“I will be flying to Istanbul next week to join my brother on a project in the Mediterranean.”
“Sounds sunny and warm,” Julie said.
“You’re telling me,” Dahlgren grunted.
“Maybe I can help you with your research for a few days, before my flight leaves London,” Summer offered.
“You’d do that?” Julie asked, surprised at the offer. “Diving into some dusty old books is not the same as diving into a shipwreck.”
“I don’t mind. I’m curious to know myself what happened with the Hampshire. Heck, it’s the least I can do since we helped open this can of worms.”
“Thank you, Summer. That would be marvelous.”
“No problem,” she replied with a smile. “After all, who doesn’t love a mystery?”
20
THE SHOP MARKED “SOLOMON BRANDY—ANTIQUITIES” was situated on a quiet side street in Jerusalem’s Old City, not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Like the seventy-four other licensed dealers in the country, Brandy was officially sanctioned by the State of Israel to sell and trade in antiquities, providing that the artifacts at hand were not stolen goods.
The legal stipulation was a minor impediment to most dealers, who simply reused legitimate tracking identification numbers to sell nebulous items that came in the back door. Israel’s antiquities laws strangely enough created a huge demand in Holy Land relics, and forgeries, by allowing the legal trade of artifacts, a practice banned by most other nations. Antiquities were often actually smuggled into Israel from neighboring countries, where they could be legitimized and sold to other dealers and collectors around the world.
Sophie Elkin stepped into Brandy’s well-lit shop, cringing at the sound of a loud buzzer that activated with the opening door. The small interior was empty of people but crammed with artifacts that overflowed from glass cases fronting all four walls. She moved to a center island case filled with small clay pots tagged with the label “Jericho.” Sophie’s trained eye could tell that they were all forgeries, which would soon be treasured heirlooms for unknowing tourists making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
A stumpy man with pancake eyes emerged from the back room, wearing a dusty apron over rumpled clothes. He set a small clay figurine down on the counter, then looked up at Sophie with unease.
“Miss Elkin, what a surprise,” he said in a flat tone that indicated her appearance was not quite welcomed.
“Hello, Sol,” Sophie replied. “No tourists in yet?”
“It’s still early. They see the sights in the morning, then shop in the afternoon.”
“We need to talk.”
“My license is current. I’ve filed my reporting in a timely manner,” he protested.
Sophie shook her head. “What can you tell me about the theft and shootings at Caesarea?”
Brandy visibly relaxed, then shook his head.
“A sad tragedy. One of your men was killed??
??
“Thomas Raban.”
“Yes, I remember him. Very loud and vociferous. He threatened to wrap a shovel around my neck once, as I recall,” he said with a smirk.
Sophie had caught Brandy in a sting operation two years earlier, accepting a large quantity of artifacts stolen from Masada. She’d dropped the charges when he agreed to secretly cooperate with the prosecution of the actual artifact thieves. But the antiquities agent used the old case to occasionally press him for information on other field investigations. Brandy would usually evade most of her inquiries, but in all her dealings with him he had never outright lied to her.
“I want the man who killed him,” Sophie said.
Brandy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You hear things, Solomon. Was it the Mules?”
Brandy gazed nervously toward the window, looking for any lingering strangers. “They are a dangerous organization, the Mules. Terrorists operating within our own borders. You don’t want to get too close to them, Miss Elkin.”
“Were they responsible?”