picture.
He stood up, then called Phoebe as he stepped over the body and headed back down the hallway. “Sis?”
“Yeah, you okay? Feared we lost you there.”
“I’ll be better if you tell me you’ve got something.”
“About the centaurs? Hang on.”
He kept walking, past the windows where now he saw agents converging, running over the ramparts, seeking out hiding places, working their way toward him.
“Big brother?”
“Yeah?” He entered the room and stepped back to the bas-relief of the Centauromachy.
“Orlando’s just coming out of it, and—what? Ah, all right, here.”
“Hey, boss. You there?”
“Yeah, Orlando, but as I said before, I’m not your boss.”
“You pay me for this gig, so that makes you a boss in my book.”
“Then I’m going to fire you if you don’t tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, do you see the main centaur, the big one raising his arms?”
“Yep.”
“Is the head still intact?”
“Yes, but not all of the body. Rear legs are broken off.”
“Not a problem. I think you’re good to go. See his right horn?”
“Yes.” Caleb moved in closer and stared. It was slightly larger than the left, about the width of two fingers, and maybe six inches in length. But it was a little darker, greener than its mate, as if the sculptor had used a different material, something only noticeable up close. “Wait, this frieze was originally on the second tier, rather high up if I recall. Even if visitors came to admire it, they’d need a ladder to see the discoloration.”
Orlando coughed. “You need to trust me here.”
“Go on.”
“Twist the horn clockwise; it should release.”
Footsteps approached, agents with submachine guns drawn, coming from both entrances. Caleb moved quickly, turning the horn, which at first refused to budge. But then it gave, turned and screwed off. Caleb turned it upside down, looked into the hollow space inside. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tapped the horn against his palm.
“Is the key in there?” Orlando asked.
Agent Wagner came to a skidding halt, leading two agents from the eastern passage. She held a gun with both hands and wore a bullet-proof vest. “You find it?”
Caleb showed her his palm, which held only a single rolled up piece of paper. He tugged at the edge and flattened it out. Then his heart sunk, along with his hopes to save Alexander, as he saw the words written there in fresh red ink.
No prize for second place.
10.
“They were here,” Caleb told her. “We missed them.”
Renée holstered her gun, a black Walther .45 with a walnut grip, a weapon Caleb had noticed earlier and thought was a little flashy for an FBI agent. “So,” she said, “Montross managed to do in minutes what Alexander the Great failed to do all his life?”
Caleb offered a weak smile. “The Great Conqueror didn’t have our gifts.” Well, at least Phoebe and Orlando still have access to those gifts.
Renée led Caleb back to the dead body. Her men had removed the assassin’s mask. “Recognize him?”
“You mean by what’s left of him.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. He’s Asian. We can tell that much, but he’s got no ID.”
“Nothing but that tattoo,” another agent pointed out.
“Wait,” Caleb said. He took out his phone, brought up the photo and sent it as a picture message to Phoebe’s phone. Then he called her.
Renée frowned. “What are you doing?”
Caleb held up a hand. “Following a hunch.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. This thing looks familiar, and I’ve got a weird feeling that it’s important. Phoebe?”
The phone crackled. “Yeah, we’re packing up here. Did you get it?”
“We got screwed. Again. Montross and Nina beat us to it. But listen, I just sent a picture to your phone. Load it into Orlando’s tablet and have him do his magic on it. Find a match.”
“We’re on it,” she said. “Call you right back.”
“What are you thinking?” Renée asked as they
He stood up, then called Phoebe as he stepped over the body and headed back down the hallway. “Sis?”
“Yeah, you okay? Feared we lost you there.”
“I’ll be better if you tell me you’ve got something.”
“About the centaurs? Hang on.”
He kept walking, past the windows where now he saw agents converging, running over the ramparts, seeking out hiding places, working their way toward him.
“Big brother?”
“Yeah?” He entered the room and stepped back to the bas-relief of the Centauromachy.
“Orlando’s just coming out of it, and—what? Ah, all right, here.”
“Hey, boss. You there?”
“Yeah, Orlando, but as I said before, I’m not your boss.”
“You pay me for this gig, so that makes you a boss in my book.”
“Then I’m going to fire you if you don’t tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, do you see the main centaur, the big one raising his arms?”
“Yep.”
“Is the head still intact?”
“Yes, but not all of the body. Rear legs are broken off.”
“Not a problem. I think you’re good to go. See his right horn?”
“Yes.” Caleb moved in closer and stared. It was slightly larger than the left, about the width of two fingers, and maybe six inches in length. But it was a little darker, greener than its mate, as if the sculptor had used a different material, something only noticeable up close. “Wait, this frieze was originally on the second tier, rather high up if I recall. Even if visitors came to admire it, they’d need a ladder to see the discoloration.”
Orlando coughed. “You need to trust me here.”
“Go on.”
“Twist the horn clockwise; it should release.”
Footsteps approached, agents with submachine guns drawn, coming from both entrances. Caleb moved quickly, turning the horn, which at first refused to budge. But then it gave, turned and screwed off. Caleb turned it upside down, looked into the hollow space inside. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tapped the horn against his palm.
“Is the key in there?” Orlando asked.
Agent Wagner came to a skidding halt, leading two agents from the eastern passage. She held a gun with both hands and wore a bullet-proof vest. “You find it?”
Caleb showed her his palm, which held only a single rolled up piece of paper. He tugged at the edge and flattened it out. Then his heart sunk, along with his hopes to save Alexander, as he saw the words written there in fresh red ink.
No prize for second place.
10.
“They were here,” Caleb told her. “We missed them.”
Renée holstered her gun, a black Walther .45 with a walnut grip, a weapon Caleb had noticed earlier and thought was a little flashy for an FBI agent. “So,” she said, “Montross managed to do in minutes what Alexander the Great failed to do all his life?”
Caleb offered a weak smile. “The Great Conqueror didn’t have our gifts.” Well, at least Phoebe and Orlando still have access to those gifts.
Renée led Caleb back to the dead body. Her men had removed the assassin’s mask. “Recognize him?”
“You mean by what’s left of him.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. He’s Asian. We can tell that much, but he’s got no ID.”
“Nothing but that tattoo,” another agent pointed out.
“Wait,” Caleb said. He took out his phone, brought up the photo and sent it as a picture message to Phoebe’s phone. Then he called her.
Renée frowned. “What are you doing?”
Caleb held up a hand. “Following a hunch.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah. This thing looks familiar, and I’ve got a weird feeling that it’s important. Phoebe?”
The phone crackled. “Yeah, we’re packing up here. Did you get it?”
“We got screwed. Again. Montross and Nina beat us to it. But listen, I just sent a picture to your phone. Load it into Orlando’s tablet and have him do his magic on it. Find a match.”
“We’re on it,” she said. “Call you right back.”
“What are you thinking?” Renée asked as they
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