Reap the Wind

A desperate race against death, a firestorm of passion, and a search for priceless treasure collide, in this dazzling contemporary novel.

St. Basil, Switzerland

June 14, 1991

The jeweled eyes of the Wind Dancer, secret, enigmatic, inhumanly patient, gazed out of the black and white photograph at Alex Karazov.

The uncanny impression that a mysterious sentience exuded from the statue had to be a trick of light the lens had captured. Alex shook his head. Impossible. But now he could understand the statue's mystique and the stories that had grown up around it. The book he held was over sixty years old and the picture probably didn't even do the statue justice. He skimmed the caption beneath the picture.

"The Wind Dancer, recognized as one of the most valuable art objects in the world. The famous 'eyes of the Wind Dancer' are two perfectly matched almond-shaped emeralds 65.50 carats each. Four hundred and forty-seven diamonds encrust the base of the winged statue of Pegasus.

"In her book Facts and Legends of the Wind Dancer, published in 1923, Lily Andreas claimed there were historical references indicating the Wind Dancer had been in the possession of Alexander the Great during his first campaign in Persia in 323 b.c.; later, it was said to have passed to Charlemagne during his reign. Andreas's book was the subject of controversy. She claimed that a host of the most influential figures throughout the ages had not only possessed the Wind Dancer but asserted that it had contributed decisively to their success or failure. Both the antiquity of the statue and its history were challenged by the London and Cairo museums at the time."

Alex impatiently closed Art Treasures of the World, pushing it aside as Pavel set a stack of five more volumes on the desk. He already knew the contents of Lily Andreas's book. He remembered Ledford quoting it chapter and verse as if it were the Bible.

Pavel raised one bushy black brow. "No luck?"

Alex shook his head. "Too early. I need facts, not legends." He reached for the top book on the stack, flipped it open to the index, ran his finger down the chapter headings until he found the one labeled "Wind Dancer," then thumbed to the correct page. "For God's sake, you'd think the damn statue had disappeared from the planet." Speed-reading through the chapter, he muttered, "At least this book gets us out of the roaring twenties. It mentions the Wind Dancer's confiscation by the Germans in 1939 and its discovery in Hitler's mountain retreat after World War Two." He slammed the book shut. "But I'm wasting time. Call the curator of the Louvre and--"

"Ask where the Wind Dancer is now," Pavel finished for him. He shook his head, an amused grin creasing his weathered, heavily jowled face. "You know, of course, they'll probably try to trace the call and notify Interpol. I imagine the management of the Louvre is a bit touchy since they 'lost' the 'Mona Lisa' yesterday."

"Maybe," Alex said, abstracted. He stood up and walked across the room to a long table on which a number of headlined newspaper articles had been cut out and arranged like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

michelangelo's "david" disappears from florence

terrorist group black medina assassinates cardinal on way to vatican

police baffled at rembrandt's "night watch" theft from amsterdam museum

terrorist group black medina kills three in bombing at charles de gaulle airport

"mona lisa" stolen from louvre

Several other articles lay under a jade paperweight, and Alex glanced at them as he tried to decide whether he was interested enough to commit to it. If he was right, that call would cause even more furor than Pavel believed.

Oh, what the hell. Why not? He couldn't just sit there on this damn mountaintop and let his brain grow barnacles.

"Phone anyway. Give my name and say I'm doing research for a novel. I need to know where the Wind Dancer is right now. The Andreas family lives in the U.S., but I recall an article a few years ago about French public opinion on the Wind Dancer: the average French citizen considers it a national treasure. Find out more about that if you can. Oh, the Louvre curator's name is Emile Desloge."

Pavel nodded, his black eyes twinkling as he studied Alex's intent face. "I call the Louvre and you get another piece for your puzzle." He gave a mock sigh. "And when the statue is stolen, at whose door will the police come knocking?" He lightly tapped the massive bulk of his gray-sweatered chest with one hand. "Pavel Rubanski's door. You bring me nothing but trouble. If I had any sense, I'd leave you and find a job with someone who offers less pay and greater job security."

"You'd be bored as hell." Alex grinned as he sat down at the table and drew the latest article toward him. "God knows I am."

Lumbering to the door, Pavel halted and looked back at Alex in surprise. "I'm glad you're finally admitting it. Now I can do something besides feed you information for your infernal puzzles. What's the use of being a rich man if you don't spend your money? Instead of calling the Louvre, I'll phone the travel agent and arrange a nice, sunny vacation in Martinique. You always enjoyed going to Martinique at this time of year." His tone became coaxing. "Or we'll send for Angela and one of her friends to come to the chalet for a pleasant little weekend orgy. Sex is as good as a vacation anytime."

Alex's lips twitched as he looked at the hopeful expression on Pavel's face. "And you're betting one or the other of those distractions will take my mind off the Wind Dancer."

Pavel nodded. "You may be under KGB and CIA blankets of protection, but I'm not so favored where Interpol is concerned. I'm a peaceful man who wants only a little sunshine, a little sex, maybe a fine gourmet meal now and then--"

"Now and then?" Alex smiled affectionately. "You haven't stepped on the scales lately."

"That's not fat, it's muscle. I'm a big man and I need fuel. Besides, what else can I do up here in the mountains but eat? Now, on Martinique I could just lie on the beach with a pi-a colada and not have to worry about snow or ice--or Interpol asking me uncomfortable questions."

"Interpol's too busy clutching at straws and chasing after every clue in sight to bother with you." Alex thought about those recent newspaper headlines and frowned. "I wonder if that's part of it. . . ."

"Part of what?"

Alex didn't answer, his mind busily sorting out information, drawing conclusions, discarding them, moving the information to new positions, drawing other conclusions, and fitting pieces together until they formed a picture with which he could be satisfied.

"Never mind," Pavel grumbled. "I might as well live on this blasted mountain by myself. No one can talk to you when you're working on one of your puzzles. It's not as if you had to do it for a living anymore. You're a damn addict." He swung the door shut behind him.

Was Pavel right? Alex wondered. Probably. He had worked at the task too long and knew too well the heady exhilaration of finally solving a puzzle. After Afghanistan he had thought he would never delve willingly into a project again, but he hadn't counted on the habits the years had formed. Since he had come to St. Basil he had drifted back into the pattern of gathering information and projecting events for his own amusement on subjects as widely varied as the rise and fall of the New York stockmarket to which countries would host future Olympic Games.

But this new puzzle was much more intriguing than any he had ever run across, and Alex could feel the adrenaline begin to flow through his veins...