Cold War - Jerome Preisler [72]
Others had tried to take Elata down. To fantasize like this was dangerous.
Her boss wanted him. More—he wanted the Picassos. He salivated over them—phony or real made little difference. Find them, and his career would be made; the French government would undoubtedly issue a medal.
Her boss wasn’t kidding. He’d authorized her to go “anywhere in pursuit of tangible leads.” Whatever resource she wanted, she could have.
As long as she succeeded.
Nessa pushed the thick pile of papers into the case folder. It was late, far past quitting time; the other offices were dark. She shoved the printouts and her notes into the top drawer of her desk, locked it, and went to leave.
The phone rang. She nearly blew it off, but then decided to pick it up—sometimes her ma called her here when she couldn’t reach her at the apartment.
Then again, her mother was sure to ask her whether she had a boyfriend for the umpteenth time. Perhaps she should just let it ring.
Nessa grabbed it a half second before the voice-mail system would have taken over.
“Nessa Lear,” she said.
“Put more snap into it, lass. You want ’em tremblin’ before they start talking to you.”
“Gorrie!”
“I won’t argue with you,” said her old partner. “It’s too good to hear your voice.”
“How are you?”
“Up to the kilt in muck n’ mire.”
“You’re drivin’ roun’ Inverness in a kilt these days? Do you carry your bagpipes with you?”
“ ’Neath the kilt.” His voice suddenly downshifted. “Ness, dearie, I need a favor.”
“Favor?”
“I have a string of accidents that add into something more than accidents, if you know what I mean. Murder, I think.”
“In Inverness?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“How can I help?”
Gorrie told her about the records involving the nuclear plant’s waste. Interpol had a database of international terrorists, and he wondered if he might have her check the names against them. He also had the name of the transport company that moved the waste.
“This isn’t an Interpol matter,” she told him.
“I know,” said her old partner. “But I’m beginning to think the woman at UKAE is involved. Constance Burns. Ever hear of her?”
“Not at all. You want me to run her name too?”
“Couldn’t hurt. She’s in Switzerland on vacation, or at least supposed to be. Hasn’t returned my calls yet, an’ I was just settin’ here wonderin’ why.”
“Technically, you’re supposed to be dealing through MI5,” she said. “Or at least—”
“I called to London and there’s no one can help me till the morning,” he said. “You would have liked this case, Nessa. Deputy Chief Constable is in a twit over his detection rate.”
She typed in her password and entered the data bank. She hadn’t been here long enough to know what the bosses might think of helping out a fellow police officer; she imagined the reaction could run from awarding her a commendation to kicking her back to Scotland.
“Nothing on any of your hits. Transport company again?”
“Highland Specialty Transport. I have done some checkin’ on my own. Seems to be a subsidiary of a Yank concern: Aesthetic Transfers.”
“Aesthetic Transfers?”
“Aesthetic Transfers Inc. I have the address here.”
“Hold on, Gorrie.” Nessa pulled open the drawer. Her fingers trembled as she clawed at the file.
Aesthetic Transfers—an international transportation firm specializing in international art and antique shipments and used by several museums. Sole stockholders—Morgan Family Trust (II).
Part of the Morgan empire controlled by Gabriel Morgan—a suspected dealer of fraudulent and black-market artworks and current tax scofflaw wanted by the U.S. Treasury Department. A suspected associate and possible employer of Marc Elata. Holed up in Zurich, Switzerland, where he had successfully fought off extradition by U.S. authorities.
“Frank,” she said, picking up the phone again. “Tell me everything again, very slowly. No, wait—give me your number. I’ll call you back on my mobile phone.”
“Department will pay for the call.”
“That’s not it—I want to get going. I’ll talk to