The Gold of Thrace by Aileen G. Baron Page A

insurance, the whole cost?”
    “Of course,” Chatham said.
    Dimitar nodded his head in satisfaction. “That is good.” He clapped Chatham on the shoulder with a smile. “Go now. We pack the gold while you make the arrangements.”
    Chatham walked back through the rain with a borrowed raincoat and umbrella to the travel agent across from the stationer’s, and passed more bortsi who skulked in doorways to keep out of the rain. He paid for the plane ticket with a credit card that Emma didn’t know about, and crossed the street to the stationers. He sent a Telex to the Keeper of Near East Antiquities at the British Museum, telling him that he was bringing a collection of Thracian gold on loan for a possible exhibit.
    He knew the museum couldn’t arrange for insurance until the collection was authenticated and evaluated. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let go of it until he reached Heathrow, wouldn’t let it out of his sight until it was safely deposited in the museum. Now that he could take it with him, he would have time to do the research, have the pieces photographed and tested.
    He showed Irena the ticket when he returned. She held it in her hand for a moment, then gave it back.
    “You must hurry.” She flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel. “You will be safe?”
    “Not to worry. The gold is insured,” Dimitar told her. He turned to Chatham. “It is, yes?”
    “As of twenty minutes ago,” Chatham said without a blink. “By Lloyd’s, the best.”
    Irena nodded. “Lloyd’s. I’ve heard of them.” She kissed his cheek and reached for the telephone. “You must go now. The sooner you go, the sooner you come back. The plane leaves soon. I’ll call for a cab.” She dialed a number and said something in Bulgarian. She seemed angered with whatever she heard, then gave a disgusted shrug and slammed down the receiver. “The phone doesn’t work.” She held her finger against her lips a moment, as if she were thinking.
    “There’s always a line of taxis near the Cathedral of Alexander Nevsky,” Dimitar said. “The rain has stopped now. You could cut through the park to the Cathedral.”
    He missed the look passed between Irena and Dimitar. “Why is he Saint Alexander Nevsky?” he asked.
    Dimitar shrugged. “He was a great hero. He defeated the Swedes and the Germans and saved the Slavs from the west.”
    “I always thought that saints were either anorexic women or schizophrenics who thought they talked to God,” Chatham said.
    “Oh, Andrew, you are incorrigible,” Irena said. Then she laughed and kissed Chatham on the other cheek and he felt strong and invulnerable.
    “You will be safe going through the park?”
    “I can handle it,” he said.
    “Dimitar can go with you,” she said.
    “I have to wait here for a call from a client,” Dimitar said. “Then we can go.”
    “He’ll miss the plane,” Irena said.
    “I’ll miss the plane,” Chatham said
    Irena straightened his tie and smoothed his lapel. “I will miss you,” she said, and moved him toward the door. “Go quickly. The sooner you go, the sooner you come back.”
    He picked up the suitcase and felt the heft of it tug at his arm. He moved toward Irena and bent to kiss her goodbye, but she had already turned away. His cheek brushed the back of her shoulder and he kissed the empty air.
    “You must hurry,” she said from the door of the kitchen. “The plane leaves in less than two hours.”
    Chatham hastened along the path through the park, the weight of the suitcase dragging at his shoulder. He still felt the warmth of Irena’s earlier kiss on his cheek.
    Wet leaves and buds lay on the damp earth. The park seemed to come alive, basking in the cool sparkle after a rain. Pigeons pecked at the ground at the edge of puddles left by the rain; twigs snapped in the bushes along the path where dogs prowled and foraged for food.
    In front of Chatham, a bulky man, muscles bulging in his tight T-shirt, strolled aimlessly in