joan. Now we're talking about a lot of stuff being moved by some very organized and very bad actors. As in ISIS or ISIL or whatever you want to call them. There are a great number of really wealthy Jordanians who buy these artifacts. Illegally. In a sense they are middlemen. And through these so-called middlemen a great deal of antiquities get into the world market. Through Israel."

"Through Israel? That doesn't make much sense," I said.

"It does where money is concerned. You would not believe the number of Jews, Israeli Jews, who are turning a blind eye to their political differences to make a buck."

"So you're saying these people, the terror groups who are stealing and smuggling in order to raise money for their networks, are doing so through the sale of these antiquities to Israeli Jews?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Sam. Yes."

"What has this to do with Abdul?" Joan asked.

"I told you, I just don't trust him."

"But why," I asked. "What am I missing? I don't get it."

"No reason for _you_ to get it, Sam. I'm not even a hundred percent sure _myself._ But where there's smoke."

She got up and went to the mini bar. Not for water.

"There are over one hundred thousand archeological sites in Jordan alone."

"That many? One hundred thousand is a hell of a lot of holes in the ground." I was surprised.

"Yes, it is. And that's just Jordan. Don't forget. The whole Middle East has a history of habitation of thousands of years. Cradle of Civilization and all that. One hundred thousand sites is nothing. Think Syria. Iraq. Lebanon. Turkey. The Stans. It's limitless, almost."

And in Jordan the documented sites number only about ten thousand. Figure it out. Lots of room for looting and looters. Artifacts range from small things like votive objects and stuff you can hold in your hand to tomb stones weighing hundreds of pounds. The museum was full of this stuff."

"And gold and metal objects too," Joan added.

"Relatively fewer items in that regard however. The value of let's say, non-precious objects is more historical. Nevertheless private collectors and museums drool and lust for antiquities. The older and rarer, the greater the money."

"Okay, but how does Abdul fit into your suspicions? You think he's one of the looters? I don't buy that."

"Of course not. The looters don't get that much out of it; it's the ones down the line making the money. Collectors can and do pay big."

"For those little votive things?" They can't be worth much. I even found a few at the dig. And that museum had a whole bunch in a glass case."

"All true. There is a lot of small stuff. But the numbers mount up. But it's the larger pieces that pull in the big bucks."  She got up and topped up their glasses. These two could really suck that stuff down.

"Thanks," Joan said. "Even some of the smaller stuff can fetch a decent price. Things like cylinder seals. Didn't you see them?"

"Yes, that's right. Then there's parts of statues. And they don't have to be intact. I could go on and on. And our friend Abdul right in the thick of it."

"I see that," I said. "But what does he do exactly? He can't cart this stuff home. Maybe some of the small stuff, but then what?"

"You're right, Sam. Of course he can't. He needs someone who can move and ship the stuff."

"So you think he's involved with someone you're working with? To do this?"

"It's more than a little possible, Sam. And that's why I think he's working with Freddy Malek."

"You make a good argument." I told her. I thought about Boots and the shipment.

"You know?" Joan said, "I've been thinking there was something a bit fishy about Malek. But since our investigation hasn't uncovered anything, not so far at least, I was reluctant to say anything." She explained about meeting the shipment at the dock.

"That turned out to be nothing. The shipment was legit," Joan said.

"Doesn't mean it's not happening," Lee-Ann insisted.

"No. No, it doesn't," she answered.  And that's why he's still on our radar."

"We know he ships his merchandise by boat to his galleries in Europe. And Montreal too, as we well know. And given all the checks and balances, the paperwork and customs inspections– not to mention the bulk and weight of this stuff, it's quite risky don't you think. I mean it might be easier with small stuff. Or items that he can hide among his household goods like he did with the container Boots had to meet. Art work? I don't see it as a problem as there's documentation. But antiquities? That's another story."

"That's essentially true, Sam. Unless, of course the art is stolen too. My guess is he smuggles the antiquities along designated routes. I'm not talking about camels along the Silk Road. But however he smuggles, the dangers can be considerable. And don't forget. Israel is the next neighborhood. With pay-offs to the right _people_ it's not so difficult. As I said before, there are enough crooked Israeli dealers and collectors to make the risk worthwhile. Very worthwhile.

"But the art? The legitimate Art? Shipping it by boat, even with the greater time delay, is a far safer bet."

"I've got another question. Actually quite a few." She looked at me, sipping and waiting.

"How does he justify to the Customs Agency and the Department of Antiquities shipping these artifacts? They're not about to just sign off and let him fill containers with priceless artifacts."

"Of course not. But this is where Abdul comes in. There's virtually no way to trace whether or not the antiquities have been looted or come from a legitimate source. Of course if they've been stolen form a museum that's a different story. Records exist."

"Providing the museum reports the theft," Joan said.

"Why wouldn't they report the theft?" I said. "Wouldn't insurance cover them?"

"I can't answer that. Maybe the staff was threatened? Maybe they were complicit? Maybe the stolen articles weren't legit? I've no idea."

"Joan's right. Besides, it's not hard to create phony documents. You wouldn't believe how many people turn a blind eye for the right price. Sometimes being _allowed_ to live is the right price."

"Unlike western art, as you mentioned," I said.

"Exactly, Sam. All those Rembrandts or Caravaggios, whatever, have an established provenance. Not so with stolen or looted antiquities."

"Then what? Abdul. What do you figure his role is?" I asked.

"The phony documentation. He knows all the right people. He _is_ the right people!"

"And he's sure to know all the _wrong_ people too." I said.

"That's one way of putting it," Joan said ruefully.

"Abdul sees to the paperwork. And then Freddy, or someone like Freddy, or maybe someone working for him, buys the object or objects. That so-called owner, or seller, who now has the necessary paperwork –albeit phony paperwork– concludes the deal. Freddy is now the legitimate owner and can deal with it as he wishes.  It's all above board. Except it isn't."

"It's hard to believe. I've worked along side Hannah. And we've socialized with both of them. They ate and drank in my home."

"Believe it, Sam." Another top up for both of them and the bottle was empty, but the mini-bar wasn't.

"I'm anxious to see the exhibit." I said.

"Right! You did mention something. Tell me more." She pulled the cork and filled their glasses. Jesus. These two could put it way.

I gave her a rundown about the invitation, including our misgivings regarding the anonymity of the sellers.

"We've been invited to the auction, actually to preview the exhibit before the items go on the block."

"Take pictures. And email them to me. I'd like a digital record. You never know."

"Sure. Now what about those two guys?"

"What two guys? Oh." They both cracked up.

"What? What's the joke?"

"Sam, you are just too much!" They were busting a gut.

"Bitches! The two of you! Not funny at all!" I threw my pillow at her."

"Bitches!" I said again, almost laughing myself.

"Now what do we do?" I said when they'd settled down.

"I've got to get back," Joan said. "I do have a job, you know. I can squeeze another day, maybe two. It has been fun. I think."

"What do you do exactly?" Lee-Ann asked.

"I'm not going to tell you exactly," she replied. "Except to say, I'm attached to the R.C.M.P. Basically I work out of Ottawa. But I've been in Montreal for sometime now. I've an office where Geoff works." She nodded at me.

"As part of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?" Lee-Ann pushed.

Joan waited and stared at her before answering.

"If I tell you, I'll have to kill you." She said this so coldly my stomach dropped. Lee-Ann too, seemed to be taken aback.

Suddenly Joan got up, walked to her room and stopped at the door. She turned, looked at Lee-Ann and said.

"Got you!"

"Good one, Joan."

Lee-Ann laughed, but I sensed it was feigned.

"How about you?" she said when Joan was gone.

"How about me what?"

"When do you have to get back? Can you stay a while? We've still a lot of catching up to do. And let's face it, what better place for a vacation. Sun. Sand. Beach." She pointed to the window.

"I do have the time."

"Do I hear a but? Have you something better to do? The room's paid up and I don't get a refund if you leave. I'll stay on but it'd be great if you did too."

"I can manage a few more days. A week. Then I have to get back."

"That's great! Thanks, Sam. I know it's costing you."

"Sorry to barge in," Joan said, knocking. "We on for dinner?"

"I hope so," I answered, for both of us."

"Good. I'm going for a run. Or maybe check out those two stalkers. See you guys later."

We took turns in the shower, and decided to go for a walk on the beach. It was still hot, but the sun was lower and a refreshing breeze came off the Mediterranean.

I was relaxed. Our friendship, I'd decided was too important to dismiss. We walked and talked remembering some of the fun things we'd shared. We even discussed Sarah, and how devastated she was by her death, the violence of it.

"I couldn't get past it. That it was my fault. Had I lived a different life. Had Bill lived a different life. Sarah would be alive today." She wiped away tears. We both did.

"You know, she really loved you, Sam. Sometimes you were all she spoke about. Auntie Sam this. Auntie Sam that. God, I am so sorry we didn't spend more time with you."

"I loved her too, Lee-Ann. I still feel her loss too. But it is _not_ your fault. No matter how you lived or the kind of life you chose. Okay? It is _not_ your fault."

"I know that. On an intellectual level."

Abruptly she said, "Enough of that. Tell me about you and Geoff. You must be so thrilled."

"Absolutely. Geoff thinks I've transformed into some kind of china doll. And my father, don't even go there."

"I remember your father. How is he? He lost a son, didn't he? Your brother."

"Yes. That was a long time ago. It still gets to him." Suddenly I realized what I'd said.

"I'm sorry, Lee-Ann. I didn't mean to..."

"Sam," she said touching my arm. "It's okay. Don't walk on eggs, I know what you meant." She stared at me and I willed my eyes not to tear but failed.

"Don't do that!" She yanked my arm. "Don't you dare cry."

"Okay, I won't. I won't." I wiped my eyes.

"Good. And knowing your father, not that well, I admit, he must be out of his mind that you're pregnant. You make sure you do everything to make it happen. You take care of yourself."

We continued walking and talking. About my scare regarding Tay-Sachs. She knew all about the disease.

"Both Bill and I were tested. Oddly, neither of us carried the gene. But safety first, as they say."

We continued in silence for a time, each lost in our own thoughts, and I wondered what was in her mind. I was thinking of Sarah and the baby growing inside me. I was thinking and hoping that one day she might have another child.

She'd be a good mother. She was a good mother, but sadly that had lasted for too short a time. Her husband killed. Her child murdered. And me? I was prepared to cut her loose. No, that I would not do.

"I think we should head back, we've come a long way. And I'd like to pick up a few things in the hotel shop."

"Good idea," I said. "It's shopping that soothes the savage breast, not music."

I bought a couple of expensive blouses and a terrific cream linen jacket to go with a pair of navy slacks. And a pair of sandals that put my father back five hundred bucks. Well, he did say to use the card.

In the elevator on my way back up to our suite, a teenager was texting on his phone, his thumbs a blur. That reminded me I'd forgotten to get a new SIM card. When the kid got off I pressed the down button and went back to the shops.

Joan was in her suite, plugged into her iPod, and removed one ear bud when we entered her room.

"Wow," she said when I dangled the sandals. "Wow," she repeated when I modeled the other items.

"You look fantastic!" The woman was almost salivating.

"All you have to do," Lee-Ann told her, "is get pregnant."

"Bite your tongue!" She made a gesture reminding me of Thea Maria warding off the Evil Eye.

Since Joan planned on leaving the next day, I decided we should splurge for dinner. Thanks Dad.

"Splurge? What do you call yesterday?" Joan said.

"Soup and salad isn't a splurge."

"I sneaked a peak at that bill, Sam. To me that was a splurge."

"Point taken. But tonight we go all out. If my father were here, he'd insist. And actually he is here." I waved the gold card.

"I owe your father big time. I don't think a simple hug is thanks enough."

Jesus. It had better be!

"Okay, then it's settled. And we should dress up." Lee-Ann pointed to my new purchases. "Maybe those two hunks will be there."

"The only hunk I'm interested in is the rack of lamb I saw on the menu."

"Baa to that," Joan said. "I want something that moos."

"As in those two bulls?" I said.

"Would you two adolescents give it a rest?" Lee-Ann scolded. "Those bulls will probably turn out to be steers."

Dinner was great. Lee-Ann and Joan restrained themselves consuming only two bottles of wine. I stuck with water. And yes, the two bulls or steers were also dining, and ignoring us completely. A great disappointment to my dinner companions I was sure.

We chatted away the evening and managed to avoid all talk of Freddy, the dig, antiquities or anything to do with killing and terrorists. That did not disappoint me.

"By the way, how's the morning sickness been treating you?" Joan asked. "You've seemed fine the last few days."

"Yes. Thankfully." I knocked on the table.

I steered the talk away from pregnancies and babies, asking Joan where she grew up and went to school and so forth. She had an undergraduate degree related to law enforcement. Then shrugged her shoulders as if that was all. She made no mention of her martial arts training.

"What about you?" she said to Lee-Ann."

"My background is in Fine Arts, I'm sure you know. I've a Masters in studio work. Painting." She mentioned that she'd exhibited internationally but didn't elaborate. If Joan had knowledge of that she didn't let on.

Lee-Ann was a gifted artist and her work had considerable merit. But according to my father that wasn't necessarily enough to get the international showings she had. The Mossad, I knew, relied on sympathetic Jews whom they could count on for help. And there were many in the diaspora. Whether or not there were Sayanim gallery owners I had no idea. What I did know was Lee-Ann's paintings were exceptional.

Joan left the next day, insisting we did not see her off at the airport.

"You two should take in that other museum, then hit the beach. No point in wasting all that time with me at the airport. I'll be fine. I only have the one bag."

So that's what we did. The museum was equally interesting, of course, but not so different from the other. However, by then I had my fill of old pottery and I wondered at my wisdom to spend another week with Lee-Ann. I was thankful we'd settled our differences, but we'd pretty much exhausted the topics we could talk about.

Over the years since our university days, the time we spent together was short, just a few hours at a time, with Sarah making it all fun and worthwhile. And without Sarah our friendship was strained, we were hostage to each other.  Sarah had been our common ground.

Lee-Ann, of course, was at home in Tel Aviv, but I was not comfortable in a strange place. To ease some of the tension between us, I spent a few mornings or afternoons on my own. The language issue was not a problem as English was widely spoken and I could get by quite well in French if the occasion arose. But I was nervous and apprehensive on my own. Besides, I missed my family.

That evening I told her.

"The next plane home is the day after tomorrow. I miss Geoff, and my father too. He's getting on so I think I'll head back."

"Okay. I'm glad you came. It's been good"

"For me too, Lee-Ann. I mean it."

"I know you do. But let's keep in touch. Time is precious and all too short. And with this business I'm sure we'll be hearing from each other."

"I'm sure we will. Let's hope it ends."

"And I still don't trust using the phone.

"What about a burner phone. Is that what they call them?"

"I thought of that," She said and shook her head. "Call it paranoia, but there it is." She looked at me. "There's another way and it's really quite simple."

"Not snail mail. That take's forever."

"No," she laughed. "Not snail mail. But email."

"And that's safe? They can hack email you know."

"Yes, I know. But here's how to avoid that."

She explained that we'd create a Yahoo account. We'd each have the password so we could log into the same account.

"But we don't hit send. We save the message as a draft. Whenever either one of us logs in we can read what the other has written. Neat huh?"

"More than neat. You think it's fool proof?"

"As long as we only have the password. Yes, I'd say it is fool proof."

That's what we did. Using her laptop, and the room computer we tested the plan.

"See? No sweat. Now if I want to reach you, I log on, leave a message in draft form and log off. We don't choose a recipient. Leave it blank. Just save the message as a draft and log off. Voila."

"Simple enough."

"Yes, it is. But check in every day, okay? And I'll do the same."

That evening at dinner she told me she needed a couple of hours for personal business. I didn't ask. Don't wait up she told me.

"I've got a _Daniel Silva_ , so I'm good. And I'll email Geoff and give him my flight details, so I won't be bored. You take care though. Okay?"

We went back to our suite and parted company. I emailed Geoff, gave him my details with a brief explanation why I was cutting my trip short by a week. I assured him I was fine. Boredom the reason I was returning.

I'd barely clicked send when my cell rang. Geoff.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. It's late there, how come you're still up."

"My phone pinged with your email. So I called. Knew you'd pick up. What's with the early return, not that I'm complaining?"

"Like I said. I'm getting bored."

"Really. Sun. Sand. Beach. That's not a boring picture in my book."

"It is when you're not in it."

"So you do miss me."

"I do." I didn't say more. Hormones were about to kick in.

"I miss you too. And as much as I do miss you, your father is pining."

I had an image of Lassie waiting for little Jeff to get home from school.

"Guess what," I said.

"Come on, I hate guessing games. Tell me."

"I felt the baby move. More like a flutter. It was amazing."

"Oh, Sam. God, I can't wait to have you back. Don't get me wrong, you needed a break and I'm glad you went. I hope you're not cutting this short on my account."

"No, I'm not. It's great seeing Lee-Ann and all, but since Joan left, there's not much for us to talk about."

"I get it. Close quarters can be wearing, I'm sure."

"Say that again."

"But for me, Sam –the closer, the better." Jesus. He'd get me crying yet.

"Joan fill you in?" I asked to change the subject."

"Oh yes. And on that score, it's good you're coming home. I'll meet you at the airport. Either me or Gregor."

"I'll grab a cab, Geoff. Really not a problem. You've work and my father doesn't need the aggravation of fighting traffic."

"Okay. But you know your father. If I give him your details he'll want to pick you up. If I don't tell him he won't be happy to have been kept out of the loop.'

"You're right. So tell him. And try to convince him not to come to the airport. I know it won't be easy, but try."

We left it at that. I wouldn't be surprised if a short balding elderly man was waiting for me at the airport.

I left the light on in the bathroom with the door ajar so she'd not have to stumble around when she returned. This was for my own benefit. I didn't want to be awakened

# Chapter 9

The next morning when I awoke the light was still on and her bed had not been slept in. I got up, showered and dressed casually in a tee and jeans and went down to breakfast. The usual guests were at their habitual places. Creatures of habit that we were, we gravitated back to the tables we first occupied. Every new semester students did the same thing. Wherever they sat on the first day became their place. And never challenged either.

And I was just as much a creature of habit. My breakfast choices here were much the same as at home. Yogurt and fruit, maybe a muffin. Our usual table was vacant, of course and I deposited my food then went back for coffee. I tried not to feel selfconscious sitting alone but it wasn't easy. Where was she anyway? I took my time enjoying the breeze and the ocean smells drifting in, hoping Lee-Ann would soon make an appearance.

I ate slowly, drank two cups of coffee and flipped through the pages of a complimentary newspaper; barely noting what was in them. I killed an hour and still no Lee-Ann. I was getting bored, more worried than bored actually. Where could she be?

Personal business, she said. Of course I didn't ask. The answer no doubt would have been a lie and I didn't need that. In any case I had no idea where she was or what she was up to. So I sat and waited. It was getting into late morning and the wait staff was giving me the hairy eyeball. The dining room was empty except for me, and they wanted to get on with cleanup. I signaled a young man and signed the chit and went back to our suite hoping that maybe– just maybe– she'd returned. No such luck of course.

Now what? Call Geoff? No. Still too early. And besides what could he do. No sense in giving him something else to worry about. And calling my father was out of the question. Why did that even cross my mind anyway? Here I was half way around the world, alone in a strange country, and I wanted to call daddy. Does motherhood change that?

Okay, Sam, I told myself. Pull yourself together. Start by checking with reception. I went back down and approached the reception desk scanning the room for any sign of her. The clerk, a youngish man with a bad comb over, was flipping through a bunch of cards. His uniform jacket was on a peg behind him. When he saw me approach he put it on and straightened his nametag. James.

"Yes, ma'am. Can I help you?"

"I hope so."

I identified myself and asked if there were any messages left for me. No, no messages. I asked if my suite-mate had checked out. I got an odd look, no doubt wondering why I wouldn't know that.

"Actually," I confided, leaning towards him, "I'm a bit concerned for my friend. Miss Wexler."

He furrowed his brow and put down the pen. "How do you mean?"

"She didn't return to the room last night. I'm a bit worried."

"I can see that miss, I would be too. I did see her leave– she's the red haired lady right?"

"Yes," I told him.

"It was just the start of my shift and I did see her leave. My replacement called in sick so I'm still here."

"You saw her leave. And you're sure it was her. Miss Wexler."

"Yes, of course. Miss Wexler is a guest on occasion. I know her by sight."

"Did she call for a cab, do you know? Did someone pick her up?"

"I don't know her mode of transportation Miss Milland, but if it helps she didn't leave alone."

I looked confused. "She didn't leave alone?"

"No. She was with two gentlemen. Seemed like they knew each other. They left together. The three of them."

I held the edge of the counter to steady myself. Unwelcome images flashing to mind.

"These two men," I described them. "You think they knew Miss Wexler?"

"It appeared that way."

"Can you describe their demeanor?"

"Demeanor?" again the frown.

"Yes, their behavior. Were they friendly? Talkative? Did they walk leisurely? Did she appear stressed? Under duress?"

"Under duress?" He was genuinely alarmed. "Are you suggesting Miss Wexler was abducted?" he said wide eyed.

"No. I don't know. It's not like her to just go off and not tell me."

"My goodness," he said. "Oh my goodness."

"Listen, James," I said leaning closer. "She told me she had to go out and that she'd be in a bit late, but this a more than a bit late. We had plans for the day. This is not like her and I'm quite worried."

"Shall I call the police, do you think?"

"I don't know. It's not been long and I don't think the police will do anything at this time. Can you tell me about the two men? Were they guests here?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Milland, I really can't discuss our guests."

"Of course not. I'd expect the same respect for my privacy too. But can you tell me if you've seen them before? I mean at other times. You said Miss Wexler had been a guest here in the past. Were these men around at that time too?"

"All I can say is that I haven't seen them before. As for my colleagues, I can't speak for them." He looked around conspiratorially, and said in a low voice. "I don't forget faces and I put in a lot of hours here. "They've never been guests here, Miss Milland."

"Thank you, James. I'll give it until late this afternoon. If she doesn't show, we can call the authorities."

"Probably best. In the meantime, try not to worry. I'm sure she'll turn up with a good explanation. Or a good story!" He didn't wink.

"Well thanks for your help."

"Not at all, not at all. Oh, and when she turns up please don't forget to tell me."

"I won't, James. Thanks."

Rather than sitting around moping in our room, I decided to walk on the beach. I just needed to get out of the hotel. It was hot, but the breeze made it bearable and the sand was packed so walking was easy. It was a typical beach. Families and kids. Yelling and laughter. Gulls screaming and swooping for leftover picnic scraps.

I walked in desperation, my imagination running amok. Should I alert the police or wait? And for how long. Did the twenty-four hour rule apply here too? What if it involved tourists? Would their reaction be quicker? I was driving myself nuts.

I took my phone out to check our shared email account. Nothing. But I did have a message in my regular account. Geoff? I opened it. Not Geoff.

_Hi Sarah Ann. Sorry I bugged out on you, but not to worry I'm fine really. Just got called back to work. Can't say mo_ _re. Have_ _a safe trip home and give my best to Geoffrey and your father. Lee-Ann_.

My worst fears were suddenly realized. I hurried back to the hotel and called Geoff.

"Okay, take a breath," he cautioned. "Sam, are you listening?'

"Yes, Geoff. I'm listening."

"I know you're worked up, but take a breath okay? You with me?"

"Yes. I'm calm. I'm calm."

"Good. This is what you do."

I was to return ASAP, his word. Try to get a flight that day. Worst case, I'd have to get the next day's flight, which was the one I'd already booked.

"The sooner you're out of there, and home, the better I'm going to like it."

"You and me both!" I said.

As luck would have it there was a flight that same afternoon, but with two stopovers. A longer flight, but the net result was I'd be home sooner.

"And keep in touch if you can. Promise."

"Yes, I promise. Whenever I can."

"I'm counting on it."

"I'll call. Or text. Every opportunity."

"Okay."

"And, Geoff? Don't say anything to my father, okay?"

"Not a word. Another thing."

"Yes, what?"

"Check out as soon as you can. Like right now. Get to the airport and hangout until it's time to board."

"Yes. As soon as we hang up. I'm going now. Love you, Geoff."

"Love you too. Both!

I pressed end. Packed my bag with the new clothes, which fit if I squeezed and pushed. Lee-Ann's were in the drawers and the closet, and her laptop was still on the desk. I could check out but what was the point? Lee-Ann had the room. But the clerk knew us both by name and by sight.

I went down pulling the bag behind me and approached James who was still on duty.

"Did you find your friend?"

"Not exactly, but I got a message from her saying she'd been delayed so there's no need to call out the tracking dogs."

"That's good news. You had me worried there. "

"Me too. Believe me, I am quite relieved!"

"No doubt. You were quite alarmed, I could tell."

"But it's fine now. Thanks for you help. And concern."

"Of course. Looks like you're leaving us. I hope you enjoyed your stay."

"Yes, I really must get back. I did enjoy staying here. Service is wonderful."

"We thank you. Always a pleasure to serve."

"The room is taken care of? Miss Wexler will be looking after that." I said hoping it wasn't a lie.

"Of course. The suite is billed to her. She had it reserved in your name, but it's billed to her so don't give that a thought."

"I should settle my personal account however. For the dining room and the mini-bar." I held out my father's card.

"Not necessary, Miss Milland. Our instructions are to put everything on Miss Wexler's card."

"Really. I can at least take care of the gratuities. For room and house keeping services."

"Again, that is all taken care of." He smiled. "Let me get a taxi for you. To the airport I'm assuming."

"Yes. Thanks so much. If I ever come back to Israel I assure you this is where I'll stay."

"How kind of you. Let me get that taxi for you." He signaled someone, I hesitate to say Bell Hop, and a taxi materialized in less tan two minutes.

I thanked James again and pulled my bag towards the waiting cab.

The Bellboy, or Bellhop or whatever put my bag in the trunk and I handed him a twenty in US money. He nodded and held the back door as I got in.  I doubted I'd ever be back.

The flight was an ordeal, long, tiresome and aggravating with the stopovers. Eighteen hours later my taxi pulled in front of my home and relief washed over me. Of course no sooner had I climbed the stairs my father appeared in his own doorway.

"Sammy, here. Let me take that." With reasonable agility he was beside me grabbing the bag and following me in.

"I'm so glad to be home, Dad." I hugged him.

"Me too, Sammy. Me too. Geoff filled me in." He pushed the bag away from the door with his foot and closed it.

"You must be exhausted. Did you drink? Flying is very dehydrating. Go drink. No, go sit. Put your legs up, your feet look swollen. I'll get you a bottle."

"My feet are fine, Dad." He was right; they did look swollen. I took off my jacket, tossed it on the chair and sat on the sofa.

"Here," he said handing me the bottle. "You want a glass?"

"This is fine, thanks."

"And take off your shoes. Your feet look at them. Like blimps."

"I am so glad to be home, you have no idea." I drank off half the bottle.

"You must be hungry too. I'm sure you haven't had anything since you left Israel."

"Actually I'm starved. The past twenty-four hours have been more than a little stressful and I've barely eaten."

"You are in luck, when I told Maria you'd be back today, she made your favorite. There's a casserole _dolmades._ Enough to feed twenty. Let me get you some."

I heard him hustling in the kitchen, the fridge opening and closing, the microwave humming. While he did that I took off my tight shoes and put my feet up.

"Here you are. I made a plate for myself too." I put my feet down to make room for the tray. The aroma was tantalizing. The vine leaf wrapped meat and rice smothered in the lemony sauce was heaven.

"So. Any news of Lee-Ann?" he said mopping up sauce with a piece of baguette.

"Not a word. I guess Geoff filled you in about her message."

"Yes, he did. And Joan too, I gather. But apart from that, I don't know anything else. And I didn't ask. Oh!" he said, putting his plate down, "Did you call him? Does he know you're home?"

"Yes. When I landed, but I should call him now."

"Good idea." While he put our things in the kitchen, I called and left a voice message.

"What's next?" he said, coming back. "I mean about Lee-Ann."

"I really don't know. Part of me is worried about her, of course. We're both aware to an extent what she does. But I'm still worried."

"I know you are, Sammy. I see that. And I'm sorry about all that. But thankfully and selfishly I'm happy you are back safe and sound. As for your friend... well... Lee-Ann made her own bed. Don't forget that."

"And Geoff told you about the two guys?"

"The ones Lee-Ann supposedly left the hotel with?"

"Yes."

"Only that they were guests in the same hotel. But he was repeating what you'd told him."

"I wasn't much help. I saw them of course, and could describe them." I didn't mention our lusting over their bodies.

"But Joan could give a more detailed account, being trained in that.

"At this point what else can we do? What can Geoff or Joan do? It's not like they have any kind of jurisdiction over there."

"Yes, it's a difficult situation to say the least. Anyway," he added, slapping his knees, "Lee-Ann's been around the block. So far she's taken care of herself."

"I know, Dad. But I have a bad feeling about this."

"Try not to worry. She's your friend. I get that. But let it go. Geoff or Joan or whoever they're working with, let them work it out. It appears from what little I can gather from reading between the lines that this business is all interconnected."

"Yes, I'd say it is. And it looks too, like Freddy may be involved.

"Incredible,' he said after I filled him in with all the suspicions and intrigue implicating Freddy with the illegal antiquities trade.

"Geoff knows all this?"

"I'm sure Joan has kept him abreast of everything. The three of us had rather lengthy discussions about this, and she's bound to have brought this to his attention for sure. Joan plays her cards close. She knows more than she let on, I'm sure."

"You can count on Lee-Ann to have done the same, Sammy."

"And as for Geoff, he's not about to keep me in the loop."

"And that's as it should be, Sammy." I couldn't disagree.

Geoff remained immersed in his work, and Joan continued with her investigation. And I continued to worry about Lee-Ann. Apart from her initial email I had no other word from her. I checked our shared account regularly, several times a day in fact. Nothing. I longed for the end of the summer so I could get back to my teaching assignments. Harry kept in touch, calling me daily and we met for lunch on occasion, but my heart wasn't in it.

I needed to get back to work.

By now, I was almost obviously pregnant. I could still go for a run, but at this stage I was more comfortable at the gym. For one thing the place was air-conditioned. Running in the heat and humidity was unpleasant, so I kept in shape pumping away on the stationary bike. I was never much for using the weight machines but Nabila suggested it would be a good idea.

"Aerobically, you are very fit," she told me. "But your upper body?" She shook her head.

"And nothing outrageous," she said shaking her finger. "I know you, Sam."

"Just light weights and increase the reps, not the weight." I said.

Five times a week I put an hour on the bike and on three of the days I used the weight stations. And I also walked to the gym, briskly, which added another forty minutes to my workouts.

The sessions kept me fit. But they didn't keep me from worrying. Quite the contrary as my mind kept replaying the circumstances leading to Lee-Ann's abrupt disappearance. Try as I might, I couldn't recall or think of anything about them that seemed suspicious. But we hadn't been looking for anything suspicious, nor was I trained to notice such things. After getting back home I couldn't even remember what one of my trainers wore. I know, I tested myself. As a Girl Guide, I remember playing Kim's Game. I should have paid more attention.

And Joan wasn't much help.

"I've nothing to add, Sam," she said when I called. "Two good-looking guys, as you pointed out. Tall, dark haired and athletic."

The Hannah Exhibit was approaching, and I had very mixed feelings about attending. I couldn't help harboring unpleasant and suspicious thoughts about Freddy. Hannah too. I liked Hannah, and had worked along side her, but I didn't really know anything about the woman. Freddy, on the other hand, I'd only met once, at our dig party get together. I liked him well enough. At the time. He was affable. Charming and gracious. Could tell a good story and didn't hog the limelight. All were traits and characteristics of a successful businessman, which he certainly was. The same qualities could also be attributable to criminals and sociopaths. My area of expertise. But my expertise was academic. I wouldn't know a Ted Bundy if he shook my hand. And maybe he had.

The more I thought about it, the more suspicious I became. I was a scientist, a social one at that.  I had no hard science to back me up. He was rich, had a string of art galleries, and possessed the qualities of character that made him a success. That was the only context I had. Reading his head and taking physical measurements of his skull had long been proven to be hogwash. Too bad. It would certainly make Geoff's job easier. But these days it would be ruled a violation of one's rights. Get a grip, Sam. You're getting silly.

Where the hell was she anyway?

The Hannah Exhibit was professionally mounted and I doubted a museum could have done better. Some time had passed since the container landed and Freddy, or rather Rajah, must have worked night and day to put it together. There were niches with subdued lighting, and spots illuminating and highlighting objects to best present them.

The gallery, transformed to house each element as it might have appeared in antiquity. Urns and amphorae displayed in an ancient eating area. Hearths surrounded with household necessities, oil lamps and grinding stones. In other rooms, statues, some life size, stood on pedestals, others, fragments of broken limbs or heads perched on pillar-like supports reminiscent of Greek and Roman architecture.

The sand alone could have made a small beachfront.

Harry came over and we admired a clay tablet affixed to the wall. It was about twenty inches by fifteen, the surface in high relief.

"It's beautiful, isn't it? Looks like it may have been produced from a mold."

"Exactly, Harry. You've a very good eye."

"Oh, Freddy," he said turning to the man. Can you tell us a bit about it? The card says the clay was first mixed with straw."

"Yes, that's right. Straw tempered. The potter introduces straw to the mix when he prepares the clay, before it is pressed into the form. As the clay dries the straw makes it less likely that the piece will deform. At the leather hard stage it's removed from the form, or mold and allowed to dry completely before it's fired. By using molds, a number of pieces can be made, quickly and with considerable consistency."

I stood closer to get a better look and pointed to what looked like flaws in the surface.

"Not flaws, Sam. That pitting –and those linear tracks? The embedded straw burns off leaving the pits and traces from the straw."

"It's a beautiful piece. This collection must be very valuable." I said.

"Most of the exhibit consists of a lot of ordinary pieces. And by that I mean, they are not particularly rare. A lot of pottery was mass-produced from molds. Votive objects and so forth, that people kept in their homes. Still very collectable of course but not that rare." He stood back and crossed his arms across his chest.

"But this piece, and several of the others are very valuable. The fired relief pieces especially. They'll be central to the auction. But where wood was scarce, only very special pieces would be fired. And a piece like this," he pointed to the panel, would have been considered special. A commemoration to the gods. Or king. Actually they believed their kings to be gods. Or maybe only the king had that opinion." He laughed.

"Ruling by Devine Right," Harry contributed.

"Yes, something like that. Another thing," he said, "originally these pieces would have been polychromed. A lot has been written on the use of colored pigments and their symbology. Yes, quite a lot." He stepped back admiring the piece.

"If you'll excuse me for a bit I have to mingle." He shook Harry's hand and said to me, "Sam, you look wonderful. You are positively glowing."

"Thank you, Freddy. How kind. Although the glow is beginning to dim, it's been a long day."

"Here," he said taking my arm and steering me to a padded bench. "You can enjoy the panel easily from here." He smiled. "And now I really must mingle."

"You're positively glowing," I mimicked for Harry's benefit, which set him off on another of his choking laughs.

" _Mon Dieu, Harry. Calme-toi!_ We are not alone!" Georges hissed.

"Sam is just too funny. You just missed her impression of our host."

"Ignore him, Georges."

"What's the joke?" What did I miss?" Geoff had wandered over, hands in pockets. Harry was about to explain but I cut him off.

"Later, Geoff." And I gave Harry a look. "Freddy was explaining about that piece."

"Is it that funny?" He stood looking at it. "Whoever she is, she's wearing one of Madonna's pointy bras." That set Harry off again, with Georges hissing admonishments in French and rolling his eyes at us.

"And those bird feet! Look at the talons. Not my idea of a fun date." He kept his hanky ready.

"Okay, guys," I said. Let's cool it. This is a class act that Freddy has put on. Let's have some decorum." I gave Geoff's arm a shake.

"You're absolutely right, Sam. And I am truly ashamed." Harry put his hand over his heart. But you have to admit the artist knew how to make her look damn sexy, don't you think? I mean look at her. That headdress. The wings. Claw footed. And yet she exudes sexuality, and evokes a kind of lust in the beholder. I even felt it," he added. "Don't you Georges?"

" _Non, pas exactement, cher._ I am not what you call a hetero metro sexual."

"Enough, you two!" I tried not to laugh. "Be glad my Thea Maria can't hear you, she'd be working overtime warding off the evil eye."

We continued to browse and enjoy the exhibit. There were refreshments and champagne too, served by young and very pretty Arab looking women.

Harry sauntered over to me, gestured at the women and whispered. Black pants. White blouses. But no Madonna bras."

"Jesus, Harry! Georges, where are you. Georges take this man away."

We'd been here a good two hours and I'd reached my limit. I spent more time in museums these last two weeks that I had in my entire life. I strolled a bit trying to look super enthused. And I smiled at what I thought could be potential bidders. If the clothes and jewelry were an indication, the bling on display was far from modest. So I smiled and said hello, and yes it's a wonderful exhibit, gradually weaving through the crowd to locate my father. I found him chatting with Joan, both of them looking very serious. He didn't seem to be flirting or chatting her up.

"Hi. Enjoying the exhibit?"

"Very much, Sammy. I was just mentioning to Joan about the panel over there." He pointed to –I hesitate to say– the Madonna Bra.

"What about it?"

"I asked Joan to Google that goddess. Inanna, the card said."

"Yes, that's right. From Babylon, I think.

"It's not exactly like the one that came up in Google, but very similar."

"Okay. Where are you going with this?" The two were a bit grim faced.

"The original, the one Google pulled up is referred to as the Burney Relief." He leaned down and whispered. "It sold for close to two million dollars!"

"Two million... Jesus! And you think that piece is in the same league?" I wouldn't be calling it the Madonna Bra if it was!

"I don't know," Joan said. "But it seems to share a lot of the same characteristics. Mind you, I could only see it on my cell. Not ideal."

"Maybe not ideal," he said to her, "but it's something we should– or perhaps– you should follow up. This is a bit of a coincidence I'd say."

"Why a coincidence? Freddy pointed out that this was a clay pressing. Could be more than one in existence."

"That's true, Sammy. True."

"Nevertheless," Joan said. "I'll be following up. And given the nature of our investigations, I find this a bit odd. Two artifacts so similar?"

"I agree it does seem a bit odd. And what about Lee-Ann? Still no news?"

"Still no news. And if there were, I'd tell you straight away. I'd hoped she'd try to contact you actually."

"Well she hasn't."

"You'd tell me?"

"Of course, I'd tell you." I said a bit testily."

"Okay, okay. Just asking, that's all."

"As for the value of that piece," she inclined her head towards it, "the descriptive card doesn't indicate a value. Unlike paintings I've seen in galleries."

"No. And I doubt it would. I chatted with Freddy, but I wasn't so crass as to bring up the subject of value. But he said there's a special catalog, giving the reserved prices that would be sent to his bidding clients. " He looked around and said, "By the way have you seen his son? Rajah? He should be here too."

"I wouldn't know him if I did."

"Neither would I," Joan shrugged, and took a sip of her champagne.

"What's a reserved price?" I asked him.

"If bidding doesn't go above, or reach the reserved price, then the item doesn't change hands."

"So we've no idea of the value attached to the collection."

"Not yet, Sammy. But we will. Freddy promised to send me a catalog." He winked.

"We'll know soon enough. In the meantime," he added, "we can do some research ourselves."

"Good idea, Gregor. As a matter of fact my team is on it." She tapped her phone. "But feel free to snoop around yourself. The Internet is a gold mine. Mind you, we can dig a little deeper." She leaned in towards him, holding his arm, saying with a finger on her lips, "Interpol." I almost gagged.

"And don't forget your other friends," she said to me. "That pottery expert– Martha? Maria?"

"Mara, Mara Semler," my father informed her. Jesus.

"Yes, and what about Boots? By the way, I haven't seen him tonight."

"He's here somewhere," I said. "Saw him by the drinks table."

"Sorry to interrupt," my father said, "but there's someone I want to see. I'll catch up with you later."

"Okay. I'll start on that tomorrow. I've been bored out of my mind,"

"Great then." She held my arm and asked. "How are you doing? I know this bit about Lee-Ann is tough on you."

"Yes. It shook me. But doing some detective work– I mean research is my thing. You do the detecting."

"Okay," she laughed. "As long as we're on the same page. Anyway, I have to go. I'll sneak out. Say bye to your father for me will you?" She put the still full glass of Champagne on the tray as a server went by, and proceeded to find her way to the exit.

I ambled over to my father and told him I was ready to leave.

"Hang on a sec, I'll get Geoff."

"Stay if you want. I can grab a cab, there's a stand outside."

"I've seen enough. Let me get Geoff." He went looking for him stopping first to speak to Hannah. She laughed and shook her head.

It was almost midnight. I was tired and filled with a sense of foreboding. The exhibit and the priceless artifacts that were part of Joan's investigation, and possibly Lee-Ann's disappearance were worrisome.

"You know," I told them when we settled in the living room, the men with scotches but no cigars. "That panel, the one similar to the Google."

"The Madonna Bra?"

"No, Geoff. Not the Madonna Bra. Don't make light of this."

"Okay, sorry." He smirked at my father.

"You two are worse than Harry!"

"What? What'd I do?

"Forget it, Geoff. That panel," I repeated. "The one you and Joan pulled up on Google.  Sold, you said, for two million dollars."

"What's this? What are you two talking about? What's this Burney thing?"

My father filled him in.

"And you're thinking Freddy's panel might be in the same ball park?"

"Possibly. The picture on Joan's phone was small but the two panels were very similar. Freddy said that these panels were produced from a mold. Doesn't that mean, or at least suggest, that they made a number of these panels?" My father offered a top up. Geoff shook his head.

"If that's the case," Geoff said, "there's a lot of money riding on the Madonna Bra."

"We need to check it out more carefully. Where did it come from? How did Freddy get it and from whom?"

"That may not be easy, Sammy. Remember the invitation said the owners wanted to remain anonymous."

"That in itself sounds fishy," I said. "Anonymous. And given what we already know about tracing ownership –what do they call it– provenance? I doubt we'll get anywhere with that."

"You're right," Geoff acknowledged. "It does sound fishy."

"I took quite a few pictures with my phone. From several angles. Tomorrow you can pull up the Burney and compare them." He handed it and said.

"Can you print these from my phone, Sammy?"

"Yes. And I'll print the ones from the web too."

"At first glance I thought they looked identical, so I went back and took pictures. I don't think they're identical but the similarity is unmistakable."

"I can see that. We can tell more when I print them out."

"No, keep the phone," he said when I handed it back.

"That was good thinking, Dad, to take these shots. And the resolution is good too. He wasn't a total Luddite, and sometimes his tech savvy surprised me.

It was getting on to two o'clock and I was finally flagging and couldn't stop yawning. My father looked at me, rubbed his hands together.

"Time to pack it in. I can't keep late hours like I used to."

"Me too, Gregor. At least I've the weekend ahead of me unless something comes up. And usually it does."

He saw my father out. I put the booze away and crawled up the stairs to bed.

The smell of coffee awoke me. I rolled over and saw it was only eight-thirty. I was tired and lay there contemplating whether I should go back to sleep or brave getting up. I waited. So far no nausea. Gingerly I eased out of bed and sat on the edge. The gods of morning sickness could still be lurking.

"Hi, Sam. Sleep okay?" I answered with a yawn and with eyes half closed went to my place at the table and rested my head on both hands.

I could feel him staring at me. I looked up and said, "I'm okay." I yawned again. "Coffee would be good. And a minute to get it together."

"You can have both. I'm yours for the whole day. I hope!"

We had often made weekend plans only to have the thwarted at the last minute. Crime doesn't take a holiday.

"What do you want to do today? I told the office not to contact me except in an emergency. Hopefully we can have the weekend to ourselves. Can I get you something to go with your coffee?"

"No thanks, not yet. Don't want to disturb the vomit gods."

"Okay," he said sitting down to scan the newspaper. "Say when."

He folded the paper and set it aside.

"This is what we should do. If you're up to it." He saw my look.

"Nothing strenuous. I'm feeling a bit, how shall I put it? A bit subdued myself." He folded his hands in front of him on the table.

"But I was thinking. You could call your friend. You know, the pottery expert. Mara."

"Mara? Why? Oh, Freddy's panel."

"Yes. Maybe she can give some insight about clay pots and panels and such. Her input, and Google, plus your father's pictures might help us figure out a few things."

"You know? That's a good idea."  I looked at the stove clock. "I'll call her later."

"Okay. Now how about this? Finish your coffee. Grab a shower and I'll tidy up here. When we're done, I'll take you to breakfast. And when we get back you can call Mara."

There was a chain of restaurants specializing in Breakfasts of Cruelty, but the health conscious could avoid barnyard choices. We took our time lingering over the food. It was a nice day so we decided to walk and on the way back I saw my father's Jag parked at the curb. It wasn't there when we left. Was he coming or going?

I rummaged through my agenda looking for Mara's number not about to ask my father.

As luck would have it she was in. She was single and as far as I knew, she lived alone.

"Sure. I'd love to!"

"Great. We can pick you up, say about eight o'clock?"

"Yes, that'd be fine."

"Oh. You're not a vegan are you?"

"You kidding?"

"Okay then. We'll see you at eight."

"That was easy," Geoff said.

"Surprised me too. But maybe you should call the restaurant. Might be best to get a reservation since it's Saturday."

"Kind of pricey that place," he said hanging up.

"They're all pricey in Old Montreal. But we deserve it don't you think?'

"Yes. I think." Geoff wasn't sexist. But occasionally he was a bit uncomfortable when it came to money. He was a good earner, but my pockets were a little deeper.

"You think right," I told him. We do. You do. And besides," I waved my father's card."

"Sam. You know I hate that. It makes me very uncomfortable. I feel it's like stealing."

"Okay. You're right. I didn't mean to do that. But how about we invite him. He'll trip over his own feet to see Mara again." I was hoping he'd say no.

"I don't know which is worse. Using his card behind his back, or inviting him along knowing full well he's going to pick up the tab."

"Well, how about this? My slush fund is quite solvent you know."

"God, I'm feeling like a kept man here," nuzzling me.

"No, I think you're more my Boy Toy."

"Oh, I do like the sound of that!"

More nuzzling. Then I played with my Boy Toy.

"I have a parking spot in the building. Two spots. I was told it would be a good investment, so you can park beside me," she told us when we left the restaurant. The plan was to return to her condo for our pottery lesson.

Mara's unit was a two bedroom near the Atwater Market in a converted tobacco manufacturing company. It was nicely appointed with quite a few ceramic items, some intact and some fragmented and some that were obviously reconstructed. I also noticed that her housekeeping skills far exceeded mine.

"Just so you know, none of these pieces have been looted or smuggled. And none are particularly valuable." She said this off-hand but there was no doubt to the sincerity of her tone.

"Never thought that for a second," Geoff said, putting back a small pot about the size of a milk jug.

"Can I get you anything? A cup of tea, Sam?"

"A glass of water would be good, thanks."

"Geoff?"

"I'm good, Mara."

"That was a lovely meal. Thanks again." Returning, she handed me a glass of water with ice and sat down.

"Do you mind?" She extracted a rolled joint from an inlaid box." I know you're law enforcement an all so I won't offer." She fired her Bic bringing it up and lighting the end. The paper flared then died.

"Oh, hell!" she said stubbing it out in a broken piece of pottery.

"What was I thinking? Sorry Sam." She fanned and blew the air dispersing the few wisps.

"Not to worry, but thanks. Don't want junior here to pick up any bad habits." I patted my belly, still barely a small round bump.

"You sure I can't get you something, Geoff. Coffee? Won't take a minute."

"I'm fine, Mara. Thanks."

She sat across from us, Geoff and I on a settee covered with a woolen blanket, a throw my father would call it, the motif American Indian. South Western, or Navaho I thought.

"As I promised, let me give you a short primer." She'd removed her shoes and sat yoga style in her chair. Between us, on a low table, were a number of clay pots and items in various conditions. She reminded me of a Buddha the way she sat, her behind was that substantial.

"First of all, and you may recall, Sam, from our pottery washing sessions. That pottery is the most common artifact since six thousand BCE– Before the Common Era. You can literally trip on the stuff in any empty field. I've seen shards poking through poorly paved lots."

She uncrossed her legs and picked up a couple of pieces.

"See these? Found in our dig, but from different periods." She handed them to Geoff.

"How can they be from the same dig then?"

"Good question. We have to keep the time periods in mind. And we're talking centuries, okay? Over the centuries you have floods. Erosion. Even earthquakes. And the wind will often bury a site completely. From one year to the next, many of the digs I've been on have three to four inches of sand and dust that we have remove. Think what can happen after three thousand years.

"These tells– by the way the word comes from Hebrew or Arabic– is a type of mound. They're created by the repetition of habitation and abandonment of a geographical site over many centuries." She paused and said, "You sure I can't get you something. I could use a cup of tea myself. Herbal?"

"Herbal would be fine. Thanks". He never drank tea. Herbal or otherwise.

"Just be a minute."

"These hills or tells," she continued from the doorway to the kitchen, "often collapse. Mud brick, or fire. Sometimes an invading group will destroy the settlement. Then others rebuild over top. Over millennia this can happen any number of times. Then along comes Boots. Hang on a sec." I could hear her pour water.

After some minutes of listening to her hum and watch Geoff rolling his eyes, she came out with a tray.

"Help yourself, please." And to be polite Geoff obliged.

"You were saying," he prompted. "About Boots."

"Yes. Right." She sipped. "By Boots I mean an archeologist. They dig and they sift and expose, or hopefully expose, artifacts. Artifacts that may have come from different time periods. Centuries apart. The styles would have changed too. I mean pottery styles. Within the settlement you'd have artisans. Leather workers. Weavers and of course, potters. These centers, pottery centers would all have their unique style, a distinct quality or design to their wares. And through trade the wares are dispersed."

"Quite fascinating," he said clearly impressed.

"No argument from me," she said. "And the value isn't so much monetary. More from what we can learn about the people and history. Culture. It's rarely about money."

Geoff picked up one of the items displayed on the table.

"Take the piece you're holding, and this one." She held up a broken piece.

"They're both shards of pots. For storage probably, maybe grain."

"Or oil," I said examining them.

"Not these pieces, Sam. Check the inside."

"Ah. Not glazed."

"Exactly. Too porous."

"And these two pieces? Centuries apart." She handed them to me.

"Can you tell how they were made?"

I studied them and passed them over to Geoff.

"I can see," he said, "what looks like finger marks."

"Yes," she said. "We call them throwing marks, from working a potter's wheel. It wasn't until the Iron Age that the potter's wheel was sufficiently developed for wheel thrown work."

"Almost smooth," he said.

"Right. But look at the other one."

"Looks a bit like rope. In a spiral."

"Exactly. We call that coil formed. In coil work, you roll out coils of clay by hand then wind them round and round into a pot or vessel shape. Starting closed at the bottom then expanding outward making the walls. And tapering again to the top. Different pots take different shapes. All hand made in this case. No wheelwork. However, coil work doesn't necessarily mean the piece predated the thrown work. To determine its place in history takes more than that. Not something I can properly explain now.

"I'm quite fascinated. Really. But what about something like a panel. Something flat say."

"Good question. Something like a relief piece. I'm guessing you're thinking about that panel you and Sam saw at the exhibit?"

"Yes, I said. "Did you have a chance to check the web link I emailed you?"

"Yes, I did. As you mentioned it was made, or at least from the image it appeared to have been made, by pressing clay into a form. Possibly wooden. Although they did use clay molds. And, yes, straw was likely mixed with the clay to give it some structure. Maybe adobe brick is a good analogy. Adobe being sun dried, but these panels were fired clay."

"From what I've learned," Geoff interjected," the straw burns off, leaving pits or evidence where the straw was. And the panels were also painted."

"Right. A lot of the pottery was painted. It's all worn off by now and rarely is any color evidence left. Occasionally some artifacts can have tiny remnants, even flakes of color that remain. The great cathedrals of the Middle Ages were polychromed, you know."

"I didn't know that," he said. Must have been a sight. But I'm not surprised, given the climate, that the colors are lost."

"Yes, for sure."

"Thanks so much, Mara. You've been a big help. Amazing the stories a bit of mud can tell."

"You'd be surprised, Sam. Is there anything else I can help with? It's really been a pleasure for me. Not often I have such an interested audience. Not even my history classes." She laughed.

"Believe me, I have the same experience. As bright as my students are, or shall I say –think they are– they certainly do lack in enthusiasm. Even the ones who want to pursue a career in law enforcement or criminology."

"Don't I know it! Broken pots. Who cares, right? But there's another aspect too, neither one of you brought up."

"What do you mean?" Geoff asked.

"Counterfeiting or faking artifacts. That's an interesting area too."

"Really," I said. "My father was involved with a painting a while back. From the Middle Ages actually. Determining its authenticity was quite the challenge."

"Well, we have fraudsters too, that fake ceramic objects. Might be something to consider in your investigations."

"I'll keep it in mind, but it's more Joan's area, my partner in crime. But I'm listening. This has been more than a little interesting."

"Are you familiar with dating techniques?"

"Like dendrochronology?"

"That's one of them, Sam. For dating wood."

"The painting I mentioned. It was painted on wood panels. The ring pattern was used for dating the piece."

"Exactly. But for our purposes, in archeology, rarely is dendrochronology an option. Wood and other organics don't survive that well. Instead we rely on Carbon14 and thermo luminescence."

"Didn't they use Carbon 14 for the Shroud of Turin?"

"They did. It's a process that only works for organic materials. In archeology, in my area at least, dealing with clay pots and such, we rely on the thermo luminescence method. Here's an abridged version." She picked up one of the shards.

"Briefly, we are bombarded with radiation. All kinds and all the time. And many materials absorb radiation. Heating the object drives off the radiation. For instance, this piece of fired clay. Whatever radiation was present in the unfired clay will be driven off when the piece is fired, you know, in a kiln. You still with me?"

We both nodded.

"At this point, the radiation in the pot or panel, is driven off and the piece is reset to zero radiation wise. Okay?"

"Like a clean slate."

"Sure. From the point of firing, the clean slate so to speak begins again to accumulate radiation."

"So far I get it," Geoff said. "But how does that date the piece?"

"Right. That's the question. We need to measure the amount of newly accumulated radiation. Thermo luminescence means heat and light. Now. To determine the date, the piece it has to be reheated. During the heating phase, light is emitted. The intensity of the luminescence is measured, which relates to amount of radiation absorbed. There are scales and figures used to calculate the date. Actually to place the piece within a range."

"Interesting to say the least. And this is accurate?" Geoff put the shard back on the table.

"The range is within fifteen percent or so. This can be halved if there's a number of samples."

"So how can someone fake a piece? If you date something that precisely your sample would have to be in the same ball park age wise wouldn't it?"

"For sure. But these guys are pretty sharp. "It's possible to assemble or reassemble a pot or vase from remnants. Stuff doesn't usually remain intact. And by combining pieces of old and not so old shards, you can perpetrate a hoax."

"I see that but I'm not really getting it," I said.

She got up and brought back a several broken pieces displayed on a shelf and spread them on the coffee table.

"Okay. These pieces are all bits of different pots or vases. Some could be part of the bottom of a vessel. This one on the other hand," she held it up perpendicular to a sample, "is obviously part of vertical portion. Can you imagine it that way?"

Geoff took the pieces from her and played with matching the edges.

"You're on the right track," she told him, taking back the pieces.

"A bit like piecing together a jig saw puzzle, isn't it?'

"Exactly like a jig saw puzzle, Sam. And given that there's a lot of erosion and what have you, a believable fit is all you need."

"Okay, so someone puts a few pieces together. Fitting old pieces to newer one."

"You want to show that an object dates to a particular period. The older the better. Of course an intact piece will be more valuable. And if not intact at least having all the bits to assemble. Get some bits from the period you want. And built it by adding– let me say– junk."

"I get all that. But the dating?" I asked.

"The dating. Let me go back a bit." She put the pieces down.

"You're aware, I'm sure that in order to date a sample. Dating by Carbon 14 or thermo luminescence is a destructive process."

"Yes. That was the big controversy regarding the Shroud. A piece had to be destroyed."

"Right. Dating the Shroud required that a piece be destroyed and of course, I think it was the Vatican, objected."

"They had to burn a piece, right?" Geoff said.

"Essentially yes. In carbon 14 dating it's not light that is measured. It's the Carbon 14 isotope."

"You're going way over my head, Mara."

"Let me give you the short version, Geoff. All living things absorb carbon 14. The amount present is always more or less constant. At any time all living things absorb the same amount. Okay?"

"So far," he said.

"When a living thing dies, it no longer absorbs the isotope, but begins to decay. It has a half live of something over fifty thousand years. The amount present today is compared to the amount left in the artifact. The difference equates to time and a date can be established."

"In faking pottery a lot of money can be involved. And reputations can be made or destroyed. Piltdown man for example, but that's a story for another time."

"So in order to date a piece of pottery what is it you do exactly? I got it about the Shroud."

"Sorry, Geoff. Right. A core sample is drilled out of the artifact, usually from an unobtrusive area. That's the bit gets tested. And since the assembled pieces have been accepted to be the whole, no other samples need be taken. Pretty slick if you can make it work."

"But back to Freddy's exhibit," I said.

"There were some very interesting pieces." She said, getting up to put the tray in the kitchen. When she came back I showed her the pictures I had printed out.

"Yes, very similar I agree." She studied them. "And worth a fortune too."

"Given what the Burney sold for, yes. But we'll have to see what happens at Freddy's auction." She handed back the photos.

"My question is," I said. "How did Freddy acquire the collection, in particular that panel? Who are the owners, is what I'd like to know?"

"So would I," he said. "But I doubt we'll find out. That invitation claims the owners want to remain anonymous. The gallery is just their agent."

"And given the suspicion surrounding him and his business interests in antiquities, it sounds fishy to me."

"How do you mean?" Mara asked. She began toying with her stash box.

"Just a feeling. We don't know who owns the pieces, which I get is none of our business. And the coincidence that the panel in Freddy's exhibit is so much like that Burney." I pointed to the print out. "And where has it been? Why suddenly does it appear? I don't know anything about rare antiquities, but who ever owns it certainly knows its value. Why hasn't it been in the news or the trade papers or whatever?" I looked at Mara.

"Good question. I certainly haven't seen or read anything. Of course collectors can be an eccentric bunch. They don't like to advertise their collections." She kept playing with the box.

"I get that," I said. "But I still think something isn't right."

"And on that note," Geoff said, "It's time for us to go. Thanks for the lessons, Mara. I'd no idea about the depth of your work."

"My pleasure, I assure you. And thanks for dinner."

"And I hope you hear from your friend," she said as we were leaving.

"Thanks. There are a lot of unanswered questions. Lee-Ann disappearing like that. The looting and Abdul's men getting killed. A lot of unanswered questions."

"Well, I for one am very glad to be out of there. You and Boots almost getting blown of the sky. Believe me, I wasn't sorry that the dig was shut down."

"Hopefully this will all be resolved and you and Boots and the team can get back next season."

"Thanks again, Mara." Geoff nudged me.

She followed us to the elevator and we went down to the garage and used remote to open the door.

"Let me know if I can be of further help. If you want a tour of my lab, just say the word."

"I might take you up on that. I know my father would love it." Why did I even say that?

It remained business as usual. My father popping into check on me. Geoff at work. Harry calling with a bawdy joke or comment. But no word from Lee-Ann. Nor did Geoff keep me up to date, or offer any information on the investigation he and Joan were involved with. None of my business, I know, but I was still curious.

The auction had come and gone. My father went of course. And in spite of my curiosity, I bowed out.

"Sammy, you should have come. It got frantic a couple of times. Some gold jewelry. A couple of buyers kept pushing up the bidding on a couple of lots. In the thousands. But there was a bunch of stuff selling in the low hundreds too.

"But the panel? That was something. Went way beyond the reserve, which I think, was over eight hundred thousand. There were three bidders. One dropped out a million two and the other two kept bumping it up. When the bidding stalled at one and a half you could hear a pin drop. Everyone was holding his breath, I know I was. And at the last minute it goes to two million and that was it." He got excited again retelling the story.

"How did you do? Did you bid on anything?"

"A couple of items. Nothing special."

"So. Are you going to show me?"

He was gone less than a minute returning with a small box I'm sure was just inside his door.

"Nothing expensive," he said reaching into a Hannah Gallery box.

"Just two small figurines and an Iron Age pot."

"That's it?" They were about six or so inches high.

"Quite similar to some of the stuff we found at the dig."

"And quite like what I saw in the museum in Israel."

"Yes. Mara told me at the time, that figures like these were almost mass-produced. Votive objects. We still do that today. Remember that trip we took to Ste Anne de Beaupre?" I didn't. But there was hardly a shop selling souvenirs that didn't carry porcelain Virgin Marys and statuettes of Jesus with outstretched arms. Cheap ceramics and cheaper plastic.

I admired his purchase appropriately and he replaced them in the box.

"Did you have a chance to talk to Freddy?"

"No, not really. Just regular meet and greet chitchat. You know Freddy. He's a charmer," adding in a lower voice, "Like a used car salesman."

"Dad! It's not like you to be so cynical."

"Well," he said thrusting his chin out. "Hannah is more my cup of tea, if you know what I mean." I did. She deferred to him and he could be a real patsy when it came to female attention.

"She's not in the least phony. Doesn't put on airs or act like she's on the inside track. Freddy, on the other hand wants you to think he's about to share a really big secret with you. I don't trust the man."

"Really! I didn't know you felt that way about him."

"Might sound unfair. I really don't know the man very well."

He folded the flaps to close the box got up to leave.

"But you know, Sammy. It's my business to read people." And again in a lower voice, "I'm very good at it."

"No argument from me, Dad. The way you read my mind I should wear a mask or a chador or something"

"And ride in the back seat too!" He laughed.

"That was it," he said patting the box. "A few exciting moments, but otherwise..." he shrugged.

"And yet we're still in the dark."

"Still no word from Lee-Ann. I know you'd have told me, but nothing more from Geoff or Joan?"

"Nothing at all. And I'm in a kind of limbo. This is the second time she's disappeared."

"I know. And this time it might not have been her choice."

"That's what scares me. I don't know what to think. Is she alive? Why hasn't she tried to get in touch?" He knew about the email account.

"Maybe she can't, Sammy. Or has a good reason hopefully."

"I hope she has a good reason. But the two guys she supposedly left the hotel with? If they're on her side, then why hasn't she contacted me? I can't help but think the worst."

"I know, Sammy. Believe me. But try to let it go. It's hard, but leave this to Joan and the professionals."

He picked up the box.

"I've appointments. And at the risk of telling you what to do, you should take a nap, you look peaked. Just an old doctor's advice." He wagged his finger and left.

Where does he get these words? And what does peaked mean anyway.

I did take his doctor's advice. Afternoon naps were becoming a habit.

An hour and a half later I woke with a start, suddenly very alert. I checked the time and relaxed. Geoff wouldn't be back until six-thirty or so and that was still a couple of hours away. And as for cooking dinner, Thea Maria had that covered. My new domesticity should have given me ample opportunity to develop a few kitchen skills. That wasn't happening. And with my condition she wasn't about to let it happen. She'd all but taken over dinner preparation. Not every day but often enough. And when there was no surprise casserole, my father was invariably able to provide a Thea Maria morsel or two. Providing of course, that he had the third chair at our dinner table. Or maybe now it was the fourth.

So there was no need for me to panic. I got up, stretched, yawned and went to my office, imagining my walk becoming a waddle. Out of habit I logged onto our shared account. Nothing.

While I sat and worried about her my cell rang.

"Boots, nice to hear from you."

"I'm in trouble, Sam. In a big way."

"What's happened, Boots?" I heard the panic in his voice.

He managed to explain briefly.

"Where are you?"

"At home.  I'm afraid to leave actually. I'll be living on bread and water soon." He laughed but there was no humor in it.

"Okay. I want you to come over. As in now."

"Sam, I don't want..."

"Now, Boots. Get a cab. You hear me. Get a cab now." I hung up before he could protest and immediately called Geoff. My call, of course, went to voice mail.

I checked the time. They could conceivably arrive together and when I looked out the window I saw Boots coming up the stairs just as Geoff pulled to the curb. The third to arrive was my father.

"Tell Geoff what you told me on the phone."

I brought out cheese and crackers for starters, not sure the meal would be adequate, but knowing what was coming, appetites might well be dulled.

"Okay, I'll try."

"What's going on?" My father's head was swiveling from the men to me.

"Freddy, called me." He rubbed his face nervously. "You know about the shipment and getting me to go to docks. Joan and me."

"Okay," Geoff said. "Those antiquities checked out. They're pretty much the stuff of the auction, right?"

"Yes, yes. But he has another container coming and he wants me to meet the shipment again."

"The first shipment checked out, Boots."

"I know it did. I know that. Even so. Doesn't mean there wasn't something not right."

"Okay, I grant you that. But officially it passed customs without a problem."

Boots looked at him.

"Well, didn't it? You know something about that shipment that I don't?"

"The thing is... The thing is that first shipment wasn't exactly kosher."

"Now you've got me. What do you mean by _not_ exactly kosher? The antiquities?"

"Yes, right. The antiquities. They weren't all above board. Sure the paperwork checked out. Not so hard to do, you know. I'm sure you already know that ownership is hard to dispute.  Departments of Antiquities are strict, but they are not above corruption."

He took a moment, sipped beer before continuing.

"Go on," my father prompted.

"This isn't a secret. We all know it happens –is happening. And the black market for antiquities is pervasive."

"Yes," my father interjected. "And we also know that a lot of the money generated and not only in the black market, funds radical groups."

"And the owners, legitimate or otherwise, often get relatively little of the money. They sell what they find without a second thought. The English gentry are forced to sell guided tours of their ancestral homes just to afford the upkeep. Some of these rich land owners sell off their cultural heritage probably for the same reasons."

"That's right, Sam. I'm sure that's true. Partly true anyway."

"And collectors are just as bad," I added. "They buy because they can. Not realizing or maybe not even caring where some of their money ends up. Or the horror their money ultimately causes."

"Okay. We know the history. But what's your problem exactly, Boots? You told me you fear for your life." He sat forward, arms on knees. Dinner was almost ready, but I didn't want to interrupt and stop the flow.

"How about we take a break," Boots said, giving me an out. "I want to get my thoughts in order. There's a lot to tell you, Geoff."

"Good idea," I piped up. "Time to eat."

There was plenty of food as it turned out. The table talk was idle, my father taking the initiative to keep the mood light by recounting amusing anecdotes. They were pretty lame.

"Thanks, Sam. And thanks for hearing me out. I really didn't know who to turn to."

"Okay, Boots. Let's hear the rest of this," Geoff said.

"That first shipment was pretty much above board. But there were a few iffy pieces. And like I said the paperwork passed."

"But you were very shaken up as I recall, about meeting that shipment, weren't you?"

"I was, yes. Freddy has me, and pardon me, Sam, but Freddy as me by the balls."

"Boots," Geoff said. "You are not making a lot of sense here. What have you gotten yourself into?"

Boots rubbed his face deciding what he would or maybe could tell us. Whether he'd incriminate himself in front of Geoff.

"Oh hell. In for a penny, in for a pound, to quote my mother.

"As you know, Freddy has helped financially. Certainly not as generously as you, Gregor, but Freddy has kicked in a bit too. Both he and Hannah have been very helpful.

"But Freddy isn't entirely above board. Both he and Abdul, I'm pretty sure, are into looting. And Freddy is using his galleries and connections to wealthy collectors to unload the artifacts. And the money is funneled to elements, factions, terror groups– whatever you want to call them."

"That's a stretch, Boots. Do you have more than just your guesses."

"Yes. I do Geoff. I think so."

"You think so?" Geoff scoffed.

"Hear me out. Freddy has a number of charities that he supports. Islamic charities."

"Nothing illegal about that."

"No. But let me finish." He stopped and shook his head. He was about to change his mind, I thought, but after a moment he resumed speaking.

"These charities, Geoff. These charities are a front. Instead of the money going to help people, the refugees from Syria and Iraq. Orphans.  Hospitals and the wounded and so forth. Not so. The money or a large part of it buys arms. It goes to support the terror networks."

"How can you know this? How are you involved?"

"I'm getting to that Gregor. I'm getting to that."

My father had poured scotch and Boots took a sip. Three cups of coffee sat cold.

"Freddy is a very subtle guy. Affable. All smiles and handshakes, know what I mean? And I'm a little more than gullible. I knew about his galleries. His business consists mostly of art, like paintings from the Renaissance to more recent works. Even sculpture like Moore, Rodin, Hepworth. But we know he also deals in antiquities. Archeological artifacts.

"I never questioned where his stuff came from. I mean I did _know_ where it came from but not the circumstances. Never gave it a thought, and why would I?"

"You were busy with your research and excavations. No reason to question what Freddy was up to."

"That's what I've been telling myself, Gregor. I just figured they were just well off people who wanted to contribute. Patrons of the arts. Or archeologists in my case. I met Hannah some years back when she came to work as a volunteer. And her husband, Freddy also became involved. They're both Jordanian and I figured they were doing their bit for the culture and heritage of their country. It was all above board. Or so I believed.

"Gradually we became friends. Mind you, I certainly didn't move in the same circle, but Hannah would throw a good party for the dig teams I worked with over several seasons. So I got to know them. Their home is filled with all kind of art and of course antiquities. Nothing suspicious, right? He's filthy rich and a lot of Jordanians collect antiquities. And for the most part, they're not that valuable, moneywise. The value is historical. Cultural. He's Jordanian. His home is in Jordan. And the artifacts are in his home. What's to question?" He stopped and took a healthy swallow.

"As I said, for the most part the monetary value is not significant. At least not in the sense of that panel." Another sip.

"You mean the Madonna Bra?" my father quipped.

"What? Ah, the goddess panel. Is that what you call it?" He laughed. "Almost appropriate, Gregor."

"But, yes," Boots went on. "What I saw of his collection, in his home that is, had nothing as valuable as that panel. Not that I saw. And I've seen a lot of stuff worth a fortune. Mind you, I've never unearthed anything of that caliber, that's for sure! Have you seen that temple dig? The one in Petra."

Geoff's patience was wearing a little thin. There was a lot of crossing and uncrossing of legs and smoothing of trousers. His jaw was working as he kept from urging Boots along in his narrative.

"Have you met Roger?" he suddenly asked.

"Who's Roger?" Geoff asked annoyed at the change in direction.

"Actually, it's Rajah. Rajah Malek. Freddy and Hannah's son. Calls himself Roger."

"What has this to do with anything?" Geoff was on the edge.

"Roger manages some of the galleries. This one here in town for one. The one where the auction took place. Freddy puts me in touch with him, to check if I thought the gallery was suitable for the auction."

"And you didn't find that a bit unusual?" my father asked.

"How do you mean?"

"Boots! Why would Freddy, who runs a string of international galleries, who has a son in the business as a manager of these galleries, tell me why he'd ask you to see if the place was suitable for an auction? Doesn't that sound just a little bit odd? It sure as hell does to me."

"Well, yes. Putting it that way."

"How else can it be put?"

"I don't know. I thought he was being polite. Just asking for my opinion."

"Polite. You thought Freddy was just being polite." Geoff was shaking his head incredulously.

"Sounds odd to me too," I said gently.

"Where have you been all your life?" Geoff said.

Boots was rubbing his face and raking his fingers through his hair.

"Yes. I did think he was being polite. Given how he and Hannah have been generous. I thought he just wanted me to be or feel a part of his exhibit."

"And did you?"

"Sort of. Peripherally."

"And that means?" Geoff asked, less aggressively.

"Just about setting up some of the displays. You know make them look a bit like a dig site."

"I get that. It makes sense. When I was in Israel we visited a couple of museums. Some displays looked exactly like a dig site."

"Okay, okay," Geoff said. "You felt a bit beholden. But it's sticks in my craw. Considering your feelings about being used to meet that shipment. You're giving mixed messages. There's something you're not telling us."

"It's a little confusing," my father said. "Clearly you're frightened about something. Why do you say he has you by the balls?"

"You know how upset I was about meeting that shipment."

"Yes, we do," I said. I looked at Geoff.

"Right. And that's why Joan was detailed to go with you. And we had a team ready in the event something went wrong. Any idea what an operation like that costs? There was even a canine unit ready move. The customs officer checked everything. The paper work was good and the seals hadn't been tampered with. It turned out to be a false alarm –which is fortunate by the way."

"I'm sorry if it caused you so much trouble."

"Let's move on, Boots. Shall we?"

Boots stalled and took a sip. Then another.

"The thing is... The thing is..." he repeated. "Maybe a little background is in order."

"Background?"

"Yes, Gregor. And you'd be interested in this for sure. You're generosity kept my project going. Otherwise my research at that site would have ended. My grants were about all used up."

My father waved away the compliment.

"It's true, Gregor. Without supporters a lot of archeological research just wouldn't happen. My dig would have come to an end. Maybe another team, another university or a group with bigger funding would take over, but it would have been the end for me. Abdul and the Department of Antiquities don't care who digs."

"We get all that, Boots. We get it." I was losing patience too.

"Hang on, I'm getting there. I promise. Freddy has lots of land. These parcels, called dunams are about a quarter acre in size. Freddy has hundreds of them. Mostly scattered and not contiguous."

"Is there a point to all of this?" I asked.

"Absolutely. About four years ago around the time Hannah came on as a volunteer where I had another dig going. Not far really from where we are presently. Hannah introduced me to Freddy and as we became friendly told me he hand land holdings, some of them quite scattered and wondered if they may have an archeological significance. So I explained how we sometimes surveyed from the air. As we were doing."

"Believe me Boots. I'm not likely to forget."

"I took him up and we surveyed the area. Explained the clues to look for in land formation and so forth. My present dig is one of the sites we saw from our survey. And it's on Freddy's property."

"Really!"

"Anyway, as you know we're working a shrine. Still early times, and so far nothing of value. Nothing monetary. Historically it's a different story. But it's early and I don't have much yet that I can publish. In another two or three years maybe, providing we can get back."

"So your digging on a piece of land belongs to Freddy," Geoff said.

"Right."

"And that is significant?"

"Yes, it is. Or could be on a couple of levels."

"Can you explain?"

"There are literally thousands of potential sites. Some could be significant. The odds are not great. Anything of value has been looted over the centuries. Every time there was a regime change, invading armies devastated the area or looted what was of value. Very unlikely to find what a treasure hunter would want. Value for archeologists is in the history.

"But Freddy, like so many others was hopeful. Not necessarily looking for gold and jewels –which would certainly have been welcome, but hoping more to find an artifact, something rare. Like the panel, say.  In any case he was eager to help."

"Okay, but you said you were pretty sure he was involved with the looting and collaborating with Abdul."

"Given his wealth, his position, his galleries and his contacts like Abdul and no doubt others in high position, he's perfectly situated to benefit from this illegal trade. And Abdul being both an agent in law enforcement and the Department of Antiquities, what better partnership can you ask for?"

"It's a perfect plan," my father said.

"Yes. I think it is. And given what happened Freddy scares me more than just a little."

"I can see that, Boots. I can see that. I'm very disappointed. In both men. Abdul makes it worse however.  Covering for Freddy and falsifying documents. And considering his men that got killed, I wonder if in fact he had a hand in that?"

"But there's more. You know that panel? The one you dubbed the Madonna Bra?"

"How could I forget?"

"Any idea, Sam, who owns it?"

"The attribution on the card listed the owner as Anonymous," my father interjected.

"Yes. That's what the card said. But in fact the owner is none other than Freddy Hannah."

"What? Are you sure of that?" Geoff asked.

"Yes. Freddy is Mr. Anonymous."

"Why would he do that?"

"No idea, Sam. But he's Mr. Anonymous."

"How did you come to this conclusion anyway?" My father asked.

"After you guys left, I was on my own for a few days. Most of the camp had been dismantled and I wanted to do some last minute checking, inventory and so forth. There were a few things we'd leave behind in the hopes we'd be back next season. The water tank. The prefab tool shed and generator. And my so-called contraption. But I'm a curious guy. A fault that can sometimes be to my detriment."

"Jesus, Boots. Don't say you did what I think you did."

"Depends on what you're thinking, Sam." He gave a half-hearted laugh.

"But yes. The place was pretty much deserted. There was the odd summer camp of herders, but otherwise pretty deserted. So I decided to do a fly-over. That area where we were shot at, and where Abdul's men were killed."

"Boots," Geoff said. "Curiosity doesn't account for stupidity. What were you thinking anyway?"

"I know, I know. Not my best decision, I know that. But here I am."

"Go on," I said.

"Yes, where was I? I made a long lazy loop over the area. In spite of the emptiness, I didn't want to appear like I was making a beeline to the spot. Anyway, I circled and saw nothing. Saw no one that is, and decided to put down."

We shook our heads at his foolhardiness.

"I was cautious okay! I landed and shut off the engine. The tracks were all but obliterated by the wind, but there were tracks nonetheless and some broken glass. I walked around asking myself what the hell those guys had been doing there. Why had they shot at us? How did we spook them? You remember, Sam, one of them tried to stop the other guy from shooting."  My father had poured scotch and Boots took a sip.

"I got out and scouted around and on the far side of the tell– you and I couldn't see it as we had to high-tail it out of there before– but on the other side was a cave."

"Oh," my father said, drawing out the word.

"Exactly, Gregor."

"They were storing the looted antiquities, weren't they?"

"The cave, in fact, was empty but I'm sure you're right Gregor. And that's what I thought too. There was nothing there. A lot to indicate there'd been considerable activity though. Foot prints. Drag marks. Even a few empty water bottles behind some boulders. Whether they just left them or the wind scattered them behind the rocks I don't know. But it certainly looked like they tried to clean up."

"What about those slabs, the ones fallen out of the truck? What did that come too?" I asked.

"I don't know. As far as I know they weren't recovered. I mean by Abduls people. Those guys were definitely shooting at us, so it's a good bet they were protecting something."

"And," Geoff added, "if that cave needed protection..."

"That's what I was thinking," Boots agreed.

"You started out by mentioning the panel."

"Yes, and I coming back to that, Geoff. It's my contention that it was stored in that cave. Along with a good deal of other stuff."

"And you think Freddy is at the root of this?"

"I do, Geoff. One of the roots. And I'm willing to bet, Abdul is another one."

"If Abdul is involved, you know what that means," I said.

"It means, Sammy, that Abdul had something to do with the death of his own men." He shook his head. "I thought I was a better judge of character."

"I'm sure you can tell if someone is crazy, but not if they're crooked."

"Crazy is not a clinical term, Nathan, but I take your point. If it were that easy to judge honesty, I'd be a rich man."

"Okay, where are we on this?" Geoff cut us off from laughing and steered us back to the issue.

"We've got that cave," he continued. "That was used to hide looted antiquities, or suspected looted antiquities, no doubt the stone slabs that had fallen out of the truck. And the fact someone tried to shoot us down."

"And," my father added, " those two men left to guard the looters until Abdul could comeback with reinforcements and take them into custody. When Abdul returned, his guards had been killed. The looters were gone as were the slabs and truck. And probably whatever else they'd hidden in that cave. Does that pretty much sum it up."

"Wasn't the truck overturned?" I asked.

"Yes! That's right!" Boots piped up. "How did they get it righted, I'd like to know."

"So would I," Geoff said. "Sounds like there are a few more actors involved. Let's leave that for now. I want to know a bit more about the cave. You said it was empty? You're sure about that."

"Yes, Geoff. Quite sure."

"Maybe I'm reading too much into this," my father said.

"What do you mean, Gregor?" Geoff asked.

Just thinking out loud here, okay? Let's go back a bit. A lot of looted antiquities come from the north. Iran. Iraq. And Jordan.  Freddy's a middleman. The stuff, maybe things that come out of his own properties for that matter, filters down to him and Abdul, through the looters. They hide it until such time they can redirect it so to speak. In this case it was the cave. It's easy to access obviously.  Abdul dummies up the paper work. Don't forget he's the one signs off on all the stuff from the digs. Isn't that what you told us?" he said to Boots."

"Yes. Abdul oversees that."

"Okay. Freddy organizes the shipping, and Abdul handles the phony paperwork.

"There's got to be something more than just getting richer, don't you think?"

"What are you getting at, Dad?"

# Chapter 10

"I think Freddy might be a terrorist."

"Dad. Why do you say that! It's a bit extreme don't you think?"

"Not that extreme. Not that extreme." He reached for the bottle.

"Why do you say that," Geoff repeated

"Okay. Boots has mentioned that Freddy supports a number of charities. And that the money doesn't necessarily go to help the people it claims to be helping. That the money ends up going to terror groups. Isn't that right, Boots?"

"It's what I suspect, yes."

"If your suspicions are correct, then yes, Geoff agreed, "I would say, by association, Freddy is a terrorist." He took out his phone and began texting.

"Sorry, Just keeping in touch with Joan."

He put his phone away and said to Boots.

"Two things. One, why do you feel you're in jeopardy. And two, tell me more about how you know, or think you know, his charities are a front."

"Freddy scares me. Knowing what I do, or rather my suspicions. I'm afraid I'm being pulled into his schemes."

"Has he asked you to do anything illegal? Or falsify some report, or paperwork, maybe to do with your dig?"

"No, nothing like that. Everything I do is above board. I can't do otherwise. I'm there at the pleasure of the Department of Antiquities. My reputation is at stake. My standing with the university. My credibility. My scholarship.  Everything. So I follow all the protocols."

"So what is it then," my father asked.

"Essentially it's his items included with what is sent back from the dig. If there's something fishy, then it's my head on the block."

"Okay, I get that. Go on," Geoff prompted.

"What you call the Madonna Bra was listed as a terra cotta shrine panel. Obviously it didn't come out of my dig. But it was listed along with the other stuff that did come from the dig."

"And you knew that, and said nothing." I said. I couldn't believe it.

"First of all. I did know there were other items. Didn't know exactly what they were, but Freddy included a few items in the shipment. I told you that. I never made a fuss as it all seemed above board. He had the documents, signed by Abdul, so I had no reason to suspect anything, figuring it was from his own private collection. It's not unusual that he shares container space. I also oversee all the packing when the dig winds up for the season. The artifacts have to be carefully wrapped, and reasonably accessible for inspection if needed."

"You mentioned the Madonna. It was included in the shipment, but not part your items."

"Yes, that's right, Geoff. "It had been prepared by Freddy. Or Abdul, maybe. No one associated with me or my team at any rate."

"What happened next?"

"Well, I check everything. Before the container is packed. This is all at the CIA. We move our stuff from the dig to the CIA. Decide what to pack. Some items remain behind. We don't necessarily ship everything back to the university.  In this instance Freddy has the container destined to his gallery, then he has my stuff delivered to the university.

"I should mention, that before the container is packed and sealed, the crates and items are inspected by customs. Anyway I always check that the items are all carefully wrapped and protected.

"So I'm checking and notice an item that has to be one of Freddy's. Not unusual, as I've said, except that it is very securely wrapped. It's not big. About eight or so inches deep by about two feet square. It's wrapped in several layers of plastic and sandwiched between wood slats. The whole thing is banded with that black plastic strapping."

"Okay," Geoff said. "It's well wrapped. We get that."

"Well, I'm curious. He never had anything packed so securely before. So I try for a better look. But it was too well wrapped so I decide to check with Freddy, or Abdul if he's around.

"When I turned around, I almost bumped into Freddy. He put his hand on my arm and kind of led me away. He gave me a weird smile and leaned towards me. I almost stumbled back. I tell you it was unnerving. He leans towards me and says quite softly. 'Leave it, Boots. Just something personal.'" He took a sip.

"And hands me a piece of paper and said 'Would you mind signing this?' It was one of the forms we use for customs. I just signed it. I didn't even read it, but I did see Abdul's signature."

"Fast forward to the day you and Joan go to the docks," Geoff told him.

"Yes. Hannah called me and asks me to do that."

"And you call Sam."

"Yes. I was worried I'd be caught in the middle of something. I had nothing to do with Freddy's business. I hope you know that. So I called Sam. Exactly why, I couldn't say. But when Joan came along I felt secure, figuring if customs for whatever reason checked, I wouldn't be left hanging so to speak. It was my name of those documents. Not Freddy's."

"And Abdul's" Geoff added.

"And Abdul's. But I was there. Abdul wasn't.

"Anyway," Geoff said. "We know what happened next. The shipment passed inspection."

"That's right. It did. But had it not, since my name was on the documents I was afraid I'd be the one holding the bag if any of the contents were suspect. And I did have suspicions at that point, about that package Freddy steered me away from."

"Well that part went okay. Nothing was amiss." Geoff pointed to his glass and my father obliged.

"But I don't get why you are so spooked. What are you leaving out?"

Geoff's question surprised me, and I looked at my father.

"That's what I want to know too," he said.

"You told Sam, you were afraid to leave the house. Why? I'm not buying this about the contents of the container. No hang on a sec," Boots had been about to protest.

"I get all that, about the contents. You're concerns regarding the package. But that part is over. The shipment was deemed okay. Freddy had his exhibit and the auction is over. The panel got sold. And after all that you say you're afraid to leave your house."

"The shipment _was_ deemed okay. And the panel got sold. But do you know where the money ended up?"

"I'm going to say Freddy, since he's the owner. Our Mr. Anonymous. But I'm guessing by your expression, that's the wrong answer."

"No. That's the right answer."

"How do you know he's the owner? You haven't explained that."

"Remember what I said happened between me and Freddy when I was checking the items for shipment?"

"When he asked you to sign the document for him?" Geoff asked.

"Right. In spite of how well he had wrapped it, I could still make out through the plastic that it was a clay panel. A terra cotta panel."

"It was that clear to you?"

"Not clear exactly, but let me say, clear enough, Gregor. And after seeing the panel at the exhibit, well, I put it all together."

"And you concluded that the panel had to belong to Freddy. Based on that. Sounds a bit flimsy if you ask me." Geoff made a face.

"I don't think it's at all flimsy," Boots protested. "Maybe I don't have hard evidence, Geoff, but there were enough clues."

"I'm not saying you're wrong. It just sounds flimsy."

"Let's assume Nathan is right," my father said. "That it's the looted panel. And as you've explained it's difficult to disprove ownership. If Freddy is the owner, no doubt he has acquired documentation. We've been over that. But if as you say he is the owner, then the two million bucks went right into his pocket."

"But why all this cloak and dagger stuff?" I asked.

"Hang on a sec. Just hold off okay? Give me a minute." Geoff got up and went to the kitchen, out of earshot. I knew he was calling Joan. He'd been surreptitiously texting her all evening.

"Look. I know it's late. But Joan is on her way. She was a bit reluctant given the hour so I won't repeat what she said.

"Looks like another long session, I'll get the coffee going."

"Sammy, this is turning into some kind of crazy party. I'll go and get some sweets. I'll be quick."

What a night this was turning out to be. Boots supposedly fearing for his life, which I clearly felt was an exaggeration, and my father getting refreshments for a party. When he returned Joan was with him.

Once we'd settled, Geoff urged Boots to continue.

"Go back to the part about Freddy and two million dollars."

While he repeated much of what he'd already told us, I gave in and went to the bathroom.

"And you're quite sure about this," Joan said after he'd finished. He nodded.

"I'm going to bring this up with my team, first thing tomorrow. See if we can trace where the money went. Of course it just might be in Freddy's bank. But somehow, I doubt that."

"You can do that?"

"Oh yes, Gregor. And a lot more."

"Hang on, Joan. I know where the money went. That's the problem!"

"You know where the money went." She said, voice flat.

"Yes, pretty much."

"Pretty much. Okay, pretty much is good. So are you going to tell us? And question two, is why is it a problem?"

"It's going to one of Freddy's charities."

"Two million to his charities." She looked at Geoff.

"You called me here for this?" she said to him through clenched teeth.

"Wait a sec, Joan," Boots told her. "Freddy supports several charities. Some are Islamic, by the way. I've even been to several fundraisers he's held. Even managed to get some money for my dig from one of his supporters."

"What's your point?" she said not hiding her annoyance.

"One of the charities he founded a couple of years ago helps refugees escaping from civil war. Iraq. Iran. Syria. Hell, pick one."

"I have to say again. What is your point?"

"The money isn't going to the refugees. It's funding terrorists."

"And you know this how?"

"After the auction, a few days later, I went back to see Freddy. I was apprehensive, but I needed to ask him if he could donate some artifacts to the university for our own collection. I wanted to photograph them, make an inventory, that sort of thing. Mara and I were collaborating on a paper we'd been doing research on the last couple of years."

"Okay. So. Did you see him?" She asked. It was like pulling teeth.

"Yes, we spoke. He was very amenable to the idea. So much so that I thought maybe I misjudged him, that my apprehensions were for nothing."

"Did he give you anything?" I asked.

"Oh yes. Told me they were in the storeroom and just go back there and set aside what I wanted. That he'd have someone, Joseph I think he said, deliver them to my university lab."

Joan gestured for him to continue, nodding her chin.

"I went into the storage area, just back of his office. Someone was on the phone in the office, turned out it was Joseph. I went into the storage room and began to look over the pieces and I could here him speaking. Arabic."

"Arabic," she said.

"Yes."

"So there's no point my asking what he said, I guess."

"Actually there is. I've never admitted it, but my Arabic is pretty good."

"Really?" she said, echoing my thought. He had told me otherwise.

"I wasn't paying attention, at least not at first. We all hear people on the phone but never really pay attention. Unless you're eavesdropping," he chuckled.

"And you were eavesdropping I take it," my father said.

"Not at first. Not until I heard him mention money. Specifically the two million dollars. I could only hear one side of course, but he mentioned the auction, and he also mentioned the panel. I think he called it the Queen of the Night. Some other talk about what some of the other items brought in, from the auction. But essentially he was talking about what you keep calling the Madonna Bra. The Queen of the Night according to the guy talking."

"Is that it?"

"Not quite, Geoff. He also mentioned there'd be a money transfer and he named the charity."

"That charity got a name?" Joan asked. She was typing feverishly on her iPad.

Yes, it's called something like– and I found it ironic actually– something like _Art for Allah's Children_ , considering where the art is coming from."

"Ironic is an understatement," said my father.

"To give the devil his due, Freddy does auction and sell art, _real_ art. And the proceeds, his end of the sale at least, goes to his charities. Like I said, I've been to a few fundraisers. The two million dollars in the case is going to the one I just mentioned."

"If he's concealing the fact that he is the actual owner of this two million dollar panel, the Queen of the Night, he nets the whole two million."

"I was getting a little nervous back there, so I made some noise. Didn't want that guy to think I could hear or was listening in. Even if he was speaking Arabic. So there's stuff I might have missed. But I didn't miss the name of the charity, or the name he called the panel."

"You said something about the money being transferred?" She was still entering notes

"Oh, right, the money transfer. I think he mentioned some place in the Caymans, but I didn't catch the name."

"This Freddy character is quite the piece of work, isn't he?" She closed her iPad.

"Yes, I certainly agree. And at that point it was time for me to get the hell away. After hearing that guy, Joseph, believe me I was going to need a change of linen."

Boots, by now, wasn't feeling any pain. He had another scotch. He was still lucid. I'd have been comatose.

"So I picked up a few pieces that I could easily carry and purposely knocked over a box to create some noise, as I didn't want that guy on the phone to think I was sneaking around. I had my hands full and used my foot to kick the door closed and that got his attention. I nodded at him as he looked out at me. He was still talking and turned away and I kept going. Home free, I thought." He took a swallow and continued.

"I was almost at the door and Freddy caught me. Sorry, Sam, but I almost shit myself." He shuddered. "All he said was, 'Get what you need?' and held the door open for me."

"Come back for the others whenever you've time. I can have them delivered if you like."

"Thanks, I told him. I'd do that. I left and was very glad to get out of there believe me."

"This is good stuff, Boots. Really," Joan acknowledged.

"Thanks. But I'm still spooked. I've been worried sick. Afraid to leave my home even."

"What ever for?" Joan asked. "You've done nothing wrong."

"I know that. But I keep wondering if that guy on the phone thinks I was listening and overheard what he said. Or that he'll tell Freddy. Freddy knows I understand a bit of Arabic. It's impossible not to pick up some expressions after several seasons on digs. But I don't think he knows just how proficient my Arabic is, and the thought that he might really scares."

"And that's what has you so worked up?" I said.

"Yes. And all this other stuff too. My name on the documents. His items in with the dig shipments. I admit, I have nothing concrete, but all the little bits together don't add up."

"You can fly around in that Rube Goldberg thing. Get us shot at. Go back to the ... the... the scene of the crime. Without telling anyone where you're going or what you're up to and not give that a second thought. But imagining all this crap about Freddy and Joseph and speaking Arabic has you believing that your life is in danger."

"Yes. You got it." At this we all cracked up.

"No funny. And I don't think it's crap." He was indignant and a little drunk.

"These guys don't play nice. I don't trust Freddy, okay? And Joseph is more than a little creepy if you ask me."

"If it makes you feel better. For the time being you're staying with me."

Boots started to protest, but my father cut him off.

"No argument. It's settled. And since it's so late," he looked at his watch. "Almost two.  I say we call it quits for tonight. Let's go." He got up and headed to the door and I followed. I kissed the top of his head and whispered, "Thanks."

Boots shambled along behind him– if a six foot, two hundred and twenty-five pound man can shamble– behind an elderly and slightly stooped psychiatrist.

Joan was the next to leave.

"Wow," she said. "This was quite a session. But I'm leaving it at that and going home. It's been a long night and there's a lot to digest."

We showed her out and she hugged me good-bye. What's with everyone wanting to hug me?

"We'll talk tomorrow," she told Geoff. "But don't expect to be early!"

"That's it for me too," I said when she'd gone. I started up the stairs, Geoff heading to the kitchen.

"Leave it. They'll still be there in the morning.

He didn't need much encouragement and followed. I yelped when he goosed me.

"Maybe you _should_ clean the kitchen!" He laughed of course.

The morning arrived far to soon, but I was really beginning to enjoy waking to the smell of coffee. Geoff's side was empty and not even warm. I eased out of bed. So far so good, and struggled into my robe.

What's on your agenda for today?" He placed my coffee in front of me and put bread in the toaster.

"Too early to think about it. How long have you been up anyway?" When on a case Geoff ended up sleep deprived and crashed when it was over. And occasionally before it was over.

"What about you?"

"A rehash with Joan and whoever she brings on board."

"You think you-know-who has a legitimate cause for concern?"

He was buttering toast and paused. "I don't know.  Part of me, a big part actually, thinks he's over reacting."

"Me too," I said. "And my father. He's enabling him, but I was glad he offered to let him stay. Whether or not his imagination is running away with him, Boots does seem scared. Or he did."

"Yes. Maybe talking about it was a bit cathartic. He was more at ease when he left."

"He wasn't at ease, Geoff. The man was drunk."

"There is that," he laughed. "He sure put it away. And your father? He kept right on pouring."

He brought his toast to the table and a bowl with yogurt for me, and pushed the fruit bowl towards me and handed me a knife. I guess he didn't want to spoil me.

"He has reason, I suppose." I stared at the yogurt.

"Boots? It's smart to be cautious."

"True. But I'm afraid he'll want to stay barricaded next door."

"Knowing Gregor, I'm betting he'll show him that his fears are way over the top."

"And knowing my father, he'll convince him to settle in for a few days. Or more."

"I'll work on it with Joan. Maybe we can show him where's he's going overboard. And what about his Job?"

"He won't have to make an appearance for a few more weeks. And he can work from his laptop. Did he bring it?"

"No idea." He was clearing the breakfast things.

"Enough with the _Suzie Housewife._ I can still load the dishwasher."

"Okay, okay. I'm going." He shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his briefcase. At the door he paused and turned to me. "Both of you. You and Gregor. Try to get some sense into Boots. If he needs anything from his home, he should just get it. He may not want to stay there, but getting out will be good for him. The more he withdraws, the less he'll want to go out."

"Yes, I agree. My father can't babysit him. He has hospital rounds and his own patients to see. I'll work on Boots."

A peck on the cheek and he was gone.

I poured a second cup and decided to eat some breakfast. Morning sickness was almost a thing of the past, but this morning the nausea returned. It didn't make me sick but threatened to do so. Yogurt I should be able to keep down. Maybe with blueberries and nectarine slices. Don't push your luck I told myself.

We had one of those small portable kitchen televisions tucked into a corner on the counter that I very rarely turned on. I should have gotten rid of it ages ago as the extra space would have been welcome, but like a lot of things one gets used to, I never gave it a second thought. What possessed me to turn it on this morning I couldn't say, but I was glad I did. The local news was on and the talking heads alternately took turns reading the reports. Lots of teeth. One young and very attractive blond with good hair, the other middle aged with a shaved head no doubt to conceal the bald truth.

I wasn't really paying much attention, but came quickly alert at the mention of two men found dead in Tel Aviv. I jacked up the volume.

".... these two men, obvious victims of foul play, were found dead in their hotel room. Identification is pending. Police have refused further comment."

The studio switched to a live feed from Tel Aviv.

_".... one law enforcement individual on the condition he not be named has hinted that these two men were also in law enforcement, and had earlier been seen in the company of a young woman. The woman is described as b_ _eing attractive with strikingly red hair. When pressed for more information he refused further comment."_

Back in the studio, the blond continued, ... _"and closer to home..."_ At this point I turned off the set.

Coincidence? Not with _strikingly red hair_. I dumped my breakfast in the garbage bin, took my coffee and headed to my office to log into our shared account. Still nothing. I stared at the screen willing a message to appear.

I took the initiative to contact her. "Where are YOU?" I wrote. "Just saw the news!!!"

I left the message in draft form as agreed and logged off. If she'd been involved with these two men, and I didn't doubt that they were the two from the hotel, the ones the clerk had seen her leave with, then why hadn't she contacted me. All this time I thought she'd been a victim. Abducted or hurt and unable to reach me. I tried to avoid thinking the worst, but the thought she'd been killed was an unwelcome and daily intrusion. And now? The two men were dead. Where was she? Again I couldn't help thinking, assuming, she'd been the cause. Lee-Ann was more than capable, I certainly knew that. I shuddered at the thought. It had been an incredible shock to discover her other life. Best friend. Confidante. Mother. Wife. What could be more normal? Discovering she was a paid assassin, for a government no less, had been devastating news. Yet over time I'd been able to separate that part of Lee-Ann from the friend she'd been, and as I hoped she would be still. Naïve, was I? Quite possibly.

After logging off I immediately called Geoff, and as usual had to leave a voice message. Did you see the news, I said. The two men found dead in Tel Aviv.

My next stop was next door. Where else?

I told them. My father shook his head in disappointment and worry. He liked Lee-Ann, but her past and now her present, obviously upsetting him. Boots too, was agitated, pacing and rubbing his face.

"See what I mean?" he said rubbing his face.

"No, Boots. I don't. What are you getting at?"

"Isn't it obvious? Given all this stuff with Freddy and the looting. And Abdul?"

"I'm still not following."

"I think he means, Sammy, that Lee-Ann is also involved in this. You told us she was also investigating this looting business. And that she thought someone on her team, or group was taking bribes or something. Didn't she say it was some Interpol guy? An Israeli even?"

"Exactly!" Boots said. "Looks to me like serious and dangerous business. I'm not paranoid Sam. Okay, maybe a little. But let's face it. You've got to admit that something pretty serious is going on. As in _terrorists_."

"Okay, okay. Take a breath. I admit there's something going on here that we know nothing about. But terrorists? That's pushing it a bit, don't you think?"

"Maybe a bit extreme. But I would not rule it out, Sam." He was a wreck, rubbing his hands through his hair. He started enumerating the points in favor of his conclusions.

"Think about it. Freddy. Rich. Lots of land. The possibility of significant artifacts somewhere on his property. Or properties. His galleries, which we've already talked about. His friendship with Abdul– who has influence with both law enforcement and the Department of Antiquities. Then there's Freddy's own collection, the ownership of which doesn't even come into dispute for all the reasons we know and have already discussed. And don't forget the charities and money from the sales and auctions. And of course that panel that you so cavalierly call the Madonna Bra and the two million dollars. Not to mention what I over heard Joseph say about the two million dollars and the Caymans."

It was mid morning and we were in the living room. Boots had stopped pacing and sat down.

"And now," he continued, "all this about Lee-Ann. She disappears from the hotel supposedly with two men. The men three of you joked about, thinking they were going to hit on you right? Now they're found dead in their hotel room." He paused and looked at me.

"Don't tell me, Sam, that this doesn't sound like some sort of international... some international..."

"Plot?"

"Not a plot, Gregor. Well maybe. I don't know what to call it. All I know is that I feel like I'm caught up in something. And given that people have been getting killed, I tell you, it frightens the hell out of me."

"I can see that Nathan," my father said. "Your relationship with Hannah and Freddy and your research don't necessarily mean you are at risk here."

Before he could respond I said, "For that matter, I'm at risk too. Given my relationship with Lee-Ann."

"Exactly!" Boots said pointing his finger at me. "Exactly."

"But." I added, "I don't feel like a target. Or that I have to look over my shoulder."

"I sure hope not. I sure hope not."

"In any case," my father said, "you're welcome to stay here. Lots of room, and you're good company."

"That reminds me. You must need stuff from home. How about we make a run over to your place so you can get what you need. Clothes, your laptop. Whatever. I'll drive."

"Thanks, I'd appreciate that. Give you a break too, Gregor."

"Not a problem. But I do have patients that I see here."

"I'll make myself scarce then."

"Or you can work at my place."

"Thanks. To both of you. Let me get my jacket and keys."

While he was out of the room I said to my father.

"He's not in very good shape about all of this. Is he okay?"

"Yes, Sammy, he'll be fine. Doesn't need a series of sessions with me yet." He patted my hand and got up as Boots returned.

"All set?"

"I guess. Let's do this."

Boots lived alone in a medium sized two-story brick house in N.D.G., a couple of blocks west of Cavendish and a few blocks north of Sherbrooke. It's a fifteen-minute drive in normal traffic but today it took twice that. I hit every red light and was always in the wrong lane risking an accident every time I pulled out from behind a stopped delivery van. My Jetta, equipped with mechanical ESP, found every pothole, the constant jolting ruining the suspension. Whether from my driving or his paranoia, Boots couldn't relax and his constant foot tapping was getting on my own nerves.

I slowed as we approached his home and made a right into his driveway. His own car was still in the garage. Most of the houses on his street were quite old, well kept but built before it was common to own a car. His home, as many of the others on the block had added garages years after the houses were built. Boots's was one of the few with a garage that melded well architecturally with the original building. There were shrubs– don't ask me the names– and a broad scalloped flowerbed with plants mostly in bloom. I recognized daisies, roses and poppies.

"Lots of curb appeal," I said conversationally. "Didn't know you gardened.

"I've a service that takes care of the gardening. They do the snow removal too."

"It's very nice. They do a nice job. Lots of color."

He was unlocking the door, but before we had gotten in more than a few feet, he stopped dead.

"I knew it! I told you. Jesus, Sam." He started to back out stepping on my foot and pushing me. We peeked in from just outside the door and I could make out that the place had been trashed. I already had my phone out and was calling Geoff.

"The police?"

"Geoff. He'll know what to do."

"Right, right. Oh God."

We were sitting in the Jetta, and I backed out and pulled ahead further up the block as per Geoff's instructions.

"Stay in the car. I'm sending a unit and I'm on the way. Be sure you both stay in the car."

He didn't wait for an answer.

In no time a patrol car arrived. One officer approached and I rolled down the window.

"Madam Milland?"

" _Oui, c'est moi."_

The nametag on her vest said G. Lafond. I pegged her in her late twenties with a pigeon chest. Body armor is far from flattering. She was about my height but more solidly built with her brown hair tucked under her red baseball cap. Negotiations were ongoing and the police brotherhood union protested by wearing grey and black fatigues and red caps. This had been going on for so long that the public was beginning to accept the protest garb as the new uniform.

_"S'il vous plaît attendez. Ne __sortez pas la voîture."_

" _Oui, oui. D'accord."_ I agreed. She joined her partner and they both waited on the sidewalk in front of the house.

"What was that about? What did she say?" How long did he live here anyway?

"That we should wait and to stay in the car."

"Thought as much. My high school French has all but left me. My Arabic is better would you believe?"

At this point Geoff arrived and spoke with the two officers.

Lafond, the officer who'd approached me drew her sidearm and cautiously approached the house. Her partner, another young woman in a pony tail and similarly clad, was a couple of steps behind her and proceeded to the back of the house. I could see a curtain flutter in the next-door neighbor's window.

Geoff was standing in the street, with his car between him and the house, his phone clamped to his ear. Moments later both officers were back with the guns holstered. They spoke with Geoff, ponytail doing most of the talking and gesturing. The house was clear. We knew that of course. They returned to their vehicle to do whatever cops do after a call like this, and Geoff came over to us and gestured that I should roll down the window.

"Boots," he said not addressing me. "You can go in with me. Check if anything is missing. Stay behind me. Officers Lafond and Lepine have confirmed the place is clear so no worries on that score. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Okay." He got out and followed Geoff. Clearly I was to stay in the car. Annoying to say the least. It was a good twenty minutes before they came out. Boots with his dig bag hastily filled with clothes and his laptop bag. I popped the trunk; he deposited his bags and shut the lid. I got out and looked at him expectantly, trying to read his expression. Before either one of us spoke Geoff took my arm.

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yes, of course." I inclined my head to Boots who was getting into the car. Geoff waffled his hand back and forth.

"Made a real mess in there, but he doesn't think anything was stolen other than his big screen TV. Stuff was thrown around and a bunch of knick-knack things were broken. Pictures thrown on the floor and the frames broken. Lot's of broken glass. Oddly they didn't touch his laptop. Go figure."

"What now?" I asked.

"Now the tech guys do their thing. Dust for prints. You know. Check the grounds for footprints."

"Can we leave?"

"Sure, sure. No reason to stay. I take it he'll be staying at your father's?"

"That's the plan."

"Okay, then. You two can take off. See if you can get him to calm down a bit." And before I could answer he added.

"I know, I know. A home invasion is traumatic. I remember what happened with your father and that painting. But unlike your father, Boots wasn't home, remind him of that."

"You're considering this as a home invasion? A robbery?"

"At the moment, yes. We'll study the scene, of course, but I'm betting that's all this is." Then in a lower voice he added. "But I'm keeping an open mind, Sam." He looked over at Boots and shook his head.

"But considering how worked up he is I doubt he wants to hear that. This area of town does have more than its share of break-ins so I'll go with that.  Anyway you might as well take him home. I mean..."

"I know what you mean. My father will be tickled.

"Don't I know it. Okay. Go. I'll see you at dinner I hope."

He was walking away and turned back to say. "And no doubt there will be four of us." He saw me into my car then went to his vehicle.

Neither of us spoke on the drive back, but by the time I'd parked and we were back at my place he'd loosened up.

"Is your father in now, do you think?"

"That answer your question?" I headed to door to let in you-know-who.

My father was aghast, recalling his own ordeal no doubt. Boots, however, had faired considerably better. My father had his head bashed and was hospitalized as a result.

"My stereo and TV can be replaced and the other stuff is nothing I'm going to miss. Mind you the fuckers dumped jam and maple syrup on my sofa and chairs."

"You have insurance?" my father asked.

"Yes, that won't be a problem. And truthfully they were worn and needed replacing anyway."

"Be grateful that's all they did. Think what might have happened had you been home." He patted his head where a tiny scar was still visible.

He got up, clapped his hands and said. "Let's get you settled, or resettled. Come."

"Thanks, Sam. I better catch up before he locks me out!"

I was finally glad to have my own place and space if only for a few hours. I was thirsty and hungry, ravenous actually. I had nothing since my morning coffee and felt dehydrated. Besides, my back hurt and my feet were sore. I hoped Thea Maria had left something. I opened the fridge but sadly there was nothing Greek to eat. I found a tin of tuna and with some chopped onion and mayo on whole wheat I'd have a party. While the kettle boiled I put together my gourmet meal. As for dinner tonight, who cared?

About two hours later after cleaning the kitchen and polishing appliances and wondering what had become of Lee-Ann and my curiosity about what Boots had gotten himself mixed up in, the doorbell rang.

"Lose your key?" My father and Boots. Now what?

"You need to hear this, Sammy." He came right in going directly into the kitchen with a hesitant Boots following. Making himself right at home and with much opening and closing of cupboards, he found the coffee maker where I'd just stowed it.

"I need to hear what?"

"Sit," he said to both of us. Then pointed at Boots.

"Tell her," he said continuing to prepare the coffee.

"I haven't told you guys everything. I mean the other night."

I looked at him expectantly.

"I haven't lied, Sam. Really I haven't. But I did leave a few things out. And that's what has come back to bite me." He looked from me to my father who nodded encouragement to continue.

"Remember when I said that after we shut down the dig I did some exploring of my own?"

"How could I forget?" We'd just about pilloried him for his stupidity.

"And I said I'd found the cave where I figured the antiquities had been stashed?"

"Go on."

"I knew that because of how the ground was disturbed. Like boxes or crates had been dragged."

"And because of those marks you jumped to the conclusion that the cave was used to stash looted antiquities."

"Not a jump so much as a small step."

"Okay, I'll grant you that given how we were almost shot down and Abdul's men were very soon killed, it does seem plausible."

"More than plausible. In their haste to get everything out of the cave they missed something. They left something behind." He stopped to take a sip then added more sugar before resuming.

"They missed something?"

"Yes. I was snooping around and ventured in a bit deeper. I had my flashlight and crept further playing the light around. There were bits of packing material, you know– those peanut shaped bits of Styrofoam. So I went in further. Behind a rock was a wrapped package, very similar in size and shape to what you persist in calling the Madonna Bra. Curiosity at this point got the better of me and I unwrapped enough to see what is was." He paused and took a breath.

"And?"

"You're not going to believe this, but it was another Madonna Bra."

I stared, my mind racing. Another two million dollars.

"I can guess that you didn't do the smart thing by leaving it there and getting the hell out."

"No I didn't. Perhaps I should have. But it was obviously looted. And I was sure Freddy was in the middle of it. Of course at the time I had no idea as to its value. That only came after the auction. That piece is worth a lot of money to someone."

"You think? And that someone is? Take a guess, Boots?"

"I know, Sam. I know. That's what scares me. That's what the break-in was about. They're looking for it."

"That begs my next question," I said. "Did they get it?"

"No. They didn't."

"You've still got it?"

"Yes. After removing it from the cave, I flew back to the dig and stowed it with my stuff. It's not that big as you may recall, about twenty inches by fifteen or so plus the wrapping. Getting it back home was not a problem.  I bring back quite a few artifacts and such. Mostly insignificant and valuable only in an academic context so it's not a problem. I just put it with my personal effects. I didn't try to conceal it and I was prepared to show it to the customs people, but they just waved me on. I've made countless trips and the security people know me."

"So where is it? They tore your place apart and since they didn't get it, I doubt they are going to stop looking."

"And that's what scares the hell out of me. It's at my lab and the university."

"And we know how secure that is," I said sarcastically.

"They won't find it."

"I wouldn't bet the farm on that."

"No. They won't. I'm sure they won't. It's in the bushes outside my office window.

"Boots! Are you nuts?"

"Sammy," he said putting a hand on mine. "It's probably an excellent hiding place. No one searching his lab would think to look outside." I hoped he was right.

"In any case," I said, "I don't think it's a good idea to leave it there."

"I agree. Your father and I concluded that too. But for the time being it's safe enough where it is."

"Okay," I conceded. My coffee was cold, the cream scummy on top.

"But there's still something that bothers me about this. Why are they– whoever they are– searching your place?"

"No doubt they noticed a significant item was missing from the shipment. It wouldn't be rocket science to realize they left it in the cave."

"Okay, that makes sense. But why you? Why do they think you've got it? I agree the break-in wasn't just a neighborhood robbery. You were obviously targeted."

"No doubt, Sammy. No doubt."

"So, Boots. What's your take on this? Why do they think you've got it? Or found it? Or stole it away from them?"

"Who else, Sammy. Who else would they suspect? Nathan knows the area. Where they shot at you, at the cave. The dig had shut down and he was the last to leave. He had his contraption and the means to get there."

"That's what I figured too," Boots agreed.

"Okay. But the break-in happened after the auction. Why didn't they come after you before?"

"I've thought about that, and the only thing I can come up with is that they didn't realize anything was missing."

"That doesn't make much sense," I said. "Freddy packs the panel. Gets you to sign off on it. But he doesn't know about the second panel?" I shook my head. "Doesn't make sense," I repeated.

"Well, that's my best guess."

"And why the elaborate setup to ship the first panel when all you had to do was pack it with your shorts? What's with that?"

"Good questions, Sammy. Maybe that was a fluke. Like Nathan said, they don't give him a lot of thought when he passes through their checkpoints. Others are no doubt checked much more carefully I'm sure."

"I see that, but I'm still not convinced. How come Freddy didn't think anything was amiss? Abdul, we suspect is in Freddy's pocket and creates the phony paperwork. He had Boots sign off on the document for _his_ package _,_ that first Madonna Bra. And he isn't aware that the second one is missing?"

"How about he didn't want all his eggs in one basket? And putting two panels, two similar panels up for auction? That's not a particularly good strategy. Freddy, if he's nothing else, is an astute business man."

"I know that, Dad."

"And maybe," Boots added, "because he's sharp he was planning to ship it elsewhere. To another one of his galleries."

"Yeah, right, as if. You think this panel wouldn't draw attention no matter where he sent it? No way to keep something like that out of the news."

"She's right, Gregor."

"How about private sales then? We know he has an extensive client base. And we know that a lot of collectors don't like publicity."

"Okay," I relented. "Quite possible. He could have sold the first one that way too. But I grant you; the auction would certainly be a way to further enhance his standing in the art and antiquities market. And now that the museum has it, it's making a big splash."

"Not too mention, the publicity he gets from donating his portion to support his charities. Which we now know his portion is the whole amount."

"Good point, Dad."

"But the problem remains, Sammy."

"Problem?"

"Yes. Boots's safety. They won't stop looking for the panel."

"I didn't forget that. But we need to do a couple of things." Boots raised his eyebrows.

"Geoff, and Joan more importantly, have to be brought up to speed. And that panel can't remain in the bushes."

"Okay," Boots said. "I see that.

"You call them, Sammy. And in the meantime, Nathan you are staying with me."

"I'll call him and get back to you."

Geoff didn't see any urgency, except of course Boots's safety. Staying put at my father's he agreed should be okay for now.

"You don't think they'll try anything here, do you?" I thought of my father.

"I'll have a car make random checks. And he has an alarm system, but remind him to set it, and ours too, by the way. Other than that I think he'll be okay. Both of them I mean. We'll need another get together with Joan and work out further details."

"My father will love that. I'm not sure he grasps how serious this could be."

"So far I'm not convinced we have a potential problem. This could have been just a break-in you know."

"You don't believe that anymore than I do." He didn't deny it.

"I'll bring dinner," he said on his way out. Not pizza I hoped.

After all the confusion and subterfuge I needed a diversion, someone normal to talk to. It was late afternoon but I chanced he'd be in the office.

"Oh, Sam. I was just about to call you. You probably haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"Bob. You're admirer."

"Don't start, Harry. I'm not in the mood for Bob the Letch stories."

"Sorry, Sam. You're right. Bob is in the hospital. He was mugged."

"Mugged? That's awful! Is he okay? Was he badly hurt?"

"Quite a concussion. Listen. I have to cut this short as I was planning to visit him. He's still in emergency."

"Can you wait for me? I'd like to see him too. Jesus.  I hope he's going to be okay."

"Yes, I'll wait. You'll walk I guess, that's what– ten minutes?"

"A bit more with junior tagging along."

"Right," he laughed. By the way– oh never mind, we'll catch up later."

I ended the call, grabbed my linen jacket with the pockets and stowed my wallet and keys. Then setting the alarm I left, calling Geoff as I headed to my office. Leaving a voice message I briefly explained and said I'd probably be late getting back.

Harry was just closing the office door when I arrived. After a brief greeting and his visual assessment he decided I was fit enough for the long walk up the hill. Actually I was the one concerned. An overweight smoker and thirty years past his prime, Harry would find the walk a struggle. I stopped a few times to catch my breath, giving him a chance to recover. His wheezing was disconcerting.

We finally reached the top and while waiting for the green light at Pine Harry's wheezing thankfully ended. Eventually, after reaching the emergency entrance, asking the duty nurse his bed number, and negotiating the cluttered hallway we found him.

He looked so vulnerable. His head was bandaged, the edge tinged with blood. He appeared to be sleeping which I thought a bad idea for a concussion. I looked at screen monitoring showing his pulse, blood pressure and oxygen levels. His hands were folded across his stomach with a sensor clamped on an index finger.

Harry peered at him, looked at me and grimaced. Somewhere someone dropped a pan and the clamor startled me. Bob suddenly opened his eyes.

"Hey, Mizz Milland. What are you doing here?"

"Sorry Bob. We didn't want to disturb you. Just came to see how you're doing."

"I wasn't asleep. Not supposed to. Besides who can sleep here with all the ruckus." He struggled to sit up.

"Press that button would you, so's I can sit up."

Harry obliged.

"Thanks, Zacaib. That's good. Now I can see yous." He turned away– more of a flinch when Harry handed him the cable with the bed control.

"Sorry to see you like this, Bob. Are you in pain?"

"A friggin headache is what I got. And a pain lower down, if you catch my drift. Treat you like a piece of meat here."

"What happened, do you remember?" Harry asked.

"Course I remember. I ain't senile or some kind of tard." He made a face and mumbled, "Do I remember."

"What happened," I said.

"I was doing my rounds. Once a week or so I check the perimeter. All kinds of shit– sorry Mizz. All kinds of crap gets blown around. Gets caught up in the bushes. Dirty newspapers. Plastic bags. You name it. Even safes."

"Safes?" Harry said confused.

"Yeah," he sneered at him. "Safes! You know– rubbers. What you people call _condoms_. You know what they are, I'm sure."

"Go on," I encouraged.

"Yeah, so I'm picking up trash, putting it in my cart and I notice a package like. It wasn't big." He gestured the size. "And it was wrapped nice. Not nice exactly but neat. Heavy plastic with tape around. So I picked it up of course and could see it wasn't trash."

"Where was this?" Harry asked.

Bob confined his answers to me. He wouldn't look at Harry.

"Where did you find this package," I said.

It was outside that perfessors office. That archeology guy, the one wears the Boots all the time."

"Professor Horrowitz?"

"Yeah, that's the one. The Jew perfessor."

I took a big breath about to reply, but Harry gently put his foot on mine.

"Okay, then what?"

"What do you think? I figured it must have fell offa his window. He's always leaving junk on that ledge. And he won't leave the window closed. Let's all the AC out. I swear I'm going to nail it shut." In spite of a headache he had no trouble nodding vigorously.

"I pick up the package, finished my rounds and went in. To dump my cart and put the package in his office." Concussed or not, Bob had no trouble focusing on my chest.

"When I went into his office there were two men, looked like they were going through his desk and shit. I didn't register they shouldn't be there. They weren't sneaky or nuthin, so I figured, you know, that they had business to be there. But before you can say Jackie Robinson one of them grabs a pottery thing from that guy's desk and bashes the friggin daylights out of me."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Bob. I hope you'll be out of here soon. A concussion needs rest. I'm sure getting time off won't be a problem." Harry, ever the compassionate.

"No, it won't be a problem. Got a good plan. Union you know."

"Where is this package now?" I asked.

He blinked a few times, thinking a moment before telling my chest, which was a bit bigger of late and no doubt to his satisfaction.

"I guess it's still in my cart. I don't know how long I was out. But when I came to, did I have a doozy of a headache. Anyway I managed to get up off the floor and one of the women on the team was pushing a broom in the hall. I called her and you know the rest."

"And your cart is where? In professors Horrowitz's office?

"What's all the damn interest my cart?"

"No big deal, Bob. Like you said the package fell out of the window and professor Horrowitz is probably looking for it. He'll be glad you found it, I'm sure."

"Serves him right. I've a mind to hang on to it. Make him stew." Not going to happen, Bob. Not in your wildest dreams.

"We'll leave you now. Let you rest. I know you must be in pain and very tired. But we're real glad you're going to be okay."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He waved us away and signaled to Harry to lower his bed.

"What a miserable, homophobic, misogynistic piece of humanity."

"Whoa, Sam. Don't take it so hard. He's got a concussion, he's in pain and obviously not thinking straight."

"Harry," I said stopping in the middle of the hallway.

"What?"

"Don't ever change." I put my arm through his. "Come on. We're going to that Jew's office."

It was a downhill walk so he wasn't in immediate danger of a heart attack, but I checked my pace keeping it well short of brisk.

Bob's cart was where he had left it. The door was ajar with a few students at workstations doing whatever archeology students do.

"Hi," I said. "Is Boots around?"

"Sorry, Miss, he's not, but you can leave a message." He nodded towards his desk, cluttered with empty Starbucks cups and all manner of paper weighted down with pottery shards.

"Thanks." I wrote a note to keep up the pretense. Harry ambled his way to the cart, peering in and easily finding and removing the package.

"Thanks again," I said to the girl, who waved without looking up and we left.

"Okay, now what?"

"I think we get this package to my place ASAP."

"Sam, are you sure? A break-in at Boots's home. Bob damn near killed. And this package– that whoever they are, seem to be willing to do whatever it takes to get– and you want to take it home?"

"When you put it that way, it does sound like a dumb idea. But actually I think it'll be okay."

After retrieving the package we returned to our office. Harry was killing time sorting through student papers and trying to avoid filling his pipe.

"You know this is serious, Sam. Who ever is looking for that," he pointed with his pipe, "is not about to give up his search. Which brings me back to Boots. He's still vulnerable. And now that he's staying with your father, puts him –and you too– at risk."

"No one knows where Boots is staying. Except for us,"

And how long do you think this charade can last? You've all got lives to live. You can't keep everything on hold."

"I know that. But what's the alternative? For now, Boots is off the grid so to speak. And you are right. But frankly I can't think of what else to do."

"I wish I could help you there. But you need to do a couple of things."

I looked at him. Harry never told anyone what they needed to do.

"First. Consider your father. And you too, and junior of course."

I was about to interject, but he held up a hand.

"I know Boots is your friend. Mine too, I hope. And definitely needs some help here. But don't put your family at risk is all I'm saying."

I hear you. And I agree. I really do. But frankly I've no idea where to go from here."

"Get Geoff to handle it. And Joan. It's what they do isn't it? Let them work it out."

"Sure, but in the meantime, there's Boots. And until we can figure out what's going on, he's not out of the woods."

"I see that," he said, puffing on an empty pipe. "For the time being keep Boots under wraps. He doesn't have to keep office hours, does he?"

"No, and classes won't start for a while yet. He can do a lot of work from home. He can manage for a while yet."

"That's good for the time being. But I'm concerned about that little item. Keeping it at your place?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Maybe my father will have an idea." I checked the time.

"I should be getting back. Do you mind very much walking me home?"

"My pleasure, Sam. Really. But let's face it. I think Bob the Letch would make a better James Bond." More choking laughter.

Geoff was home and the two men greeted each other like lost brothers. Geoff was in the middle of baking chicken thighs.

"There's enough for everyone, why don't you stay. A beer or two and forty-five minutes we can sit down to chicken, tossed salad and my special potato salad."

"Sounds tempting, but I'll take a rain check, thanks. Georges and I have already made plans."

"Sure, but not to be pushy, Georges is welcome too. There really is plenty of food."

"Appreciate it, Geoff, but another time. I was escorting," he closed his eyes and put his hand over his heart, "Sam home, and just stopped in for a breather and a bottle of water. It's a good walk from the office."

He sat down and mopped his brow with one of his trademark handkerchiefs and took out his phone.

"Do you mind?" he asked holding up his phone, "just want to call a cab."

"Don't do that, I'll drive you." He yanked off his dishtowel apron.

"No, no. Thanks. Wouldn't do to ignore the chickens. I've got them on speed dial."

He ordered the cab, drank almost all of the water.

"You know, if Georges and I hadn't committed to being entertained by a new client, wild horse couldn't drag me away." He winked at me.

"Okay, you two. What's going on? Come on." He looked at each of us, Harry just chuckling and working on the bottle of water. I noticed the cab pulling up and was saved for the moment from explaining. More handshakes and kisses and Harry was off.

From the kitchen Geoff said, "This better be good, but give me a minute."

I heard the oven door open then a vigorous shaking of the pan. He came back with a beer and a bottle of water for me, then sat waiting.

I reached behind me for the package I'd stowed behind the sofa and with little flourishes, began to slowly unwrap it trying to hum a bit of bump and grind music.

"Not quite the strip tease I'm used to."

I managed to keep the item concealed until the last piece of plastic wrapping came away.

"Holy shit!" he said leaping up. "Holy crap, Sam. Is that what I think it is?"

I still didn't say anything.

"Okay. Where's Boots? And your father." He headed to the door.

"Geoff, wait. You know what he's like. They come over, that's it for our dinner. And I'm starved."

"How come you're not busting to tell him? I am."

"I am too. But let's wait until after we eat."

At that point I heard a key in the lock and my father's bald head appeared."

Shit!

"You guy's decent?"

"Jesus, Dad. It's dinnertime and we aren't teenagers.

"Come in Nathan, come in," he said laughing at me. Whose house was this anyway?

"Yes, come in by all means!" I said throwing up my arms.

"Boots, come in and have a seat. Gregor, do the honors, Boots looks thirsty."

I'd put the panel back behind me. The wrapping was balled up and wadded on the floor. Boots looked a bit uncomfortable for barging in. My father had no trouble making himself at home and he believed any guests he brought should do the same.

I could hear Geoff explaining the abundance of food and my father answering, "Give me a minute."

He went back to his place and returned quicker than a man his age should. I might as well go with the flow, I told myself, and let them manage dinner. I could hear him instructing Geoff about the casserole he'd brought back.

"I saw Harry," he said leaving the kitchen. "Couldn't he stay?"

"Oh, sorry, Dad. I should have checked with you first,"

He laughed of course. I made eye contact with Geoff who quickly wiped the smile from his face.

"What?" my father asked.

I shook my head resignedly, reached behind me and brought out the panel.

"My God," Boots said jumping up. "Where did you get this?"

I told them, my father listening intently, never interrupted. Boots was pacing and rubbing his face.

"This not good," he kept repeating. "How soon until they find me. And what about you and Gregor? I can't stay here."

"No one knows where you are," Geoff said.

"So far! These guys have a long reach. We're not talking about petty crooks looking to score a TV or stereo. That was just cover. If Freddy and his buddy Joseph are behind this, let me tell you, we've got a problem. _I've_ got a problem. We're talking millions of dollars. Looted antiquities on an international scale." He counted off the points on his fingers.

"He's got access to private collectors, and an international string of galleries. And by all accounts a lot of the money he raises goes through his charities to fund terror groups. And you think no one knows or they won't find where I'm holed up?" He finally sat down deflated.

"We hear you, Nathan. We hear you. But first let's eat," my father said.

"Yes," Geoff agreed. "We take a break and have dinner. Then we figure this thing out, you with me?"

When we'd finished eating and the small talk was over, my father suggested we go out to the deck. Of course that meant cigars and no doubt the Good Stuff. But in spite of Geoff and my father's attempts to put Boots at ease, he was clearly very much agitated.

"You know," I said once, we were seated. "I've got a solution. A partial solution about where to stash Boots."

"I'm right here, Sam."

"Sorry, Boots. I think I know where you can stay. And it's a hundred percent secure."

"I'm listening."

"Lee-Ann's apartment."

"What are you talking about?" Geoff, doing his best to look like he enjoyed the cigar, blew some smoke.

"Lee-Ann's apartment. I still have her keys." It seemed like ages ago when I fetched her passports and removed her money from behind the tiled wall in her bathroom.

"She kept the apartment?" my father asked.

"Yes. She actually owns it. When were in Israel she mentioned that a management company takes care of it. Like maintenance, taxes, and what have you. I remembered that I still had the keys, but let me check."

I got up and rummaged in the kitchen junk drawer where I kept a screwdriver, twist-ties, old wine corks and discarded keys.

"For a minute I thought I was mistaken. Here they are." I dropped them on the table.

"So what about this apartment. And who is Lee-Ann? Not _your_ Lee-Ann?" Boots didn't know the whole story, but knew enough of it to give him pause.

"Yes. My Lee-Ann. It's a perfect set-up. More than a little out of the way. You'll be comfortable and secure. And you can even go out without fear. No one will know."

"Easy for you to say. What if we're being watched? Like right now?"

"No one is watching the house, Boots. I've got a unit parked and keeping tabs. They rotate. Different cars. Different officers and varied hours. I guarantee no one knows you're here."

"And if you don't want anyone to see you, including Geoff's people," my father said, "you can hide in the trunk of my car." We looked at him.

"What? It's not a kidnapping. Just so no one sees him when we leave. He can't exactly hunker down in the back. I could maybe, but look at him."

"Boots?" Geoff asked.

"Why not. At this point..." He left the thought unfinished.

"Okay, then. That's settled. The car is in the garage. Boots gets in the trunk. Drive to her place. She has indoor parking?" I nodded.

"We drive in. Boots gets out. By the way, those keys? They give access to the garage, I hope."

"I don't know." There were two. One looked like a padlock key, the other obviously for her apartment. Both were attached with a small chain to a device like my car door opener.

"I think this is the remote for the garage door." I said.

"Better check the battery still works, Sammy." Before I could answer, he stood up.

"Let me check," he said. I gave him the remote and with the aid of a dime he opened it and removed the battery.

"Give me ten minutes. I'll go up to the drugstore and get a new battery."

"Dad... I'll go."

"No, no. Ten minutes. Be right back."

"You know, this just might work."

"Might work, Geoff? Might work?"

"Bad word choice, Boots. It will work."

Fifteen minutes later he was back and inserting the new battery.

"It's a pack of four. Take the extras with you."

"Great! When do we do this?" Geoff asked. "The sooner, the better."

"Considering I want to keep breathing, how about now? Like Geoff said, the sooner, the better."

"Okay, get your stuff together. Gregor?"

"I'm way ahead of you, Geoff. The keys are on the passenger seat. I always leave the keys in the car. You never know when you may need to leave in a hurry."

"Thanks, Gregor. Sam?"

"Yes, I'm going too." This time there was no argument. No way the little mother was missing this caper.

No amount of cajoling convinced Boots to ride with us, and as a concession for his comfort my father furnished pillows and a heavy throw. The trunk was clean. Actually clean was an understatement. The emergency room at the hospital was a pigsty by comparison. I mentally chastised myself for the evil thought I had about Bob the Letch in his unhealthy surroundings.

It was almost ten PM and the night not quite black. Of course the nights were never black. Lights, illuminated signs, you name it, gave a surreal quality to the urban landscape. As for stars? Forget it. Sure the Big Dipper. Polaris. Cassiopeia, even Orion I could recognize. The moon of course. But that was it. I'd been astounded by the night sky in Jordan. We'd spent many evenings in conversation and sipping scotch awed by the night sky, overwhelmed by our absolute insignificance in the universe. Sure, I loved my life. Wanted it to be long and hopefully without suffering. I thought of Geoff and of our new life together and the new life we'd created. And my father too. I had to face the reality that he was getting on. He baited and teased me, but I needed that. It was an anchor. But in spite of all that I had to admit in the universality of the cosmos we were less than a speck.

"Almost here, Sam. Where did you just go?"

"I'm still here. Just daydreaming. Thinking about Jordan, and all the stars we could see." He glanced sideways at me.

"Just thinking," I said and gave his arm a squeeze.

I missed the drive, having been preoccupied with thoughts of my mortality. Our mortality.  The trip must have been smooth, traffic and detours would have had him mumbling under his breath. That I wouldn't have missed.

Lee-Ann's condo was on Nun's Island. The award winning design, a series of modular concrete boxes stacked in a random formation, was the epitome of upscale living. Very avant guard. Very not me. Grey cubes, stacked by some urban giant for Lilliputian urban professionals. MBAs. Rolexes. Designer drugs. What was my problem?

"Okay," he said holding out his hand. I gave him the remote.

In no time we were in her parking spot identified by her apartment number. Geoff got out and opened the trunk, offering his hand to haul Boots out into the real world.

"Thanks. Smooth ride– NOT!"

"Sorry, but by now you should be used to our streets."

"Yeah right." He stretched his six feet plus frame and I swear I heard bones crack.

"Okay, people. Let's boogie." I looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing, Geoff. Not a thing."

"Do you think, what's his name still lives here?" he asked on the way to the elevator.

"By what's his name, if mean Graham Reed, I have no idea. And more to the point how could I possible know that?"

"You think we should look him up? As a courtesy? He had the keys the last time we were here."

"Well, I've got the keys now. And as long as we don't cause a riot, I doubt anyone will know we are even here. Or care for that matter."

"Okay, we got everything." He looked at Boots. Geoff had his dig bag and the bag of provisions my father had put together. I carried the laptop bag and we headed to the elevator.

Boots's head was on a swivel, but to his credit he did seem a bit more relaxed. He was holding the panel wrapped somewhat hastily in a flannel blanket.

I had the keys in hand ready, but noticed the lock had been changed. Not a lock, a keypad.

"Now what?" Geoff shook his head. He was mumbling, his way of cursing without actually doing so.

"This is...this is..." He shook his head and put the bags down.

"Hang on," I said. I looked at the keypad. I didn't have the code of course.

"Four digits," Boots said. "These keypads almost always have four digits."

"Right," I said. "Four digits. At this point we started to laugh. Boots sat on the floor against the wall shaking in mirth.

"Get it together," Geoff told him. "Come on. We don't need snoops looking out at us."

"Sorry, but this is a bit much, don't you think."

"Okay, everyone. Take a breath."

What would Lee-Ann do? What numbers would she use? Everyone loved birthdays and anniversaries. Dumb. Easiest codes to crack. Lee-Ann wasn't dumb.

Think, Sarah Ann I told myself. Sarah Ann. Jesus. Was a clue there?

"Four digits, you think?" I looked at Boots. He grimaced not wanting to volunteer anything.

Sarah's birthday was July 20th, the twentieth day of the seventh month. I keyed in 2007.

"Son of a bitch!" Geoff said. "How did you do that? How could you have possibly known? Son of a bitch!" Geoff never swore.

"Lucky guess. Sarah's birthday.

"Okay, you two. Just step back." He drew his sidearm and carefully turned the handle and gently prodded the door open. For a closed and unoccupied apartment there was no stale or shut-in smell. I could actually smell something floral like a room deodorizer.

"Stay here," he cautioned and stepped inside.

"Okay, you can come in."

I went in with the grocery bag and Boots followed clutching the wrapped panel. Geoff was in the kitchen and putting his gun back in his holster. I almost wished I'd brought mine along.

"Shut the door," he said to Boots. "Quietly, Okay?"

After putting the perishables in the fridge I went through the place. Boots, still clutching the panel went into the living room. Sarah's room was as I remembered. Stuffed toys on the bed. The white wicker furniture. Her clothes still hanging in the closet. Waiting for Sarah to pop in. I stifled a sob and took a few breaths.

"You okay?" Geoff said softly behind me.

"Yeah, in a minute." I wiped my eyes, forced a smile and went to the living room. The walls were covered with her paintings. The same one I'd seen the last time I was here was still displayed on the easel. Tonight though, with the interior lights on, it took on a different feel. It still spoke of order and precision, but what I had earlier felt as a sense of hope in a bleak environment was no longer there. Maybe it was the artificial lighting. Maybe it was me. The green, almost bilious. And the blues. I'd remembered them as cool, icy. Now, looking at them, I felt the chill of a frozen wasteland. Total despair. The first time they made me think of the works of Chris Pratt. Flat expanses. Rectangular. Geometric. Now they were a post apocalyptic landscape. The sharp nihilist, overlapping translucent shapes, a futuristic world. I shuddered. No, it had to be the lighting. Her work hinted at hope. Sure, there was bleakness, but my previous memory was of an underlying sense of hope. Like a seed that grows, forcing a tiny shoot through a crack in a concrete walk. Tonight I saw none of that. It just had to be the lighting.

"Nice condo," Boots said after looking through the place. "She's an amazing artist too. I had no idea."

"Yes, it's nice. You should be okay here. You've got your laptop?"

"Right there on the table." He'd put the panel beside it still in the flannel.

"And the Internet is still hooked up, so I can work. I checked out her books too. She has a lot of interesting stuff on the Middle East, would you believe, so I won't be bored that's for sure. And I checked out that hall closet. Plenty of linens, so I can bunk on that." He pointed with his chin to the sofa.

"Might be a bit cramped. You might want to use one of the bedrooms."

"No, I couldn't do that," he said, glancing towards Sarah's room. And it wouldn't feel right sleeping in Lee-Ann's bed. The sofa will be just fine, really."

"Okay, then. I guess we can leave you. You're set for a few days, but I don't see a problem for you to go out, if you feel cooped up."

"I hope to hell we can resolve this soon. I feel like some kind of fugitive."

"We're working on it," Geoff answered from the kitchen. We're working on it. But I'd be lying if I said we had a time frame."

"Yeah, I get that. Still. I can't stay here indefinitely. Like I said, I'm already feeling like a prisoner."

"Sorry about that. But I promise we are working on it. Joan already has her team investigating Freddy. His son and Joseph too. We're focused."

"Thanks, I guess. I'll be okay. So if you guys want to leave, I'm cool with that."

"Sure," I said. "But call. Even if it's just to chat or touch base.

"Count on it, Sam. I'm not one to talk to the walls. Not yet at least!" His attempt at humor not quite working.

"Okay, then. We'll be on our way. And lock the door behind us."

"No worries there! Go, I'll be fine. And tell Gregor thanks would you?"

We left and heard the lock click behind us and took the elevator down to the garage. I got in and was fastening my seat belt when I heard yelling as we were pulling away. Boots was running towards us flailing his arms.

"What?" Geoff said getting out quickly his hand on his sidearm.

"You forgot to give me the code. For the keypad."

"Sorry! That would not have been good."

Thanks again," he said. Geoff followed him to the elevator.

"I'm, okay," he said when the doors opened.

" I'm coming up too. I always see my date back home."

"Don't expect more than a handshake." Both laughing now.

"At least not on the first date," I called.

Later as we were driving back, Geoff said, "You know, he could have called. For the code I mean."

"I guess, he's still a little rattled. Didn't I mention the code when I opened the door?"

"No, I don't think so. You said it was Sarah's birth date, but didn't say the numbers."

"Really?"

My father was waiting for our return. He admitted to dozing in his chair and came to when he heard us enter the garage.

"Just resting your eyes, I take it," I said pointing to the tufts of hair sticking up over his ears.

"How'd it go? Is he settled in? Comfortable enough for him?"

"Fine, yes and yes."

"Good, good." He stifled a yawn, waved and went home. No good night. Clearly he was tired.

"I'm exhausted," I said. "And you must be too."

"You could say that, but I need to talk to Joan. You go on up. I won't be far behind. I barely crawled up the stairs and was asleep, I'm sure, before my head hit the pillow.

# Chapter 11

The next morning I awoke, not to the tantalizing smell of coffee but to the sounds of muted voices. I thought I was dreaming. When the fog lifted I recognized Geoff's voice but not the other. I could tell it was a woman but barley audible. I slipped out of bed, grabbed my robe and shuffled into my slippers and crept slowly down the stairs. Why was I sneaking around in my own home?

I still couldn't make out the other speaker until a brief laugh told me it was Joan.

"Hi, Sam.," she said as I appeared. "Hope we didn't wake you."

"No, not at all. Had to use the washroom. Don't get up." I motioned she stay seated. "Do I smell coffee?"

"I live to serve," he said bowing and bringing another mug to the table,

"What's up with you too? A little early for a team meeting."

"Not that early. For me anyway," she added.

"We were comparing notes." He volunteered. Sit. I'll pour your coffee. We're just finishing up."

"Mmm. Thanks. How long have you been comparing notes?" It was barely seven-thirty.

"We've been at it since six." His voice was clipped. Okay, I told myself, don't pry."

"This, Sam, as you know, isn't something we can talk about. With you, I mean."

"I get it. If you're still working I can take my coffee and disappear in my office.

"No," Joan piped up. "We're done. But considering your involvement maybe we can bring you up to date." She looked at Geoff. He shrugged his assent. In truth she was the primary investigator.

"But, Sam. Please keep in mind; this is something you must absolutely keep to yourself. And as to your father?" She added.

"Don't worry," I said. "If it comes to that, I'll tell him to speak to Geoff. My lips are sealed." I made like closing a zipper across my mouth.

"Good," he said. "Might be easier for me to how shall I put it? Let him down easy."

"Good luck with that. Dad can be a little intrusive."

"Okay, that's settled. And to keep you up to date, this is what we've been doing. Quite a few things actually. We're tracing the two million dollars for one. As you told us, or rather Boots told us – it's in the Caymans. And confirmed by our forensic money guys. We've also been investigating both Freddy and his son Rajah. And we've been looking into this guy Joseph." She drank some coffee.

"We know that Rajah manages the Hannah gallery, the one here. He also manages the others. Or has a hand in their management. He travels quite a lot between here and Germany, France. London. And we're tracing shipments to and from but so far everything appears legit. Not only archeological artifacts. We're looking into the art. Paintings, sculpture and such. The pieces are all accounted for, and their provenance checks out. There are a few red flags relating to the traffic of antiquities. And not all from the Middle East. South America too has its share of looting. These items are difficult to determine whether or not they are in fact looted, for the reasons we already know."

"What about thefts from museums?"

"We're keeping a close watch on his galleries, but nothing museums have reported has tuned up. Again, if anything in their collection is suspect, or can't be accounted for as being legitimately acquired, they may not report the theft. Unlike a painting or sculpture, say an _Old Master_ that is well documented, they may keep quiet. And sometimes a piece is stolen and held for ransom. They pay, or the insurance pays and no one says a word."

"Sounds like this is big business."

"Bigger than you can imagine, Sam. But that's not my focus. Our target is looted antiquities as it pertains to terror groups. And that brings us to Freddy and his charities. And that recent auction that has netted him a two million dollar windfall."

"Right, his _charities_." I added.

"And that equates to terrorism, doesn't it? And in that light, I assure you, we are taking this very, very seriously."

"Boots will be glad to hear that," I said.

"And speaking of Boots."

"Didn't Geoff tell you?"

"Hold on, Sam. I don't know where Boots is stashed. And I don't want to know. The fewer people that know his whereabouts the better it is for him. Too many know already." She made a tight smile and looked at me her eyes wide.

"Don't worry about Gregor," Geoff said cutting me off.

"Good. Keep in mind that loose lips sink ships."

She closed her laptop and said to me, "enough of business. How are you doing?"

"Maybe a little sleep deprived lately, but otherwise I feel great. No more puking, knock wood." I rapped the table.

"I'm happy for you. Both of you." She patted my arm and got up.

"I'll see you at the office?" said to Geoff.

"Give me a couple of hours. But you need to get some rest. You've been starting your days at what time? Five-thirty?"

"Actually more like five. And that's after watching the clock for an hour."

"Ouch!" I said.

"You got that right. But I'm good. I'll hit the treadmill for an hour when I get to the office. That's my energy boost."

She was fit, that was a certainty. Petite and well proportioned and with a backside many women would kill for. I snuck a look at Geoff and resolved to keep up my own exercise regime, as much as I could at this point.

We said goodbye with a brief hug now that business was over. I watched her go down the stairs and approach her car quite envious of her tight, fit, sexy body. Were my eyes green?

Geoff was tidying up the kitchen while I showered. I was enjoying this. Back when we married, Geoff never shirked doing household chores, whether it was preparing a meal, doing laundry or even ironing. Truthfully he was better at it, and I often came home to freshly ironed blouses.

When I shut off the water I could hear the vacuum cleaner. I wrapped myself in a towel and went down.

"Geoff," I called. "Geoff!"  Deaf because of the machine, I flicked the light switch to get his attention. Nothing."

"Geoff," I called louder.

He finally turned, saw me, and turned off the machine. He looked at me dripping. He grinned like a fool. I knew what he was thinking. Wear a towel, men get horny. Wear a bikini, men get horny. Wear a goddam suit of armor and men get horny.

"Don't get ideas. It's almost mid-morning and you promised Joan."

"So what's with the meet-me-upstairs costume?"

"Jesus, Geoff. I just wanted to tell you, you don't have to play housekeeper. But I'm changing my mind, I do like you in an apron."

"You think if I dressed like a French Maid, I'd get lucky?"

"You can always try."

"Okay, I'm about done anyway."

"Seriously. You don't have to do this. In fact we should think of getting someone to come in once a week."

"Sounds good, but I'd rather do the laundry myself. Call me weird, but I'd rather not have a stranger handle my tighty-whiteys."

"Sure, that works for me." I was starting to shiver.

"Maybe you can ask Thea Maria. She might know a _cute_ Greek girl willing to do light housekeeping." He was hauling the Dyson to the hall closet and laughing.

"What century are you from anyway? Those _cute_ Greek girls are all pursuing a masters degree."

"Point taken," he said looking up at me. "You're staring to shiver. I think you need warming up."

He started up the stairs. I backed up, but he grabbed my ankle. I can tell you the shivering stopped. Right there on the stairs.

That afternoon for lack of better things to do I organized my office, filing newspaper clippings, shelving books, picking up balled wads of paper that missed the wastebasket. One of the scraps was folded, but I made out part of a word. Looting. I unfolded it. The heading said, _ISIS looting National Treasure in Iraq._

It wasn't that recent, and I didn't know why I'd discarded it. Checking the date I saw it predated my time at the dig, and reading it now didn't offer much enlightenment considering all I'd learned since my dig experience. The article did mention Mesopotamia as a particularly rich area in antiquities with considerable value to thieves and looters, with a brief mention of the Babylonian pantheon and the large number of deities worshipped in antiquity. I was about to crumple it up but noticed a reference to something called the Burney Relief. That rang a bell. The Burney Panel, more accurately called the Queen of the Night, was a terra cotta relief panel, probably once in a private residence about 1700 BCE. The rest of the article was missing.

I straightened the wrinkles to flatten the article. I knew who'd want to see it. He lived next door. I went out on the front landing to see if he was with a patient. The blind in his study was up. Down meant do not disturb. This signal arrangement was essentially for my benefit, but given he was the one prone to dropping in, I should invest in window shades. Several.

Of course we each had keys to the other's home, but I always knocked, and waited for him to open. Of course he always admonished me. This was my home, he said. I could enter at any time, he said. Knock if I wanted, he said.

I wanted, so I knocked. Did I suspect he'd be entertaining a lady friend? Find him in corpus delecti?  Not hardly. Well, maybe. Actually what I did hate to admit was that I was just plain obtuse. Still a rebellious adolescent. That's what my therapist said. I worked on that, but obviously not hard enough.

"It's open," he called. It was. Damn.

"Dad, you really shouldn't leave the door unlocked. I know you don't need the alarm when you're home. But unlocked?"

"Relax, Sammy. I heard you. You're walking heavier these days."

"I most certainly am not!" His laugh could rival Harry's.

"Of course not," he placated. Come in. And now you can lock. He was holding a dust cloth and I knew he'd been dusting the frames on his art collection. Thea Maria, or whoever else was cleaning for him was not allowed to touch. Look, but don't touch. Mind you, nothing intimidated Thea Maria. Had she wanted to dust, she would have dusted.

As I've mentioned, she and Costa had come here ages ago, and after a few years working for other Greeks with restaurants, they opened their own on Pine Avenue. She came to work for us when I was a child, telling my father in broken English he'd be saving Costa's life. So to save Costa's life and Thea Maria a jail term he hired her. They were both retired now, but Thea Maria still worked for my father. The risk to Costa's life had become greater than ever.

"So, Sammy," he said folding the cloth. "What can I do for you?" Jesus, who was this man?

"It's what I can do for you." I handed him the clipping and sat down.  
His home –my home was comfortable, but the furniture although good quality was showing its age. Some of the pieces were older than me.

"Hmm," he said. "Interesting. Interesting." He read it a second time. For a smart guy he was a slow reader.

"So what are you thinking?" He sat down across from me and waved the clipping.

"At this point I'm not sure what to think." I took off my shoes and he shoved the coffee table towards me. I pushed several art books out of the way.

"We need more information. That article doesn't tell us much. We need more on the piece itself."

"Yes, I'll Google it when I get back. Should have checked before coming over."

"Sure, do that. By the way, do you remember Winslow? You know, the Lorenzo Panel?"

"Your friend Winnie from the museum? Of course, why?"

"Let me give him a call." He pulled his phone from his shirt packet and pressed a key. One key. Jesus, he had the guy on speed dial.

"Hi. Gregor here. I'm fine, thanks." A pause. A chuckle and a look at me.

"Oh, not for a few months yet." He laughed shyly and looked away.

"Yes, she's fine too, Winslow. Thanks for asking. I will." More chuckling.

"Winslow, the reason I'm calling..."

I tuned him out wondering why he had the man on speed dial. And news of an eventual grandchild didn't sound like it was news to Winslow.

"Sammy," he said with his hand covering the phone, and interrupting my reverie, "Winslow says hi and hopes you are well."

"Hi back," I said but he'd already ended the call.

"He'll get back to me. Of course the museum is all agog about their new acquisition, but that's not Winslow's area. He'll talk to the Babylonian antiquities expert and report back."

"Sounds good. In the meantime," I said putting my shoes on which were snugger than they should be, "I'll get back and do some research myself."

"Good idea, Sammy. Good idea. Let me know what you come up with. Always helps to know what you're talking about."

"I'll do that." Of course he meant so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about.

About an hour later I went back and this time used my key. I'm learning.

"Dad?"

"In the kitchen. Just made tea." The man had ESP.

"I printed a couple of pages for you, on the Burney Relief. Quite interesting.  Time we stopped calling it the Madonna Bra." I said tapping the pages.

"Thanks. Hey, it does look interesting. And the picture quite resembles Freddy's doesn't it?"

"Seems that way." I did notice a few differences, so I thought.

He read the articles a couple of times, nodding, and saying _interesting_ a few times. While he read I made the tea, dutiful daughter that I was and was suddenly overcome with tears. Jesus. What was wrong with me? Goddam hormones. While I poured his phone rang.

"Winslow," he mouthed.

"That was quick!" he said.

"Really? Really?" he repeated nodding vigorously. "When." A pause.

"Okay, send the pictures. You know how to email?" I almost choked.

"Okay, that's great. Thanks. Oh and thank you, Winnie. Yes, yes. You too. Bye." He put the phone in his shirt pocket.

"Sammy, guess what?"

"Winnie's pregnant." Momentarily taken a back, he said, "I thought impending motherhood would curb your acerbic wit."

"Not quite! What's got you so excited?

"As he promised, Winslow checked with his colleague, the expert on..."

"Yes, yes. The Babylonian guy." God, he could draw out a story.

"Relax, Sammy, yes, the Babylonian guy. Apparently he saw a similarity between the Burney in the British Museum and the one our museum bought from Freddy."

"Apparently?"

Okay, okay. Let me finish. And since it reflects similar characteristics, our museum has invited the keeper, that's what they call the museum guys over there –the Keeper of the Babylonian collection. They invited him to address the museum trustees. They gave the okay to spend the money –the two million– so this guy is coming to give a talk. Isn't that great?"

"I guess, but why are you so excited about it?"

"Sammy, I'm invited to attend. Along with any guests I'd care to bring. Isn't that great?" He all but jumped up and down.

"In that case I definitely want to hear him. Especially after all the hoopla we've been going through."

"What about Boots? You think he'd want to come?"

"I'm sure he would. But."

"In any case there's you and Geoff, and Joan too. There'll be a lot of background about these panels, I'm sure of it."

"When is this happening?"

"Huh?"

"Dad. When is this guy coming? The lecture. When is it?"

"Oh, I didn't get that. Winnie said he'd email me the details. I can forward it to you. That okay?"

"Absolutely," I said, a bit stunned he could do this. He did have a MacBook and an iPhone. In the last few months he'd embraced all things Apple.

"And don't forget.  I'm looking forward to this." I finished my tea and got up to leave.

"Stay," I said, in a poor imitation of him, "I'll see myself out." I left him rereading the material. Email. MacBook. IPhone. Google was next on the list.

I debated going to the gym. I missed several sessions, and I was down to three visits a week. I could go for a run. It was cloudy, threatening rain and more than a little humid. I quickly put on my running gear to avoid changing my mind. Getting out the door was the toughest part, right?

Atwater, and back, I told myself. Piece of cake. Flat and with a lot of intersections to give me a few breaks. There was a time I'd used the blocks between traffic lights to do interval work. Not today. Off I went with my keys, a couple of Loonies and Toonies, and my cell of course. Geoff insisted. What if you get stuck somewhere? Geoff, I wanted to say, I'm downtown.

Down to Prince Arthur and over to University, then left to Sherbrooke. And go right eventually to Atwater. Reverse.  And Home. Piece of cake.

Start slow and taper off. I loped along, covering ground, letting my mind wander. I was a dissociative runner. Competitive and elite athletes are constantly in tune with their bodies, monitoring their effort. I daydreamed using distraction to comfortably cover my goals. Great for fitness, not so great for winning races. I wasn't that competitive. Sure, I tested myself and strove occasionally for personal bests. But I was in it for health, physical and mental.

And occasionally I needed a long run, but not today.

So I daydreamed and didn't notice how hard it was raining until a clap of thunder jolted me out of my reverie. I had reached Guy Street. Should I turn back or keep going. I wouldn't get any wetter that's for sure. Pedestrians scurried, hopping to avoid sudden puddles, but I kept going. Some guy holding a newspaper over his head was standing just off the curb, waving an arm to flag a taxi. It pulled to the curb splashing me with filth. Unlike Geoff, when I cursed it wasn't a mumble. "Bastard!" I yelled, my voice drowned by the traffic and downpour. I continued and by the time I got to Atwater the rain had abruptly stopped. With the sky suddenly clear, the harsh sun pulled the moisture up in a steaming mist.

I was sodden. My socks were soaked, my shoes squished with each step and my tee shirt clung like a second skin. And with the sudden appearance of the sun the evaporating dampness gave me goose bumps and puckered my skin.

I was back at Guy waiting for the light to go green. As luck would have it I was clumped with a bunch of pedestrians. Two men stared at me –guess what part? –and nudged each other. I made eye contact with one but he was pretty bold and just stared back. For two cents I'd have yanked off my top to give him a better view. Fortunately the light changed. I elbowed past, giving him a good jab. All I got for my efforts was a laugh from both of them. My anger served well, as in no time I was approaching my home.

I took off my shoes and socks dropping them on the floor, rubbed my feet on the rug to dry them, then headed up for a shower. That done and in dry clothes I felt pretty good, and mentally gave myself a pat on the back.

While waiting for the kettle to boil I checked my phone and noticed I had missed a call on my run. Boots.

"Who's this?" I said. It was a woman's voice.

"Who do you think, Sam?"

"Lee-Ann?" I jumped up. "What? This is Boots's phone..."

"Take it easy." The bitch was laughing, followed by muffled noise, then.

"Sam, it's me."

"Boots? What the hell. Where are you?"

"I'm here. Lee-Ann's"

"Now? You're there? What's going on?"

"Listen," Lee-Ann was on the line now.

"Sam? Listen. I'll explain everything, but not on the phone.

"You want me to come there?"

"That would be good, yes."

"No, not good, Lee-Ann. No more jumping when you snap your fingers. You've no idea what I've been going through, worrying, wondering what the hell happened to you. Waiting to hear from you, checking that goddam email account."

I'd been shouting and took several breaths. My ear hurt from pressing the phone so hard against it.

"You're right," she said. "And saying I'm sorry doesn't cut it. I can explain if you'll let me."

"Forget it. I am not going to your place."  More muffled talk.

"Okay, I'm willing to meet you at your place. Boots isn't so keen to leave here, and that's okay. He's fine here and quite safe. Thanks to you and Geoff."

"You'll come here?" Why? What the hell for?"

"Yes. I want to explain, I need to explain a few things."

"Really? A few things?"

"Would you listen! Please?  If you can arrange it, I need you, and both Geoff and Joan to be there. They need to hear what I have to say, believe me, Sam. They need to. It involves what we spoke about. When we were in Israel. It involves that investigation. And don't ask, I won't say more on the phone.  So. Can you arrange this? Please?"

"Yes," I said curtly. "I can. And probably for this evening."

"Thank you. That would be fine. Apart from all of this, how are you doing? This can't be easy for you."

"Everything is peachy, Lee-Ann. Just peachy."

"I know you're angry. But after you hear what I have to say, you might understand a little better. I'm going to hang up now. Call me when it's arranged."

"It's arranged," I said. Geoff would be home and I knew Joan would drop whatever she was doing.

"You sure?"

"Just be here, Lee-Ann." I hung up and called Geoff.

"You're kidding. That woman is a piece of work." Tell me about it I thought.

"Okay, I'll tell Joan. She won't want to miss this, that's for sure. What about dinner?"

"The way things have been going I'm considering hiring a caterer."

"Seriously. I don't expect you to prepare anything, but what can I do?"

"Don't worry about it. Thea Maria is better than any caterer. Between what she leaves me and makes for my father, food won't be a problem, believe me!"

"Okay. As long as you don't go to any trouble."

"Maybe you can pick up a couple of baguettes though."

"Sure I can do that. Other than that how are you doing? She must have really yanked your chain."

"I'm fine. Went for a run.  In the rain. Got soaked like you wouldn't believe." Gave a mental finger to a couple of adolescent male oglers.

"Okay, we'll talk later. See you in a bit. Love you."

We'd barely sat down to eat when she arrived. Lee-Ann.

"I'll get it," Geoff said.

"Just in time for dinner," I heard him say. "Let me take your coat." Good thing he answered, I was feeling far from friendly.

"Hope I'm not interrupting."

"Why don't you join us, there's more than enough." I got up and set a place next to Joan.

"Thanks, smells heavenly." She handed Geoff the bottle of wine she brought and sat down.

"I hope you like Retsina. Supposedly goes well with Greek food."

"I do," I lied. I hated the sharp resin taste. "But I'll pass for obvious reasons. But go ahead." And choke.

"So do I, and I'm not pregnant," Joan said, holding out her glass.

"Okay," Joan said, taking the initiative when we'd finished eating. "Obviously, Lee-Ann, you're here for a reason. We know –we _all_ know we're investigating the same things, but we may not exactly be on the same page. That sound about right, Lee-Ann?"

"Exactly. Yes."

"We're waiting. But before you start, a little review. When we were last together, in Israel, we pretty much admitted to each other that our investigations had to do with antiquities trade. Specifically the looting and how it all relates to terror networks. That right?" Lee-Ann nodded.

"You also told us you didn't trust some of the people you work with. You were concerned about that Israeli Interpol agent. A traitor, I think you said."

"Right."

"Okay then. And you also said you were working with Abdul?"

"Yes, that's also true. And you told me you suspected that Abdul was involved. Why do you think that?"

"Yes. He's perfectly situated to work with the smugglers or looters. He's law enforcement to start with and he's with the Antiquities Department. He over sees everything."

"That's all true, Joan. But Abdul is working with us. Or me at least. He's not working with the looters or terror groups."

"Really?" I interrupted.  "You trust Abdul? We've been leaning the other way. We figured he was complicit in the murder of his two men."

"Yes, I do trust him. And we are aware of that. Both Abdul and I. But I assure you, that is not the case."

"Let's go back to our get together in Israel. What happened after I left the two of you?"

Lee-Ann topped up their glasses, Geoff declining.

"Remember those two men?" Lee-Ann said.

"The ones we told Sam had their eyes on us, and were later found dead in their rooms?"

"It turned out they were watching us. Me actually. I had to go out that evening. And no, I won't say why. When I got to the lobby, they accosted me. Nothing physical. No scene. Just showed their guns. And since –what's that expression– discretion is the better part of valor? My only choice was to go along."

"They were found dead Lee-Ann," I said. In their hotel room. And according to the news reports they were also in law enforcement. What the hell happened? Did you do that?"

"You really expect me to admit to that? In front of Geoff and Joan?"

"Lee-Ann, you have to give us something." Joan's eyes bored into her. Lee-Ann didn't flinch. Two Alphas squaring off.

"Let's put it this way. I managed to get the best of them. The walked me –led me to their car. One drove, they other kept his gun on me.  Turns out they had rooms at another hotel too and that's where we were going. Mind you at the time I didn't know this.  At that point I had no choice but to go along. Any action on my part would have been suicide, so I went along. They kept asking what I knew, who I was working with."

"How did they know to come after you?" Geoff wanted to know.

"That's the thing. It had to be that Interpol agent. The Israeli. The one working with the Looters.  These two were his colleagues."

"Also Interpol?" I asked.

"Yes, Sam. Also Interpol."

"Hard to swallow, don't you think," he said to Joan.

Before she could answer, Lee-Ann said, "Why? With the sums of money involved, you think these guys are not corruptible? Just because they're Interpol? Come on, Geoff. Let's not be naïve here."

"Oh, definitely," I said. "Let's not be naïve." Geoff nudged me with his foot.

"Okay," Joan said. "These guys are on the take or whatever. We can get back to that. What happened next? You're still in the car at this point I take it."

"Like I said, they wanted to know who I was working with, my contacts. To derail the investigation, eliminate us. Whatever it would take to stop us."

"What? They going to kill everyone connected to the investigation?"

"They're terrorists, Sam. Or as good as. And probably killed Abdul's men."

"These two?" I said.

"No, not these two specifically. But someone in their organization. That's the thing. We don't have names. And they are ruthless, I assure you. Abdul is certain they are tied to Freddy Hannah and if word of his suspicions gets out he has a problem."

"Well, that's a twist," Joan said. "We've been thinking Abdul might be a problem, but you're saying he's in fact investigating Freddy too?"

"Yes. And his position is tenuous."

"I'll certainly take this up with my team. But back to you and your abductors."

"I kept denying I knew anything. But they'd done their homework and knew exactly who I was and what I was up to. They even mentioned Abdul."

"Jesus, Lee-Ann."

"Anyway, they promised I'd talk.  And I would, given the right incentive if you know what I mean. But I wasn't going to wait for any incentive. I knew I had to act fast. Take the initiative. You have to act _not_ react. That's the key. Two big strong men? A woman? No contest, right? Wrong."

Who was this woman? I stared at her. After so many years, still a stranger.

"When we got to their room, one puts in his key card to open the door, and the other nudges me forward. I used that moment to knock the one in front into the room then turned and delivered crippling kick you know where to the guy behind me. By now the other had recovered and came at me. I hit him in the throat using the side of my hand, crushing his larynx. The other was still clutching his balls trying to get up. He didn't. Neither did the other guy." She emptied her glass, and said, "End of story."

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah, Joan. Holy shit."

"Then what?" I asked. "I get a text message. What was that about? With the names? Geoffrey and Sarah Ann."

"Very simply, I wanted you to get yourself home and fast. And I certainly didn't want you alerting the police. It was the best way I could think of to get you out of Israel.  I wanted you out of Israel and home."

"Well, it worked. Thanks, I think. But why didn't you get in touch later? Why set up that elaborate way to email? I even left you messages."

"I know. I just couldn't face you. Not even in an email. I knew you and your baby were home safe. That's all that mattered to me. That's all I cared about. Other than that..." She shrugged.

"Okay," Joan said. "Now that we are all warm and fuzzy, why are you here? Why'd you come back?"

"The truth?"

"No, Lee-Ann," I jumped in. "We'd like you to keep lying to us." Another foot tap from Geoff.

"I deserved that. But as I've told you, I'm at a point where I don't know who to trust. Abdul, I do trust. And you and Joan of course. So I figured my best bet would be to come here. Coordinate with you."

"That makes sense. Geoff?"  He nodded agreement.

"Tomorrow. My office," Joan said. "We'll go from there."

"I'll be there. In the meantime, I better get back to my place. By now he should have changed into clean underwear."

I looked at her.

"You know, Sam, I had no idea he'd be squatting at my place. I might have shot him."

My face lost color and she quickly added, "That was a joke, Sam. I wasn't even armed."

"No, you just choke people to death."

"Yeah, there is that," said quietly. "But I wasn't armed anyway."

"You got guns stashed in the walls too?" I'd noticed the bathroom tiles had all been replaced. I'd been the one to break into the wall for her money and passports.

"And a few things in Sarah's room."

"Lee-Ann," Geoff said. "I don't think I want to be hearing this."

"Not a problem, Geoff. I've got the permits."

"I'll just take your word for that, but let's drop it okay?"

"Got it," she said.

"That's it then. Thanks for dinner, Sam. I'm on my way. Joan, I'll see you tomorrow. Ten o'clock?"

"That's fine. You know where to find me."

"That was enlightening," he said after seeing her out.

"And hopefully more so tomorrow," Joan added.

"Don't know about you two, but I'm hitting the sofa." I needed to put my feet up, and my back was aching

"I'm anxious to know what else she has to say," I said, sighing when I sat down.

"I'll bet you are," she said laughing. "No doubt, Geoff will fill you in. Just remember what I said," giving me a stern look over the top of her glass.

"Don't worry on that score," Geoff told her, then turned to me saying, "Right?"

"Yes. Of course, right. What's with you two anyway?"

"Where's you father? Surprised he didn't pop in."

"You're surprised? The night is still young so bite your tongue."

"Not that young, and neither am I." She stifled a yawn. I yawned too as did Geoff.

"Power of suggestion. And on that note I better be off. Early day tomorrow. And I need to do some homework before tomorrow's meeting."

Geoff got her jacket.

"Thanks so much for dinner. It was delicious. When we finally put this business to bed, I'd like to take everyone to dinner. Your father too. Thanks again." She left.

"Boy that's a lot to digest," I said. And confusing too. Not just the investigation, I mean our relationship. I hardly know the woman."

"I get that. And I'm sorry you have to go through all of this.  Just when we thought she was out of our lives –your life– she's back in full force."

"Don't I know it. We were so close once."

"Keep those memories. Those times are still there."

"I am. But they're covered with a lot of debris." He was hugging me, rubbing my back. I rested my head on his shoulder wanting to fall asleep then and there.

"Then it's your job to dig it out." Jesus. He was beginning to sound more and more like my father.

"Thanks, Geoff." I almost said, thanks Dad. "On that note I'm going to bed." I smudged the skin under his eyes. "Your bags have bags."

"You go ahead. I'll be a minute."

"Geoff..."

"Go," he said patting my ass. "I promise. I'm right behind you."

I squeezed him where he liked to be squeezed.

"I'll be right up. To sleep!"

True to his word, by the time I'd undressed and slipped between the cool sheets he was getting out of his clothes and doing the same. I slept in pajamas, Geoff in a tee and his Jockeys. And socks. Sexy. Very sexy. He lay on his back and I was on my side with an arm across his chest and that was it.

Geoff was off earlier than usual. I planned to call Boots but not until I was sure Lee-Ann had left for her meeting and as we hadn't yet hired anyone for housekeeping I had plenty to do. With the chores done, it was time to touch base with Boots.

"Hi, Sam. Been wanting to call. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks I'm fine. I hear Lee-Ann almost solved your problem."

"I'm getting over it. She came in about two or three in the morning and scared the hell out of me. I thought she was going to kill me for sure. Even though Freddy had sent someone to just do that."

"What happened?" She hadn't elaborated, and I'm not sure I would have believed her.

"I was asleep on the sofa and didn't hear her come in. She creeps in and yanks the covers off me. Thank God I was wearing my underwear at least. My heart damn near stopped, I tell you. You know, Sam, I don't think I can take much more of this shit. She's about to brain me with a vase, and they are heavy, I know I checked them out. Would have killed me for sure."  He stopped to catch his breath.

"Take it easy, Boots." Get a grip I wanted to tell him.

"I'm yelling my name. Nathan! Nathan Horrowitz! Boots. I'm Sam's friend.

'I know who you are,' she says. What the hell are you doing in my home'"

"You survived?"

"Obviously. But thanks for your concern."

"Sorry. It must have been traumatic. I had no idea she'd turn up."

"I know that. I know that."

"I gather the two of you made peace?"

"Yes. We did and it turned out okay. But after our initial encounter neither one of us was in any frame of mind to sleep. Or go back to bed in my case."

"What did you do?"

"Well, she suggested we go out."

"At two in the morning?"

"Yeah. At two in the morning."

"After surviving getting brained by someone you thought Freddy sent, you just up and go out with Lee-Ann?"

"Weird, I know."

"So where did the two of you go at two in the morning?"

"At first I told her I didn't think I should leave her condo. And I told her why."

"The whole story?"

"The dig. Us getting shot at. The auction. The panel. Bob getting mugged. I told her everything."

Jesus. She knew as much as I did. Actually she knew a hell of a lot more.

"What was her reaction?"

"Her reaction? Oh. She said she'd handle it and I shouldn't worry. She went to her room, of course I didn't follow, and cam back with a gun. Christ, Sam, I thought she was going to shoot me, I really did. I am telling you, Sam. I cannot take any more of this. I'm just a guy digs in the sand. That's it. That's me, damn it."

I waited him out and he continued. "She said we'd be fine. We left. She has a really sweet ride, I tell you. One of those SUVs. An Escalade."

One minute he was scared out of his mind, the next he was rhapsodizing her sweet ride.

"She drove us into the city, parked and we went to Dunn's. Cheesecake. Man that Escalade is really something. And Lee-Ann? Once I got over thinking she was going to kill me, I began to appreciate her."

"I'll bet!"

"What?"

"An expensive car driven by a knockout gorgeous redhead, what's not to appreciate?" I said. She's a real killer. Of course I didn't tell him that.

"And that's it?"

"Pretty much. We went back to her place, then she left again. Said she had stuff to do. Later, when she returned, is when I called you."

"What are you doing now?"

"What do you mean? I'm not doing anything. But I tell you, I want this over with as in now."

"I get that. You said that you told her everything?"

"Yes, every detail. Can't believe how easy she is to talk to. You've got a real good friend there, Sam." Yeah right. Just the best I thought.

"I'm glad you're okay, Boots. Really. And I'm sure it'll all work out. Lee-Ann knows what she's doing." I hoped it was true. "But I have to go. We'll talk again soon."

"Thanks, Sam. I'm beginning to feel less agitated."

"That's good." If this was less agitated, I didn't want to see a full-blown fit.

I ended the call and texted Geoff. He'd be in the middle of their meeting and a call would not be welcome. In fact he wouldn't answer.

_Spoke with Boots. __Told Lee-Ann all. She's knows our end_. I pressed send and went to check on my father. Uncharacteristically he hadn't dropped by the previous evening. I heard him moving about. The walls were thin enough that we could hear when the toilets flushed so I knew he was home. Still I needed to see him.

"Dad?" I poked my head in.

"In my study."

"What's up? I didn't hear from you today.  And last night I was sure you'd pop in."

"Busy." He was focused on a Wikipedia page.

"Doing...?"

"This Google thing. Pretty amazing isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. The world's encyclopedia." I pulled a chair next to him and sat down.

"What are you researching?" He was reading an entry on ISIS.

"I tried looking for the articles you printed off. I found them eventually but along the way I discovered a lot of other amazing stuff." He was working the mouse and the back button.

"Why didn't you tell me about this Wiki thing?" I had.

"Better you worked it out for yourself. Your computer savvy is really taking off."

He closed the browser and rolled his chair to the printer retrieving several pages and handed them to me.

"You found a lot of information on looting," I said leafing through the pages.

"Yes. Newspaper articles, mostly. I stuck with the major papers. Figured the information was less likely to be spurious. Did you know all the newspapers are on line?"

"Yes, but only because of my own research. Mostly I access professional journals. The university has subscriptions that I can access." Easy, I told myself. Don't scare him off.

"I can see this research kept you busy. That why you didn't come over last night?"

"Yes. And I also didn't want to intrude." Really? Since when?

"Joan and Lee-Ann were both there."

"I saw. I saw Joan when she arrived. And heard Lee-Ann. She does have a distinctive laugh."  He took the papers back and aligned them on his desk. As usual he was impeccably dressed. Incongruously he was wearing slippers. Fleece lined Uggs.

I gave him a rundown of the previous evening, his expression ranging from wide eyes, and oh nos and a couple of hearty laughs at Boots's expense.

"I can see you're enjoying your research so I'll leave you to it. I've a few things I need to do myself."

"If you feel up to it come over for dinner, if you don't mind leftovers."

"Thanks, I will. Sounds good. Sounds good." He got up to see me out.

"Don't get up. I can see my way out." I kissed the top of his head.

"I can manage to walk you to the door, Sammy. Besides I need the exercise. I've been sitting in front of that screen for more hours than I care to admit. And I need to review some files for later, and that's more sitting."

Back home I spent some time on my own research but couldn't concentrate. He seemed tired, his voice a bit disembodied. I hoped it was my imagination but the liver spots and fleece slippers in mid-summer concerned me. Cold feet.  Poor circulation. Diabetes. I pushed those thoughts away.

A bit at loose ends I decided to call Réal Giguere. At Geoff's insistence some time ago I'd purchased a gun. I looked at a number of models, finally settling on a Beretta. The Colt, a fine handgun, the salesman told me, brought images of cowboys and Indians. Not an association I liked. The Smith and Wesson also didn't appeal to me. But the Beretta was beautiful. Not too heavy to handle at two plus pounds. A bit more when 92FC was loaded. Fifteen rounds in a two-column order. Sixteen if you had one in the chamber. The Beretta was a double action, semi-automatic. A beautiful piece, but I hated it. I hated the sight of it or rather its lethality. Hated what it could do and especially what I had already done with it. But I did understand Geoff's point and his concerns for me. At the time I'd agreed that acquiring the Beretta was a wise decision. And it had saved my life, unfortunately at the expense of another. And lately, I knew that Geoff feared for my safety given the business of the looting and the ransacking of Boots's home, not to mention poor Bob.

So I called Réal. Yes, I could have an hour at the range. He'd book my time if I could get there in the next half hour. I agreed. It would be a bit of a rush but doable. The range wasn't far at all, actually situated in the bowels of Geoff's station. I could get there in time even if I walked.

I parked on a side street leaving a big gap for the fire hydrant, took my gun case from the trunk and went in.

Réal was there, affixing a paper target to the line and sending it down the range.

" _Bonjour_ , Sam. _Ça va_?"

" _Oui,_ Réal. _Très bien, merci. Toi?"_ Fine thanks, you?

" _Assez bien._ So you are ready to shoot?"

"Yes, I'm all set." He was older than I, looking to be in his forties. Salt and pepper hair. Over six feet and straight as a poker. He'd retired from the armed forces where he'd been a firearms instructor in the Van Doos. _Vingt-Deux_ meant twenty-two in French. The twenty-second regiment.

After checking my firearm and indicating the ear protectors, he signed for me to proceed. I fired three magazines –not quite fifty shots and tore up several targets. I was far from expert, but much better than average and I found my aptitude disconcerting. Thankfully, if that can be the right word, my skill had saved my life.

"Good shooting, Sam," he said. "Nice grouping."

Every one of my shots hit the mark with grouping about the size of a drinks coaster. Again he checked my Beretta and handed it back to me.

"Don't forget to clean when you get home."

"I won't forget. _Merci,"_ I said. " _A la prochaine,"_

" _A bientôt,"_

I took Réal's advice, but I was very good about maintaining my Beretta and didn't need a reminder.

I kept it stowed in a beautifully crafted mahogany case, but I'd have to reconsider that. What good did it do me stored out of harms way? And although I did have a carry permit –thanks to Geoff– it wasn't a comfort. These thoughts troubled me as I drove home. I parked in the garage, retrieved the gun case and cleared a spot on the kitchen table to clean it. That done I decided with some reluctance to carry it.

Geoff, of course wouldn't be disappointed in my decision. That's not to say he wouldn't be worried that I carried a gun, but he was more realistic, given the nature of his career. As a professional law enforcement officer he carried a gun for years, and felt naked with out it. But I was a civilian and he knew I was conflicted.

"I hear you, Sam," he once said to me. "But we live in the twenty-first century." And my father? A physician dedicated to healing. Do no harm. A man with many opinions and not shy to express them, offer advice or counsel, never once brought up the subject of my owning a gun and walking around armed. I knew that it ate at him, but it wasn't something we could discuss. Not because of any disagreement or ensuing argument. It was simply an uncomfortable topic for both of us.

I finished cleaning it and put it in my handbag, then wiped the table. The wadded up newspapers and cleaning rags went outside in the garbage can. The lingering smell of gun oil was unpleasant so I spritzed the kitchen with air freshener. This would not pass unnoticed.

I'd no sooner finished when my cell rang. Harry Belafonte's _Dayo_. Geoff. My father was Beethoven's _fifth_.

"Hi. Meetings all over?"

"For now. Are you still bored out of your mind?"

"Not really." I gave him a rundown of my father's interest in Internet searches.

"Gregor never ceases to amaze me. Once he sets his mind on something there's no stopping him. He'll soon be giving us lessons."

"I can hardly wait."

"Say, why don't we eat out tonight. Unless you've got something prepared."

"You're kidding right."

"About going out?" He laughed.

"Where do you have in mind?"

"Nothing fancy. Or pricey. Say Prince Arthur or a place on the Main. We can walk if you feel up to it, and we can check out a couple of places on the way."

"Sounds good. And so does a walk."

"Great. I'll see you –hang on a sec," muffled voices.

"I can get away a bit early. Give me time to shower off all the grime."

"Sure. I'll join you. I've some grime to wash off too." He chuckled and I could almost see him blush.

After hanging up I remembered inviting my father for leftovers and called him immediately. I hated cancelling anything with him. He didn't pick up so I left a message for a rain check.

My grime was real. The smell of gun oil and cordite lingered and in spite of the scrubbing I imagined that my hands still smelled. Geoff's grime was more psychological. The stink of corruption and constantly facing society's criminal underbelly gnawed at him. And in recent years the spate of mass murderers and the growing threat of terrorism was a burden weighing heavily. Now Freddy's alleged business practices brought the global terrorist threat closer to home, and quite possibly into our home. Terrorists and jihadists were fighting a Holy War, a war for some that was rooted in the Crusades a thousand years in the past.

My grime was a hell of a lot easier to wash off.

The next day, I was about to go next door when he popped in. Dressed in a suit and tie, he informed me he was off to the hospital for rounds. It was also the day he visited the kids in the cancer ward.

"I'll stop in when I get back. Let you know about the museum lecture."

"Okay. I'm looking forward to it. Do you have time for a cup?"

"Maybe later, thanks." He gave a little wave and descended the steps to his Jag parked at the curb. I looked at the time. Not yet ten. The day loomed, a heavy cloud of boredom drifting towards me. Boredom was rarely a problem, as I always had enough to keep me occupied. Mind you it was pretty much work related. But my course work was up to date. Student reading lists and course outlines were prepared and would soon be available for them online. And as yet I had no seminar commitments for law enforcement departments. Hopefully that would come later in the academic year. And when there was an occasional scheduling conflict I could count on Harry for the occasional presentation regarding the law that my sociology and criminology groups would need to know. Of course I reciprocated.  Law students could certainly benefit from a better understanding of sociopathic behavior.

But there was nothing pressing, and nothing I had any interest in working on. Boredom? Sometimes it's a choice.

A short while after noon he was back.

"Sammy," he said sticking his head in. "Had lunch yet?"

"Not yet. I can offer you yogurt."

"I've a better idea. I'm taking you to lunch." I hesitated.

"What? You have a better offer?"

"No."

"Let's go then. Have a salad. Something light. Yogurt I'm sure they'll have." He held out his hand and like a little girl I took it.

"Where are we going? I know you have a plan. Better not be anything fancy." I wasn't wearing my sweats, but jeans and a denim shirt wouldn't do for dining at the Ritz.

"You're fine, Sammy. You're fine," he said ushering me to his car.

Actually it was the Ritz. Maison Boulud was a posh eatery in the hotel.  He had driven so he could park at the curb and signed to the doorman who sent someone to valet park his Jag.

After we were seated and the waiter left to get water and menus I said.

"Kind of pricey for a lunch date, Dad."

"It's nothing, Sammy. Nothing." He waved his hand and took the menu from the waiter hardly glancing at it and handed it back.

"Let me order for us," then to the waiter. "My daughter will have the Salade Horiatiki, and for me the garlic butter wild snails and chanterelles mushrooms. And could we have a basket of bread please?"

"Certainly, sir. And anything to drink?"

"Just two sparkling waters. Thank you."

"You'll like the _Horiatiki Salade._ Greek."

"I gathered that. But the Ritz? For a Greek salad? You've got an ulterior motive, don't you?"

"You do know where we are, don't you?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" He laughed.

"The Ritz, Sammy." He leaned forward repeating softly, "The Ritz."

"Yes, I know," I whispered back.

"Sammy." He pointed to the ceiling.

"You mean..."

He nodded. "I have it on good authority that Freddy and Hannah have been known to enjoy a meal or two here."

"And you expect them to show up?"

"Not at all," he laughed. Of course not, but you never know."

Our food arrived, served with the flourish of a waiter working at the Ritz, and given our modest choices took all of half a minute. The salad was delicious, as were his wild snails. Do they have tame snails? For desert we ordered fresh strawberries that were served with a pitcher of heavy cream. I declined the cream, my father didn't. Cigars. The Good Stuff. Heavy cream. I pushed those thoughts way.

He finally got around to mentioning the presentation to be given by the expert from the British Museum, a renowned expert on Babylonian antiquities.

"When is this?"

"Next Tuesday. Winslow sent the details. If you like I can forward his email."

"That'd be great. Thanks."

Eventually it was time to go, and he discreetly signaled the waiter for the cheque. Emails and Google he was getting used to, but he still preferred to use cash, delighting the waiter by the generous tip and happy to get it in hand.

Nothing untoward happened during the next few days so one afternoon I went to the office with the hope of seeing Harry and catching up. He'd been to see Bob once again, but he'd since been released and was spending a few days at home.

"I caught him just before he was discharged. And considering what he went through he didn't look too bad. Poor fellow. Must have been terrible."

"I'm glad he's on the mend. It wouldn't surprise me to see him back in a few days."

"No doubt. But summer enrollment doesn't offer much for the old ogler's eye."

"Don't get me started. You almost had me feeling sorry for that old letch!" Another laughing fit.

"By the way." I told him about the lecture.

"Thanks for mentioning it. Your father forwarded the email with the details."

"Really! He had your email address?" Wait until I tell Geoff.

"Yes. Gave it to him –when was it? One evening a while back."

"Wonders never cease."

"How's that?"

"My father. It took a while to convince him to get a cell phone. And I got him a MacBook. He'd been –I won't say reluctant to use them– but he wasn't too keen on all that tech. Now he's embraced his new toys with considerable enthusiasm."

"Really. I never gave it a thought figuring he was _au courant_."

"His interest in computers is fairly recent, but I'm not knocking it. But back to this museum talk."

"Right. Your father said he'd spring for the tickets. So count on Georges and me to be there. I'm sure it will be fascinating. And given your involvement with the ah, other stuff, it'll be more than just a little interesting."

Tuesday came quickly enough, at least for me. I called Boots a couple of times and he was still concerned about his well being even though Lee-Ann had assured him he was safe at her place. Of course he declined coming to hear the speaker on Babylonian antiquities. As it stood, my father and I were going, as were Harry and Georges. Both Geoff and Joan would attend but in a professional capacity.

Tuesday evening about seven, my father had arranged for a taxi. We could have walked, but knowing my father, arriving in a hired car more suited his own image. I hoped he hadn't hired a limo. The cab pulled up, tooted the horn and I could see the driver craning his neck looking for his fare. Not a limo and not a limo driver.

Ten minutes later we were there. He paid the driver and tipped him more than adequately in spite of the poor service. That done, we exited and went up the broad steps then crossed the foyer and continued up a broader staircase to the auditorium.

"Winnie," my father called, and strode over to a tall man in an outdated tuxedo.

"Hello, Gregor," he greeted my father arm extended. "So glad you could come. And your lovely daughter." He smiled and took both my hands. "How are you, my dear, you look radiant."

"I'm fine Dr. Johnson. Thank you."

"Oh Sam.  Cut that out. It's Winslow. Come in, I've got your section reserved. The front row."

Collapsible wooden chairs had been set in rows and ours had red colored cards printed with _Reserved_ and scotch taped to the back. I sat down while my father stood talking with Winslow Emmet Johnson at the door helping Winnie in his role as official greeter. They were good friends, considering the rocky start of their relationship. Two egos, each with considerable expertise, clashed, each trying to out do the other. Winslow's expertise was Medieval Art. My father, an avid art collector, had become quite expert, albeit in a narrow field. Push had come to shove at one point but in the end they resolved their differences. My father still persisted in calling him Winnie, and I suspected the man enjoyed this. From anyone else however this would not have been welcome.

Slowly the seats began to fill and given that the chairs filled about a third of the space a large group was not expected. Babylonian antiquities anyone? Not hardly.

I looked around and recognized a few faces. Students from the dig. A couple waved at me when they caught my eye but that was it. No rushing or gushing at the glowing, radiant lady. Thank you.

Most of the attendees were probably _Friends_ of the museum. Patrons more likely, judging by the glitter on necks and ears. Thankfully, other than Winslow, I saw no one else in a tux otherwise my father would have felt underdressed. I glanced at the door and saw Geoff and Joan approaching.

I didn't hear what my father said, but it must have been funny. Joan was laughing and he was holding her hand longer than protocol required.  Moments later they came in and sat on either side of me like bookends. Lee-Ann was not insight.

When the doors closed I glanced to see my father and Winslow walking to the front of the hall. Winslow strode purposely, patting his thin hair in place and stood in front of a microphone. We were a small group of maybe seventy-five or eighty so he moved the mic aside.

"Ladies and gentlemen thank you for coming out in support of the museum's Art School for Children. The ticket proceeds and any other donation –financial aid that is– will go to that endeavor. I'm sure you will agree that the creative arts programs in our public school system are getting short shrift with all the recent budget cuts. Of course the three Rs get all the attention. Rogues. Rascals.  And Ruffians." This brought considerable laughter, with my father chuckling and nodding approval.

Outwardly, Winslow gave the appearance of tall, skinny, almost prissy academic. Thin to the point of emaciation, with long wispy strands of hair, which he patted regularly over a skull-like head and dressed in out dated suits, Winslow was the quintessential looking professor. Incongruously, the man when given the occasion was quite a wit.

"Thank you. Thank you. For tonight however it's... Relics, Rocks and Restoration." The man was a roll.

"Nevertheless, our educational projects at the museum are important. Supporting the arts program will give children the opportunity to use their imagination and develop skills and interests that will serve in their adult lives. Your financial support will go a long way providing materials like clay and paint along with other materials necessary to develop skills in the plastic arts. Of course we are well into the twenty-first century. The digital age. Computer generated art and graphics. The future for sure. However, the digital age at our museum school refers to these." He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. The man could work a room.

"I'm sure you remember your own art classes. Who doesn't like to draw? Or want to draw.  Or draw better? Exactly. No one. So please be generous. Thank you.

"Now back to why we are here. As you know the museum has recently acquired a piece of very important Babylonian art. A clay panel, terra cotta from..." he paused for dramatic effect."

"Let's hear from our guest. It's my pleasure," he said looking at a man seated at the far end of our row. Dr. Sir Everett Franky."

Winslow started to clap encouraging the rest of us to follow. Sir Franky stood and faced the group and tilted his head to acknowledge the accolades, then joined Winslow at the front.

"Thank you, thank you.  Please. Thank you, Winslow."

"Tonight," Sir Franky said, "I'd like to draw a comparison with your recent acquisition and the panel we have at the British Museum, which is often referred to as the Burney Panel. A Mesopotamian terracotta panel from the Old Babylonian Period."

He picked up a remote device beside a laptop on the table beside him and powered up the computer to display an image on the screen behind him.

"On the left you see the Burney or more accurately the Queen of the night. The image on the right is yours."

He paused letting the images imprint themselves on us. I recognized the one on the right, the one we'd been calling the Madonna Bra, from the fissures and the piece missing from right top corner. Both images showed damage to the surface figures rendered in a high relief. On both images, but from different areas, I could see that the nose on the goddess was chipped and bits missing from the stylized hair. The manes on the lions were also damaged. Overall the pieces were beautiful.

Standing at an angle so he could both see the images and address the group, he said. "Please note the differences." Using a laser pointer he indicated the similarities and differences between the two images, the green dot flicking back and forth.

"Yes," he said. Someone, I think a student from the dig had his hand up.

"From what I remember, in my classes with Boots? I mean professor Horowitz; many objects were made from molds. These images are so much alike would they have been made from a mold?"

"Excellent observation and an excellent question. Professor Horrowitz is quite correct. The manufacture of these panels, and many others, I might add were indeed manufactured this way. Over the years the British Museum has acquired many objects created that way. From molds. These two reliefs were actually made from the very same mold."

"Really?" the student said. There was considerable murmuring in the group.

"Oh yes. And I'll come back to that in a bit." Sir Franky paused.

"Before I get to that, let me point out how I came to conclude the authenticity. In fact that was my role, what I was contracted to do. Before the auction, the museum invited me to investigate and authenticate or refute the authenticity of this relief panel." He pointed the laser at the museum's acquisition.

"The Hannah Gallery allowed me access to the panel and I spent quite some time studying it." He put the pointer on the table and stared at both images before continuing.

"The London piece dates to about 1750 BCE– Before Common Era. Artifacts, antiquities and like objects are not that easily dated. Unless of course you have an established provenance. With antiquities such as these that is rarely the case. We have to rely on other methods. Archeological items have to be placed in context. Again, this isn't always possible, or even reliable. For the London relief, there is no archeological excavation to refer to. There's no context of discovery. So we have to rely on stylistics for date and context and place." A hand went up.

"Yes," Sir Franky said to a young girl near the back.

"When you say stylistics, do you mean the way it looks or how it compares to other objects? I mean other objects that have been dated."

Good question I thought. I could see braces glint on her teeth. College kids get younger every year.

"And wouldn't that be a question of interpretation which might be a bit subjective?" she added.

"An excellent question, Miss. And you're right. Interpretation can be quite subjective and often comes under attack. There have been many heated arguments. Scholars often disagree. I can attest to that." He shook his head as if remembering some private battles.

"However, with enough evidence as in other or similar artifacts, we can reliably fix the artifact in time. Not an actual date of course, certainly more than...What's the expression used on this side of the pond?"

"Ballpark?" my father offered.

"Yes, thank you. More than a ballpark guess." And in a lower voice added, "I never really understood that expression." He shrugged and waited for the chuckles to die down before continuing.

"Using known examples, comparing styles, materials used, subject matter, we can place and date an artifact with reasonable certainty." He stopped, poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

"Now if you look at both images and compare certain elements you can see how your relief, your museum's, is an excellent example of something that can reliably be considered to be a companion piece to the original. The original being the London Queen of the Night. Given of course if the original is what it actually purports to be. What an absolute horror if it wasn't. I shudder at the thought," he said with an exaggerated tremble. Sir Franky was good.

"Thankfully that is not in dispute." He took another sip.

"Yes," he said acknowledging the same girl.

"Essentially, authenticating the museum's panel relies on the authenticity of the London Queen of the Night?"

"Quite so."

"What about where the object was found? I get that if two pieces, artifacts, if they are found together, in situ, that's pretty solid evidence. They would share the same time and space."

"Right again," he smiled encouraging her, welcoming her curiosity.

"But since there's no evidence of where the London relief was found you can't –I don't mean you Sir, but the two pieces can't be related that way. Although they look very similar."

"Right. Right. Let me explain a bit further." He stopped and collected his thoughts.

"I know there are quite a few tourist sites in your city. I've visited a few. That cathedral modeled on Saint Peter's I think. Mary Queen of the World. Not the night, at least I hope not!" Another exaggerated shiver. The audience loved Sir Franky. My father probably laughing the loudest.

"And the Oratory. Beautiful architecture. But my point is the gift shops sell any number of religious objects. Little glass Virgin Marys. Other Saints. Sculpted praying hands. And in some of the Orthodox churches, even icons." A lot of head nodding.

"My point, and I do have one, is this. At almost any time in the historical past, there were shops, workshops and artisans that produced religious and votive objects. These two relief panels, the London and your museum's," he flashed them with the laser.

"They were both produced and sold in shops. And the difference being, at least I hope it's a difference, these two panels were objects of worship in themselves. They were believed to be actual gods."

"So they worshipped these clay panels and other objects too? My history prof said when armies invaded they destroyed the idols. Destroying their idols was really destroying their gods".

"Your professor is right. Until the Jews came along with the concept of a portable God." He tapped his head. "But that's a story for another time.

"But often enough," he continued, "the idols were not destroyed. When the people moved, or were forced to move, they hid their gods, their idols. And sometimes took them along to the new place. Providing of course they were of a manageable size. Like these relief panels. Now keep in mind at this time there were thousands of deities. Every household had their gods. As did craftspeople. Carpenters. Potters. Tanners. They all had their gods."

He let that sink in, paced and studied the images on the screen then turned his head to us.

"Even hookers." And he played the pointer on the naked Queen of the Night. Not quite bedlam, but even Sir Franky was laughing.

"Ladies and gentlemen. The Queen of the Night was a harlot. This relief, both of them no doubt hung on a mud brick wall in a brothel. A Harlot's Happy Home." Even a few of the older matronly types laughed.

My father leaned over and said to me, "Or a Hooker's Heavenly Haven. Of course he didn't say this _soto voce_ and Sir Franky doubled over. So much for British decorum.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but there's truth in this analysis ladies and gentlemen." He rubbed his hands together to strike a more sedate pose.

"Let's take a good look at these images. Yes they are quite similar. And we can see the damage. The London was found in three fragments. And a piece near the middle on the right is missing and wasn't recovered. There's also damage to the stylized hair and the owls have broken beaks." He played the laser to indicate the areas moving from one image to the other.

"The similarities at this point are quite obvious. The Queen represents the same goddess in both artifacts. Inanna or Ishtar. She is, of course, Babylonian. They are the same size, about fifty centimeters by forty. Thickness varies to plus or minus five to six centimeters. The Queen represents Venus, the evening star, although the ancient Babylonians knew Venus to be a planet. She also represents war, love, procreation and motherhood. Note that she is very realistically rendered and is rather sexy.' He turned and said, "Don't you agree?"

She was sexy, quite voluptuous and well proportioned. I didn't much care for her bird feet and talons though.

"She's very realistically modeled. And the greater the realism, the greater she's seen an as divine and worthy of worship. And realistically rendered she can more easily be identified with. And the owls? The Queen is a divine lady and rules the night. Notice, too, that she stands on two lions. With closed mouths the lions pose no threat. These wavy lines at the bottom are mountains, the Queen's home." He paused to acknowledge the same young girl.

"Yes?"

"You said, before, they were made from a mold?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I see that they are very similar. But a lot of the details aren't exactly the same. The hair and the owls are pretty much the same, but the wings and feathers are different."

"Excellent observations. Excellent indeed. And these are the details that warrant study.

"As I mentioned, and as you discerned, the larger elements that compose the reliefs are indeed similar. But when it comes to details, there are differences. Not discrepancies mind you, but differences nonetheless. Let's call it artistic license. You see craftsmen would have added details, and we can only speculate as to why. Maybe it was just the whim of a particular artisan. The necklace would have been added later. After the piece was removed from the mold that is. Incidentally the necklace is another indication attesting that the Queen was a harlot. And the hair would have been decorated with a tool. These details, added when the piece came out of the mold, would be incised with a sharp object. At this point the clay is not fully dry, it's what we call leather hard and although not malleable, the clay is amenable to tool work.  Ateliers would have several craftsmen, hence the reason for the differences.

"Thank you, Sir."

"I thank you. It's such a pleasure to have someone so engaged." She beamed and looked around shyly.

He continued describing and pointing offering further proof of authenticity.

"Any more questions?" The girl at the back shook her head.

"Before I conclude, let me offer what I consider as incontrovertible proof. Proof that these two panels come from not the same area –in all likelihood they do not– but come from the same workshop. Furthermore they were made from the same mold."

He used the zoom feature to enlarge the images.

"Can you hazard a guess to what I may be referring?"

The young girl raised her hand somewhat timidly this time.

"Miss?"

"Since they were made from a mold, there's probably imperfections? In the mold I mean."

"Go on, Miss," he encouraged. He knew where she was going. I didn't. Sir Franky obviously had no problem sharing the limelight.

"Those marks," she pointed.

"Why don't you come up and show us." He held out the laser pointer.

"Please," he added encouragingly. She couldn't have been a day over eighteen.

She took the pointer.

"Here and here," she indicated. "These indentations. And there and there too." The pointer went from image to image.

"These marks are kind of sunk in, like the mold had something sticking up a bit and dented the clay. And over here, it's like the opposite. The mold had dents and the clay, the relief has bumps. Both have the same marks in the same places." She gave back the pointer.

"That is amazing, Miss. I have colleagues that would not have noticed. Are you a student here? In archeology or ancient history?"

"No, maybe one day. But I'm still in high school." I was as stunned as Sir Franky. And the audience too, judging by the murmurs.

"Well, Miss..."

"Joanne," she said.

"Joanne, it has been a pleasure to have you here and answer your questions. You came to so many important conclusions. I'm grateful you were so able to contribute to our session. By the way, what are your interests? What would you like to study? At university?"

"I want to be a designer. Fashion. Like for the stage or movies. Like historical costumes. I love opera costumes."

"Really? How wonderful you have a clear vision of what you want to do. You know that London has a great fashion design school."

"Yes, I've checked on my computer."

"Well don't rush off," he said, then added. "Let's thank Joanne for her astute observations and interesting questions." There was a round of applause. Joanne went crimson.

At this point Winslow came forward.

"Ladies and gentlemen, are there any questions for Sir Franky?" Heads turned hoping someone might have a question that they were too shy to ask.

"In that case I'd like to thank Dr. Sir Everett Franky for his interesting and entertaining presentation. The museum of course is more that pleased to have this acquisition and with Sir Franky's expertise and assurance are satisfied as to its authenticity. So without further ado," he turned to Sir Franky and said simply, "Thank you," and led a small round of applause.

Sir Franky, ever the consummate gentleman, bowed slightly and held up his hands to quell the applause.

When the acknowledgments were over, the group began to file out. Winslow was talking and walking with Sir Franky towards the exit. When he saw Joanne nearing the exit he whispered something to Winslow, then headed towards Joanne calling her name.

"Yes, Sir," she said shyly. He smiled and reached into his pocket and handed her what looked like a business card. I was moving slowly with a group bunched at the door. He was talking to her, Joanne smiling and looking embarrassed. I could read lips well enough to see she was repeating thank you, thank you.

By now we were in the foyer, my father chatting and complimenting Winslow, who was doing his best to acknowledge the leaving patrons and guests.

"Very interesting," Geoff said. "What did you think?"

"Yes, it was. And that young girl" She's a bright one, isn't she?"

"There you are," my father said with both Winslow and Sir Franky in tow.

"How about we all meet back at my place for a night cap?" He turned to Sir Franky and added, "And I'd like to show you some of my own collection."

"You collect antiquities, Dr. Milland?"

"No, no. Not antiquities. Paintings. Through the years I've supported quite a few Canadian artists. And I'm happy to say, many have achieved considerable prominence."

"It would be my pleasure, Dr. Milland, thank you."

"Call me Gregor. Dr. Milland is my daughter." I resisted rolling my eyes.

"Sam," I said offering my hand.

"And I'm Franky," he said shaking my hand. "Ever since my public school days. In those days everyone was called by their surname. My misfortune is it's also a common enough first name. So there you have it."

His smile was warm and infectious. I don't think I'd ever met a more gracious man.

"Okay, then. Shall we go? I've a car waiting." The car waiting was a taxi. Jesus, Dad. Did you sell another painting? The trip, I'm sure, was quicker than the time it took for the five of us to pile in.

My father's place was appointed and nicely furnished, if as I've mentioned a bit worn at the edges. But instead of imparting a sense of shabbiness, it presented a comfortable and inviting atmosphere. And since this is where I grew up I knew where everything was. So without needing a hint or a nod playing hostess was an easy chore. His pantry was as well stocked as a Greek pastry shop.

As I organized the sideboard with the sweets, his Good Stuff and bottled water Geoff approached. "I'd just as soon have coffee," he whispered. Shall I get it started?"

"Thanks, but why don't you make nice-nice with the men folk. I'll take care of the eats. Besides you know how Dad likes an audience when he shows off his treasures."

Okay," he laughed. I went about my business hearing snippets from the other room as he explained the differences between the works of Danby, Coleville and some of the early works of _Les Plasticiens_ – the Quebec Hard Edge painters. The early works were generally smaller and more easily displayed. And apart from the fact that the later works were too large for his walls the prices would be prohibitive even for him. I hoped he hadn't planned on trouping them next door to show them the Lorenzo panel, a 14th Century painting done by a student of Giotto. He'd paid over two hundred thousand for it and gifted it to me.

By the time refreshments were ready the art show wound down and the men were nibbling and sipping the Good Stuff. My father followed me into the kitchen looking for napkins.

"In the drawer. Left side." Didn't he live here?

"If you want to hand out cigars," I said quietly, "go ahead. It won't bother me."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Besides, as Sir Franky might be wont to say –I'll shortly take my leave."

He went back and I heard him offer the stogies but not one of them chose to smoke. Courtesy or good sense?

When I joined them they were deep in a discussion about –what else?– Babylonian artifacts. Specifically the looted treasures and archeological sites in the Middle East.

"Don't forget," Sir Franky said, "Mesopotamia has been settled for over six thousand years. You can't scuff the dirt without finding something."

"Yes, I saw evidence myself."

"Really, Gregor?"

"Yes. Just a few weeks ago, in Jordan. I was a volunteer on a dig there. Sammy too."

"That's fascinating. I had no idea your interests were so eclectic."

"I've been fortunate. I've a wonderful daughter. A good career, which has rewarded me, so I figured it was time to give back a little. A friend of Sammy's, a colleague from the university, is an archeologist. Nathan Horrowitz has been excavating a site for some years now, so we thought we'd go as volunteers and help out a bit." Of course he made no mention that he pretty much footed the bill.

"How fascinating." You know, he added, "I started out digging in the sand too. Gradually my research expanded, my expertise grew and now people think I'm some sort of authority."

"Now Franky," Winslow said, "don't be modest. "Your scholarship testifies to your expertise. You have no idea how relieved the museum is for your authentication of the panel."

"Thank you, Winslow. But the clues were all there, just a matter of reading them."

"Nevertheless." Winslow held his glass up in a quasi toast.

I did my best not to appear bored. In fact I wasn't bored, just suddenly very tired. I caught Geoff's eye and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

"Well, gentlemen," he said getting up and putting his empty cup on the sideboard. "I've an early day tomorrow. Or should I say today," he said looking at his watch.

Frank stood and shook hands with Geoff, then said what cultured English gentlemen say to pregnant ladies.

We left, leaving the three doctors to solve the problems of looted antiquities and stopping terror groups.

The next day I was scheduled to see Dr. David. My appointment was after lunch so I had the morning to kill. Boots was still holed up at Lee-Ann's and he informed me that he was fast losing his patience and still apprehensive about his security but admitted he did feel safe at Lee-Ann's.

"Enough is enough, know what I mean? What's everybody doing about this anyway?"

"They're doing all they can. I'm sure you know that."

"Yes, I know. But you've no idea. I'm going out of my mind."

"What's Lee-Ann up to?" I asked to change the subject.

"Oh, Lee-Ann. You know her better than I do, that's for sure. She comes and goes. Says she's working on it too. But in fact I've no idea what she does or where she goes. Mind you we haven't stayed cooped up in here."

"So you're not getting cabin fever?"

"Not quite. And I don't need to wear a disguise whenever we do go out. I can be a bit paranoid at the best of times, but she assures me I don't need to worry."

"You can trust her," I said and hoped it was true.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks for calling. I appreciate it, see if you can push these guys a bit, you know?"

"Do my best."

"Okay. Got to go. Time for my soaps."

After a quick lunch I called a cab not feeling like fighting traffic, dodging potholes and went to my appointment.

I'd hardly time to take a seat in her waiting room when she came out to greet me.

"Everything is fine," she said after the exam. "But how are you feeling? Anything different? Any questions. And you're still exercising and eating right?"

"Fine, no, no and yes."

"Well! That covers it. Goodbye." She laughed and said more seriously.

"You know, Sam. Although you are not in a high-risk group, given that you are not over thirty-five, I still like to cover all the bases. So I want to do a glucose screening."

"Like for diabetes?" I asked apprehensively.

"Yes. But don't be alarmed. From your life style and overall good health there's nothing to worry about. This is something I do. Call it an added precaution."

"Okay."

"Generally this is done between twenty-four and twenty-six weeks. You've a way to go yet."

"Why these tests then?"

"Gestational diabetes is usually limited to the pregnancy and it can be serious. If this occurs there's not enough insulin produced to handle the effects of a growing baby and changing hormone levels. This results in high blood sugar, a tougher delivery and the risk of a large baby. Nine pounds or greater and type 2 diabetes in the mom after pregnancy is also a risk. Even if the mom's sugar levels are normal type 2 is still a risk."

"Sounds serious," I said frowning.

"Not for you, Sam. Not for you, but I still want to do the tests."

"I'm not at risk, but you still want to do the tests?"

"Right. You're under thirty-five. Not obese. Not Hispanic, Asian or African. And you don't have a sister with type 2."

"And yet you still want to do the tests. What are you not telling me?"

"Nothing, Sam. Let's just say, I'm an over achiever. I tend to go beyond normal requirements."

"You sure that's it?" I'd been holding my breath. If my sugar was normal, my blood pressure sure as hell wasn't.

"That's it." She paused and added. "Once, Sam, I had a patient who, like you had none of the risk factors. But late in her pregnancy she developed diabetes. So in a nut shell Sam, sometimes standard procedure..." She shrugged.

"Then I am fortunate, Nabilla that you are an overachiever. I appreciate your extra precautions."

After a bit of idle chitchat she showed me out. I scheduled my next visit, called a cab and went home quite relieved.

# Chapter 12

I was bent over catching my breath after sprinting up from Milton, when my father opened the door and came down the few steps to the sidewalk and sat down on the bottom step. His face was ashen."

"Dad!"

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine. But I just heard. Roger is dead. Murdered."

"Roger? Who's Roger? You mean Rajah –Freddy and Hannah's son?"

"Yes."

"My God. What happened?" I sat down beside him.

"I'm fine, really. Just the shock of it. I know the boy. Freddy and Hannah will be devastated. Are devastated."

"No doubt." I remembered Hannah telling me how great he was. How smart. And how pleased she was that Rajah– she never called him Roger– that he had taken such an interest in the family business.

"We were so pleased," she told me. "Freddy and I insisted he follow his own wishes, but he wanted to be in the business. Art history was his passion and this was the best way to pursue it he told us."

We were in his living room and I waited for him to compose himself. I knew what was going through his head. Images of my brother and my recurring dream were flashing through my own mind.

"I don't know the details, Sammy. Geoff called me, said he'd tried to get you first, but it went to voice mail. He didn't want us to hear it on the news."

"I left my phone at home went I went for my run."

"Yes, I told him that. That you went for a run, I mean."

"Did he say anything about what happened?"

"No. Just that he'd fill us in later. Just said he'd been killed and that he didn't want us to get the news the hard way."

"There is no easy way."

"No, Sammy there isn't. There isn't."

"Can I get you something?" He was taking it hard. And occasionally –not often– something, a news event, sometimes something totally out of context would remind him of his loss. Once we'd been out for a walk, an evening stroll. Just the two of us along Ste Catherine Street. Shoppers and couples, people like us drifting along. Coming towards us was a family, a mother and father and two kids –a little girl and her brother. The four of them eating ice cones. The little boy had ice cream running down his chin and wrist almost to his elbow. The parents and sister were laughing and teasing his. I remember laughing too. It was a wonderful moment. When I glanced at my father his eyes were brimming. I think of the image occasionally and can't decide to feel joy or sadness.

"Thanks, Sammy. Maybe a drink."

"A drink?"

"Would you mind putting on some tea? Tea would really hit the spot."

He always kept a box of plain biscuits; the ones called _Social Tea_ and put the box on the table. We sat and drank and munched neither of us speaking. Father and daughter sitting quietly together enjoying tea and cookies. Not really.

He broke the silence.

"Poor Hannah and Freddy. I'd like to call them. Of course that's out of the question now." He sighed and brushed a few strands across his scalp.

"Thanks, Sammy. I hardly ever drink tea but today it was just the thing."

"You going to be all right, you look a bit worn."

"Oh yes," he said with a dismissive wave. "I'll be fine. It's just quite a shock."

"If you're sure, then. But if you want a bit of company or another cup of tea you come over okay?"

"Of course, Sammy. Go. I'll be okay."

I knew why tea was the right thing. I had a vague memory of my mother doing the same thing, before she'd been institutionalized after my brother had drowned. There'd been so many days she couldn't cope. The simplest things, the most basic chores she'd been unable to do. Making beds or washing dishes she'd been unable to face. Instead she'd sit with a cup of tea. And a plate of _Social Tea_ biscuits. I wondered if thoughts of my mother and the loss of his son were the reasons he kept the biscuits handy. Funny what gave us comfort.

I checked my phone for missed calls, but Geoff's was the only one. I didn't call back, although I was more than anxious for details, I'd wait until he got home. And given the circumstances he'd be late for sure.

Oddly I felt the need for comfort food too. Not tea and biscuits but soup. Something thick and substantial. I checked my watch. There was time for a quick run to the grocery store. A baguette, Brie and a bowl of hearty pea soup would hit the spot. I called my father.

We'd barely started in on my version of comfort food when Geoff arrived. He shed his trench coat and hung it in the closet. It hadn't been raining and although cool, I didn't think it warranted a coat. His trench coat was his armor. And given the nature of his work, he wore it as such. The tougher the case, the greater the need. And the more unpleasant the crime or the more deeply it touched him, the tighter he bound the coat.

I got up to greet him, his face a hard mask and his cheek muscles taut from clenched teeth. Slowly he undid the knotted belt, working his fingers to loosen it. Rajah's death must have affected him deeply as he had yet to speak. Next came the buttons. All of them fastened to the throat. Then he placed the coat carefully on a hanger, closed the door.

We hugged. Normally a squeeze and a peck on the cheek was a standard greeting. Not today. After a few seconds he released me, took off his suit jacket and tossed it on the chair beneath the antique mirror. He rubbed his hands together, forced a smile and said.

"So. What's for dinner?"

I told him.

"God, that's perfect."

He followed me into the kitchen unsurprised to see my father and rested his hand briefly on his shoulder then sat down. I placed his soup in front of him. I could hear my father as he chewed. The silence was eerie.

"Sometimes. This job sucks. Really sucks!"

"Talk," my father said.

Geoff chewed and held up a finger.

"As I said earlier, Gregor," and looking at me, "Rajah is dead. Killed. And not in a nice way. Not that there are nice ways. Someone bashed his head with a chunk of pottery."

He paused and took several spoonsful of soup and yanked another chunk from the baguette. With the cheese knife he hacked off a slab and balanced it on the bread.

"As crime scenes go, this one wasn't bad. What I mean by that is– sorry. I know we're eating."

He stopped talking and worked on his soup.

"Geoff, It's okay," I said. "We know what you have to go through. And given that we know Rajah it makes this personal in a way. Hits us pretty close. But it helps to lay it out."

"There's that. Like I said, as a crime scene it wasn't so bad. Not like the other business," he said to me, referring a case where four young men had been gunned down in their apartment.

"There'd been a scuffle. A fight. The place was in considerable disarray. Rajah wasn't a pushover for whoever did him in. He put up a damn good struggle. But the guy got the best of him and he suffered a hell of a blow." He indicated the top of his head.

"Are there any clues as to what happened?" I asked. "You haven't said where. Or who or anything."

"At his home. As for who, so far we have no idea. Again it looks like another _home invasion_. Unofficially."

"Unofficially?"

"Yes, Gregor."

"But officially?" I asked.

"This stays in the room okay? Officially Joan and I and who ever she's working with are leaning towards something else. It's a bit too coincidental that Rajah's place is broken into by someone just looking to burgle the place. Especially in the light of what happened to Boots. And given the circumstances of the business they are both in, there's no way these two events are unrelated."

"Was anything stolen?" my father wanted to know.

"We don't know yet. The crime scene techs are taking an inventory, photos, prints, yada, yada, yada."

"And at this point," I said, it's difficult to discuss this with his parents."

"Exactly. Both Hannah and Freddy are out of their minds with grief. And besides how can they know what's missing? Except maybe for certain items that were valuable or documented. Or insured. Other than that, how could they know?"

"What's the next step? I mean with Rajah and his parents."

"There's the autopsy, of course. And his parents want to take him home, to Jordan, for the funeral. And they'd like that to happen sooner than later. But as to his apartment, it'll be a while until the guys are done.

"Like I said, none of us are treating it like a break-in gone bad. I can't say much more. Actually I don't know much more. But Joan is pursuing this as something relating to the antiquities looting, the problem in Jordan, and Boots's dig. And Abdul's two men that were killed. Of course that includes the break-in at Boots's home and his copy– if that's the right word –of that panel."

"And don't forget Bob the Letch getting his own head bashed."

"I haven't forgotten. Far too many coincidences. This is something on an international scale and far above my pay grade."

"It certainly seems widespread, that's for sure." I said.

"And here's something else. And considering what Joan has found out about Freddy's two million, the Caymans, and the charities he supports, this may be very big." He paused considering whether to continue.

"You have to keep this under you hat. Okay? I'm serious."

"Of course, Geoff. Of course."

"It's looking more and more that Freddy's business is a front to raise money for ISIS or whatever these terrorists call themselves."

"What about Boots and Lee-Ann," I asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Shouldn't they be clued in?" I said.

"Yes, they should. Boots in particular. He's a basket case as it is and this won't put him at ease, but I think he's still in jeopardy. As for Lee-Ann..."

"Seems like some strategy planning is in order," my father said. Geoff was done with his soup but hadn't abandoned his assault on the bread and cheese. He looked at my father, and raised his eyebrows in question.

"This changes things."

"Didn't you say," he said to me, "that Lee-Ann assured Boots he was safe at her place? They'd even been going out in public?"

"Yes. She told me he had nothing to be concerned about. No one knew about her or her place on Nun's Island."

"Right. But now it sounds like whoever is behind this, Boots's break-in, Bob getting mugged, and with Rajah killed, seems they're narrowing the gap. I wouldn't be so confident that they couldn't find where Nathan is holed up."

"What do you mean, Gregor?"

"Okay. One. They break into Nathan's home. They're looking for something and we know what that something is. Two. Bob gets mugged. You and Harry find the panel, which is what these guys are looking for. Three. Roger gets killed."

"Go on," Geoff encouraged, still eating.

"You investigate, the break-in, Bob getting mugged and Roger's murder. Joan is part of the team. I know she's with the Anti-Terror group but your cases overlap. Although she's working independently or I should say investigating on a parallel course she knows all the details. And given her relationship with Lee-Ann, I'd say Lee-Ann is fully in the know. I'd say they're working hand in glove."

"You may be right," Geoff said. "Both Joan and Lee-Ann are investigating the international aspect of the looting and so forth. I'm in it simply because of the crimes committed here. Joan keeps me informed of course, but I can't operate on her turf any more than she can on mine. We coordinate and cooperate with each other and share information. Between our efforts hopefully we can figure all of this out."

"Maybe it's time for the investigators to get together and disclose what each is up to. This isn't the time to compartmentalize."

"That's a good point, Gregor."

"I think the three of you, and Nathan, need to get together to figure out who is after Nathan, his panel and why?"

"We're already doing that Gregor."

"I know, I know. What I mean is that since it seems that at this point it's centered on Nathan, Freddy's business and that panel, the investigation, or part of it at least should focus here." He tapped the table. "Not internationally."

I put my two cents in and said, "A while back Lee-Ann told me she didn't know who to trust. Apart from Abdul. Limiting your investigation here to just the three of you is a good idea."

"Wouldn't be the first time I played my cards close to my vest. I'll have to tell Emile, he's the boss after all and likes a word in his ear so he's not out of the loop."

"And let's not forget about Nathan," my father added. "The man will be more than frantic now."

"Okay. The sooner we get this off the ground, the better. Any ideas, Gregor, where we can base our operations?" His smirk more than a little playful.

"Now that you mention it."

Geoff would get Joan onboard and she'd be responsible to coordinate with Lee-Ann. I hadn't spoken with Lee-Ann since that evening but I'd kept in touch with Boots. Although he was safe at Lee-Ann's it would not be wise for him to resume his normal life. Not yet.

"You think I don't know that? Even Lee-Ann has me spooked now. Roger's murder has more than complicated things. And I don't dare go to his funeral."

I knew he was close to Hannah, and Freddy too, in spite of his apprehensions about the man.

"I'm sorry, but do try to keep it together."

"Keep it together? I'm going out of my mind here."

"I realize it isn't easy. But you have to stay put. Roger's death changes things."

"No it doesn't change things. It just reinforces that there's stuff going on that we know nothing about and can't control. And I know there's nothing you can do," he said resignedly.

"But it is getting out of hand, don't you think? First we almost get shot down. Then Abdul's men get killed. My home gets broken into and we know it was not a bungled robbery, right?"

"Yes," I agreed.

"And then Bob gets his head bashed in and he's almost killed. And what for? A three thousand year old hunk of pottery. There's something fishy about that.  And now Roger is killed. There's no way in hell I'll be convinced that was another break-in gone bad."

"I'm sure you're right, Boots. There is something very fishy going on."

"Big help knowing that. If the cops or Geoff, or Joan or whoever does get on top of this, where does that leave me? I'm supposed to hide out here?"

I didn't answer.

"I have to get out of here. I need to get home. Back to my job. My career, Sam."

"Look," I said changing the subject. "Did Lee-Ann tell you about our plan to get together on this?"

"Yes, she did. And that apart from our little group, Lee-Ann has no trust in whoever else is investigating this looting and panel business."

"Yes, I know that," I said recalling my trip to Israel.

"That's just great, isn't it? Several police forces including Interpol and the only people Lee-Ann trusts in this investigation is about three or four people. What the hell can four people do, Sam? Can you tell me?"

"There's nothing I can tell you that will make this easier. But we are –they are doing their best to figure this out."

"I know. And you're meeting at your father's. Apparently they can't trust meeting at their own offices. Since they don't know who to trust there's no place to meet. Officially that is."

"But you'll be here too." He didn't answer.

"I'm not travelling around in the trunk of a car, Sam. Even if it is a Jag."

"How about my Jetta?" He laughed.

"My father is planning to go to the funeral. They've released his remains and the Malek's are sending Rajah to Jordan where he'll be buried."

"I feel terrible that I can't go."

"I'm sure they'll understand."

"When is the funeral anyway?"

"Not sure exactly. Three or four days. You know that Freddy has his own jet so he's taking Rajah back along with my father and a few friends from the dig."

"That won't be a fun trip, that's for sure. When will your father return?"

"He'll stay just for the funeral and return on the first available commercial flight."

"When does our _task force_ meet?"

"I don't know exactly."

"I need to get out of here, Sam. But if I show my face, there'll be another funeral."

"Give me five minutes," I said. "I'll call you right back.

"I just spoke with my father. How about you hole up there? There's more than enough room, as you know. I'm good company and unlike Lee-Ann I won't disappear and go out on secret missions."

"Well, thanks. But how do we do this? More hiding in the trunk?"

"Good point. Where is Lee-Ann anyway?"

"You're asking? I'm not exactly her confidant."

"I don't think anyone is, so don't feel left out. Give me an hour and I'll work it out."

"Like I'm going somewhere?"

I texted Geoff and he called back almost immediately.

"What's up?"

"Boots has got to get out of there. I'm afraid he'll crack and just run off."

"No one knows where he is. He's safest where he is. But I do get it. So you're wondering how to transport him, is that it?"

"Good way to put it, yes."

"Okay, this is what we'll do."

About an hour later, Boots called.

"If you're up to it, would you come and get me?"

"Of course. But my trunk isn't very roomy."

"Hahaha."

"I'm on my way. Say twenty minutes, a half hour tops. And don't forget the panel."

I grabbed my keys and purse and on the way to the garage when I heard my father.

"Sammy, you still here?"

"Just on my way.'

"Me too, me too. You remember Joseph? He's picking me up any minute. Just wanted to say bye before leaving."

He stood in my doorway backlit by the afternoon sun, dressed immaculately in a cream linen suit. I could see his suitcase at the bottom of the steps.

"I'll be a few days, Sammy. Freddy and Hannah have asked me to stay on as a guest. I'll see. They're very hospitable, but the circumstances." He shook his head sadly.

"In any event I'll have to wait a day or two for a regular flight back. I'll play it by ear." He shrugged.

"Please give them my condolences. I wish I could go with you."

"They know. They know."

I wasn't that far along in my pregnancy that flying was prohibited, but given the circumstances I opted to excuse myself from the trip. Hannah had called me personally to include me. It was an awkward conversation and I was so taken with her graciousness I almost relented and accepted.

"We will see you when you get back," I promised. "I am so sorry for your loss Hannah."

"Thank you, Sam." I heard a sigh and then, "I must go. And thanks."

"Here's Joseph now. Keep an eye out for Nathan, Sammy. You know how he is."

I gave him a hug and he left. Joseph had already put his bag in the trunk and was holding the door for him. I waited until they drove off. Now for Boots.

Boots was already outside waiting for me when I pulled up. And now, an hour later, after settling in next door we were in my living room. Boots with a beer, me with a bottle of water.

"Thanks for all this," he said, "but I need to say something." He paused and frowned.

"You're father has been wonderful –is wonderful. And of course I am more than comfortable there. But I don't want you to feel obligated to ah, include me with ah, you know. This is a big imposition. And as they say after three days fish and guests begin to stink."

"Don't give it a thought." Actually I was giving it a thought, a big one. I liked Boots, but like he said about fish.

"No. Really. Gregor is more than hospitable, but this is way over the top. I'll be as unobtrusive as possible.

"As long as you're comfortable. You have your laptop so you can at least do some work. But don't hesitate to ask if I can do anything."

"Sure, I won't. I mean I will. You know what I mean."

"And for starters, you're having dinner with me and Geoff today. I hope you like Thea Maria's cooking."

"I do, very much. Thanks. But I meant what I said. I'll keep out of your hair." He stood and rubbed his hands together.

"I better get next door. There's work I can do."

"Come back around seven. Geoff should be in and you two can do guy things until dinner."

# Chapter 13

And that is what happened. True to his word, Boots was the perfect guest. Invisible. He ate with us the first night and was very pleasant company. Conversation of course centered on archeology and history. His knowledge was extensive and interesting, and only tangentially touching on looting of antiquities.

During the day I heard nothing from him and was sure he kept busy working via his computer. I, on the other hand, had more than a few moments of boredom. At most going for a run or session at the gym took only an hour, including a shower and change of clothes. No doubt I was more bored than Boots.

My father had opted to accept Freddy and Hannah's invitation and added a few extra days to his trip.

Geoff had his work, as did Joan. And Lee-Ann? I could only speculate. Geoff didn't confide in me except for what might impact us directly, so until we got together, until they'd put together a plan I really had no idea whether their investigation progressed or not. It wasn't a trust issue and I didn't give it any thought apart from my concern about Boots, but I had a feeling, a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

On the day my father returned, Geoff informed me they were ready to put their heads together.

"If Gregor is up for it, how about we all meet tomorrow?"

"You kidding? "He's up for it now and he barely got home."

"No doubt," he laughed. What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"These sessions can go on pretty late."

"I think I can manage a late night or two. I might even pull off playing hostess."

"You don't have to do that. First off, we plan to be at Gregor's. And as far as food and drink goes, we'll take care of it. Besides we've agreed to meet after the dinner hour so nothing to prepare. Of course no one says no to Thea Maria's baklava."

"Okay. And I can always tear myself away and come home." Fat chance of that happening.

"Sure, sure. That's good." We were in the living room and he was distracted, running the meeting through his mind.

"Sorry to be lousy company, but I need to do some work."

"Don't stay up all night." He was already sleep deprived.

Late the next afternoon my father called and asked me to come over.

"I'm here," I called letting myself in.

"In the kitchen."

He was wearing a Geoff style apron pretending he could be of help to Thea Maria, both of them laughing.

"Dad, don't give Thea a hard time."

" _Koritzi-mou_ ," she said," _O yatross_ is not bother."

"See? The _doctor_ is not a bother," he said, making his eyes wide. Boots was sipping a beer and taking it all in.

"Why don't the two of you go on the deck and see if everything is okay."

"Okay." What couldn't be okay?  The deck looked like he was catering a wedding reception.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"We're eating here. Didn't I mention that?" He knew he hadn't.

"And get the door, would you? They're starting to arrive."

"Starting to arrive?"

"Sammy, the door. Please. Boots take this." He gave him a tray of cheeses and a baguette.

I opened the door to be faced with Georges, Harry and Mara, the three of them smiling and holding those fancy wine bags you bring when invited to dinner. After hugs and air kisses they trooped in, Harry taking his wine straight to the kitchen. Before I could close the door several more people made an appearance. Lee-Ann and Joan followed by Geoff, who had just come out of our place. After greeting the two women who also made a beeline for the kitchen, I whispered to him.

"Did you know about this?" I hissed.

"Not exactly," he hissed back. He too went to the kitchen, which by now was crowded, and I could see Thea Maria's clenched mouth.

"Okay, people. Too many cooks. On the deck please."

" _Efharistoh,"_ she mouthed to me.

"Go on out," my father said. "I'll be right there."

"Not just yet. I think I just saw Alice and Gertrude alight from their carriage."

Harry bellowed holding up his beer mug. "The more Steins the better."

My father, vainly trying for a comeback just chuckled for once at a loss for words. There were some confused expressions but the reference was not lost on Mara.

"I'm sure your father's salon would rival any held by those two women."

"You're right, Mara," Harry said, "Gregor's salons are certainly happy events."

"And equally gay," Georges interjected. The laughter I'm sure could be heard a block away. Joan looked totally bewildered, but after Lee-Ann whispered to her she too cracked up.

At that point the doorbell sounded again.

"Sammy, would you mind? That should be Franky."

"Sir Franky?"

"Yes, Sir Franky." He nodded towards the door.

"Good evening, Sam," he said as I opened the door.

"I hope I'm not late."

"Not at all, Sir, ah, Franky."

He stepped in, brushed his feet on the rug and handed me a large wrapped bouquet.

"Thank you. How thoughtful. I peeled back a corner of the paper.

"Birds of Paradise! My favorite." They were my favorite and I doubted anyone knew that, not even Geoff.

"And a little something for your father." I took the package, obviously a bottle, concealed in the proverbial brown bag.

On the way through the kitchen I put the bottle on the table and before I could decide about the flowers Thea Maria took them from me saying, " _poly oraia,"_ very nice.

Franky preceded me and before my father could make introductions Mara said, "Are you Alice or Gertrude?"

Laughter erupted but instead of appearing confused Sir Franky piped up, "Neither, I'm afraid. I'm Fernande Olivier."

"Any friend of Picasso's is a friend of mine," Harry quipped back. A few chuckles ensued but I was as much in the dark as most of our guests, but I wasn't going to be the one to ask for enlightenment. Georges whispered something to Harry who replied, "La _Maîtresse de_ Picasso."

"Ah," he said, tossing his head back. "His mistress."

The evening was jovial with beer and wine in sufficient quantity to loosen tongues and generate laughter, but became serious when Boots, sitting next to Mara, asked about Rajah's funeral. His voice, a bit louder than normal, brought quiet to the group. We all knew the story except Sir Franky, who nodded and frowned as Harry quietly filled him in.

"A sad affair for sure," she said, "given the circumstances."

"Yes, it was very sad," my father said. "Freddy and Hannah are devastated as you can imagine. The funeral service was at their home and Rajah was buried in the family plot. They're Orthodox Christians and often enough in that part of the world Christians face considerable discrimination. So like many of the wealthy they have family plots on their estate."

"That's true." Mara agreed. "There isn't a group that's isn't discriminated against or abused by others. Not an easy place to live."

"Do you suppose religion played a part in his death?" Georges asked.

"That's possible," Lee-Ann interjected. "Given that the family is involved with historical artifacts. Perhaps some faction took issue because they were profiting from the country's patrimony. And given that they were Christians..." She let that thought hang.

I knew she believed no such thing, but didn't want the discussion to segue into the realm of looted antiquities or terrorism. Once talk moved in that direction there was no way telling what Boots might divulge.

"Any news," Mara said to Geoff, "regarding who might have done this. To Rajah?"

He looked at Lee-Ann. "Nothing concrete at the moment, but we're pursuing lines of inquiry," said with finger quotes. "You'll understand we can't really comment further than that."

"Of course," Harry said. "Hopefully that will change and you'll get to the bottom of this."

"And soon!" Boots blurted.

"On a lighter note, if that's possible, the Maleks have a beautiful home," Mara said. "As an archeologist I was much intrigued by their collection of artifacts.  And of late there's been considerable news on that front."

"His collection?" Georges asked.

"No, no. I mean generally. The looting and the destruction of heritage sites. Hopefully their collection is on the up and up."

"Yeah, right," Boots said. Or maybe it was the beer. Lee-Ann gave him a button-your-lip look, which he ignored.

"It's not easy to draw the line," Mara offered, "between legitimate and not. Many collectors, their pieces come from their own property. And in the Malek's case that is essentially true."

"You got that right," Boots said. "But you were at the dig. Remember the two men who were killed?"

"Good grief," Sir Franky said. "In my day opening a tomb might get you cursed. Thankfully no one was ever killed!" He looked at the group. "Am I the only one on the dark?"

My father took a few moments to give Sir Franky the background. It also served to anchor the others, especially those who had been at the dig, in the reality of what had been happening. Mara hadn't been completely read into everything but soon would be. Sir Franky was agog and more than a little intrigued.

No one except our core group knew about the panel Boots possessed. And no one in our core group was about to divulge those facts.

"What kind of artifacts do the Maleks have?" asked Sir Franky.

"As you are no doubt aware, Sir Franky, but for the non archeologists here, most artifacts represent deities," Mara said. "All art. Up to the Middle Ages was religion centered. In Christian art, it was didactic. Prior to that the artifacts were representative of the great many gods who people believed impacted their lives. Of course I'm not talking about household vessels. Jars. Amphorae and the like. Mind you, even those could be decorated to venerate different deities.

"But to answer, Sir Franky, they had several relief panels, or more accurately, fragments of panels. And a great many household objects, objects about so high, representing various deities." She held her hands about eight inches apart.

"They were small and portable. Originally they would have been painted, however it's very rare that any color endures. After so many centuries buried all that's left is the terra cotta color."

_"Vraiment intéressant,_ for sure," Georges said. "I think I will have to go to the museum."

"Well, Georges, your museum here has just acquired an artifact that I'm sure you will find very interesting."

"Oh, the Madonna Bra."

Good one, Georges, I thought. Sir Franky was clearly without a comeback.

"I like that better than Queen of the Night!" he said.

The evening wound down and Mara got up indicating she was calling it a night, and almost on cue Harry and Georges followed her example, with my father seeing them out.

Sir Franky remained behind. Something was up.

"What's going on?" I said to Joan as we were cleaning up. Lee-Ann nudged her to stop her answering. In the living room I could see my father in a huddle with Geoff and Sir Franky. Boots was unwrapping his panel. He folded the flannel, spread it on the coffee table and placed the panel on it.

My father gestured to me.

I went in and sat on the sofa. "What's going on?"

"Nathan thinks there's a problem with the panel."

"A problem?" Joan said, when she and Lee-Ann entered and sat down.

"Yes, he thinks there's an issue with it. So I asked Franky if he'd join us tonight, for a social gathering. And also to give his opinion on this exquisite panel too."

"Originally," Geoff said, "we were going to brainstorm about our investigation. I'm sorry, Sir Franky," he said looking at him, "but we can't disclose this to you."

"No apology necessary. I get that your investigation concerns the ah, break-ins and Rajah's murder."

"We're beyond thinking it's about simple break-ins," Boots said. "It's way more than that."

Geoff was about to speak but Lee-Ann cut in saying.

"Sir Franky. As Geoff said, this is strictly police business. Our investigation is international in its scope. It involves Interpol and law enforcement agencies in several countries." Sir Franky's eyes went wide.

"That's right," Geoff said. "And we'll need your expertise in a moment, but in order to help us we may have to disclose information that normally would be entirely off-limits. The reason we're here," he indicated Joan and Lee-Ann, "is because of how sensitive our investigation is. That and the fact that there may be parties we can't trust. Other parties in other jurisdictions who may, in fact, be involved in illegal acts."

"Good grief!" Sir Franky said. "Whatever I can do to help I certainly will. You have my complete discretion of course. Absolutely."

"Great. So we're clear on that. Boots it's your show."

He was aligning the panel and pushing into place the piece that had broken off.

"There's no cause for concern," he said. "It's not uncommon for artifacts to be found damaged. In fact the reverse is true."

"Yes," Sir Franky said," a piece would be highly suspect if pristine. Sections are often missing, corners broken off, even when found in situ."

"Even in situ?" I asked. "Wouldn't all the bits be present?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe the artifact had been previously broken long before whatever caused it to be buried or abandoned. So it would be uncommonly rare for something to be undamaged. This particular item has lost a portion of the top corner. Or do you have the broken bits?"

"No. It's as I found it. And there are other breaks too. This crack continues through the piece, but it hasn't broken off. It may have been repaired with some sort of adhesive, some animal mucilage. And neither is that uncommon. But that's not the problem, if the piece is authentic."

Sir Franky was scrutinizing the panel tracing the breaks and cracks with his finger.

"But there's something else, Sir Franky. And here is where we can use your expertise."

"Did you say, _if it's authentic?_ "

"Yes."

"Oh dear."

He leaned across to get a better look.

"Let me get my laptop, it's in the car. I'll be a minute."

"You're thinking the panel isn't the real deal?" I said to Boots.

"Yes. But let's wait until the expert takes a look. I don't want to stick my neck out yet."

"But you have a good reason to suspect that..."

"Let's wait for Sir Franky," Lee-Ann said. "In the meantime I could use cigarette." She fished a pack out of her purse and went out on the deck. I followed.

"Lee-Ann. Can you tell me what the hell is going on here?"

"Yes, but let's wait until Sir Franky gives his opinion, okay?"

She took a few healthy drags, stubbed it out against the sole of her shoe and discarded the butt in the garbage can.

"Come on," she said going back in.

"Let me review and highlight what I discussed at the museum the other night."

I was glad he did, as it brought back the history of the piece and its significance to the culture. The different deities and how the people relied on their gods and idols to guide and shape their lives. Gods and goddesses –for war, for peace, artisans. And the Queen of the Night –a goddess for prostitutes.

"Any questions?" he asked. This was a review for me but new for Boots and the two women.

"Quite fascinating," Joan said. "A goddess to protect prostitutes. Sex workers need all the help they can get, don't they?"

"No argument there," he said. "But keep in mind this is all somewhat speculative. Not all scholars share my view."

"And what I find fascinating," Joan continued, "is that you can actually determine that the museum panel and the one in the British Museum came from not only the same workshop but also from the same mold."

"So do I," Sir Franky said. "The fact that the two specimens date to three thousand years ago and were produced in the same workshop is astounding. Especially that they were not found anywhere near each other. The provenance of the London panel, in the British Museum, offers no suggestion as to where it was originally found, and given the anonymous ownership of _your_ museum panel, we aren't likely to discover where it originated either.

"But that doesn't really give pause for concern. Artifacts were sold, shipped, stolen and moved by invading armies. There's no way to tract them really.

"As you can see," he told us. "The museum panel. And this one," he tapped it, "have every indication that they also came from the same workshop. Uncanny, wouldn't you say?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Here. Take a look." He turned his MacBook so we could follow, pointing out on the images the evidence showing that they came from the same mold.

"See how the artist manipulated the clay. The folds and creases. And although it's easy enough to see it is mold-made there is other evidence to the uniqueness of each artifact. The differences in the wigs –the treatment of the hair. Little incised designs. And these markings below to indicate mountains. And the London piece even has remnants of color, but none on the your museum panel. And that's okay. Nor is there any color evidence in this one. Boots's sample.

"And that too, is not a particularly suspect observation. But one with color traces and two without? Not even a trace?  No, I find that a bit odd. A bit disconcerting actually."

"I think there's more," Boots said.

"Oh, yes. I didn't miss that." He picked up his magnifying glass and again went over the panel.

"See here? And here."

We craned our necks for a better view, Boots sitting back and looking a bit smug.

"Those little white bits?"

"Yes, Gregor. Those little white bits."

"Are they color remnants?"

"No, I don't believe they are. When the artist was done the piece was allowed to dry completely before firing in a kiln for permanency. The final touch was painting on the color. Of course they knew about glazes and slips, but just as often the pieces were painted."

"Glazed pottery wouldn't lose colour," Boots offered. "Paint fades, flakes, gets rubbed off."

"Exactly. But occasionally remnants do remain. In crevices. Surface color rarely. Except in the case of glazes of course. But these white bits that Gregor pointed out. Not paint. Let me give you a bit of background. For white, they used gypsum. Soot was used for black. Or ground charcoal. Blue was made from ground cobalt. Red ochre is an earth. Green from copper. These elements were ground in a mortar and pestle and mixed in a binder. The Babylonians used cedar oil.

"The white bits, might be plaster. Now let me hedge a bit and stress the word _might_. Boots is convinced but I have my doubts. It's rare for plaster to survive the intense heat of a firing. Even today in the work of contemporary potters, plaster bits may find their way into the clay. When clay is prepared, when it's kneaded –wedged is the correct term. When it's wedged, the working surface is usually a large flat slab of plaster. If any plaster bits get into the clay, the piece may be damaged in the firing process. This panel obviously survived the firing. Mind you the bits are very small, barely crumb size."

He looked at Boots who nodded.

"And this means?" my father asked.

"This means, Gregor, that this piece is a fake."

"A fake?"

"Let's just say, until further analysis, that the _whitish_ bits do suggest the panel is a fake. Okay? We can let Professor Horrowitz elaborate."

"Thank you, Sir Franky. I don't want to add to the confusion. But as an alternative to what appears to be plaster, over a long time, ground moisture can wick through the buried pottery. Unglazed pottery is porous. The salts in the ground can effloresce leaving crystals in the artifact. On the surface. But not in this case since we don't believe that these panels, the faked panels, were even buried. That's why I think the whitish bits are plaster and originate from a mold. A plaster mold."

"A good argument," Sir Franky said, "and I won't rule it out. But we also considered that the Babylonians used clay to make molds, and in that case we wouldn't see plaster bits. If that's what they are. Another reason suggesting the two panels are fakes." My father had poured scotch and Sir Franky took a sip.

"We know the panels were made from a mold. And all the characteristics indicate they were made from the same mold. Of that I am one hundred percent sure.  I refer only to the museum piece and this one." He tapped it again.

"Not the one in the British Museum?"

Sir Franky took a deep breath.

"No, Gregor. I don't think so."

"Well, I don't get it," my father said. Me too the others chorused.

"Boots. Care to do the honors?"

"Like Sir Franky said. We can't be a hundred percent sure at this point. But my guess– our guess is that someone has managed to create copies or fakes from the original Queen of the Night."

"My God," Joan said. "Are you sure?"

"No, we're not sure. But there's strong evidence so far. Maybe Sir Franky can explain."

"As I've said, there are so many similarities which is very strong evidence, if not irrefutable evidence, that your museum panel and this one are based on the authentic Queen of the Night, the one in the British Museum.

"Certainly the elements they share are not identical. I've explained why the surface treatments may vary. But the characteristics of the mold that was used are very clear in the finished products."

"But why do you say they're fakes? The plaster bits you say is a clue, but you're not even sure of that."

"Well," Sir Franky said, pausing to choose his words. "Let's just say there are several more clues which are more convincing.

"But until I can confirm my suspicions, I won't disclose what they are at this time. I need something more definitive than speculative whitish bits." He paused again, considering whether to say more.

"Of course you know that I authenticated the museum panel. Your Madonna Bra. So it's my reputation that could end up a shambles. Forgive me if I appear less than forthcoming at this point. I really need more convincing proof."

"Oh dear," my father said.

"Yes, oh dear indeed."

"Let's take a breath," I said. "It's not conclusive. You both agree on that."

"Not conclusive regarding the _whitish_ bits, Sam. We are however, in agreement that the panels are fakes. I'll be lucky if I'm not tarred and feathered. That would be easier to endure! Being sued for a few million dollars?"  He shook his head and took a healthy swallow.

"Hang on a sec Franky. Hang on. First of all, if you identify the panel as fake, you'll be credited with exposing this fraud."

"A bit like locking the barn door after the horse has bolted, don't you think?"

"No, I don't. But for now let's put that thought away. We need to, or you need to," he added, speaking to Geoff. "And you too Joan. You have to follow this up before Sir Franky spills the beans."

"Yes. None of this. Our suspicions can't get out. Can't leave this room until we are sure." Lee-Ann said looking at Sir Franky.

"Okay," he said. "I'm not that anxious to tell the world that I screwed up."

"You didn't screw up," my father told him. "Let's leave that for now."

"The next step as I see it is this. And I agree that we have to keep this under wraps. But if we're going to determine –rather if I'm going to determine the authenticity..." he paused. "Under the circumstances I think authenticity is the wrong word. Rather I need to determine how this new mold has come about."

"And we have some thoughts on that," Boots said.

"Can you share?" my father asked.

Boots looked at Sir Franky.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he said.

"Sir Franky and I have discussed this already. Earlier this evening after the others left, we spoke and arrived at a couple of conclusions. Our next step, or rather Sir Franky's next step, is to have a good look at the original. The British Museum Queen of the Night."

"Yes, the original bears a thorough examination now."

"What? You think that's a fake too!"

"No at all, Gregor. No the Queen of the Night occupies her rightful place."

"What kind of examination?" Joan wanted to know.

"After looking at these two panels and my discussions with Boots, I suspect –we both strongly suspect that the original Queen of the Night has been tampered with."

"How do you mean?" Geoff asked grimacing after a swallow of cold coffee.

"Come on folks. Care to air your thoughts?" Sir Franky rapped the panel.

"Let me take a stab," Joan said. "Since the new panels, the museum's and this one, both share the same imperfections as the original _and_ the two new ones are fakes, then someone must have made a mold from the London Queen of the Night."

"You got it," Boots told her. "You got it."

"And that's what I have to confirm. And to do that, I need you to agree that I contact my colleagues. I know we need to keep this between ourselves, but I won't lie to my colleagues if pressed for information. I'm in a deep hole as it is regarding your museum panel. I'm not going to keep digging."

"You shouldn't lie," Geoff said. "I agree. But don't volunteer and do try to hedge. Can you agree to that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that works for me. Joan?" She nodded.

"How do you propose approaching your colleagues? After all these years hanging in the British Museum, suddenly someone –you– wants a further analysis."

"You let me worry about that."

"No, Sir Franky. Not good enough."

"It'll have to be," he said holding firm. "It's my neck and I've given my word. I won't compromise your investigation. Trust me on this," he said holding Geoff's gaze.

"Fair enough, Sir Franky."

"And we'll leave it at that."

"Good idea, Gregor," Geoff said getting up.

"Any idea when we'll hear back from you on this Sir Franky?" Geoff asked.

"Give me a couple of days. Especially with the time differences. A couple of days should do it. And one more thing Geoff."

"Yes, Sir Franky."

"Enough with the Sir Franky. Please. Everyone. It's Franky. Just Franky."

"Well then, Sir Franky. Just Franky it is." Leave it to my father.

We were all tired to the point of giddiness. Lee-Ann left first promising she'd stay in touch. Franky was next, offering Lee-Ann a lift, but she had her own wheels. Joan hung back on the sidewalk to have a few words with Geoff. After saying my own goodbyes to Boots and my father I went home, pulling my clothes off as I climbed the stairs. I don't know how long Geoff and Joan conferred but I was asleep before he came to bed.

In the afternoon, three days later, Boots called.

"Just heard from Sir Franky." I looked at my watch. It had to be dinnertime– or was it tea time in London.

"Some interesting news, Sam. Very interesting."

"Okay. Spill it."

"I won't get into details. Sir Franky wants to do that himself and he'll be back sometime tomorrow."

"He'll be back? I didn't know he'd left."

"Neither did I actually."

"I thought he was just going to get his colleagues, or someone at the British Museum to check out their Queen of the Night."

"Well, yes, he did. But his email said he wanted to check it out for himself. And that he'd fill us in when he got back. And that's tomorrow."

"That's a bit odd, don't you think?"

"Odd? What do mean?"

"That he contacts you."

"You mean instead of Geoff."

"Well, yes. Or Joan maybe."

"Given the stern warning from Geoff, he probably preferred to tell me. Essentially he just wants me to pass along when he's arriving and that he wants to give the details in person."

"What did he say about the panel? The one in London panel."

"Just that's there's evidence it was tampered with. Tampered in a way indicating a procedure to make a mold."

"That's it?"

"Quite enough, I'd say. Now we've something to think about. If Freddy or Roger is involved in creating fake artifacts, that's pretty big news. Especially since there's so much money involved. Creates a different perspective. Gives food for thought about my break-in and Bob almost getting killed too. And Roger's murder, which we know had nothing to do with a home invasion."

"I think you're right." I told him. "And if Freddy in involved and it does look that way these guys will stop at nothing to protect what they're doing."

"Exactly."

"Before we jump to conclusions, let's hear what Sir Franky has to say."

"Of course. But now I know why I was targeted."

"We can't be sure about that. You still need to keep a low profile."

"I know that. But oddly I don't feel so insecure. Maybe it's knowing the why of it."

"Nevertheless."

"I get it, Sam. Believe me. But this means we can take some initiative. We need to do the chasing."

"Boots! That's for the police. What do you think Geoff is doing? And Lee-Ann. And Joan too. Not to mention Interpol and Abdul and the Jordanian police."

"I'm not going to roam around in a Deer Stalker and magnifying glass looking for clues. But if what Sir Franky says is true, and I'm sure it is, now we have a different focus. We know what they, whoever _they_ are– are trying to protect."

"I'm not disagreeing. But you can't jump the gun on this. Promise you won't go off half-cocked.  With this new information, maybe it won't be much longer to get this settled."

"I hope you're right. It's been weeks. What about the fall semester? That's coming close. What am I supposed to do? Your father is terrific, but he doesn't need a permanent houseguest. And what about my job? Do I hire private detectives to watch me twenty-four seven?"

"You've come this far. Hang in a bit longer. And don't worry about my father. He couldn't be more thrilled to have an archeologist as a houseguest. Believe me."

"Okay, okay. I won't do anything stupid. And I won't start roaming around either. Mind you, I have thought of getting up some kind of disguise." He laughed but I didn't put it past him.

"I've got to hang up now. I've a message from Geoff, but run this by my father."

"I will. He's due back. His morning with the kids at the hospital."

"Oh right. I forgot. In that case, you should know that these visits shake him up. He might not be in a particularly receptive mood."

"Thanks for the heads up."

We barely ended our call when Geoff rang again.

"Hi, Sam. Just checking in. How are you?"

"Feel great actually." He stopped referring to me as the _little mother_. I debated passing on the Sir Franky news or waiting until he came home.

"Just spoke with Boots. He had a message from Sir Franky." A pause.

"Geoff?"

"I'm here. A message from Sir Franky," he repeated.

"Yes."

"Interesting. He called Boots?"

"It was email."

"Whatever. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?"

"Oh, sorry. Just that he's pretty sure someone did something to the original panel, The Queen of the Night in the British Museum. Something suggesting a mold was made."

"I'm in the dark here, can you elaborate?"

"That's all the message said. Correction. That's all Boots told me was in Sir Franky's email."

"I'm taking a big leap here. That could mean there's a very well organized plot. If a mold or molds are being made from authentic museum artifacts, the implications are enormous. Listen I got to go."

"Wait! Don't hang up. This isn't confirmed yet. Sir Franky is due back tomorrow. Wants to tell us –you and Joan and Lee-Ann too. I gather he wants to do this in person with everyone."

I had another missed call but didn't recognize the number and before I could check I heard the door open.

"I'm in the kitchen. Come in."

"We're in, we're in."

"Are we disturbing you, Sammy? We could come back."

"No, you're not disturbing me." He held out pan wrapped in Saran.

"I took the pan and unwrapped a corner.

"Galactobourekoh. Careful, it can be a bit sloppy."

While I struggled with the wrap he made himself at home hunting in the fridge. Boots stood by awkwardly.

"Here," I said to him. "Make yourself useful and put this in the garbage on the deck.

"I take it Boots relayed Sir Franky's message."

"Yes, he did, Sammy. He did."

"Thoughts?"

"A great many. A great many." He was measuring coffee grounds; taking care the amount in the spoon was level. Maybe I was adopted.

"As I told Nathan, we shouldn't speculate. There are too many variables. Sir Franky can fill in the blanks when we see him. If we see him."

"We will, we will. I invited him to come directly from the airport. Not here here, I mean at my place. And as a guest while he's in town."

"A guest?" What was he running –a Bed and Breakfast?

"I have enough room you know."

"I know that. I used to live there, remember?" He laughed.

"You know, Nathan and Sir Franky know each other."

"That's a stretch," Boots said, coming back in. "I said professionally. We met some time back at a conference. Your father gives me too much credit. But it's true. The other night wasn't our first encounter."

So that's why he's communicating with you, I thought. They did seem quite chummy for too people who had supposedly just met.

We took our coffee and the custard and filo confection out to the deck. It was still warm and pleasant. That would end too soon.

They speculated about the fakes and the many ramifications and no amount of suggesting they wait for the expert's opinion deterred them. Of course they preferred to promote their own agendas.

I got tired of listening and went in using the excuse that I wanted to call Geoff.

"So," my father said, when I returned. "What does Geoff think about this?"

"I'll let him communicate his own thoughts to you personally." He found that funny.

"Actually he called to say he'd not be in for dinner." I didn't explain.

"Every cloud has a silver lining, Sammy. You're dining with us." He got up and said to Boots, "Come on. Let's go. We need to talk." What had they been doing, I wanted to ask. Boots looked at me and all but shrugged his shoulders.

They headed off, but not before clearing the up the dishes. I could get used to this.

"See you later. You know when."

Yes, I did. Poor Boots, so concerned about giving offence or becoming an unwelcome would end up screaming and running into the traffic driven by my father's smothering. At least I didn't have to prepare a meal. I loaded the dishwasher then checked my iPhone. I'd become a slave to all things Apple. And noticing again the unrecognized number I punched in the contact.

"Oh, Sam. It's Hannah. I'm so relieved you called." Before I could reply she said.

"I think some one is trying to kill Freddy."

# Chapter 14

"Hannah? What happened? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. It's Freddy I'm worried about. They've already killed my Rajah."

"Hannah. What are you saying? Who killed Rajah?"

"I don't know who exactly. They're powerful and I think they're going to kill Freddy next."

"Where is he? Freddy, where is he now?"

"I don't know where he is. He said it was best if I didn't. And not too worry."

"Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I'm at home. I think so. It's him they want he told me."

"Listen," I said trying to speak calmly. "I don't want to alarm you, but if they come for Freddy and only find you, they'll expect you know where he is. You're in danger if you stay at home."

"The security here is top level. No way anyone can get up to our penthouse. Impossible." Nothing is impossible I wanted to say.

"I'll take your word for that. But this is what I'm going to do. Hannah?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

"I'm calling Geoff. He'll arrange additional security."

"That's not necessary, really, Sam."

"Hannah. No argument. You've just lost Rajah and now you say Freddy is at risk. Geoff will see to this. I'm hanging up now."

"Call me back!"

"Yes, I'll call you back. I'm hanging up."

For a change I got through to him. Instead of a text I called the station directly, I identified myself and asked that Detective London call me a soon as possible.

"What's wrong, Sam. You okay?"  He never panicked, but there was always a change in his voice.

"Yes, I'm fine. We're fine. But I think Hannah is in trouble."

After explaining I called Hannah who answered in the middle of the first ring.

"Geoff's on his way now with an officer who will stay with you. And he wants to ask you some questions. Maybe there's something you know that will help."

"I don't know anything. Just what Freddy said. And that was not helpful."

"Just let Geoff handle it, okay?"

"Yes. Thanks. Oh that's the door. Probably him now."

"Don't hang up, Hannah. Hannah?"

"What?"

"Don't hang up. And check before you open the door. And tell Geoff I'm still on the line."

"Okay, I'll do that."

I heard her put the phone down then muffled voices.

"Sam?"

"I'm glad you're there. I was worried."

"No, we're good here. But I'm hanging up."

At this point I went next door.

"That's a new wrinkle," Boots said. "Someone is getting desperate."

"Yes," my father said. "And desperate people make mistakes. Unfortunately along the way people are getting hurt."

"They're getting dead too!" Boots said.

"And I'm starting to worry," I said. Actually fear was what I was feeling. "This is starting to hit too close to home and we aren't getting anywhere. I know they're working on this. Nothing else occupies Geoff's mind. And Joan too. Even Lee-Ann has her fingers in this pie."

"And yet they're not making much headway. Just when I think I've been over reacting and can get back to a normal life, something else happens."

"The key is the Madonna Bra."

"Dad?"

"Let's go back a bit. Actually let's go back a lot. To the dig. You and Nathan almost getting killed. Even though they missed you could have been killed in a crash. That's number one.

"Number two," he said counting off on his fingers, is the two men killed. Abdul's men. Okay?" I nodded.

"Then it was quiet until the break-in at Nathan's. That's three."

"And four," I said, "is Bob getting hurt."

"You missed a step." Boots said.

"What step is that?" I asked.

"Right," my father said. "The step where Nathan recovered the relief panel. That second Madonna Bra."

"One is getting shot at. Two is Abdul's men. Three, when I found the panel in the cave."

"Four," I said is the break-in at your place. Five my lecherous friend getting mugged."

"And six," Boots added, "is poor Rajah getting killed."

"And now this business with Freddy," I said.

"As I said before, someone is getting desperate."

"You said you thought the key is the Madonna Bra?"

"Yes, I do Nathan. Yes, I do." We both looked at him expectantly.

"The Madonna Bra," he repeated. "Of course we need a bit more input. And Sir Franky will do that. Did I mention, Sammy, he'll be here tomorrow?" He tapped the drum table beside him.

"Yes, you did."

"There's a lot of money in the antiquities trade. And that contributes directly to the murder of so many. This isn't war. It's the wanton murder of innocent civilians." Boots was visibly getting worked up.

"It's in our faces everyday," I said. "Just turn on the TV."

"Exactly. You can't get away from it. And being cooped up as I have been I watched more TV news than I ever have. It's relentless. And they keep replaying all those clips. Cell phone videos. IPad videos. Legit news videos. People dying in the streets. Beheadings, stonings, hands being hacked off."

"Nathan," my father said in a calming voice," that's why we have to figure this out. Maybe it's just a small part, but it's equally destructive. If they're creating fakes they can raise a great deal of money. The Madonna Bra is key, I'm sure of it." He stopped talking and looked at his watch.

"Go on," I said to him, "you've something more I can tell."

"Yes, Sammy, I do. But it's time for some dinner. Don't know about you but I'm hungry."

"Dad. Let the other shoe drop."

"We can eat and talk, no? I thought multi-tasking was your thing." He laughed on his way to the kitchen.

"You kidding? I can barely walk and chew gum."

There was no arguing with him. We would eat. And talk.

"Okay," I said. "Let's have it."

"Yes. Where was I? He said. "Right. The Madonna Bra. Like I said, I think it's key." He chewed and thought some more. He could be infuriating.

"I'm wondering if it's all about creating fakes. We know there's tons of money involved. And thousands of sites are exploited and destroyed. But most don't yield spectacular treasures. Historically rich, but no goldmines."

"You've got that right. Over the years my finds have been modest in terms of value. Monetary value I mean."

"Further to my point," my father said, "these looters and terror groups need money. And a lot of it. And when the antiquities stop yielding huge sums, then what?"

"Are you saying creating fakes is the way to go?"

"It's one way to go, Sammy." More chewing.

"Look," he said putting down his fork. Freddy or whoever creates fakes, okay? And the fake Madonna Bra, sold, as we are well aware, for two million dollars. And that's just from our museum, right here." He tapped the table. "And didn't you say that Joan had traced the money to the Caymans?"

"Yes, she did. And the two million raised at the auction, made his charity that much richer."

"Exactly my point," he said stabbing the air with his fork.

"Makes sense," Boots said. "But how to prove it."

"Assuming we're on the right track, and I am convinced I am, we have a good idea what's going on here. And how high the stakes are. All that money has to be protected and they're killing people to do so."

"Let's hear what Sir Franky has to say before drawing conclusions."

"I've a good idea already, Sammy."

"I hope you're right about this. Otherwise it's back to square one. I can't live here forever."

"Patience, Nathan. Patience. We're getting there."

I didn't see Geoff until breakfast the next day.

"Morning," I mumbled coming into the kitchen. He came over for a hug and a kiss.

"Ugh," I said turning my face. "Morning breath. But a cup of coffee would be welcome."

"Coming right up."

I sat at my place and tried to keep my eyes open.

"When did you get home, I didn't hear a thing?"

"Quite late. Early actually." His skin had a gray cast and there were bags under his eyes.  A crash was imminent if this case didn't end soon."

"How's Hannah?"

"She's fine. Or as fine as anyone can be given the circumstances. We've an officer staying with her." His tone suggested I shouldn't ask questions.

"But as for Freddy, he hasn't contacted her and she's frantic about that."

"No wonder. If he contacts her maybe he puts her in jeopardy. He doesn't and she worries herself to death."

"Has she any idea where he might hole up?"

"Not that she's said. Of course we're looking, but we've no leads. None at all."

"What about...?" I realized I was starting to pry.

"Go on," he said. "If I can't answer, I'll say so."

"I was going to ask about his jet. Maybe he took off and went back to Jordan."

"No. His jet is still at the hangar. Besides I doubt he'd do that."

"That's probably the last place he'd go."

"You know something I don't?" he asked peering over his mug.

"I don't think so. Well maybe."

"Maybe?" He put the mug down.

I told him my father's ideas, and what the three of us had deduced from the information we had, however little it was.

"That's a very interesting take. Joan and I hadn't given that a lot of thought." He looked at his watch. "I need to run that by her. And soon." He drained his coffee and put the mug in the sink.

"Anything else you guys come up with? Gregor's take is worth more than a passing thought."

"That's it so far."

"It's well worth following up. Shed's a bit of light as to why Freddy has taken a powder."

"But he's in danger, don't you think?"

"They already killed several people, and his son, I'd say it's a strong possibility."

"The smart thing would be for him to call the police. Or you. He knows you."

"Yes, it would be the smart thing. Obviously Freddy doesn't see it that way, and I have to wonder why."

"If he really is involved in raising money for terrorists I can understand not wanting the police on his case. And with Rajah murdered, if he's hiding from whoever killed him, he might have had a falling out with them. Either way it doesn't bode well for him."

"Right. I got to run." He squeezed my shoulder and kissed me.

"I won't be late. I promise. As a matter of fact Joan and I both want to hear more of what Sir Franky has to say."

As luck would have it, neither Geoff nor Joan was able to make it.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm going to be late again. But you're going to be there right?"

"Want me to take notes?" I was joking but he said yes.

"Wish I could be there."

"Don't worry, you'll get the details. My father will see to that."

That afternoon I must have fallen asleep while reading and was jarred awake by the phone. It was seven thirty.

"Sammy, where are you, we're waiting? I was about to come and check."

"Just getting out of the bath I lied." I'd been sleeping since three. Jesus.

"I'll be right over. Five minutes."

I splashed my face with cold water and tried to get rid of the sleep wrinkles.

"So good to see you again, Sam." He took my hand in both of his and steered me to a spot on the sofa.

"You look well," he said.

"Thank you." At least he didn't say I glowed.

"You ate, Sammy, I hope. I can fix you a plate."

"A cup of tea would not be refused," I said offering Sir Franky a smile.

"Funny you should say that. I was just telling Gregor the same thing. I do enjoy his scotch, mind you, but I'm not fond of next day headaches."

"Fiddle faddle, Franky. Fiddle faddle." Who was this man?

"Nathan? Tea or..."

"I'll have _or_ Gregor, but a small one."

After settling with tea and _or_ , Sir Franky addressed the issue at hand.

"When we left off the other evening I determined –or alleged– that the panel was fake. As well as the panel purchased by the museum at auction. And accordingly I wanted to investigate further by confirming that with my colleagues. That has now been confirmed.

"You're sure about that, Franky?"

"Yes, quite sure. But let me continue. It'll be clear, I assure you. Just bear with me.

"I confirmed with my colleagues at the British Museum. The Keeper of the Babylonian collection and two other experts in this field inspected the Queen of the Night."

"Was it damaged in any way?"

"Not at all, Gregor. It was in the same condition. Still utterly beautiful. It's very well protected in the display case. The Queen is just as radiant. Still majestic. The owls just as wise." He couldn't resist a chuckle.

"But," he made a pained expression.

"On close inspection, there was some residue embedded in a crevice."

"That sounds normal enough. There must be dust and dirt on it. I doubt the panel would have been scoured."

"That's true. And the previous owner may not have kept it stored the way a museum might. So yes, there'd be some dirt. Or adhesive from a repair as the Queen consisted of several pieces that had to be reassembled.

"But that's not what I refer to. No, this residue was a piece of latex. Further testing will confirm that. But trust me on this. It was latex."

"And that's significant?" I asked.

"Very much. Absolutely. Sadly, I admit, it conforms my suspicions."

"It's a fake too!"

"No, no. The Queen's authentic. That's not it."

"I'm confused," I said and my father admitted as much.

"Boots, would you care to illuminate?"

"That latex residue," he said, "is a tiny remnant that adhered to the Queen of the Night when the mold was removed." We still weren't getting it.

"Bear with me a moment. Latex is used –not always– but in this instance latex was used to create a mold of the Queen of the Night."

"Ah," my father said getting it before I did.

"They covered the panel with latex?" I said.

"Yes. A liquid solution of latex was applied over the panel and allowed to set. The latex takes a very detailed impression of the piece. Think CSI. You know. That American show."

"And from that copies can be made?"

"Yes, exactly. But that's the first step," Sir Franky added. "Only the first step. From the latex mold a cast has to be made. The latex is too fragile and deforms to easily to handle the clay directly, so a cast is carefully made. You with me so far?"

I nodded and my father was hunched over examining the panel.

"Okay then. From the latex, which is a negative impression, a positive image has to be made. An image exactly like the clay Queen. Still with me? There's a way to go yet."

"So far," I said. My father was still scrutinizing the panel.

"Now. This positive image is cast in plaster, from the latex mold. And with considerable care. You need someone who knows what he's doing."

"I'm with you so far. You end up with a plaster Queen of the Night."

"Exactly. Once you have the plaster facsimile you now need to make another mold. You need something from which to create the copy. The fake. You need a mold far more durable than the latex."

"You're starting to lose me. This is a second mold?"

"Yes. Hang in it'll be clear shortly why. But stop me at any point.

"We now have new plaster positive, which is an accurate replica of the original, the Queen of the Night." He paused.

"No questions so far?"

"Not yet."

"Here the artist has two choices. He can make a mold, a new mold from the plaster positive model. Right? He can use plaster again. But there's a risk of contaminating the clay and that may pose problems during the firing process, as I've already mentioned. In all likelihood clay was used to create a second mold, as did the Babylonians, _from_ the plaster positive. And when the mold, the clay mold was sufficiently dry it was fired. This results in a permanent clay, or terra cotta mold."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"Oh, it is but think of the pay off. Two million dollars."

"Yes. A lot of money. But we're only at the mold stage."

"Yes. That's right. We still need to make a replica, a copy. The artist, or whoever made these fake panels, uses clay in much the same way the Babylonian craftsmen did. Straw would be added to the clay as the ancients did."

"Okay, I have a question. Why add the straw?"

"Good question. It's a tempering agent, that helps prevent shrinkage and cracking during drying and firing. I'll address shrinkage in a bit."

"Okay, I'm still with you."

"Gregor?"

"No, no questions. Very interesting process."

"And it gets better. Once the clay in the mold is leather hard, it's removed and embellishments are added. Like the Babylonian potters who created the original Queen of the Night. I covered that, if you recall, at the museum talk."

"Yes, do I remember."

"Although you will end up with a true replica when the piece is fired, in fact you do not."

"Now, I am lost," my father said.

"Me too."

Boots was sitting patiently listening and watching our reactions, without commenting.

"Clay, when fired shrinks. Even with the tempering agent, the straw. Some clays more than others. Shrinking is inevitable. All samples from the original mold would no doubt show very similar shrinkage. Care to guess where I'm going with this?"

Neither one of us had a clue.

"Let's go back a bit. The Queen of the Night. The original. It's obviously fired clay. It has done its shrinking, okay?"

"Ah," my father said. "The mold was made from the fired piece and it too will shrink when it's fired. Any piece subsequently made from a new mold will also shrink." Finally I got it.

"And," I interjected, "these new pieces, the fakes –this one and the museum's– would in fact be a bit smaller than the original in the British Museum."

"Yes, that's it! These two, and I've checked them. And measured them. They are almost identical. I conferred with my colleagues and they gave me the exact measurements of the Queen. Our samples are indeed smaller. The differences are significant. Not really evident unless you make a direct comparison since they are so accurately copied. But the differences are measurable. Any panels made at the time of the original would show minor differences but those differences would lie in an acceptable range. And our two panels, meaning this one," he tapped it, "and the one in your museum might also have minor differences but they would also be in the acceptable range. But. Comparing the new with the old shows discrepancies beyond what would be expected."

"And that, therefore, is indicative without any doubt that we are dealing with faked Queens of the Night." Boots smiled triumphantly.

"Your conclusion is based on these discrepancies, in the differences in measurement."

"Yes, Gregor."

"What about those plaster bits?"

"In conclusive, Gregor. I'm not even considering them at this point."

"But it's possible?"

"Yes," he sighed. "Still possible. Might be some bits from the wedging board, but at this point not worth the speculation, specially not with the information regarding the shrinkage."

"The evidence you uncovered," I said, "seems to be overwhelming."

"Right. I do believe so. You see," he went on, "The details transferred from the mold. And I refer to the details in the original in the British Museum. Those details match one hundred percent with the fakes. The Madonna Bra in the museum and this one. One hundred percent, with the only difference being that they are fractionally smaller due to the shrinkage. There is absolutely no way the new pieces could have come from the same shop as the original. In spite of the overwhelming _appearance_ that they are identical."

"Amazing," my father said. "Absolutely amazing."

"And had they not tried to shoot me and Boots out of the sky there's no telling how far they could carry this."

"Yes, Sammy. That I think precipitated the whole thing."

"Except that I made it worse," Boots said.

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"If I hadn't gone back to snoop I wouldn't have found this panel. I wish I hadn't."

"Nathan. Nathan. Listen to me." My father reached out and touched his arm. "You didn't cause any of this. Okay? You are _not_ responsible. Listen to me.  Whoever is behind this– Freddy or even Rajah– we still don't know. But get this. They are responsible. Not you."

"Then why do I feel so damn guilty!" He rubbed his hand over his face.

"You've projected the blame onto yourself. Yes, you went back. And snooped. And you took the panel out of the cave and brought it back. You had suspicions of illegal activities and acted. Do not beat yourself up. Face it, Nathan. Had you _not_ found the panel worse could happen."

Sir Franky was taken aback wondering what all this was about. I started to explain but Boots interjected giving Sir Franky the background.

"Good grief. So much intrigue! I had no idea of the scope. Of course I'm aware of all the looting and destruction. But this is incredible. Gregor, a stiff scotch would be in order."

"Me too," Boots piped. I could have used a stiff drink myself.

"That certainly puts a different perspective on things," Sir Frank said.

"How do you mean," my father asked looking over his shoulder from the sideboard.

"It's becoming more than just identifying fakes. Ultimately it's about the large sums of money, I know. And the terror groups you mentioned being fed by Freddy through his charities. But unless I miss my guess, this is probably widespread. Given the galleries Freddy Malek controls."

"You got that right," Boots said. "But you have something else in mind?"

"Yes. I'm wondering if there are other frauds, like this Madonna Bra. I'll bet on it from what you've been telling me."

"That could very well be. We've been so focused on what's happening in front of us to consider any other possibilities." My father was rolling his glass between his palms warming the Good Stuff.

"Looks like I have to do a bit more homework," Sir Franky said. "I'll start inquiring. I've a lot of contacts in museums internationally. Very discreetly I assure you. A few questions in the right ear. Or ears."

He took a sip then added. "Given how elaborately this fraud has been perpetrated, I'm willing to bet this scam has been put to practice elsewhere. But to answer your question, I doubt they could get away with more than a couple. This one and the museum's. Three would be too much of a stretch. In fact the two fakes make a total of three, which is suspect enough. Yet, given man's capacity for greed, rich collectors wanting to have something rare and precious are not hard to exploit or dupe. They may be a good market. But selling to another museum I'd say is out of the question. Given all the publicity, no curator would give such a piece a second thought. At least I hope not!"

"You said other frauds like it. What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"I'm guessing here. I have to do some homework as I said. What if there are other artifacts of high value that they are copying? Their method, although it entails some risk in accessing the artifact to make the latex mold, is rather fool proof. If they're careful and they seem to be very careful, this is a worthwhile scam to say the least. Make a few copies, no more than say two, three would be pushing it. Make sure there are little differences, anomalies, to make the item unique but sufficiently _authentic_. Like these two." He tapped the panel.

"And given the amount of money to be made, you really don't have to churn out very many."

"Exactly, Sam. A few well chosen pieces. An antiquity with pedigree. Something that could have been produced as a multiple."

"I'm not that sure you can do this reliably," Boots said to him.

"You mean because of authenticity testing?"

"Yes. The testing could be a problem, I'm thinking."

"True enough, especially if the piece is particularly significant. It could pose a problem."

"What if the artifacts weren't _significant_?" I said.

"What do you mean by that?" my father asked.

"In the museum, in Israel. I saw any number of small items, about eight or ten inches. Not that valuable, but if you make enough copies you can generate a fair amount of money. And these items are almost common, selling them wouldn't arouse suspicion I'm sure. I don't think you'd find them in gift shops, but I wouldn't rule that out. I'm thinking private collectors."

"You raise an interesting point," Sir Franky said. There was a _but_ in his tone.

"It might not be financially worthwhile. You'd need to produce a great many of them to generate the kind of money these guys want. Almost have to flood the market. As a _cottage_ industry I can see it."

"I see that. It was just a thought."

"And a good one. This copying is a tricky thing to pull off. Cheap stuff, for lack of a better word wouldn't serve them. And a rare piece would be subject to a lot of scrutiny."

"Maybe you'll discover something further," Boots told Sir Franky, "I doubt our Madonna Bra is a one-off attempt."

"But it could be," my father said. "Two million bucks!"

"Let's leave it at that for now. I'll poke around. But there is another thing I want to say about this panel and the one in the museum here."

We looked expectantly at him.

"Finger prints."

"Finger prints?"

"Yes, Gregor. This is what I did. Or had my colleagues in London do at my request. When you work in clay you can't avoid leaving fingerprints. Of course if the piece is glazed or burnished the prints are obliterated. But these panels are unglazed and there's strong likelihood of readable fingerprints. I asked my colleagues to check for prints. There were."

"How is that helpful?" No one alive to get a match I thought.

"For exclusionary purposes." Seeing my confused look he said.

"Obviously a three thousand year old fingerprints are of no consequence. But this panel and the museums will also have permanent prints in the terra cotta. No doubt about that I'm sure. These panels should also be checked for fingerprints and compared to the prints from the Queen of the Night in London. Obviously there won't be a match. But the prints from these two, the two fakes, might match and belong to whoever made them." He took another sip.

"What I'm getting at is that these prints may match someone in Freddy's circle. Don't you see?"

"Brilliant, Franky. Brilliant!"

"I don't know about brilliant Gregor. Maybe a bright glimmer though."

"I have to agree with my father, Franky. Geoff will certainly see to that. Definitely something to follow up." I picked up my cup and saucer and went into the kitchen.

For the second time I didn't see Geoff until the next morning. Usually I was up first and got the coffee started, but when he was on a case he was up long before me. The late nights and early rising would take its toll.

"Let me do that. Read the paper." I took his apron and nudged him to sit.

"Thanks. Just coffee for me." He sat and pulled the paper towards him.

"No toast or maybe some cereal?" I asked.

"No thanks. No appetite this morning." He pointed to an article on page three and shook his head. Another bombing, a church. The church was reduced to a pile of rubble, bricks and broken glass blown almost to the middle of the street. There were shoes and clothing strewn about too.

I poured his coffee and put the mug in front of him with the container of half and half.

"I'm having yogurt," I said. "With banana. I'm making one for you too. No argument.

"You missed and interesting session," I said. He folded the paper and swapped it for the bowl of yogurt.

"No doubt. And I'm sorry. Two nights in a row,"

"I know how busy you are. But you need to take care of yourself. Don't miss meals for starters."

He nodded, spooning yogurt.

"But this might be helpful."

"What might be helpful?"

I gave him a complete rundown of Sir Franky's discovery, and when I mentioned fingerprints in clay, he became suddenly energized.

"Go over that again. The bit about the latex mold. And what he said about fingerprints." He got up for a second cup and proceeded to toast several slices of bread.

"Where's the peanut butter? Got it."

I continued eating and when his toast was ready he said, "Go."

"That's really interesting. Sorry I wasn't there. Joan will be too. I hope I can give her all this info straight. You know how things change in the retelling."

"No, you've got it. Besides, you can call Franky. He said he'd be happy to go over it."

"I may just do that. In any case I'll see him when the fingerprint guy goes over. And I need to arrange that with the museum people too. Maybe Franky can do that."

After breakfast he called Joan, who'd agreed to send the fingerprint tech. In the meantime he should visit Sir Franky.

"That's settled," he said. "You think our neighbors are up yet?"

"You kidding? I wouldn't put it past my father to be holding a glass to his ear against the wall to hear what's going on."

"Okay," he laughed, "I'll pop over. Why don't you call and give him a heads up."

"No need, I'll bet the door is already open for you."

The phone rang while I was sweeping toast crumbs from the table.

"It's Hannah." I recognized the number.

"Hi, Hannah, how are you holding up?"

"I'm up and down. Swinging from despair to gloom."

"No news of Freddy? No contact?"

'No, not a word and it's killing me. I had to call you. Just to talk a bit. There's no one else. Of course the officer, her name's Melanie, Melanie Josée, is very nice. But there's only so many hands of double solitaire one can play." She paused and I didn't interrupt.

"I've friends back home, but what can I say, you know?" Another pause. "I'm sorry, Sam. I shouldn't be bothering you. You must be busy. By the way how are you? How awful of me not to have asked."

"Hannah, please don't apologize. And I'm fine thanks. Especially since I'm no longer throwing up every morning."

"What a relief that is I'm sure. Believe me I know. With Rajah I thought my whole insides were coming up." Another pause and I thought I could hear sobbing. I scolded myself for reminding her.

"How about I come for a visit? You up for that? Maybe some company will take your mind off these terrible things."

"Would you? I'd love that. But that's not why I called. I just needed to hear another voice."

"I understand. I've a few things to do, but how about an hour from now? Is that okay?"

"Yes, that would be fine. I'll be here," she laughed.

I finished up in the kitchen, had a quick shower and dressed. Not wanting to fight traffic and hunt for a parking spot I called a cab. While waiting I texted Geoff.

"You've got to tell the police," I told her. Geoff, or better, his partner Joan."

"I'm afraid, Sam. They killed Rajah and now with Freddy missing. Maybe he's already dead too." Her words gave way to sobs, her hands twisting and wringing a wad of sodden tissues.

"Hannah," I said softly. "Let me ask officer Josée to call it in. Ask for Joan. Officer Josée had left us to visit in private.

"I don't know. I don't know. If we involve the police, it can go worse for Freddy."

"First of all. There's no way for whoever is doing this to know. Besides, I doubt it's a secret that you have police protection. They may already think you told them."

She'd already dropped the bomb on me. She hadn't revealed names but I doubted Geoff or Joan wouldn't be able to narrow that down. I could think of a couple myself.

"Hannah," I said gently. "Let me call Geoff. He'll know what to do, believe me." Ultimately I'd tell him anyway. There is no way I could keep it from him, but it would be best if she disclosed this herself. I didn't want her to feel I'd betrayed her confidence. But I would.

"Hannah," I said again. With a heave of her shoulders she agreed.

"You're right, I'm sure. But you do it please. I don't think I could hold it together. You call Geoff. Or Joan. Who is Joan, anyway?"

"Geoff's partner. She was at my father's party."

"Oh, right. That seems so long ago. She's the cute one."

I excused myself and moved to the far end of the room to be a bit farther away from the kitchen. Officer Josée was French and I didn't know how good her English was. Geoff was still at my father's.

"Yes, of course I can stay with her."

"Good, I'll call Joan. She'll be there ASAP. Damn. I'd like to be there too, but this business at your father's is coming to a head. Anyway, it's probably best she deal with Joan, know what I mean?"

We ended the call. I did know what he meant, but I didn't think Hannah had a problem dealing with men. In authority or otherwise. Still, a woman might make more headway with Hannah. Geoff would certainly be sensitive enough, but Joan had a quality that put her above most of the people I'd met in law enforcement. She was a good listener, empathetic, and never judgmental. Definitely Joan was the one to do this.

About twenty minutes later, the concierge rang and officer Josée answered.

" _Oui, oui,"_ she said. _Verifiey son identification."_ Check her ID.

_"Bon."_

After a knock and verifying Joan's ID through the peephole she opened the door.

_"Merci,"_ I said to the officer; she nodded and went back to the kitchen.

Joan entered and went directly to Hannah giving her a hug.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Hannah. And now this."

"Thank you. It's not been easy and this is making it worse. No one should outlive their children. Bad enough when they get sick or have an accident. This was murder. And now Freddy." She started sobbing again. "He might be dead too."

"Let's not go there, Hannah. You need something? You have been eating I hope?"

"Yes, I've been eating."

"Okay, then. How about we get right to it? I'm going to record this, any objections?" Hannah shook her head.

"Can Sam stay?"

"I don't see why not. We're just having a chat. But I do need a record of what you say. That way there's no question."

"Fine. Fine," she said impatiently.

"Let's start at the beginning." Joan looked up at me and smiled. Geoff had relayed to her what I told him. Her smile told me to listen. Just listen.

"Let's start with a question or two, shall we?"

"Sure."

"Okay then." She put her phone down and set the record feature.

"Tell me a bit about the business. Yours and Freddy's."

"Freddy has several galleries. You know that. This one here of course. There's New York. Paris. London. He places works in private galleries too."

"Tell me about the art. Who or what he represents."

"Contemporary art. Paintings. Sculptures. Important pieces too, like Picasso. Dali. Impressionists. Late 19th century and early 20th. Occasionally something very special might come along. Say a Rembrandt or Vermeer. Renaissance artists."

"Sounds like very valuable works. How does he come by them?"

"He doesn't actually acquire them. Collectors contact Freddy. Or Rajah. They have something they want to sell, Freddy or Rajah arranges the auction."

"Interesting. And if there's a buyer? Someone who wants to add to his collection. Wants something, oh, I don't know. Something rare or special?"

"In that case the collector or potential buyer would contact my husband or Rajah. Or they did."

"And then what? How did they match seller with buyers."

"Over the years, Freddy made a lot of contacts. His reputation is excellent. He'd put the word out that he had a party interested in a particular work or works by a certain artist. And news travels fast in these circles. Eventually someone would be in touch."

"Okay. But what about antiquities, that's a little different isn't it?"

"No, not really. The business is pretty much the same. The one difference is that there is often no provenance, no reliable history of ownership. Paintings and the like have a history that is rarely in dispute. Although that can happen.

"With the antiquities market, the history may not go back very far. Unlike say a painting that can be traced back to its creation. With something thousands of years old, records are none existent in that regard. As long as there's no record that it's been stolen or looted, it's yours if you say so. Hard to prove otherwise. With subsequent sales, legitimate sales that is, documents will exist. But you can't go back to square one."

"Okay. I get all that. But it's no secret that so many artifacts come from looted sites. Especially in the last twenty years or so. Shrines. Temples. Private estates that go back centuries, many of the them, if you pardon a bad pun, have been unearthed."

"That is certainly true. Freddy has acquired many items that way over the years. I don't mean looted objects. A lot of wealthy landowners in the Middle East have important sites on their property. They hire archeologists, some from universities. And there are professional archeologists that hire themselves out to these wealthy landowners. For the most part archeologists are interested in past cultures, history, wars and conquests. Cities and city-states, which abounded in antiquity. Regime changes. What they find on the land stays with the landowners."

"And they put them on the market?"

"Many do, yes. And occasionally some pieces command a good price. Certainly covers the costs of the digging. But that is becoming speculative. But it's rare to find _treasure._ Whatever treasure existed was probably looted in antiquity, by invaders. Rarely is there something of significant value for today's looters and opportunists."

"How does Freddy fit into all of this?"

"Freddy is a agent. He has the contacts. Puts the parties together. And he takes a commission of course, which can be substantial."

"And if there's an auction?"

"And if there's an auction, so much the better.  Prices often get pushed way up. Especially with competitive bidding."

"Right, right. Tell me a bit about the looted artifacts." Here Hannah tensed.

"I'm not a hundred percent sure." She paused. "Yes, I _am_ a hundred percent sure, but I have no proof." She twisted her hands and ran them along her thighs.

"Joseph."

"Joseph. Freddy's driver."

"He's more than a driver. He's a big part of the business. He meets with clients. Even goes to some of the digs. The private ones I mean. But I have a feeling he's doing much more than that."

"Can you explain?" The recorder was on but Joan was also writing notes, more to give the appearance that she wasn't just interviewing or questioning a suspect.

"I think Joseph is involved with looting. It's been months that Freddy has been acting odd."

"Odd? How do you mean?"

"Freddy became deferential to him. And that is not Freddy. Freddy is always in charge. But the last several months that seemed to change. Freddy was the one who called Joseph, initiated contact. Gave orders or instructions about this or that. Anything to do with the business. But lately when I overheard him on the phone and he was agreeing to do things rather than giving instructions."

"If I'm reading you correctly, you think that Joseph is behind this, that Joseph is the reason Freddy is missing and to be blunt also for Rajah's death."

"Yes!" she hissed. "I do." Hannah took a breath and continued.

"Rajah came to see me some time ago.  Told me he was sure that Joseph was dealing in looted antiquities and getting his father to move them through his galleries. Mostly in Europe. He told me the money was going into the charities and that the amounts had increased substantially."

"What did he conclude from that?"

"That the money was from the sale of looted items."

"I get that. But I'm not following. Why did the amounts change? What was suddenly different?"

"Here's the thing," Hannah said. "Freddy gets a commission from the sales, and the auctions.  But, if the money comes from looted items or stolen artifacts _all_ the money accrues to Freddy or the business. Freddy supports the charities very generously. Has fund raisers and so forth. And through his international contacts he has lots of supporters."

"And now the money from looted and stolen items is a much more substantial than from commissions."

"Yes, exactly."

"I'm getting the picture," she said.

And so was I. I had a number of questions but didn't dare speak for fear of interrupting the flow.

"Rajah told you all this."

"Yes. And he discussed it with his father."

"How did that go?"

"He told me, Rajah I mean, that Freddy denied it. Said there'd been an upswing in the business. They argued. And that was also telling. Rajah and his father never argued. As far as the business they were both on the same page."

"That had to be rough on Rajah."

"On both of them! Freddy was distraught. And after Rajah was killed, after the funeral, Freddy told me he couldn't take it any more. He told me what Joseph was up to and that he was sure it was Joseph who had Rajah murdered. Probably the same people who broke into Boots's home," she said to me.

"And to make matters worse, he told his father he was going to confront Joseph. Freddy had a fit. They yelled at each other, but Rajah wouldn't give in. I'm sure he spoke to Joseph and now he's dead." At this point her grief took over and she began to sob.

"I'm so sorry Hannah. I know this is hard. Let's take a break." Hannah nodded and did her best to contain herself. Joan turned off the recorder.

"I'm fine now. No, not fine, but let's continue."

"You sure you don't want to take a breather?"

"Yes. Turn the recorder back on."

She took a moment stealing herself before continuing.

"There's not much more to tell, unless you have questions. Freddy told me about their fight. Shortly after, Rajah was gone. And now Freddy's probably dead too." More sobbing.

"Hannah. Let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? We don't know that."

"When did you hear from the caller? Do you remember exactly?"

"Of course I remember exactly. It was the evening after he disappeared."

"What did they say? They make any demands, ask for money?"

"Not in so many words. All they said was if I opened my mouth I'd be going to another funeral."

"Did you recognize the caller?"

"No. The voice was like harsh whispering."

"Okay, that's good. But I'm going to arrange to have a tap put on your phone lines. They may call back." She shut the recorder again.

"Thanks, Hannah. You did fine. And you also did the right thing to tell us. Keeping quiet would not have been a good option. Now we can employ our resources, to get to the bottom of this."

At this point Joan hinted to me that it was now a police matter.

"I have to get back, Hannah. Let Joan and the police handle it now. I'm glad you called me and decided to do this."

She saw me to the door, and said. "I hope it's the right thing. I'm so worried about Freddy."

"I know you are, Hannah. But I do believe you did right." We hugged and I left.

"Do you think Hannah is in danger?" I asked Geoff later that evening.

"I don't think they're out to kill her." We were sitting on the sofa, my legs across his lap and enjoying a foot rub.

"You don't think so?"

"They need Hannah. Alive. There's bound to be a demand, count on it. They killed Rajah, kidnapped Freddy. They'll be counting on the fact that's she's frantic and will do anything to save her husband."

"She certainly is frantic. But how does it all fit together? I mean with the fake panel. The two men killed at the dig. Not to mention the two guys Lee-Ann took care of in Israel. The scope keeps growing wider and wider."

"I don't know. We don't know. Yet. And time isn't exactly on our side either."

"What about the prints? Did the tech get anything?"

"Yes, he did. Several. And quite good ones. Of course there were no hits when we ran then, but truth be told we didn't expect a hit."

"And the panel in the museum, that was checked?"

"Yes. Actually I'm waiting to hear back." He patted my legs so I'd move and he got up to get his cell phone keying in some numbers.

"Yes, it's London. Anything? Really? No, I'm not surprised. Okay, thanks. You did great." A grin cracked his face. He sat back down and I put my legs back to reclaim my massage.

"Give," I said. "You look like the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary."

"The prints from our museum panel match the ones on the..." he inclined his head towards my father's wall.

"Really! That's great... isn't it?"

"I don't know whether it's great or not. But it does prove the same person made both panels. Who that person may be is the sixty-four dollar question. And until we identify this person I wouldn't say that this news is exactly great."

"It's a good start, isn't?"

"Yes, it's a start."

# Chapter 15

The next morning I responded to an invitation at my father's for coffee. The man is not subtle. He knew something was up regarding the fingerprint technician and wanted in on the news.

"I'm not surprised," Boots said. "The question of course is who?"

"Yes," my father said. "That is the question, isn't it? And Freddy, too. That's another good question."

I'd filled them in on my visit with Hannah.

"What do they want from that poor woman? Her son and now Freddy. Find the owner of the fingerprints and my guess is they'll lead to Freddy." I gave him a questioning look.

"Okay, this is how I see it. Freddy is up to his ears in looting and creating fake artifacts. Rajah manages a good part of the business, so he's bound to stumble across these frauds. He's killed. And don't forget, Nathan and your friend Bob got off lucky. Otherwise..."

"But why kill Rajah?"

"To shut him up, of course. And to keep Freddy and Hannah from involving the police. What better way to keep them in line. If this is about ISIS or ISIL, whatever, they are absolutely ruthless. Killing Rajah was nothing to them. It keeps Freddy and Hannah in line regarding the sales and auctions of looted items not to mention the fakes and the enormous sums that generates."

"And don't forget," he added, "this is international. Freddy has galleries all over.  What we have here is a very small piece."

"Okay," Boots said. "I get that they don't want their business disrupted. But kidnapping Freddy? I don't see that. A ransom is an added risk, which in my opinion is a bigger threat to them. They are all ready generating millions as it is."

"I agree," I said. "Killing Rajah was to keep him from spilling the beans. But the break-in at Boots and Bob getting his head bashed, that's about getting the panel back. Maybe it was destined to go elsewhere. Who knows at this point? Maybe to Europe. Doesn't matter where. Boots messed up their plan when he took the panel."

"Which precipitated all of this."

"Don't go there, Boots. We've covered that ground."

"But back to kidnapping Freddy," I said. There has to be something more. Like Boots said, and I agree, I doubt if this is about a ransom."

"Then what?"

"I don't know, Dad. No idea."

"That's what we have to figure out. What does Geoff think?"

"Again no idea. And I'm not so sure he'd tell me anyway. The three of us are out of line here anyway."

"No harm in talking, Sammy. No harm in talking."

"Right. As long as it is just talk. I'm not convinced I am out of the woods. By the way, have you heard from Lee-Ann? She hasn't returned any of my calls."

"We haven't been keeping in touch," I said leaving it at that. I was still feeling betrayed. Let that go, my father told me. Cut her some slack. Easy for him to say.

"I should have listened to my father."

"About what?" I asked.

"He wanted me to go into the family business."

"What business?" my father said.

"He was an undertaker. Burying instead of digging up." The man cracked up.

"On that note, I'm leaving. Keep your sense of humor, Boots."

"Sure, I'll try." He got up and hugged me. "Thanks."

I left and went directly to my computer. She wasn't answering calls. Just maybe...

Sure enough. There was a message in our shared account.

I'm in Israel

Sam! Where are you?

Don't you check this damn account?

Her messages spanned several days, almost a period of two weeks. I'd given up checking, as it had proved futile.

_Very rarely. Didn't see the point. Thanks for your travel update_ _._

I was about to log off, but her words suddenly began to appear

Lot's happening at this end. You?

_Plenty._ I gave her a rundown.

Wow!

___On the outs with your buddy Joan?_

Not at all.

Then why are you behind in the news?

Knew about Rajah, but not Freddy.

I guess she doesn't share all.

Obviously.

_ You have __news?_

Some.

Share.

You only.

_ Me only __includes Geoff. Go_ _t that?_

You + Geoff = Joan too = no

___Paranoid?_

Very much.

___Too bad._

Sam, Please.

Tough. Me = Geoff. Or forget it.

Okay. I trust you, you trust Geoff. I get it. But you know what they say about too many cooks.

She proceeded to explain. I'd have to print the message, not wanting to chance that our email would disappear in the ether. She wasn't beyond eliminating our traces. I printed a copy and to hell wit her paranoia.

"This is getting complicated," he said after reading the print out. In spite of Lee-Ann's apprehension, I had no qualms about Geoff or Joan. Given their own suspicions about whom they could trust, giving them Lee-Ann's take on the situation was the right thing to do.

"I remember," Joan said, "that business with the hit squad. The one's who killed her husband Bill and little Sarah. What did they call themselves– the Hounds of God?"

"Yes. And they were out to eliminate her too."

The Hounds of God, or Domini Canes in Latin, was the Dominican Order. Their mandate was to root out heretics. Dalmatian dogs, their white and black spotted coats reminiscent of the Dominican robes. There's a painting, a fresco by Andre da Firenze, in a church in Florence depicting this. The dogs carry a torch in their mouth supposedly to illuminate truth.

"And wasn't Lee-Ann one of them, as I recall?" Joan asked.

"Yes, she was. They had a tattoo, of a dog carrying a torch. And a couple of them were after Lee-Ann. As you said they killed her husband who was an arms dealer. They claimed that the guns he sold ended up in the hands of people who used them against Jews. They killed Bill and tried to kill her too."

"It just never ends" Geoff said.

"Apparently not," I said. "And according to Lee-Ann the two men she killed in Israel are in fact part of that group of assassins who are still after her. In a twisted way they hold her, along with Bill, responsible for so many Jewish deaths. Because of the guns Bill is alleged to have sold."

"And these are the two guys, according to Lee-Ann who killed the Israel Interpol agent," Geoff said.

"Yes," I said. "Because he was benefitting from the looted and stolen antiquities. Taking bribes from them. And again the money buys guns and explosives to blow up Jews, buses, markets –you name it. According to Lee-Ann," I added.

"Right, according to Lee-Ann."

"You sound skeptical," I said to her.

"It is a lot to swallow."

"Let's not choke on it," Geoff said.

"What do we do?" I asked.

" _We_ don't do anything. Joan and I on the other hand..."

"So what do _we_ do?"

"I don't know about you two, but I'm still concerned about Lee-Ann. These people will stop at nothing. With no one to trust she's exposed and vulnerable. Except for Abdul. And he might be her Achilles Heel."

"She can take care of herself, I'm sure."

"So far she has, Geoff. But these people are relentless. That group, the Hounds of God she was part of, killed Bill and Little Sarah and are still after her. Fanaticism isn't limited to terrorists and suicide bombers."

"You're right," he told me. "Joan, what about Abdul? Have you been working with him on this?"

"Well, yes. He keeps me apprised. So far he's got nothing to show for his investigation. He's still trying to solve who killed his two men. He suspects it's to do with Freddy. Who exactly, at this point, he has no idea. In spite of keeping a close watch in the area, it is so vast it's almost impossible to find or spot looters. That cave where Boots found that panel is being watched, but what's the likelihood they will return to the scene of the crime? Like I said, and as you know," she said to me," that area is immense any looted or stolen stuff could be hidden anywhere."

"Right. Boots said the place is riddled with caves."

"Yes, There's no telling where any of this stuff might be hidden. Could be a warehouse in Amman for that matter. Or even in one of Freddy's homes."

"Speaking of Freddy," I said.

"Nothing on that front. Nor has Hannah heard from the kidnappers. And until she does there's not much we can do."

"What about his gallery?" I asked.

"We checked it out. Nothing. Hannah said she'd keep the gallery closed for the time being so there's no traffic. And more to the point no one to mind the shop."

"What about store rooms? You know, where Boots overheard Joseph."

"Sam." He looked at me. "We checked. Every drawer. Every cupboard. Not that we thought we'd find him trussed up in a closet. All we found were paintings and art. I even recognized some of the stuff. Some of the same artists your father collects. Other than that nothing. Certainly no clues pointing to Freddy."

"It's a safe bet," I said, "in my opinion, for what it's worth, that since both Freddy and Joseph have evaporated, that Joseph is behind the kidnapping."

"You could be right."

"More than could be," Joan added.

"What about the fingerprints?" I asked.

"If we could identify them, we'd know who made the panels and their involvement. But we don't. Even if we did it might not lead to Freddy in any case."

"Maybe not. But it would be another piece in the puzzle," I said.

"I've got to get back to the office." Joan got up to leave. "I want to touch base with Abdul. Lee-Ann too, but she hasn't been acknowledging. Thanks for the Print out. At least she had the sense to pass it along."

Geoff saw her out then came back to the kitchen and sat down heavily, his exhaustion evident.

"Those fingerprints. We need to know who they belong to. They aren't in any data base so we're totally in the dark."

"Are you hungry?" Our discussion had taken us well past dinner.

"No, not really. I'd have another coffee but my stomach couldn't stand it. Feels like a flaming ball of fire."

"In that case you need to eat something. Don't argue."

Ten minutes later we were sharing grilled cheese sandwiches with cups of tea.

"I guess I was hungry," he said finishing a second sandwich.

"Comfort food."

"Sam," he said suddenly, slapping his forehead. "Damn!"

"What?"

"Who do we know who's a pottery expert?" He wiped his mouth. "Who is the expert on all things clay?"

"Sir Franky?"

"Try again."

"You mean..." The light dawned.

"Yes, I do." He pushed his chair back, scraping noisily on the floor.

"I'll be back." And headed to the door. I cleared the table and before I could follow him, he returned with my father and Boots in tow, the two of them quite bewildered.

"Take a seat," he instructed.

He explained his reasons why he suspected to whom the prints belonged. My father was impressed, but Boots was aghast.

"No way, Geoff. Can't be."

"Think about it," he told him. "Who better? Pottery expert or clay expert– whatever. And she throws pots too. I saw her work."

"I hope you're wrong," Boots said. "I've known her for years."

"Me too. I rather liked her." I noticed my father's use of the past tense.

"Let's say, Geoff's right," I said. How can we prove it? You just can't go over and take her prints." I looked at Geoff.

"No, I can't. There's no cause. But we do need her prints."

"Maybe I can help." I had a glimmer of an idea.

"Really?"

"Hang on a sec, Geoff. Give me a minute."

I headed to the deck to check the cupboard where we stored the spare propane tanks and where I stashed the empties. Returning bottles was a chore I detested.

"Wasn't she drinking beer when you had your little party?" I called, humped over searching.

"Yes, I think she was, Sammy."

"Sam! Don't touch them!" Geoff was behind me reaching to help me up.

"Sorry to yell. But don't touch them."

He pulled out his phone.

"Yes. Very possibly. Sure. Can you set it up? Like now?" A pause

"He can? Great." He looked at us and gave a thumbs up.

"Tell her there's a bottle of scotch for the man!"

Geoff laughed and said, "She heard you, Gregor." Then, "Thanks, Joan."

"The man is on his way. But don't get your hopes up, this is a long shot."

"What an interesting turn of events," my father said. "What an interesting turn of events."

"Don't get excited, Gregor. This may turn out to be nothing."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

Geoff smiled. "We'll soon see."

"That must be the print man," my father said getting up to answer the door.

"He's a criminalist, Dad. Not a print man." Can you say criminalist? I wanted to add.

"Hi again. You guys can keep a print man very busy." My father looked at me with such a phony smile I wanted to shout.

"Yves," Geoff said, shaking the man's hand. He was bald with an Amish beard.

"Can you print these bottles? We haven't touched them. At least not tonight. In fact we have no idea how many hands have touched them."

" _Pas de problème,_ Geoff. Don't worry about that." He went to the deck, put his case on the floor, pulled on vinyl gloves, then knelt and began pulling out the bottles one at a time. After attaching a small adhesive tag to each of them he began brushing powder on them. When satisfied he took pictures with his phone.

"This will take time. And I will need your prints too, for exclusionary purposes. So if you have things to do, please go ahead. Like I said I will be a little while."

"I'd like to watch," my father said. We'd both followed Yves to the deck.

"We should take our tea in the living room," I said and he got the hint.

" _C'est fini,"_ he said, carrying his case and placing it on the floor by the door.

"All that's left to take are your prints, and of course search the data base for comparisons. When the search is done we get a hit or we don't. Presumably your prints will not generate a hit, unless you've been arrested." He laughed. Mine would, but I didn't tell him. I'd been fingerprinted due to my work with law enforcement. Geoff was too, of course.

"The prints from the panels are also in the data base, so if there's a match we will soon know." He paused and looked at his screen.

"Son of a gun! We have a match. What are you guys up to, Geoff?"

"If I told you I'd have to..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that line, Geoff. But seriously."

"Just a case, Yves. Maybe another time. What did you get?" He showed Geoff the screen.

"Look. This is from the Stella. Three Stellas. Three Stellas and both panels. Perfect matches. Several in fact." I watched as he scrolled the screen.

"Can you email them to me?"

"Sure. You a cop? Joking, Geoff. Sure, I'll send them. I guess there's no point in printing you guys?"

"No, not with these hits. I think we're good." My father I could see was disappointed.

"If there's nothing else?"

"That's it _mon ami._ Thanks."

"Glad to help. I hope you can tell me this story one day. I think it is a good one."

"Count on it."

"Okay, then. I promised my wife I wouldn't be late. Too late that is."

"Sorry to take you away from your family."

"Don't worry about it. Joan promised me the overtime and believe me with three kids I can use the extra. Besides I've got the best job in the world."

"I appreciate it anyway, I owe you one, Yves."

"Next order of business," he said when the man had gone, "is an interview with Mara."

# Chapter 16

"Hard to believe she's involved," my father said, sadly shaking his head. "Such a fine person. So disappointing."

"Yeah. And I've known her for years. She was always concerned about bringing artifacts back from a dig. Always making sure the paper work was exactly right, everything documented. She even tore a strip off Mush once. He just wanted a few souvenirs. Junk really. A few broken shards." He drained the dregs of his tea.

"The poor guy was so embarrassed, and nothing embarrassed Mush! What irony."

"We need to interview her, Geoff. And the sooner the better given the circumstances."

"I know that, Joan. But we can't just bring her in. We need to do this without bringing her to the station."

"And why not? If she's responsible for making the copies, and it's obvious she is, then she's right in the middle of all this. What more do we need? And what about Freddy?" My father headed to the sideboard and poured himself a shot of the Good Stuff and took a healthy sip.

"Sorry. My manners. Anyone else?" He held up the bottle.

"This is quite disturbing. The implications." He shook his head and topped up his glass.

"So why can't you arrest her?" Boots asked accepting a glass from my father.

"For starters we don't have anything to charge her with. I know," he said holding up his hand. "Her prints, if they are her prints on the panel..."

"Of course they're her prints!" Boots exclaimed.

"Boots. The prints on the panel match the prints on the beer bottles. There's no actual proof they're Mara's. We need to get her prints from something we can directly link to her. I agree they are in all probability Mara's prints. But I need proof. And I can't just waltz into to her place and take her fingerprints. Surely I don't need to explain why."

"But..."

No, Boots," he said holding up his hand. "There are no buts."

"There must be something you can do."

"Of course, Gregor. But arresting her or even bringing her in for questioning is not an option. At this time."

"Remember," Joan said. "Our investigation is– how shall I put it– sub rosa? If we arrest Mara or just bring her in for an interview we'll tip our hand. And that we cannot do! Do I have to explain?"

"So what can you do?" I asked.

"We do need to talk to her. That's a given. But not in an official capacity."

"But like Geoff said. You can't just jump in like that. Unofficial or not."

"Thanks, Sam. I didn't know that."

"Sorry." I felt color creep into my face.

"You know what you're doing," my father said easing my embarrassment. "And your methods are none of our business. But given how we've become involved with all of this our feelings and interest runs very deep."

"That's precisely why you guys have to stay out of it."

"Of course. Goes without saying. Goes without saying.  But if I may be so bold as to ask, how do you propose to get through to Mara? As you say you have no grounds to drop in and give her the third degree."

"No, I can't."

"Well, I have an idea," my father said rubbing his hands together.

"Why am I not surprised." Geoff had removed his jacket and was tugging off his tie.

"She's a pottery expert. Tell her we've been arguing about some of the aspects of the panel, that we need her expert opinion. You know, how it was made. Back in antiquity and so forth."

"Are you forgetting that she doesn't know about this panel? The one I found and that we have it."

"Oh dear. I did forget. Right. Of course. I've been so caught up in this I totally forgot about that."

"Me too. We're so wrapped up in all of this. With the exception of Sir Franky, and present company no one knows about this panel."

"Don't forget Lee-Ann." Boots added. "And Harry."

"All the better," Joan interjected. "Gregor, I think you're idea is good, but how do we go about it?" She adjusted her holster on her hip and leaned forward clasping her knees. Realizing her shirt gaped, she sat back.

"We don't mention the panel," Boots said. "Just that we'd like her opinion on a few pieces."

"I don't know." My father was shaking his head. "I won't lie to her. That's not how I work."

"Not my way either," Geoff said. "But I do like the idea of getting her to open up and explain how these things are produced."

"How about this?" I said. "We go with the truth. Tell her we'd like her opinion on something. That's true. We don't give any details to avoid spooking her."

"With a slight variation," Geoff added. "We go there with the panel."

After some discussion it was agreed Boots would initiate contact with Mara and set a time to meet. My father of course, wanted it to be at his place. Wanted to show her his art collection.  His etchings I wanted to say. Boots wanted her to come to his office, his lab, to give her opinion on some pots.

Finally it was agreed, actually insisted by Joan that we'd set it up to meet at Mara's. Her own turf, Joan said, where she'd be most comfortable.

Boots would call and beg an invitation to visit and bring some items for her to look at. If she agreed, we'd visit and take the panel with us. Our expectation was she'd be so shocked when she saw it and spill the beans.

"You think she'll just up and confess? Just from the shock of seeing the panel?" I asked. "Don't forget she has no idea that we know she's the one who made it."

"That we suspect she made it," Joan corrected.

"Okay, suspect. She just might play dumb. And give us a legitimate opinion about it."

"Possibility," Geoff said. "But this is where you have to do a bit of acting."

"You mean a bit of lying." I said. He shrugged.

"Not lying," Joan said. "If she plays dumb, point out the fingerprints. Tell her they match the ones on the beer bottles from the party. She was drinking Stella. Believe me that will tip her over the edge."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Oh, it will. It will. The shock of the panel. Mentioning the prints. Believe me."

"Then what?" Boots asked.

"When she realizes she's caught between a rock and a hard place. Sam calls me."

"And this is where Joan and I make an appearance. And, that, Boots, is when you and Sam leave."

That decision set us to arguing again. And here Joan diplomatically agreed that both Boots and I should stay.

"Don't forget," she said. Boots and Sam have history with Mara. Boots has had a fairly long relationship with her. Both professionally and as friends." She looked at him.

"Yes, I'd like to think that."

"And Sam, you've known her for a couple of years now?"

"More or less."

"Right." And to Geoff she said, "With Boots and Sam present it's a much less threatening environment. Just you and me?" She shook her head.

"Good points. I think Joan has it pegged right." Another reason I loved the man.

So that was the plan.

Boots called Mara the next morning and set up a meeting for the early afternoon.

"I felt like a creep," he said. Mara was so forthcoming and happy to hear from him, she readily obliged. Even offered to make it a luncheon date.

"We are a pair," he said at breakfast. I raised my eyebrows in a question.

"You hardly slept. All my tossing kept you awake."

"I was the one tossing and turning. What a night."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I know Mara's your friend. But wait until it all unfolds.  But for the record, I don't for a second believe she has anything to do with the break-ins or Rajah's murder, you know."

"I didn't think you did. But she's in this up to her eyeballs."

"Oh, for sure. But at this point all we suspect is that she's making fake artifacts. And we don't even know that for certain."

"Come on, Geoff. Maybe not a hundred percent, but let's face it."

"Lets just see how this plays out."

"Got to run. This isn't the only thing on my plate." He grabbed his jacket and headed to the door.

"You clear on what to do?"

"Yes, Geoff, very clear. I'll call you. Once she sees the panel and hears about the prints..."

"Right. Okay. I'm off."

It was a few minutes after twelve when Boots rang the bell.

"It's open. I'll be right with you."

"I called a cab."

Moments later the taxi pulled up and tooted. Boots had the panel wrapped in the flannel remnant of an old blanket.  More than threadbare after years of use it had become my play tent for childhood games. Now it was rags and a cover for a million dollar artifact.

Twenty minutes later Mara greeted us.

"Come in, come in. So nice to see you." She gave me a hug.

"Sam, you look great. And your color is back too. No more morning sickness?" I felt like a creep.

"Thanks. I'm glad that part is over!"

"I'm sure. Boots, come. Don't just stand there. Give me that."

She took the flannel wrapped package and kissed him on both cheeks. He looked chagrinned.

"Nice to see you too, Mara," he mumbled.

"Well, sit down for heaven's sake." She pointed to the sofa in front of which on a low table was a carafe of coffee, a small jug with cream or milk and three cups. Nicely arranged were paper plates with cutlery and cloth napkins. "I'll be a second," she said.

She came back from the kitchen with a platter of little sandwiches cut in triangles.

"Nothing fancy," she said. "I hope you like smoked salmon."

This was going to be torture.

"You declined coming for lunch, but this should be a nice alternative." She poured coffee and pushed the creamer towards us.

"So what's the big secret you couldn't mention on the phone?"

"Well, we ah, have something we'd like your opinion on."

"I gathered that," she laughed. "Show me."

He retrieved the package from the hall table, unwrapped it carefully and placed it on a clear space on the coffee table.

No sooner had the last bit of flannel been removed she gasped and burst into tears. Not prepared for such a reaction we were both stunned.

"My god," she said, covering her face. "They're going to kill me."

"Mara, what's going on?" I reached across putting my hand on her arm.

"Mara," Boots said repeatedly.

"I had no idea it would come to this. You've got to believe me." She was taking deep breaths.

"Believe me, I had no idea it would come to this."

"Come to what?" I asked gently.

"This!" she said indicating the panel. "And Rajah."

"You need to explain," I said. We have some idea but you obviously know more than we do. Who's going to kill you? And why?"

"I don't know _who_ exactly. The same people who killed Rajah. God, I've been so stupid." Her shoulders were heaving.

"Listen, I said to her. We're here to help."

"Help? You can't help me. My God, they'll stop at nothing!"

"Listen to me," I insisted. "We can and we will. As a matter of fact Geoff is outside. Downstairs."

"Geoff? The police?" She resumed crying almost uncontrollably. "I'll be arrested.  Oh God, this can't be happening to me."

"Mara," Boots said. "What is going on?"

"Boots. You have no idea what Freddy and his bastard thugs are up to. That Joseph is evil."

Okay. Pull it together okay. I'm calling Geoff. And I guarantee no one is going to kill you."

"How can you say that? They got poor Rajah."

"I know they did. I know that."

At this point there was a knock at the door. I'd prepared a text message to Geoff and had surreptitiously pressed send.

Boots opened the door and when she saw the two of them said.

"If you're going to arrest me I have to do a couple of things. Can I use the phone? I'll tell you who I'm calling and you can listen in."

Joan quickly reading the situation went to her and squatted down.

"Mara. No one is here to arrest you. Okay? We're not here to arrest you. We're here to find out what the heck is going on."

"Do you want some coffee?"

At this everyone laughed.

"Yes, that would be good. I could certainly use a cup."

Mara reached for the carafe.

"Let me do it," Joan said. "Why don't you tell us what's going on?" She poured Mara a cup.

"Just what I need. As if I'm not jittery enough."

"It's a long story," she began. "My mother hasn't been well. She's not sick but she suffers from Alzheimer's. Has been for several years now. For the longest time it wasn't so bad, but it's progressive as you know. In her case the deterioration was slow. And of course I tended to block the inevitable. She's quite forgetful and sometimes doesn't even know me. Even during visits she'd flip from being aware to thinking I was a complete stranger and even that I was a threatening presence. Sometimes she'd panic when that happened and there was nothing I could do to calm her. That was very difficult.

"Then about three or four years ago it reached a point where I had to place her in a residence. Try to find a good one, one that doesn't cost an arm and a leg, right?

"We have no family money. My father who was a lot older than my mother died years ago. They were both older than most couples when they married and by the time I came along she was forty-two and my father was almost sixty. He died of a heart attack when I was seventeen. No insurance to speak of. He had no education beyond high school and had an ordinary job. The irony? He was a clerk at an insurance company." She shook her head.

"Anyway to continue my sad little story it was just the two of us for years. And as long as Mom was healthy, no problem. My income was more than adequate to support the both of us. She never worked after marriage and there was no pension other than the Old Age Security. But money as I said was not a problem. Until it was time to find a place for her, a residence suited for people with her situation. There are government places of course that are reasonably affordable, but the care level was inadequate.

"I must have told Hannah at some point, in conversation you know. And Hannah, she reads between the lines. Next thing I knew Freddy approaches me. Called me at my office and said Hannah told him I was having a problem getting my mother into a good residence." She paused and wiped her eyes.

"Freddy," she resumed, "made me as they say, an offer I couldn't refuse. Was I stupid!" Her eyes welled and she cleared her throat.

"I was monumentally stupid." She stared ahead. After several long moments Geoff prodded.

"Why do you say that?"

"I'll tell you. He said he had an idea. I could make some money, probably more than enough for me to get good care for my mother. Of course I was interested. Who wouldn't be, right? That was my downfall, my Faustian moment. What a fool."

Geoff waited her out.

"Given my expertise, he said, we could both benefit financially. I still didn't know what he was talking about, but it became clear quickly enough. I'm a master potter, if there is such a thing and in the old days I'd belong to guild, so I could easily do what he proposed." She moved the panel to the center of the table.

"It didn't start with this, you know. It was little things, simple objects. He had samples of what he wanted me to produce– _reproduce._ Stuff we see in museums and like much of what we've dug up," she said to Boots. "Fairly common items actually. All I had to do was make more of them. Research the styles and the technology, which simply amounts to using the right types of clay– clay from the regions the items would have originated from. He wanted the samples to have the right composition. And with his connections and his own private jet there wasn't a problem to bring back what I needed. All I had to do was make the items. He provided the studio and equipped it with every thing a potter –me– needed."

"Where is this studio?" Joan asked.

"Let me get this off my chest first, okay?

"I know it was illegal. No excuses there. I did it for the money and I know it was wrong. But I did it anyway. What the hell, I told myself. What's the harm? A few pieces of pottery. The collectors are all greedy types, right? I rationalized it all away.

"But now he had me. This little stuff was a way to suck me in. I was now guilty of creating fakes and there was no going back from that. It didn't take long for him to increase his demands. I told him no way. I know these relief panels and similar items can– and did– fetch millions. I told him to forget it." She stared at the panel and ran her hand across it caressingly.

"You know what the bastard said? How can you support your mother from prison?"

"With your help, Mara, that's where he'll end up."

"I'm not so sure about that, Joan. He's very sharp.

"I confronted him saying he was in just as deep and if I fell so would he."

"What did he say to that?" Geoff asked.

"That he'd take that chance. Can you believe the arrogance? He knew I wouldn't say anything that would compromise my mother. The bastard."

"No argument from me," I said.

"God. But you know, I'm glad it's over. It was killing me. Have you any idea how fucking hard it's been to deceive my friends? I am so sorry Boots. I am so sorry." Her eyes welled again.

"Mara," he said. "I get it. We'll work it out. I'm sticking by you."

"We all are," I said. At this point she broke down.

"How about we take a break." Joan got up and went to the kitchen.

"Mara," Geoff said, "there's a bit more going on here. You are aware that Rajah was murdered but perhaps you don't know that we consider Joseph to be a _person of interest_. And that Freddy is missing and presumed kidnapped."

"My god! Part of me hated the man, really hated. But this is terrible. Poor Hannah. Is he alive?"

"Until we hear otherwise we're considering that he is. But Mara, this is strictly not to be repeated. You do get that?"

"Yes, of course, of course. Now I feel like a real shit. Rajah killed, and now Freddy. Poor Hannah, she must be out of her mind."

Realizing that she wasn't going to be hauled away in handcuffs, Mara began to relax and Geoff asked her again where the pottery studio was located.

"It's in one of his buildings that he uses for storage, for both the legitimate antiquities, paintings and such as well as the _other_. The pottery studio, for want of a better word, is in a back room. That's where I worked. There are kilns and wheels for throwing, but I didn't do much throwing. Mostly I was creating pieces from molds. Like this panel." She patted it.

"Can you tell us exactly where this place is located?"

Geoff excused himself and made a call.

"I hope you're feeling better," I said to her. This has been quite an ordeal. And I don't just mean today."

"You've no idea. I've been scared for so long. On so many levels. It's a blessing my mother will never know about it. My job. Deceiving my friends and colleagues. I am so relieved to get this off my chest."

"And don't worry about your safety," Joan added. "No one knows or will know about what has transpired here."

"You're sure? Absolutely sure?"

"Yes. Just carry on with what you've been doing. Don't change your behavior."

"I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Figured Freddy would have another _project_ for me."

"I wouldn't worry about that now," I said.

"Let's not get complacent," Joan said. "We've no idea where Freddy is or what in fact is going on regarding his disappearance."

"Then I might still be in danger. My God."

"I don't think so, Mara. Freddy and Joseph, or whoever, have you just where they want. Carry on as before. Geoff will investigate where you make the pottery. In any case we'll have some one keep an eye on you. You needn't worry."

"Are you sure? I have to keep up my routine and also see to my mother. She needs the visits even if she doesn't always know me."

"That's fine. You should carry on. Act normal. You'll be fine."

"I hope so. After this I'll need a second job." Her eyes welled again.

"One bridge at a time," I said to her touching her arm.

"Joan," he said returning. She got up.

"We're leaving now." And to me, "We'll talk later."

"We'd better be going too," I said when they'd gone. "But I do want to hear all about how you made the panels."

"That's interesting, if I say so myself. Crooked, but interesting." She almost laughed.

We'd no sooner got out of the cab than my father burst out of his house.

"Is Mara okay?"

"Yes, she's fine," Boots said.

"So tell me," he said following me in, Boots trailing and looking uncomfortable.

I put my jacket in the closet and kicked off my shoes and flopped on the sofa.

"Relax, Dad. Sit. There." I pointed to the club chair. His chair. I could play too.

"So tell me. Geoff didn't arrest her?"

"No, he didn't arrest her. Neither did Joan," I said anticipating his next question. Like Boots said, she's fine. Considering."

"Considering? Considering what?" He hitched himself forward.

"Considering that Rajah was murdered. And that Freddy is missing or kidnapped –which by the way she didn't know."

"And from this you say she's fine. Really?" He shook his head. "I doubt it, Sammy. I doubt it."

Boots was sitting beside me and I gave him a go ahead expression.'

"At first she was worried for her own safety. As soon as she saw the panel she broke down."

"Really? Even before mentioning the fingerprints?"

"Yes," Boots said. "We didn't even get to mention the prints. One look and she cracked. Said they were going to kill her too."

"Oh poor Mara. Is she really at risk? Can Geoff protect her?"

"After Mara explained her part in all of this they both assured her, she needn't fear for her life," Boots told him.

"Why is that?"

"Why don't we leave it until Geoff gets home. First of all Boots and I are talking out of turn. We don't know, at this point, how Mara will be treated with respect to the law."

"You did say she wasn't arrested."

"That's right. But she did make those fake panels. And a lot of money was paid, or lost because of the fraud. Our museum for one. So let's leave it at that. Geoff will explain, if he can. If he can, Dad. Meaning it's a police matter."

"I get it, Sammy. I get it. It's an on going investigation. Still..."

"Still you want all the details." I gave him a look. He had the grace to be chagrinned.

"I'm an archeologist, you know."

_"You're_ an archeologist. How do you figure that?"

"Of the mind, Sammy. Of the mind."

"Well go dig in someone else's head!" He laughed at this.

"I'm wiped out," I said. "This wasn't an easy afternoon, so if you don't mind?"

"So am I." Boots rubbed his face and stood. My father took the hint and for once didn't need to be clubbed over the head.

"Maybe Boots will succumb to your browbeating," I said seeing them out.

"I do not browbeat, Sammy." I shut the door and could still hear him chuckling.

I was wiped out and I needed a shower badly; I'd perspired less during a five mile run.

A good long soak in the tub appealed more than a shower. A rare indulgence but given the day, a little pampering was in order. I found the bath beads and tossed several into the water. While the tub filled I stripped and stuffed it all in the hamper then laid out fresh clothes. Nothing fancy, just clean and fresh.

I luxuriated in the hot and sudsy water and could almost feel the toxins and stress leave my body.

I had mixed feelings regarding Mara. Of course I wanted her to be safe. And I understood why she did it. Why she needed the money. I felt guilty. I'd never experienced want. Of any kind. I was privileged and I did know it. I grew up, if not opulently, certainly in very well off circumstances. What she did was dishonest, no argument there. And none from Mara either. I know she'd been pressured to do it, starting with a small temptation. Just to make a few bucks to care for her mother. A mother losing touch with reality, disappearing, fading away to who knows where? Who wouldn't have done the same?

Sadly a small temptation took on a larger dimension. From trying to augment her income, an income insufficient to provide care for an ailing and diminishing parent, that small temptation grew to a monumental proportion, and she was caught in the clutches of a greedy and unscrupulous person. Once Freddy had hooked her, she was doomed.

Had it not been for having a sick parent, there was no doubt in my mind that Mara would have ever agreed to be part of any fraud. My father needed to weigh in on this. His counsel was invaluable, especially to me. Yes, he could turn my crank, could aggravate the hell out of me. But he was the wisest person I knew. Analytic. Logical. Compassionate. Especially compassionate. I had a lot to learn from him. I could hear him now. Sammy, keep an open mind. Sammy.... Sam...

"Sam! Sam!"

"What? What?" Suddenly I was thrashing and splashing. Someone was grabbing my arm.

"Geoff! I guess I dozed off.'

"That was more than a doze." He held my arm as I stepped out of the tub. It was one of those old claw foot tubs with high sides.

"If you're going to take baths consider wearing those kiddie water wings."

"Funny." He draped the towel around me and gently began rubbing me dry.

"Mmm. Nice. I needed a good hot soak. I guess I was so relaxed I nodded off.

"Just so you know, you gave me a good scare."

"Sorry about that." I reached up on my toes and kissed him. He continued rubbing me dry. Two minutes later the clothes I had spread neatly on the bed were a tangled mess on the floor.

That evening we were summoned next door.

"Boots give you the longer version?" I asked him. The answer was two sheepish grins.

"What happens to Mara now?"

"You know I can't get into that, Gregor."

"Sorry, Geoff. I know that. Sorry. But can you tell us about checking out where Mara made the pottery?" I knew he could, he'd already told me.

"Sure. But we found nothing untoward. Like she said. There was a workshop in the back. Potters wheels. Two kilns, one of them electric and the other wood fired. Bags of clay wrapped in heavy plastic. And molds.  For small objects and the like."

"A wood fired kiln?" Boots asked. "Electric doesn't need outside venting, but wood?

"Yes. I don't know how it works, the firing and venting, but there was a flue arrangement. Nothing vented to the inside. If there's anything toxic it goes through the vent, like a fireplace chimney."

"That's it?" My father was disappointed.

"Pretty much. There were lots of artifacts. Boxed. Cased. And paintings too."

"What about antiquities. Of the looted variety?"

"Maybe, Gregor. But an expert will have check that out. But we have a good idea how that will pan out, don't we?"

"Nothing else?"

"No, Boots. That was pretty much it."

"Nothing then, to indicate where Freddy has got to. Too bad."

"Yes it is. We didn't exactly expect to find him there tied to a chair. Although I confess that thought did cross my mind. But no such luck. There was no Freddy and no Joseph."

"Shit." Boots was wiping his face frantically.

"But there is something."

"Oh." My father's eyes were wide with anticipation.

"Yes." He got up and retrieved the package he'd left by the front door and unwrapped the burlap covering. After folding it to make a pad, he placed it on the table with the object on top of it.

"So this is how Mara made the panels. Pretty incredible, isn't it? Almost like looking at thirty-five hundred year old history." Boots was in awe.

"So this is the mold she used, to create the panels." My father was as impressed as Boots.

"Looks that way," I said having already seen it. "But we need Mara to confirm."

"How in the world did she do this?"

"I don't know, Dad. I know what Franky said, but it would be a big help to hear it from her."

"Yes," Boots agreed. "We need her to explain it all."

"Gregor do you think Sir Franky would agree to put in his two cents?"

"I'm sure of it. I'm sure he would, but he's back in England, however I don't think that's a problem. He'll return I'm sure of it. He's still concerned about his reputation. That's still hanging over his head like that sword of Damocles."

"Right. I'd forgotten about that. But I don't think we could fund his return. I'm pretty much investigating on the QT. Getting clearance to pay his way back would ring too many bells."

"Don't worry about it. Believe me, Franky would pay for his whole team to come over if it meant solving this fake antiquities scam."

"Okay, but please emphasize to him for absolute discretion."

"Of course. Wild horses wouldn't make Franky talk out of turn. As I've said, he's very much afraid that when this breaks he'll be held responsible by the museum for losing their two million dollars for a piece of fired terra cotta."

"Yes, I remember him saying that. And you think he'll still want to help?"

"It's to his advantage. He certainly wouldn't want this fraud perpetrated again."

"No doubt. Not after finding this mold. I'll leave it to you to contact Sir Franky, and I'll work on Mara. I'm sure it won't take much convincing for her to lead us through how this all works. We can get together to do that and go from there."

My father was in his glory. Another evening in the Milland Salon.

We were all holding our breath, waiting.

Geoff's investigation was at a standstill, and I wasn't privy to the proceedings, but had any break though been reached I would know about it. Collectively, we were all holding our breath, waiting. Boots was still swinging from a kind of resignation to being a permanent guest of my father, to the sinking depth that he'd disappear into a kind of oblivion before the case resolved. My father, who normally could lighten any mood, was hard pressed to provide the encouragement he needed.

Mara too, was afraid; thinking every knock at her door would be her murderer or the police coming to haul her away. The surveillance Geoff arranged was barely cosmetic, as he didn't really believe she was in any real danger. This attitude I feared, might well be her downfall.

And then there was Freddy. Where was he? Why hadn't Hannah heard from him or the kidnappers? Her phones were tapped but there were no ransom calls, no contact of any sort.

And what about Lee-Ann? I had no idea what she was up or where she was for that matter. No new messages in our shared email account. Those rogue Israeli agents had almost killed her and I feared there were others still willing to track and assassinate her. Not only for her role in Bills arms dealings. Now they had a bigger grudge. They'd want to avenge the deaths of the two men she killed in Israel.

It was incredible how the looting and destruction of historical sites could be so far reaching. The Middle East conflicts, terror groups, murder, all on our doorstep. Freddy an acclaimed international art dealer and collector raising money, clandestinely to fund the horrors perpetrated by the likes of ISIS, creating fraudulent artifacts, supposedly priceless artifacts, and using the boundless greed of wealthy collectors to raise money to perpetrate his own September eleventh.

And where was he anyway? In fact was he kidnapped, or was he holed up somewhere with Joseph or whoever, planning some atrocity. Maybe I was being uncharitable, too suspicious. Nevertheless if he was raising money to fund terror groups, then in my books Freddy was a terrorist. One way or another he had to be found. And stopped.

Sadly this was like that game Whack-a-Mole. Knock one Freddy down, another pops up.

At least we had the panel and more importantly we also had the mold. Sir Franky was more than willing to return to the scene of the crime so to speak, anxious no doubt to repair his reputation, but as yet it hadn't been disclosed to the museum, or any one else for that matter that they'd thrown away two million dollars. When I pressed my father for details regarding Sir Franky he was uncharacteristically tight lipped. He and Sir Franky had something in the works I'm sure.

"You'll see, Sammy. You'll see. Don't worry about Franky." That was it. That's all he'd tell me. Infuriating to say the least.

Mara was also anxious. As well as having serious concerns about financially caring for her mother, she feared losing her freedom for her part in the fraud.

"And if I'm responsible or considered an accessory? Who'll look out for my mother? I can probably manage the costs without my _sideline_ but it would be tight, very tight. And if I lose my job? Or go to prison? Let's face it, the university will drop me just like that." She snapped her fingers. "I'd be lucky to find a job waiting tables. I'm too old to work the strip clubs."

"One step at a time," I said. "Keep in mind you were coerced into this."

"Not exactly. I went along willingly. What's the saying? Hang for a sheep as for a lamb? At the beginning the pieces I was making were chicken feed compared to the panel. But the money mounted up. I turned out hundreds of pieces. Damn, I was such a fool."

I didn't know what to say. She was right, no two ways about it. And had it not been for the panel, her _sideline_ agreement with Freddy could have continued for who knew how long. She was in a precarious position. Agreeing to discuss and explain how the fraud was perpetrated she saw perhaps as a way to expatiate her sins, although I was at a loss to see how.

She didn't deserve to have her career and livelihood destroyed; at least I didn't think so. What she did was criminal, yet I didn't want her to be taken down with Freddy and Joseph and whoever else was working for those terror groups.

So she agreed, along with Sir Franky to meet with us and explain her role and how the panels came to be created.

"Sam, it's Mara," she said when I answered the phone.

"Hi. How are you keeping?" We hadn't spoken since Boots and I visited. I wanted to call, but kept putting it off, afraid she saw me as part of her problem.

"Pretty good, actually. I'm glad it's in the open. I owe you for that, and what ever happens, I'm glad it was you and Boots helped me confront this."

"I'm sorry you were in such a turmoil. Worrying about your mother must be very troublesome. I get it Mara, I really do."

"Thanks. It's good to have someone on my side, I mean someone who understands. Although now..."

"Listen, Mara. I don't know what will happen next, but I really don't think it's as bad as you're imagining."

"I'm preparing for the worst, whatever outcome. I can sell my condo and I do have a bit put away, so that'll see to my mother if I end up in prison. But I wouldn't be able to see her." I could hear her crying.

"It's awful to say, Sam, but my mother is eighty-eight and she's not in the best of health. I hate to say it, God forgive me, I hope she doesn't outlive my money."

"Oh, Mara. Don't think that way. Geoff doesn't share a lot of police stuff and I don't want to create false hopes, but I don't think you're the one they are after. You're more of a victim than anything else."

"That's true. Partly true."

"Let's focus on that, okay?"

"Sure, sure. But the reason I'm calling is that I want to go to the workshop, where I made the pottery. If I'm going to give a so-called tutoring session I need to set things up. I thought you'd like to come along. There's a lot to explain and I could really use the company."

"I'd love too. Should I dress in some sort of potter's clothes?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I want to be sure everything I need is available. You know, the clay and straw. I know Geoff took the mold for the panel. But I want to be sure the other stuff I need in there so I can properly demonstrate the procedures." She paused and I could hear her take a breath.

"Basically, Sam, I don't want to be there alone."

"I'll be glad to come with you. When do you want to do this? I'm free anytime." Truth was I was bored out of my mind.

"Uh, well... Today? This afternoon?"

"Sure, that works for me."

"Oh great. Can you meet me there? You know where it is?"

"Yes, I do. How will you get in?"

"I still have keys so that's not a problem. And I'll leave the door unlocked for you and you can let yourself in. I'll be in the back."

"Okay. What's a good time?"

"It's what? Ten-thirty now. Can you be there say one or one-thirty?"

"Yes, that would be fine. I'll see you then."

I was going next door to tell my plans to my father but remembered it was his day to visit the sick kids. And I didn't feel much like talking to Boots. Sometimes his paranoia is hard to take.

When twelve-thirty rolled around I called a cab. Why did I keep my Jetta? I spent more time in taxis. The Jetta was little more than a grocery cart.

I paid the driver and tipped him a five. He thanked me profusely and I couldn't tell if he was sincere or sarcastic.

" _De rien,_ "I said, wondering if he did think it was nothing.

The noises and smells were an onslaught. Trucks, exhaust, forklifts, a ship's horn not far off, Rue de la Commune was one of the oldest streets near the port, cobble stoned and characteristic of the old part of town. Today, more to attract tourists to the area, streets near the Old Port were being repaved with cobbles to maintain the original character.

I verified the address, walked about twenty paces, climbed a few broken steps to the door. A rickety handrail, it's rusted supports moving loosely in crumbled concrete, was more hindrance than help.

I opened the door to utter blackness.

About to call her name, I heard a muffled cry, then an angry voice.

"Tell me! Now! Or you'll get what Rajah got!"

"I don't know. I swear!" This was followed by several thuds and slapping sounds.

I crouched down, my heart pounding, my eyes beginning to adjust to the dim interior. I fumbled in my handbag and gripped my gun. Thumbing off the safety, I took several breaths to steady my hands; this was not the gun range. I stood in a crouch and crept towards the sounds. The front of the workshop was filled with boxes and crates in no particular order. The workshop was about ten or fifteen feet ahead of me, through a door that was partially ajar. I couldn't see into the shop but there was a small window about eye level. I crept forward. Sounds of a beating and Mara's cries covered me. I crept ahead and peaked through the glass quickly ducking down again. I could see his back. He was standing over Mara, striking her face and shoulders repeatedly with the gun.

I discarded my handbag.

I had a shooting grip.

My hands were steady.

I pushed the door with my foot.

Mara was sobbing and crying out, "I don't know! I don't know!"

Joseph continued hitting her, her face a bloody mess.

"Tell me where they are!" Thud. Cries.

"The panel. Where is it?" Another thud.

"Maybe a bullet in the knee." A shot. A scream.

"Next time it will be the knee, not the floor." He clubbed her again.

"Joseph! Drop the fucking gun!"

Startled he turned, swinging his gun towards me. I remembered everything Pétard taught me. Two hand stance. Aim for center mass. Shoot. Not once.

"One shot will do it," he said. "Two or three, definitely."

I was calm. Steady. Determined. He was bringing his arm around and I fired. Once, twice, three times.

And missed!

A searing hot poker lanced through my thigh and I fell, dropping my gun as I clutched at my leg.

"You! Bitch! You fucked with the wrong guy!" His gun came up again pointed at my face. I brought my hand up as if it could stop a bullet.

"Don't hurt her! Don't hurt her baby!"

"Baby," he sneered. "Two for the price of one. Bitch!"

He smiled and aimed and I could see his finger whiten as he squeezed the trigger.

"No!" Mara lunged. Taken aback, Joseph turned but not in time. Mara lunged; arm raised, a small statuette in her hand, and bashed the side of his head ripping his ear.

He dropped his gun and fell on his knees.

"No! No! No! She repeated punctuating each word with another blow.

He fell forward hitting his face, his head a bloody mess. She continued hitting and yelling, "No! No! No!"

I was barely lucid, the pain in my thigh excruciating, blood seeping through my fingers, my jeans soaked.

"Abruptly she stopped, whimpered and crawled feeling for where he dropped the gun.

"Here, Sam. Can you take it? I can barely see. Is he down? Oh God. Oh God. Sam, say something, please say something."

"I'm okay. I'm okay. My leg."

"I can't see. My phone's in my purse but I can't see it."

"Behind you. Behind you." I was about five or six feet away.

"On the floor. You can reach it. Near the potter's wheel.

She was on hands and knees and shuffled over groping.

"Got it. But I can't fucken see to use it! Fuck!"

"I can. Hurry, Mara, I'm about to faint." She fumbled towards me. I took it and punched 911.

The next morning I came to in the hospital. My leg throbbed, the rest of me floated.

"Look who's back." Geoff held my hand a teary smile on his face, my father on his other side.

"The baby..."

"Everything is fine, Sammy. It's all good. You. The baby. No need to worry. Thank God it was only a flesh wound."

"A flesh wound," I croaked. "Of course it's a flesh wound. My fucken leg is flesh!"

"Are you disturbing my patient, Dr. Milland?"

"No, Hattie, I am not," he said indignantly. She stood at the foot of the bed, her hands on ample hips.

"Humph," she retorted. She fluffed my pillow and checked the monitor tracking my vitals.

"Shall I send him away, Dear?"

"Not just yet, Hattie. I think the scolding helped."

"Oh he needs a bit of scolding, your father."

Hattie Semple and my father were well acquainted. Not many stood up to him as Nurse Semple did. In spite of the bantering their mutual fondness was apparent and abundant.

"Okay, Dear. I'll leave you to your family. Mr. London, Dr. Milland, you know where to find me."

"What a Harridan," my father said.

"I heard that!" She'd barely left the room and peered back in. As her footsteps diminished I could swear I heard her say, "Old goat."

"Where's Mara? How is she?"

"Talking behind my back are we?" She was wheeling into the room. Her face was swollen, her lips cut and there were several facial cuts taped with those butterfly thingies.

"Oh, Mara."

"Looks worse than it is. Hurts like hell though. And my bruises have bruises. But other than that, I feel fucken fantastic!"

She got out of the chair and pushed it away.

"Fuck the fucken rules. I don't need that thing."

"I'm glad you got that off your chest."

"Me too, Gregor. Me too! You've no idea. It's been so long since I've felt this free." She came over to the bed.

"Joseph is dead," she said. I stared at her.

"Sam. Joseph is dead."

"I heard you. Who? You or me?"

"We're not sure yet," Geoff interjected. "You shot him twice."

"I fired three times. Thought I'd missed and figured Mara got him when she hit him. She saved my life Geoff. If it hadn't been for Mara." I started to tear up.

"Hey, girl. You saved my life! He'd have killed me for sure. Thank God you got there when you did." She squeezed my hand and handed me a bunch of tissues.

"Sammy. Mara. Let's just say you saved each other. As for who is responsible for Joseph, an autopsy will determine. My guess is it could go either way."

"You said three shots?" Geoff asked.

"Yes. I fired three times."

"Okay. I'll let the tech guys know so they can look for that third bullet. Two out of three. Good shooting, thank God."

"No, thank Pétard. But don't tell him one of my shots missed."

"So," Mara said. "Is it death by bullets? Or death by idol." Silence.

"What? What? No one see the irony here? Sorry if I'm not mourning the death of that scumbag."

"Neither am I," I said.

"You're right," Geoff told us. "The alternative is too awful to consider. I won't mourn his loss either.

My father didn't speak, but a deep sadness crept into his eyes.

To lighten the mood he clapped his hands. "Sammy. If you want there's no reason why you can't come home."

"I don't know, Gregor. Of course I want her home, but she shouldn't stay alone."

"She won't be alone. You know Maria would love..."

"Hey, you two. I'm right here."

"Of course you are. What do _you_ want to do?"

"Home. Thea Maria can look in on me. Look in on me, nothing more."

"Okay. That works for me Sammy."

"Gee, Dad. I'm so glad it works for you. So glad."

"Now that the family reunion is settled, I'll be getting home too."

"Not so fast, Mara. You look a bit worse for wear. Let me take you home. My car is here."

She looked at him and smiled. "And that works for me."

My father took care of the paperwork and we were discharged. I wanted nothing more than to get back to bed. Just a flesh wound. Easy for him to say. But in fact it wasn't serious. The bullet had entered my outer thigh and exited about two inches after barely travelling beneath the skin. A lot of blood but no arteries damaged, but it was sore as hell. And thankfully the baby was fine. Of course Thea Maria would be horrified when she heard. She'd be praying and lighting candles and doing all manner of whatever to ward off the evil eye. I didn't believe in Old World superstitions or Mumbo Jumbo, but I'd probably peel a few apples to see how the peels fell. Can't you tell the sex of a baby that way?

The investigation continued, but with the shooting and bludgeoning of Joseph, Mara and I were the subject of very intense questioning. Just stick to the truth, Geoff said. What else would we stick to?

My wound was healing quickly, but it hurt to touch, probably because I kept prodding it. I'd recover completely and wouldn't be left with a limp, although I did favor that leg for several days, but that was it. Thea Maria was ever solicitous but when she saw it was barely a scratch she all but ignored me. Who would have thought?

Friends dropped by. Harry, in particular, came to visit three days running bearing flowers and fresh fruit, including a pocket book titled _How to Survive in the Woods._

"With your adventurous nature," he said, "this might come in real handy."

Mara too, was doing fine. My father visited her a few times and he told me her bruises had gone from purple to yellow and her facial scars would eventually fade to nothing. Or nearly nothing he admitted.

By the end of the second week we were ready to move forward with Sir Franky and Mara. But there was a change of plans.

"No practical demo," Mara said. No way I'm setting foot back in that place. You'll have to make do with an _oral_ presentation."

"Of course," I said. "I wouldn't go back either. No way."

"Good, that's settled."

Mara had almost become her characteristic upbeat self. My father had made a point of visiting her and I'm sure this had helped bring about the mood change. Boots, too, was his normal self again, or almost. He was getting his home cleaned and replacing furniture.

"Time for change," he said. "I was tired of all the old stuff anyway. And no," he added, "that is not sour grapes. I do miss my old ratty couch though. And I'm glad, no –I'm ecstatic to get back in my own place. Don't get me wrong, your father was great. He was very tolerant of me."

"You were good for him too. All this excitement gave him quite a lift."

"What about Hannah?" he asked.

I'd gone over ostensibly to help him arrange furniture and hang pictures. No doubt he needed some company. Moving from the hubbub of staying at my father's and now back to his former solitude had to be a kind of withdrawal.

"Hannah. Yes. She's devastated. Still devastated. And now the person she thought was responsible for killing her son, and Freddy's disappearance, is also dead." I shuddered at a momentary flashback, my mind's eye seeing Mara bloody and hurt, the sudden stinging smell of cordite overpowering.

"You okay, Sam. You're white as a ghost."

"Huh? Yes, I'm fine. Just had a bad thought."

"Sorry if I reminded you."

"No, it's okay. I can't imagine what it's like for our guys coming home with PTSD."

"What you and Mara went through..." He shook his head.

"You know?" he added. "I'm sure the three of us have that to a degree. It started with getting the crap scared out of us when we almost shot down."

He had a point. I needed to call my therapist.

"Where was I? Right. She's devastated. Geoff's investigation is stalled and of course he doesn't talk about it."

"If there was any news I'm sure we'd hear about it." He sat down on the new sofa, still covered in plastic.

"Enough of this talk." He mopped his face with the hem of his tee shirt. He was clean-shaven and had his hair cut. Good signs.

"Let's leave this. I can manage it later. Truth is I wanted some company and to say thanks. How about I spring for lunch?"

"Lunch sounds good."

"Let me clean up and get a clean shirt."

Boots drove, leaving my Jetta in his driveway. We were lucky to find a metered spot near Dunn's. Because of my _delicate_ condition I ordered a chef's salad and a bottle of designer water. Boots had the heart attack special. Poutine. Cheese curds and French fries smothered in brown gravy and topped with slices of fatty smoked meat. Bypass surgery anyone?

The following week, Sir Franky was due. Mara and Sir Franky were going to coordinate how best to make their presentation, to explain exactly how the frauds were perpetrated and the museum cheated out of two million dollars.

"I'm on the museum board, you know," my father told me.

"Really? When did this happen?"

"Oh, back when we were dealing with the Lorenzo Panel.' We were in his living room and he pointed to the adjoining wall where the Lorenzo was hanging on the other side.

"Yes. And after discussing this business with Winnie, he got the curator of the Babylonian acquisitions to agree to hear what Mara and Franky have to say."

"Oh-oh. I'm not sure if that's good or bad."

"It'll be good, Sammy. It'll be good." He dipped his head and smiled. End of discussion. He had something up his sleeve but it'd be futile on my part to speculate. Don't think of the elephant, right?

A couple of days later, when I logged onto our shared email account there was a message from Lee-Ann. I almost closed the window out of habit before really checking.

_Hope you're okay. Heard about your encounter with Joseph. I owe Geoff a big hug for convincing you to get a gun. And insisting you_ _learn how to use it!_

I know how you feel about that. But let's face it. The alternative? And thank God for Mara too.

_But what I really want to tell you, is that Abdul and his team found the men. __The looters who killed his two officers. Things are starting to come to a close. Joan has the details, so talk to her._

As for me, I have to lay low. Avi's guys are still a problem. I won't go into that, but you know what I mean.

Take care of yourself.

I love you, Sam. In spite of all that's happened between us, the lies I've told you, truths and half truths, you're my best friend believe it or not. I hope you can forgive the hurts I've caused you and you can see us as we once were.

_I've got to run, and you may not hear from me fo r a while. You are my best __friend and I do love you._

Lee-Ann

P.S. Got a name for the baby yet?

God, that woman was a piece of work. I loved her too, damn her. I dried my eyes hating and loving her at the same time.

I closed the program and shut down my laptop. It was still early afternoon and hours before Geoff would be home. Talk to Joan she said.

The afternoon dragged. To avoid thinking bad thoughts and reliving the events of the last several weeks and especially what I'd begun to call the Shootout in Old Montreal, I got busy preparing our dinner.

"The shootout in Old Montreal. Good name for it," my therapist said. "On one hand it serves to diminish what happened. Not a bad thing, as long as you face the reality."

"What do you mean?"

"What happened is serious, and you know that. Traumatic. It's something you'll always carry and have to deal with. Giving it a glib name doesn't make it a glib event."

I know that. Believe me, I do know that." This was the third time I'd fired my gun in self-defense. The first time I did miss. I'd not been the one to kill Alistair, but I certainly had wanted to. The second time I did kill. I still wrestled with my conscience. Granted he was about to kill a child. And would have. This time, the third time, whether it was my shots that killed Joseph or Mara's blow's to his head the point is moot. INTENT. INTENT. INTENT.

"Sam," she went on. "You can't change the past. You are a strong and moral person. You did what you had to do. Unfortunately that can have serious and sometimes devastating consequences. But how you handle it, how you face up to your actions, that's what counts."

"Thanks. I am trying to do just that. And I agree with you. But..."

"Yes, there is always a _but_ isn't there? And here is another _but_. But don't over think it, don't over intellectualize it. Don't replay... " She paused. "Rewind. Let me use the word _try_ instead of _don't_. It won't be easy. Just keep on paddling. The current may be strong, keep paddling and you will cross the stream. You will cross the stream, Sam."

I thanked her. Our session had gone past the allotted hour and I left– _but_ not before scheduling the next session.

Keep paddling. Was this my Rubicon or the Styx? Charon's fee could be steep.

I continued preparing the meal. Something simple. Something easy. Shake and bake chicken thighs. Salad, not Greek, I'd use lettuce. Cauliflower and don't over cook. And mashed potatoes. Baked in the oven my potatoes were either burnt or hard as turnips. Mashed I could manage.

"You know that email account I share with Lee-Ann?"

He paused his fork in mid air.

"Okay."

"I got another message."

"Okay," he repeated.

"She said Abdul got the guys who killed his men. The ones from the dig."

"Right. That's right." He continued eating.

"She said I should talk to Joan."

"Well." He paused and continued eating. I waited.

"Yes," he said at length. "Joan is on top of it. But I'm not so sure she'll give you the details. Lee-Ann can be a little presumptuous. And you'd be way out of line to ask her."

"Do you know? Can you tell me anything? Who?  Or how. And what about Freddy? There are a lot of loose ends."

He finished eating and put his utensils parallel on his plate, then he did that objectionable thing swishing his tongue around to clean the inside of his mouth.

"I do. Most of it anyway. And I know how close you are to all of this. And I do trust you implicitly with any information I've given you. Information that I should have kept to myself."

"I know, Geoff. I get it. I do."

"That having been said, let me fill you in a bit."

He wiped his mouth and balled the paper napkin putting the wad on the plate.

"It's not over yet. Looks like they're getting there, but it isn't over. And by they, I mean Abdul and the Jordanians.  The Jordanian police I mean.

"Joan, as you know, is with the anti-terror group. She has her hands full believe me! Coordinating with Interpol. Coordinating with Abdul and the Jordanians. She has a lot of balls in the air and can't afford to let any drop."

"I get that too, it's just..."

"Hang on a sec. Let me finish." It wasn't like him to speak this way. Not to me at least.

"Sorry. I shouldn't be so pushy."

"In the end you'll have the whole story. In the meantime, Abdul caught the men. And I'll tell you this much. The killer was in fact Joseph."

"Really? That's a stunner."

"Yes. According to Joan it was Joseph. And before you ask, we have no idea what happened to Freddy. The only one as far as we know, the only one who could have enlightened us was Joseph."

"Oh, God."

"Now don't get worked up about that, Sam. I know what you're thinking." He reached across and took my hands.

"My God, Geoff. It's my fault. Now we'll never..."

"Sam, listen to me. Don't go there.  You think you shouldn't have shot him? Not defended your self? And Mara? Come on. Do not go there." Easy for him to say.

"Besides, Freddy is not exactly one of the good guys."

"Maybe not. But if in fact Joseph did kidnap him, where is he?"

"Don't over think this," he said sounding like my therapist. "We've still got eyes on Hannah. And I'm betting she knows more than she's letting on."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. So don't beat yourself up. Now," he said looking at his watch. "How about we take in a movie. Get our minds off this."

"I'm not up to going out, but how about something on Netflix?"

So that's what we did. He put a family sized bag of Orville's in the microwave and we watched a Peter Sellers movie. The first Pink Panther.

It was my favorite but my heart wasn't in it.

# Chapter 17

The next day, midmorning, my doorbell rang and the door opened.

"Sammy, it's me."

"I'm right here." If he turned his head he'd see me on the sofa feet propped on the coffee table, my laptop on my lap.

"Oh good. We need to talk." Meaning I needed to listen.

"Sure, what's up? There's fresh tea if you want.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. He was wearing a light blue cotton shirt open at the collar, the sleeves turned up to the elbow. Dark charcoal grey slacks with a knife-edge pleat broke, not over shoes but puffy slippers.

"You know, of course you know," he waved his hand. "Sir Franky and Mara are going to explain this whole sordid business with the..."

"Don't say the Madonna Bra!"

"I wasn't, I wasn't. Honest!"

"Anyway. Of course the museum is having a fit. Was having a fit. Winnie and I calmed them down."

"Don't tell me. The museum is just going to write off the two million dollars."

No, not exactly," he said with exaggerated patience. "But we do have something really workable."

I closed my laptop.

"Come on. You're dying to tell me. You look like you got caught in the cookie jar."

"Better than that. Better than that. I figured a way that the money can be recovered or at least a big chunk of it."

"Really? Two million bucks worth?"

"Yes. Not overnight. But it'll happen, I'm sure of it."

"So what's this plan?"

"It involves Mara's skills. Her potter skills."

"What? She's going to produce fakes and sell them to raise the two million?"

"Exactly, Sam. You got it in one. Exactly!" I stared at the man.

"Dad. Have you taken leave of your senses?" I really wanted to say, "Are you fucken nuts!"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Does sound a bit hare-brained I admit. But the more I thought about it, the better it sounded. And Sir Franky too."

"He thinks making and selling fakes is a good idea. He's out of his mind too. What are you guys thinking? And Mara? It's making fakes that got her into this mess."

"True, Sammy. All true. But it's not quite like that. Not quite like that at all. I got to get back." He used the arms of the chair for support as he levered himself up.

"Don't you leave me with just half of your story. Everything with you is a cliff hanger!"

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." He was laughing, at me definitely.

"It'll be clear when we get together. You'll see." From the door he called back, "Just wanted to let you know, give you a heads up."

"A heads up?" I was off the sofa. "You call that a heads up? You are so cryptic!" I stood like an adolescent, with my hands on my hips barely restraining myself from stamping my feet.

He returned and stepped up to kiss my cheek. Tables turned.

"Day after tomorrow. Dinner. You and Geoff. The others will come by later." Another kiss. "Trust me." He left.

Trust him, he said. How could creating further fakes possibly get Mara off the hook, or salvage Sir Franky's reputation, or compensate the museum for their two million dollar loss? Two days. It would be a long wait.

"We're still on for dinner, Sammy. You, Geoff and Mara. Boots said he'd see us later."

"What's up with Boots? He was really keen about this."

"You'll see, you'll see." He hung up.

"Explain," I said to him. We were on the deck eating, taking advantage of the weather.

"And where is Mara? She was supposed to be here."

"She's at the museum with Franky."

"The museum," Geoff said.

"Yes, she and Franky are setting up. You know."

"No, we don't know." At least I didn't. "What's going on?"

He started to explain then hesitated.

"Easier just to see for yourselves. You know how concerned they are about the fake panel business. Both of them for different reasons."

"Yes, we get that."

"They're going to explain how it all came about. At the museum. Winnie and I were able, as I told you earlier, to convince the board to hear what Franky had to say. They're interested in restitution of course, but would certainly prefer to avoid a lawsuit. They're not interested in saving Franky's reputation but they do want their money back. And if they get their money they'll be happy. No harm, no foul." He stopped and looked at his watch.

"Time to head over, to the museum."

The chairs were arranged as before and already filled with several occupants. Serious gray-haired types. The Board.

This time I wanted to sit behind them and headed towards the back with Geoff following. My father took a seat in front where Sir Franky and Mara were fiddling with the laptop, projecting and aligning images on the screen. Winslow arrived and the two shook hands and conferred, then Winslow turned on the microphone the group settled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming. As you are aware we're here tonight to address some serious concerns. As yet this hasn't been made public. Although that won't last long. A serious fraud has taken place and our museum is not alone in having been taken advantage of. Cheated is what we were. I won't cloud the issue or soften the financial blow with euphemisms. We. Were. Cheated. Fortunately Sir Franky has uncovered the fraud. I can't give you the details since the police are still investigating, but be assured had it not been for Sir Franky, this fraud would not have been uncovered."

"If it hadn't been for Sir Franky," said a gray-haired lady in front of me, "the fraud would not have happened!"

"Quite so, quite so." Sir Franky stood to address the speaker.

"You're quite right, Ma'am. I too, was hoodwinked. We were taken in by a very clever scheme. Nevertheless, it was my responsibility to ensure the artifact was genuine. I failed you. And it cost the museum two million dollars."

"What are you going to do about it?" said another gray hair.

"Well, Sir, and ladies and gentlemen. If you permit me, my colleague, Dr. Mara Semler, and I will explain exactly how we plan to make this right."

The woman who first challenged him mumbled to her husband and they both shook their heads. They looked around as if searching for support and judging by somber expressions and nodding they certainly had it. Salem hanged people for less.

Winslow stood and leaned towards the mike.

"Please allow us your indulgence. Dr. Sir Everett Franky will make clear what happened.

"Sir Franky?" he said to him.

"As you are aware, the panel purchased by your museum was deemed to be a companion to the original in the British Museum. The Queen of the Night or as it is often referred to, the Burney Relief. And as you are also aware, I determined that your panel was authentically its mate, so to speak. All the characteristics were there. All the evidence pointed to its authenticity.

"Ladies and gentleman I was wrong. Your panel is a two million dollar fake."

This elicited considerable reaction. Winslow stood but Sir Franky discreetly moved to block him from the mike.

"You're right, of course. It's entirely my fault. And I'm happy that this colony no longer has the death penalty."

"You can still be lynched!" Some one called.

There was a momentary hush then a burst of laughter.

"Go on then. Tell us your story," said another.

"Thank you. Behind me on the screen, the image on the right is the Queen of the Night in the British Museum. Beside it is your acquisition. Exactly the same, right? Those of you who were here at my first introduction may remember how I arrived at that conclusion."  A few assents and head nods.

"Actually they are not. I'll explain the differences shortly. Before I do, let me tell you how this all came about." He brought up a number of images, showing the interior of the British Museum and the broad staircase leading to the Babylonian and Mesopotamian collection where the Queen of the Night is displayed.

"Room 56, in the Sacker wing and I encourage you to visit if you ever cross the pond.  You can see her in this large glass enclosure. The interior is about five feet high, and six or so wide and three or so deep. The Queen incidentally has been identified as Ishtar the Goddess of sexual love and war, or her sister Eriskigal, who was Ishtar's rival and ruled the underworld. The relief was originally painted red. And for the benefit of those not present for my initial talk she wears a horned headdress and holds the rod and ring of justice. They're both symbols of Mesopotamian deities. The Burney dates to 1792-1750 BCE."

"Why wasn't the panel tested? Like Carbon 14?"

"Very good question," Sir Franky answered. "In this case it would be a thermo luminescence test. That would have saved us –and me– all this trouble and confusion. But as I had earlier explained, my conclusions were based on the evident clues. Clues that at the time I considered irrefutable.  Your panel and the one in the British Museum shared so many characteristics that further testing wasn't warranted. Scientific testing is destructive in its nature and should be avoided by first exhausting all other means of analysis.

He paused and looked over at Mara sitting with my father near the windows, then proceeded to show a few more images of the display case where the Queen of the Night lived in the British museum.

"We learned, or rather suspected, that the museum here had purchased a fake when we discovered a third relief panel. A third Queen of the Night. Two examples are not beyond the realm of possibility. But three is far too coincidental to be believed. This prompted me to contact my colleagues and return to the British Museum for further investigation.

"Further investigation showed that the Queen of the Night, I refer to the one in the British Museum, had been tampered with. It wasn't damaged and it was still displayed as you see it here. There was nothing untoward indicating that it had been tampered with. Not at first glance." He flipped from image to image pointing out details.

"But when the relief was inspected more closely a residue was discovered. Something that should not have been there." He pointed to the area on image, a new image he taken while in London.

"Analysis showed it was latex." He paused to sip some water.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, that proved very significant. Latex is a common substance used to make molds. Think of that American TV show, CSI. Of course plaster is used too.

"But in our case it was latex. The perpetrators were sloppy. In their haste to remove the latex mold a small remnant had pulled away and remained snagged on the relief. You can see it here, just barely." He pointed with the laser, but I couldn't make it out.

"That was decisive in determining that something was terribly amiss. As our investigation proceeded we discovered that one of the museum guards was bribed and threatened. Two men had remained hidden in a washroom. The guard, who had been paid to overlook them on his rounds, had arranged to open the display case and allow them access to the panel. They went to work, made the mold and left, not before threatening the man and his family with all kinds of harm if he didn't keep his mouth shut. That matter is still under investigation."

"Good story. Fascinating," the Grey Hair said. "But we're still stuck with a fake that cost us two million dollars."

"Quite so. But please bear with me. At this point I'd like to call on Dr. Semler to explain how exactly this fraud came about."

"Thank you, Sir Franky. Good evening," she said lowering the mike. "I made the fake."

The gray hair was the only one raising objections. "I suppose," he said, "we're going to hear another interesting story? At two million dollars it's an expensive tale. Unless it's a screenplay," he added eliciting a smattering of laughter.

"I know you're all angry and you have good reason to be. Although I was coerced into doing this, I won't make excuses. No excuses diminish what I did. I take full responsibility for my actions. I won't explain why nor will I justify what I did. Much of the blame for this fraud rests on my shoulders.

"I was given the latex mold. And since I am a master potter I had the skills to create the fakes. There are several steps. Complicated steps to be sure. But my skills made the work easy enough."

She projected a number of images, the first being the latex mold, and led us through the many steps in the creation of the fake panels. The final step being the fired terra cotta panel made from the clay mold. There were a number of questions and she had to review the steps to make it clear. Judging from some of the expressions there were still a few in the dark.

"The end result," she said, "is a replica of the original. The minor differences are the embellishments made when the panel is leather hard. On the original by the Babylonian artisans, and by me in the fake panels. All that was left when my panels were finished was to crack them or break a section to suggest the damage made after centuries of wear and tear."

"That is a very elaborately planned fraud," said the grey-haired man. "I'm not sure whether to applaud you or have you tarred and feathered."

"I'll get the tar. I've a roofing business." Someone shouted. It might have been funny in other circumstances.

"I am so sorry. You've no idea how much I regret being a part of this."

"So do we, Dr. Semler. Two million dollars of regret." Judging by comments and nods of agreement it was a good thing this was not Salem.

Sir Franky got up and Mara stepped aside so he could speak.

"Yes, it was an elaborately planned fraud. Almost fool proof. Most of the clues, as I've indicated were authentic, or appeared to be authentic enough for me to conclude the piece was genuine. Especially since the original was displayed in the British Museum. That far removed it was impossible to tell the difference between them in absolute terms. All physical aspects –all of them were perfect. All except one. And ladies and gentlemen it was this anomaly that led me to discover that your museum panel and another, the third panel, were in fact fakes." He took a drink, the pause a bit of his own drama.

"When clay is fired, ladies and gentlemen, or baked as some might say, in a kiln at extreme temperatures, clay undergoes a chemical change. Vitrification to some extent, which depends on the type of clay used. But vitrification is not the concern here. No, in fact what I'm talking about is shrinkage.

"It is this size difference that was the undoing." He proceeded to explain why.

"My initial suspicions prompted me to contact my colleagues. They provided very accurate measurements. And by comparing these measurements, those of the original with your panel and the third, the fraud was revealed."

"That's all fine and dandy." The Gray-Hair spoke again. "And of course Sir Franky should be commended for uncovering this fraud, this criminal enterprise. But we are still out two million dollars."

"Right. Yes. What about that?"  Irate voices from the group.

"Absolutely. We share your concerns. But before we address them can we take a small break, please? I know I can use one."

There was no objection from the group and a fifteen-minute recess was agreed to. They rose as one, some going to the lobby others standing by their seats. Gray-Hair making his way to the front. Winslow intercepted him before he could reach Sir Franky or Mara.

My father approached me saying, "Winnie, Sir Franky and I have to meet with the board. You guys go back to the house okay? Boots and Mara will be there shortly too."

"Okay. Sounds serious though. Is there a problem?"

"Just a few details to work out. We'll explain later, you guys go on ahead."

Geoff and I walked back letting ourselves into my father's. An hour later the others joined us. I was already sitting with my shoes off and my feet on the table and drinking a bottle of designer water when the others came in.

Mara sat down beside me and was quite relaxed, her face free from the strain of the last few weeks. Sir Franky too was his jocular self. He'd removed his jacket and tie and loosened his collar. He'd also taken off his shoes and was massaging one foot with the other. I looked at Geoff and raised an eyebrow. Of course he had no idea to what I was referring.

"Mara, do you want to explain?" my father prompted.

"We've come to a rather nice arrangement, with the museum. It took a little convincing, but in the end..."

"In the end," Winslow added, "Sir Franky made them an offer they couldn't refuse."

"Listen to this," she said. "They want me to make a series of videos explaining _and_ demonstrating how these fakes and others are produced. They also want me to make fakes. Or at least oversee a group of potters creating them. All the different aspects to be part of the series."

"Right," Winslow said. "The aim being that these videos are marketed. And the reproductions too."

"The museum wants to run a business reproducing fake artifacts?"

"Yes, Sammy. In essence."

"In essence? What am I missing here?"

Sir Franky leaned forward rolling his snifter between his palms.

"This whole business of faking is quite fascinating," he said. Bold. Audacious."

"And criminal?" I said.

"Oh, that too. But here's where it gets interesting. There are hundreds of collectors. Thousands probably. Not to mention non collectors who'd like an authentic fake."

"Yes," Mara added. "Both our museum and the British Museum have agreed in principal that the artifacts will be produced in numbered editions. A certificate of authenticity will attest that the artifact is a genuine fake."

"It's a win win," Winslow said. "Both museums stand to benefit and earn revenues. Our museum recovers their loss, maybe not overnight, but they will get back their money. Sales of the artifacts and the videos should produce a fair bit of income."

"And don't forget," my father added. "The international market. Museums around the world. Collectors. There is a lot of potential."

"And not least," Winslow went on, "Sir Franky's reputation doesn't take a hit. He figured it all out don't forget."

"I had help, Winslow. Thanks to you and Gregor the museum is not disposed to suing my striped pants off! Believe me, that's a big worry off my mind!"

"And mine too," Winslow said. "And the British Museum wants Sir Franky to be in charge of this enterprise."

"All's well, that ends well," said Franky.

Not quite, I thought. Not quite. Not wanting to dampen the mood I kept my thoughts to myself.

My father poured. They drank. I tuned them out, my mind filled with thoughts of Lee-Ann. Hannah. Freddy. I shivered.

"You okay, Sam? Want my jacket? Want to go home?"

"I'm fine. But maybe your jacket." He fetched it and draped it over my shoulders.

Granted a number of issues were cleared but a number of unanswered questions persisted. Mara was breathing easier no longer worried about being prosecuted, as the museum declined pressing charges. Nor were they interested in suing Sit Franky or even claiming restitution through their insurers. That, no doubt would have resulted in a lawsuit against him. Thanks in part, a large part, to my father's intervention and Winslow's support. Sir Franky was coming out of this smelling like a rose, and already was in demand as a speaker. He'd unraveled and solved how Joseph or his men had infiltrated the museum. The guard for his actions had been let go. I had no idea if the British courts had charged the man with anything more serious than accepting a bribe since nothing had been stolen nor had the Queen of the Night been damaged. In his defense the man could claim he'd also been a victim, with threats to himself and family. And given the people involved the threats were real enough to be taken seriously. I'm sure the poor man had suffered enough.

But Freddy's whereabouts was still a mystery and with Joseph dead, that question may never be answered. Had he really been kidnapped? And by whom? If it was Joseph that question was now moot.

And Hannah. What was her role in all of this? She'd lost a son. No parent should outlive their child. I thought of my father still grieving. She lost a son and probably her husband too. She and my father, they both suffered similar fates. Yet part of me was suspicious of what Hannah's role was in all of this. Was she completely naïve to what Freddy was doing? How could she not be aware, have some inkling, a glimmer of his criminal side hiding behind his legitimate art dealerships?

I found it hard to believe she had no idea. And yet, I didn't want to believe she did. I couldn't fathom the Hannah that I knew and respected could also be a perpetrator, a supporter, a participant in funding terror. That was too horrifying to even contemplate let alone believe.

According to Geoff, who bit by bit was disclosing some of the facts that were gradually coming to light from Joan's investigative group, Hanna was a continuing entity under consideration.

"Hannah," he said, "is tying up loose ends."

"What do you mean?"

"Her condo is on the market. And she's closed the gallery here."

"I can't blame her for that. With Freddy missing and Rajah dead, who's around to manage it?"

"It gets better, Sam."

"Better?"

"Yeah. Remember we'd discovered that Freddy had money salted away in the Caymans?"

"Yes. The money that was supposedly going to his charities as I recall."

"Right. And we know that not all the charities are legit."

"Okay. Some were fronts allegedly for ISIS or those groups."

"Exactly. Those accounts have been closed."

"Really! Who closed them?"

"That's the problem. All transfers were done electronically, as they are these days. As long as you have the codes and passwords, you or anyone with the numbers, can transfer money in or out."

"And I'm betting there's a lot of money." I thought of the value of her condo.

"Several millions," he confirmed. "Joan has details that I don't. But it's in the millions."

"Where is that money now?"

"That I do not know. And I'm not sure Joan or her team can get that information. Banking laws are strict, and very hard to breach."

"She must have some idea."

"Sure, she has ideas."

"What do you think?"

"What I think doesn't matter."

"Maybe not," I said. "But does the name Hannah come to mind?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Hannah," I continued, "has been through a lot. More than anyone should. She's a victim too. Unless Freddy is alive and hiding out somewhere, who else has access to all those millions?"

"At this point that's Joan's problem. Joseph is a non-issue. Boots has nothing to worry about and Mara is in the clear. As for Freddy? There is nothing that points to kidnapping. It's more a missing person case, and handled by that department. And as for Hannah? They're treating her simply as the wife with a missing husband. Sorry, but that's the way it is."

"What about the guys who killed Rajah, trashed Boots's place and almost killed Bob?"

"We haven't forgotten them, believe me. That part of the case is still open but I'm not holding my breath. The consensus is that they were hired thugs, and probably by Joseph. The detectives have their ear to the ground and bad guys have a tendency to talk. But like I said, I'm not holding my breath."

With only a few weeks left of the summer break, I became more serious about completing my research for the coming academic year. Mara was busy with Sir Franky putting together their documentary and instructional videos, which necessitated spending time at the British Museum.

"This is quite a turn of events for me," she said during an afternoon visit.

"I've been under such stress for a couple of years, I keep looking over my shoulder still expecting to be arrested."

"Put that behind you. It's over.  You need to believe that. By the way, how is your mother doing?"

"Her condition isn't getting better, of course. But now I can continue to afford the care she needs. She can live a good many years yet, although the quality of life isn't that rosy." She paused and I almost regretted asking.

"Fortunately the staff is excellent. You get what you pay for, right? Yet even where my mother is I've heard of issues from others who have loved ones there. There are still insensitive care givers no matter how much you pay."

"According to my father, one of the best ways to ensure proper care is for family to maintain a high profile."

"Exactly! Believe me, I visit several times a week. They know me!

"By the way, guess what? Hannah called me. "

"Hannah!"

"Yes, would you believe." We were enjoying Thea Maria's sweets with cups of tea.

"It was quite a surprise to hear from her to say the least."

"I can imagine!"

"She wanted to apologize for what Freddy, and especially Joseph, put me through. She said she had no idea what Freddy had put me through." She paused and took some tea.

"She sounded sincere enough, but I'm not sure I believe her. But I will give her benefit of the doubt considering so many gave it to me. I was very fortunate how this worked out."

"That's charitable, Mara."

"Well, she has been through a lot, there's no denying that. She also asked if I wanted any of the pottery equipment. The kilns and what not. Apparently she heard about my new enterprise."

"That was kind of her. I think."

"Kind or not, I refused, politely of course. Told her my workshop was taken care of by the museum, which may turn out to be a lie. But there's absolutely no fucken way I wanted anything from that place. No fucken way!"

And as loose ends were being tied off, I was surprised yet again.

"Yes, Sammy. I just got off the phone with Winnie. Hannah called him."

"That's a bit odd?"

Get this. She wants to reimburse the museum. She wants to give back the two million."

"No way!"

"Yes, she does. According to Winnie, she said it was the least she could do, given her husband's involvement."

"Incredible."

"Coming full circle."

"I don't know what to say, except that Mara and Sir Franky will be more than a little relieved."

That afternoon I went to my office and to visit the print shop with my course documents. Not all of my students had laptops to access and download material.

"Hey, Sam," Harry greeted when I entered our office. He got up and took my case and embraced me. I could smell tobacco smoke on him.

"Won't be long before the hordes arrive." He sat at his desk and reamed the ash out of his pipe.

"How have you been, Sam, I mean really?"

"Health wise, baby wise, or otherwise?"

"Health wise, baby wise _and_ otherwise."

"Health wise I'm in good shape."

"Bob will be glad to hear that! He so loves a good shape."

"Harry, you are incorrigible!" He was choking again.

"Baby wise, junior or maybe juniorette is fine too."

"Are you planning on discovering the gender?"

"No, I am not. Neither Geoff nor I want to know ahead of time. We think it spoils the surprise element."

"Have you guys picked out names?"

"Actually we haven't. With all that's been happening that hadn't even crossed our minds. We should think about it now that the dust has settled."

"Sounds like fun. What about _otherwise_?" He tilted his head.

"Some interesting twists and turns, that's for sure."

"And a few surprises too."

"You're referring to Hannah's gesture to reimburse the museum?"

"Gesture? That's an understatement!"

"Definitely. But there are still loose ends, I'm afraid."

"As in where is Freddy?"

"Yes. As in where is Freddy."

"As long as everyone is in the clear and free from threat, that's the important part. As for the other? Let Geoff and the police figure that out."

That's what my therapist said. Time to let it go. Easier said than done. She never fired a gun in anger. There was a limit to what I could disclose or what I was willing to let out. I knew I could tell her anything. No judgment. No guilt inducing comments. I did enough of that on my own. But a part of me always held back.

Three times I used my gun. In anger. With the intent to kill. Not just to harm, but to stop, to permanently stop. To put an end to the threat. Threat, a euphemism for person. Depersonalize. Don't use his name. Make him less human, less than human. That's how they train soldiers, right? If he's not a person, then it's okay.

Better him that me. The fact that I could see no other alternative is what eats me, consumes me. That's what I can't cope with. And that's what I couldn't tell my therapist. Not yet. Not yet.

The first time I didn't kill. I had wanted to. Nevertheless in my mind I was guilty.

The second time I did take a life. Otherwise a child would have died.  I was called a hero. Some hero.

And this time? Did I kill Joseph? Or did Mara? How did she feel? How did she cope? Did she think she had killed him? Or did she project and believe it was my bullets that ended his life?

I was stuck in a moral limbo. I could accept the blame and move on.  Or pass the buck and absolve myself and believe he died from his head wounds.

Neither perspective gave me any satisfaction. No matter how I chose, the other option would dog me.

What about those firing squads, where one or more of them have blanks loaded in their rifles? Who's responsible? Who knows? Maybe one is a deadeye marksman. He'd know, wouldn't he?

My own guilt was questionable and that was a lot worse than the actual knowing.

"You know," I told her. "I can't help but compare myself to Lee-Ann."

"Really! How so? From what you've told me, she's flighty, an arty type. That's not you."

"Yes, that's right. Maybe not arty, but certainly artistic and creative. And she can come off as a bit flaky. But I think that was just a persona she wanted to project. She's in fact very strong, very committed. Strong physically as well as emotionally. And her artiness, if there is such a word, is real. She's a very gifted painter. Of that there is no doubt.

"Okay, my bad. But I don't see a similarity, at least not from what you've told me. Tell me how you see yourself. Compared to Lee-Ann I mean."

I took some time to think, to shape my thoughts. In hindsight I should have just explained. Let it out. Instead, I bluntly said:

"We are both killers." She didn't react.

"We are both killers," I repeated. "Taken lives. Human lives. Removed people from this _earthly coil_. They're gone. Dead. I did that. Same as Lee-Ann.

"We were friends. Best friends.  And I was Sarah's Godmother.  I loved Sarah. And Lee-Ann. Still do.  I love her _and_ I hate her. That part of her, that part we share. And...and... I hate myself too." I burst into tears.

She handed me a box of tissues.

"Sam, you feel guilty. That's understandable. You're a criminologist. You know the difference between feeling remorse and taking responsibility for your actions, and what you'd be if you didn't."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. And no I don't think I'm some kind of sociopath. Intellectually I do get it. But understanding is one thing, accepting is another. And I do not want to rationalize taking a human life."

"Of course not. And I wouldn't want you to. But it's important to forgive yourself. Otherwise this burden, this burden of guilt will crush you."

"That's the hard part. I'm not sure I can forgive myself."

Okay, Sam. Try this. Try this. Accept that what you did was not some gratuitous act. You did in fact, and there is no argument against it, you acted for the better. You acted for the benefit of others."

I was about to speak.

"No, let me finish. Yes, people died by your hand. Try to accept that otherwise greater harm would have come to others.

"I'm not here to judge you or condone your actions, or the actions of anyone one else seeking my counsel. My job is to help you face your actions, to come to terms with them. However the outcome, if you've acted for the betterment of others, and you have, _that_ is what you should focus on. Try to focus on.

"We are none of us all saints or all sinners.

"And as for your comparison to Lee-Ann? The circumstances are vastly different. She's a professional assassin!"

"But don't forget she..."

"No, no buts, Sam. Sorry to cut you off. Lee-Ann is a trained assassin. I'm here for you, Sam. Not Lee-Ann. There is no comparison between what Lee-Ann does and what you did. None."

"I know that. She's chosen her life. That life."

"Exactly. But let me repeat. I'm here for you. It's your remorse we're dealing with. You're dealing with. And it's your remorse that will save you. People like Lee-Ann will in the end self-destruct. Without the ability to feel guilt you'd be empty, a hollow shell." She let that sink in before adding, "Don't think for even a second that you are anything like Lee-Ann. Not a second."

Later that evening my father called. Hannah had dropped in unexpectedly and would I go over.

"So." He said rubbing his hands together. "Can I offer you something? Tea. Coffee.  Something stronger?"

"No, thanks. I won't keep you, but I did want to see you, both of you, before I left. I'm going back home. To Jordan. I've sold the condo, and the buyer is very happy to say the least. It was _priced to sell_ as my realtor said. The gallery is closed too, and I was able to place most of the inventory with other dealers in town. But I did keep a few pieces for myself.

I also brought something for you, Gregor that I think you will enjoy. I can think of no one else who would have the same appreciation. "

She handed him a shoebox-sized package.

"Excuse the Christmas wrapping paper," she laughed. "It's all I had."

"Oh, Hannah... It's not..."

"Yes, Gregor. It's just a small gesture. A thank you for your friendship. And an apology. You know for all this... for you know..."

"Hannah. Thank you. They're beautiful. They're beautiful." He put the three figures on the table. They were about ten inches tall. Three winged Goddesses in the manner of the Queen of the Night. They were in exceptional condition. One had a chipped wing otherwise they were exquisite. I could even see remnants of paint. Some red and ochre and a bit of black in the deeper crevices of the terra cotta.

"I call them my Graces. And these I am quite certain they are authentic." She laughed nervously.

"They are beautiful, Hannah. Perfection. They will be _my_ Graces too. I can't think of a more appropriate name for them. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them," she said getting up. "I must be going. I've a few things to do before my flight tomorrow. There's a bit more procedure when you fly commercial."

"Thank you again, Hannah." He held her hand and kissed her on both cheeks.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Hannah," I said offering my hand. "This has been an ordeal for you, I know." Instead of shaking my hand she clasped me in a hug.

"Yes, I won't deny it. But you look well. And the baby?"

"Thank you, we are both fine."

My father showed her to the door. There was a car waiting for her at the curb and the driver got out and held the door for her as she went down the steps. We watched from the open doorway, and as the car pulled away we waved. Hannah didn't look back.

"That was a surprise," I said.

"Yes, it was Sammy." He sat down and picked up one of the Graces. "So beautiful. Such beauty and so much of it is being destroyed. Beauty turned into guns and bombs." He placed it on the table arranging and rearranging the three pieces, the Three Graces.

That evening Geoff and I were watching some inane comedy. The sound was barely audible, neither one of us really paying attention. We were on the sofa with my legs in his lap.

"Have you heard from Lee-Ann?"

"Yes. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Just one of her cryptic emails."

"And?" he prompted.

"Just checking in, she said. Asking how I was. How _we_ were."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's it," I lied.

She was still sought by the friends of the two men in Israel. She put quote marks around _friends_. I was not likely to hear from her for some time. I shouldn't worry, she said. Take care of yourself and the baby.

"You know," he said bringing me out of my reverie. "We haven't discussed baby names."

"Do you have any ideas?" I put my feet down and snuggled into him.

"How about Gregor?"

"For a little boy!" I said a bit loudly.

"What's wrong with that? Your father was a little boy."

"Nothing. It's a good name. My father will love it."

"But..."

"No, it's a good name." I thought it a bit old-fashioned.

"And if it's a girl?" he asked.

"If it's a girl, I'm kind of partial to Sarah."

"Sarah. Sarah," he repeated, testing the sound of it.

"Sarah. A beautiful name."

"I think so too." I leaned up and kissed him. "It means princess in Hebrew." I hoped we'd have a girl.

That night we lay in bed, Geoff on his back with his hands behind his head and my leg across his thighs. Neither one of speaking just enjoying the solitude and the comfort of being together, free at last from violence and threats.

I replayed in my mind my last therapy session.

Focus on the future. Look ahead, not back.

My god! I felt my abdomen.

"Geoff!" I put his hand on my stomach.

# Photos

Getting ready to start a dig. Amman Jordan.

Dig in progress. Amman Jordan

Photos from author's collection.

Two photos of original Queen of the Night. British Museum.

Photos by Lauren Bush.

# About Victor

I've been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team

artist on an archeologist dig, in Amman, Jordan.

While attending night school in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed

by graduate courses in administration, I taught in both elementary

and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both

English and French.

These skills and experiences provide ample material that drive my imagination to

weave intricate and gripping mystery novels.

# Copyright

Victor C. Bush 2016

ISBN 978-0-9940847-3-6

# Author's webpage

<http://www.victorcbush.com>
