Gabriel's Horn by Alex Archer Page B

of the real history of the painting. The secret was about to be exposed, and she wondered who was responsible. She knew that Roux would never have told anyone. In fact, when she’d let him know how much she knew, he’d nearly killed her.
    That was nine years ago. The incident had happened in Luxembourg after an art show. Despite the fact that she’d been checking for Roux’s presence since she’d stepped into the auction house, she looked around again.
    There was no sign of the old man. Or of Saladin. She would be doubly blessed.
    How did I find the prize before you did? she wondered. Then she admonished herself for feeling so fortunate. She hadn’t made off with the painting yet.
    “According to the legend surrounding this piece,” the auctioneer went on, “the figure in this painting is a fallen angel.” He used a laser pointing device to indicate the fireplace. “If you gaze into the fire, you can see tormented souls twisting in Hell.”
    At her distance, Salome couldn’t see the figures, but she knew they would be there. The notebooks she’d studied, the ones found in Cosimo de’ Medici’s private collections, had shown sketches of the Nephilim.
    “And this shadow?” The auctioneer traced the curved shadow barely visible on the right side of the painting. “This is supposed to belong to the artist who painted this piece.”
    “Unless I’m mistaken,” one of the men said, “that shadow belongs to a woman.”
    The auctioneer smiled. “You’re not mistaken. Virgil Carolini was actually the pseudonym of a woman painter.”
    “There weren’t many of those in the seventeenth century,” someone observed.
    Salome was relieved to realize they didn’t know the painting was actually painted earlier than that. No one, except perhaps for Roux, knew the painting’s true origins.
    And the old man wasn’t telling.
    “No,” the auctioneer agreed. “There weren’t many female painters for a long time.” He let that sink in.
    Salome knew he’d expertly moved the piece from art to a definite acquisition for possible investment. Collectors and investors alike treasured the unique in that regard.
    The auctioneer moved the laser pointer again. “If you look in the shadows here, you can see what appear to be wings folded beneath the man.”
    An appreciative murmur came from the crowd.
    “I see them,” a woman said.
    Salome did, as well. She slipped her phone from her purse and opened it to the keyboard. She typed quickly without looking at the keys.
    “It’s here.”
    The response came almost immediately. “It won’t escape us.”
    “Make certain that it doesn’t.” Salome put the phone away.
    The bidding started gingerly at first. Since there was no real knowledge of the piece or the artist, buyers were hesitant. Salome stayed out of it.
    Eventually the painting sold to one of the women in the room.
    Salome sat through eight more items. She bid on a few, always stopping short of where she knew the final price would hit. She even purchased a clock handmade by Jens Olsen, the internationally known clockmaker who’d designed and built the world clock in the Radhus, the Copenhagen City Hall. The price was low because most of those assembled didn’t know that it was an original. Salome knew she could sell it to a collector she knew for at least forty thousand dollars more than she paid for it.
    Then the woman who had bought the painting got up to make arrangements for the acquisition. Salome did the same. While she was in line, she also rifled the woman’s purse and found her identification without getting caught.
    * * * *
    As Salome left the auction house, she was met at the curb by a car. The man in the backseat got out and helped her inside.
    Riley Drake was a big man. He headed his own private security company and rented his shock troops out to countries around the globe. He’d grown up in England, but he’d learned his trade in the killing fields in Africa. He kept his head shaved and looked