by a magician’s wand. Behind them, on mirrored shelves lit from above and behind, was a marvel of artfully arranged Classical Greek pottery—Geometric, Corinthian, black on red, red on black—each resting on a Plexiglas display stand.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Gilberto said, gesturing toward the open cabinets.
He rose from his chair and stood in front of one of the cupboards. “You will like this.” He waved her over. “Come. I’ll show you magnificent things.”
He took a kylix , a graceful, shallow cup on a pedestal base with horizontal handles, from its stand and held it carefully in his hands. The cup was smooth black, with palmettes and draped red figures painted around the outside of the rim.
“You want something like this, perhaps.” He turned it over. “You see here.” He pointed to the Greek lettering on the base. “It is signed. Epiktetus.” He turned it back to show her the inside of the kylix . “And here, in the tondo.” He pointed to the circle in the center. “A flute player and dancer.”
“Beautiful,” she said.
He looked at her and leaned closer. “Not half so beautiful as you.”
“Is that how you always begin?”
He shook his head and moved closer still. “You hold me with your eyes. Your eyes are magic.”
She backed away. “I’ve heard many a line, but none this smooth.” He was so charming, so good looking that she almost forgave him. “You’re a great salesman.”
“Indeed I am.” He bent over, his mouth close to her ear, and said in a throaty whisper, “And I’m going to sell you my soul.”
I’d rather you offered me a mosaic, she thought, but later, in the cab on the way back to the Euler, all she thought about was what Gilberto said and the way he had said it, not wanting to feel the slight pleasure it gave her.
***
That evening when Tamar stopped in the bar for a bottle of water before she went upstairs, she saw Enzio seated at a table in the far corner. He waved her over and she sat down.
“What do you think of Gilberto?”
“He has quite a line.”
“Be careful,” Enzio told her. “You’ll get caught in it and he’ll reel you in.”
Chapter Eleven
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 11, 1990
Chatham enclosed a note advising that there was more to follow with the packet of drawings that he mailed to the Illustrated London News .
Irena had gone to the post office with him. “You will go to London now?” she asked.
She stopped to buy a newspaper at the kiosk outside the post office as they made their way back to the small apartment on Ulitza Rakovsky. The street was misty, the sky overcast.
“I have more drawings to do,” he told her.
“You could take the gold with you.”
“The gold isn’t what bothers me,” Chatham said.
“What then?”
“I want to spend more time on the drawings,” he said. And linger close to Irena with restless dreams of reaching for her in the night on the lumpy bed in Ulitza Rakovsky. “Would you miss me?”
“Certainly.”
He thought of the triumph of marching into the British Museum bearing his find of the Thracian hoard.
“I’ll come back.”
“With the gold,” she said. “When the exhibition is finished.”
Chatham felt a chill of apprehension. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way she said it, moving away from him as she spoke.
“I’ll call for a plane reservation,” she said.
“Today?”
“When we get back to the apartment.”
It began to rain and they hurried through the wet streets, past bortsi standing on street corners who followed them with their eyes. Chatham reached for Irena to put his arm protectively across her shoulder, but she was steps ahead of him, running through the rain with the newspaper over her head.
***
“It will be safe?” Irena asked after Chatham made a plane reservation for five o’clock that afternoon.
“Not to worry. We will insure the gold,” Dimitar said.
“The museum will insure it,” Chatham told him.
“They will? They will pay the
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Gilberto said, gesturing toward the open cabinets.
He rose from his chair and stood in front of one of the cupboards. “You will like this.” He waved her over. “Come. I’ll show you magnificent things.”
He took a kylix , a graceful, shallow cup on a pedestal base with horizontal handles, from its stand and held it carefully in his hands. The cup was smooth black, with palmettes and draped red figures painted around the outside of the rim.
“You want something like this, perhaps.” He turned it over. “You see here.” He pointed to the Greek lettering on the base. “It is signed. Epiktetus.” He turned it back to show her the inside of the kylix . “And here, in the tondo.” He pointed to the circle in the center. “A flute player and dancer.”
“Beautiful,” she said.
He looked at her and leaned closer. “Not half so beautiful as you.”
“Is that how you always begin?”
He shook his head and moved closer still. “You hold me with your eyes. Your eyes are magic.”
She backed away. “I’ve heard many a line, but none this smooth.” He was so charming, so good looking that she almost forgave him. “You’re a great salesman.”
“Indeed I am.” He bent over, his mouth close to her ear, and said in a throaty whisper, “And I’m going to sell you my soul.”
I’d rather you offered me a mosaic, she thought, but later, in the cab on the way back to the Euler, all she thought about was what Gilberto said and the way he had said it, not wanting to feel the slight pleasure it gave her.
***
That evening when Tamar stopped in the bar for a bottle of water before she went upstairs, she saw Enzio seated at a table in the far corner. He waved her over and she sat down.
“What do you think of Gilberto?”
“He has quite a line.”
“Be careful,” Enzio told her. “You’ll get caught in it and he’ll reel you in.”
Chapter Eleven
Sofia, Bulgaria, August 11, 1990
Chatham enclosed a note advising that there was more to follow with the packet of drawings that he mailed to the Illustrated London News .
Irena had gone to the post office with him. “You will go to London now?” she asked.
She stopped to buy a newspaper at the kiosk outside the post office as they made their way back to the small apartment on Ulitza Rakovsky. The street was misty, the sky overcast.
“I have more drawings to do,” he told her.
“You could take the gold with you.”
“The gold isn’t what bothers me,” Chatham said.
“What then?”
“I want to spend more time on the drawings,” he said. And linger close to Irena with restless dreams of reaching for her in the night on the lumpy bed in Ulitza Rakovsky. “Would you miss me?”
“Certainly.”
He thought of the triumph of marching into the British Museum bearing his find of the Thracian hoard.
“I’ll come back.”
“With the gold,” she said. “When the exhibition is finished.”
Chatham felt a chill of apprehension. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way she said it, moving away from him as she spoke.
“I’ll call for a plane reservation,” she said.
“Today?”
“When we get back to the apartment.”
It began to rain and they hurried through the wet streets, past bortsi standing on street corners who followed them with their eyes. Chatham reached for Irena to put his arm protectively across her shoulder, but she was steps ahead of him, running through the rain with the newspaper over her head.
***
“It will be safe?” Irena asked after Chatham made a plane reservation for five o’clock that afternoon.
“Not to worry. We will insure the gold,” Dimitar said.
“The museum will insure it,” Chatham told him.
“They will? They will pay the
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