were still prickly. ‘How about President Cole, then? He owes us a favour – we saved his life. And a whole bunch of other world leaders too. Come to think of it, the Russian president was one of ’em. Ask him if we can go back to Grozevny. We can get a triangulation from there.’
‘Oh yeah, great idea. Remember the nuclear submarine that sank there? Still kind of a sore point with the Russians.’
‘Hey, it wasn’t our fault it sank. Well, not entirely . . . ’
‘Besides,’ she said, going to a large map of the world on one wall, ‘even if we got another result from Grozevny, I don’t think it would help much.’ A red thread had been strung from a pin placed over Glastonbury, angling southwest across the map to South America. ‘We got the best bearing we could, but it was still only an approximation. And Grozevny,’ she tapped the map on the northern coast of Russia, ‘isn’t that far off the same bearing. Even if we got a triangulation from there, it still wouldn’t be accurate enough. The search area would cover hundreds of square miles.’
‘Better than half a continent.’
‘I know, but . . . ’ She sighed. ‘We need a break, more information.’
The phone rang. Nina put the call on speaker; it was Lola. ‘Ankit Jindal from Interpol is here to see you. He says it’s about the statues.’
Eddie raised his eyebrows. ‘That was quick.’
‘Send him in!’ Nina said.
‘We need a million dollars, an’ all,’ said Eddie with a hopeful glance at the phone. It remained silent. ‘Tchah! Worth a try.’
A knock, and Ankit Jindal entered. The handsome Indian’s glossy black hair had developed into even more of a quiff since they had last seen him. ‘Hello,’ he said, beaming.
They shook hands. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Kit,’ said Nina. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming to New York?’
‘I could have done, but what would be the fun in that? Besides, considering why I’m here, I thought it would be better to discuss it face to face.’
‘So why are you here?’ Eddie asked.
Kit indicated the display case. ‘Your little purple friends. Mr Penrose sent me a copy of your report about what you discovered in England.’
‘He did?’ Nina was slightly surprised. Certainly, it was part of Penrose’s job to keep other international bodies like Interpol informed of the UN’s activities, but he didn’t normally do so with such promptness. ‘What’s Interpol’s interest?’
Kit opened his briefcase, taking out several files. ‘After that business with the Khoils, the Cultural Property Crime Unit tried to track down the owners of the unidentified items found in their vault. Most of them we eventually located, but a few we couldn’t find.’ He opened a file. ‘But we had a breakthrough. Most of the Khoils’ computer records had been wiped or encrypted, but our experts managed to recover a shipping manifest.’
He handed Nina a copy of a document. Much of it was gibberish to her, the computerised tracking of a container from port to port, but the final destination – Nuuk in Greenland, the country where the Indian billionaires had been preparing to sit out a global collapse – was clear enough. ‘It doesn’t specifically name the container’s contents, although that’s not surprising if it was filled with stolen art treasures. But the shipping agent is based in Singapore.’
She found a name at the top of the page. ‘Stamford West?’
‘Sounds like a Tube station,’ said Eddie.
‘Interpol has been watching Mr West for some time,’ Kit told them. ‘He’s been linked to the smuggling of artworks and antiquities from several countries, although there has never been enough evidence against him to make a case.’
‘But you’re sure he was involved with the Khoils?’ said Nina. Kit nodded. ‘Which might mean that he knows where the second statue came from originally.’
‘He might. But that’s only part of the reason I came here.’ The Indian opened another file. ‘There is also evidence – only circumstantial, unfortunately – linking him to another black market operation. Look at these.’ He laid several glossy photographs on the desk.
Nina picked one up. ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ she said, fascinated. The image was of a small statue of a broad-faced man sitting cross-legged, eyes closed as if in meditation. The figure gleamed under the photographer’s lights; it was made of pure gold. ‘Inca?’
‘Yes.’ He indicated the other photos, which showed similarly spectacular pieces. ‘Our experts confirmed they’re genuine, dating from no later than the sixteenth century.’