Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [0]
Trojan Gold
A Vicky Bliss Mystery
TO DOMINICK
with respectful admiration, admiring respect,
and much affection
Contents
One
Fire stained the night. The sky above the dying city…
Two
“They” say hard work is the best cure for depression.
Three
Schmidt had not observed the encounter. I didn’t think he…
Four
At nine o’clock I was just leaving Munich. I had overslept.
Five
If my ears were burning that night I didn’t notice.
Six
Saint Emmeram’s beard was still ice-fringed; he had a…
Seven
Schmidt did wake me the following morning. It had taken…
Eight
I was on the bed, flat on my back with…
Nine
I think I had a right to expect that after…
Ten
A clicking sound, like castanets, made me start. It was…
Eleven
I hadn’t expected him to act so quickly. He had…
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Elizabeth Peters
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
FIRE STAINED THE NIGHT. THE SKY ABOVE the dying city was an obscene, unnatural crimson, as if the lifeblood of its people were pouring upward from a million wounds. As he fought through the inferno he missed death by inches not once but a dozen times. The conquerors were already in the city. Another enemy army was closing in from the west; but the horde of refugees, of whom he was one, fought their way westward with a desperate, single-minded intent. Throughout history, always the barbarian hordes had come from the east.
Unlike the others, he was not concerned with his own survival, except insofar as it was necessary in order to ensure the survival of something that meant more to him than his own life. This city would fall to the barbarians as other imperial cities had fallen—Rome, Constantinople—and the battle and its aftermath would add more wreckage to the monstrous mound of shattered beauty—dead children and mutilated women and torn flesh, burning books, headless statues, slashed paintings, shattered crystal…. One thing at least he would save. How he would do it he did not know, but he never doubted he would succeed. He knew the city, knew every street and building, though many of the landmarks had vanished in pillars of whirling flame and heaps of smoldering rubble. He would get there first. And in the lull between the flight of the vanquished and the triumph of the conquerors, he would find his chance.
He was more than a little mad. Perhaps only a madman could have done it.
That’s how I would begin if I were writing a thriller instead of a simple narrative of fact. Exactly how he accomplished it will never be known; but it may have been something like that. I only wish my part of the story had started with such panache—the death throes of a mighty metropolis, the fire and the blood and the terror….
What am I saying? Of course I don’t really wish that. But I could wish for a slightly more dramatic start to this tale than a stupid petty argument with my boss’s secretary over a stupid petty bit of office routine.
I love my work, and I don’t really hate Mondays. I hated this Monday morning, though, because I had a hang-over. I am not a heavy drinker—I know, that’s what everybody says, but in my case it’s true. I make it a rule not to overindulge, in any fashion, on a work night. There were reasons—not good reasons, but reasons—why I had broken the rule that Sunday. They have no bearing on this story and they are nobody’s business but my own. Suffice it to say that I was late to work and not happy to be there. If I had been in my normal sunny morning mood, I probably would not have overreacted when I saw what Gerda had done.
Gerda is, as 1 have mentioned, my boss’s secretary; and my boss is Herr Doctor Anton Z. Schmidt, director of the National Museum in Munich. The National is small but what’s there is “cherce,” to quote one of my favorite film characters. The building and the basic collections had been contributed to the city back in the eighteen hundreds by a Bavarian nobleman who was as eccentric as he was filthy-rich,