The Oracle (Fargo Adventures #11) - Clive Cussler Page 0,99
continued onto the narrow street. Sam stopped in front of the address listed on his phone’s map. “Is this it?”
“Definitely the same place.”
Sam rapped on the door. When there was no answer, he approached someone who was sweeping the area in front of the adjoining shop. “Excuse me. Do you know what sort of business this is?”
The man stared blankly.
Remi repeated the question in French.
“Antiquités,” he replied.
Remi thanked him and he went back to his sweeping.
“I have to say,” Sam said, “I didn’t expect that from Amal.”
“There’s got to be a good explanation.”
Sam studied the shop for a few moments. “Ask him if anyone will be there if we return this evening. We’d like to talk to the owners.”
Remi repeated the question. “Unfortunately, no. The shop is closed at night. He believes the man who owns the place lives out in the country, but he has no way to contact him.”
Sam looked at the man, nodding. “Merci,” he said. “We’ll stop by tomorrow.”
He and Remi left. At the corner, he stopped to look back at the shop.
“Tomorrow?” Remi asked, almost in disbelief.
“Give or take a few hours.”
Just after midnight, in fact. As in the past, they used a Bluetooth earpiece with their cell phones to communicate. They strolled down the narrow street where the antiquities shop was located, glad to see the area was completely deserted, every window dark. That bode well. Last thing they needed was a witness who might call the police.
When they reached the shop, Remi stood as lookout while Sam picked the lock and opened the door. Once they were inside, he checked for a control panel on the wall but found none.
“You’d think they’d have an alarm,” Remi said as he locked the door behind them. “Especially if they’re dealing in stolen antiques.”
“Maybe they’re not worried about anyone stealing from them.” He took a quick look around. The front room was filled with artwork, Roman vases, and knickknacks artfully placed upon the antique furniture.
Remi lifted an Etruscan vase. “No wonder they don’t have this place alarmed. These are fake.”
“So why is a place dealing in fraudulent antiques selling the real deal?”
She returned the vase to the shelf. “Who’s to say they aren’t trying to sell these as the real deal?”
“I’ll check down here, you check upstairs.”
Sam began his search in the front room. Finding nothing of interest, he moved down the hall to a small office, seeing a scarred mahogany desk covered with papers. Invoices, he realized as he shined his flashlight across them. Apparently, the Roman antiques they were selling out front were made in China.
As he looked them over, he heard a scrape coming from the floor above him. “Remi? Everything okay?”
“Fine. Looks like this is mostly inventory, still boxed up. Guess where all their antiquities come from?”
“China?”
“How’d you know?
“Psychic,” he said, finding a piece of paper tucked in the corner of the desk blotter. He slipped it out, saw what looked like a hand-drawn map of the archeological park with an arrow pointing at the far end.
LaBelle’s site.
He put the map into his pocket and opened the top desk drawer, finding several more invoices clipped together along with a note that said Envoi.
“Sam.” Remi’s soft voice in his earpiece held a note of tension. “There’s someone coming.”
He grabbed the stack, rolled it into a tube, and shoved it into his back pocket, then drew his gun. “On my way.” He moved into the hall, gun at the ready. “I don’t hear anything, Remi. You’re sure?”
“I’m at the balcony. They’re walking this way from the corner,” she said. “Hold on . . . Definitely coming this way.”
“How many?”
“Two. They’re at the door.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Don’t seek to hurt any man; but if any man seeks to hurt, you may break his neck.
– AFRICAN PROVERB –
Sam heard the sound of keys dropping, then someone fumbling with the lock.
Finally, the door opened.
Sam slipped behind an antique bureau and edged his way around it, keeping it between him and the two men as they entered. One of the men stumbled down the hallway, his words slurring as he said something about using the bathroom. The other stood a few feet away, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He dropped the pack, swore, and leaned down to pick it up. Sam couldn’t be positive, but he looked like the same man who tried to steal Renee’s purse at the ruins.
“Hamida? . . . That you?” the man said as his unfocused eyes landed on Sam’s shoes. Slowly,