he could kiss Skye on both cheeks.
'That was fast,' he said with a smile. 'This helmet of yours must be a very important find.'
She returned the kisses. 'That's for you to tell me. Who's that man who just left?'
'He is one of my, er, suppliers.'
'He looks like a sneak thief.'
An alarmed expression crossed Darnay's face. Then he laughed. 'Of course. That's what he is.'
Darnay flipped the sign on his door to CLOSED, and then led her past the curtain to his office. In stark contrast to the worn-at-the-heels seediness of his showroom, the office-workshop was well lit by track lights and the desk and work space were of contemporary design. The walls were hung with weapons, but most of them were inferior items that he sold to less knowledgeable collectors. His top-grade inventory he kept safe in a warehouse.
Although he teased Skye about her reliance on technology, he did business mostly through the Internet, and a glossy catalog, mailed to an exclusive list of buyers, that was hungrily awaited by dealers and collectors worldwide.
Skye had first sought Darnay out for advice in spotting forgeries. She soon learned that his knowledge of old arms and armor surpassed that of some academics, including herself. They had become good friends, although it became apparent that he dealt in the shadowy world of illegal antiquities. In short, he was a crook, but a classy one. 'Let's see what you have, my dear.' He pointed to a brightly lit table that was used to photograph objects for the catalog.
Skye removed the helmet from the bag and set it on the table, then pulled off the pillowcase with a flourish.
Darnay gazed with reverence at the object. Then he walked
around the table, puffing on his cigarette, bending low, with his face inches from the metal. After going through the dip-and-stand routine, he picked the helmet up, hefted the weight, held it high and then put it on his head. Wearing the helmet, he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Grand Marnier.
'Brandy?' he offered.
Skye laughed at the sight and shook her head. 'Well, what do you think?'
'Extraordinaire.' He put the helmet back on the table and poured himself a brandy. 'Where did you get this lovely objet dart?' 'It was frozen into Le Dormeur glacier.' 'A glacier? Even more extraordinary.'
'That's not half the story. It was found near a body that was embedded in the ice. The body may have been in the glacier less than a hundred years. The man probably parachuted from a plane whose wreckage was found in the nearby lake.'
Darnay poked his forefinger through the hole in the helmet. 'And this?'
'I think it's a bullet hole.'
The antiquities dealer didn't seem surprised. 'Then this Ice Man could have been wearing the helmet?' 'Possibly.'
'It's not a failed proof mark
'I don't think so. Look at the hardness of that steel. Musket balls would have bounced off the metal like peas. The hole was made by a more modern firearm.'
'So we have a man flying over a glacier wearing an old helmet, shot with modern weapons.' She shrugged. 'It seems so.' Darnay sipped his brandy. 'Fascinating, but it all makes little sense.
'Nothing about this whole affair makes sense.'
She settled into a chair and told Darnay about Renaud's summons to the cave and her harrowing rescue. Darnay listened with furrowed brow.
'Thank God you're safe! This Kurt Austin is an homme formidable Handsome, too, I suppose.'
'Very much so.' She felt herself blushing.
'I owe him my gratitude. I have always thought of you as a daughter, Skye. I would have been devastated if anything had happened to you.'
'Well, nothing did, thanks to Mr. Austin and his colleague Joe Zavala.' She gestured at the helmet. 'Well?'
'I believe it's older than it looks. As you say, the steel is extraordinary. The metal used in its manufacture may very well have been forged in the stars. The fact that this is the only one of its kind that I have ever seen, and that you found no reference to it in your library, leads me to think it might have been a prototype'
'If the features were so innovative, why weren't these ideas picked up sooner?'
'You know the nature of arms and men. Good sense does not always prevail over intransigence. The Polish insisted on using horse cavalry against armored panzer divisions. Billy Mitchell had an uphill fight convincing the army hierarchy of the value of aerial bombardment. Maybe someone looked at this and said the old equipment was preferable to the untested.'
'Any thoughts on the eagle motif I saw here and on the plane?'
'Yes, but none of them are scientific.'
'I'd be interested to hear them anyhow. And perhaps I'll take that offer of brandy.'
Darnay poured another snifter and they tapped glasses. 'I'd say the eagle represents the joining together, an alliance of some sort, of three
different groups into one. Epluribus unum. 'Out of many, one.' It was not an easy arrangement. The eagle seems to be pulling itself apart, yet it must hang together or die. The weapons it is clutching in its claws would lead me to believe that this alliance has something to do with war.'
'Not bad for an unscientific guess.'
He smiled. 'If we only knew who your Ice Man was.' He glanced at his watch. 'Excuse me, Skye, but I have a conference call with a dealer in London and a buyer in the United States. Would you mind if I kept this piece here for a few hours so I could study it further?'
'Not at all. Just call when you want me to pick it up. I'll either be at my office or my apartment.'
A cloud passed over his brow. 'My dear girl, there is more here than meets the eye. Someone was willing to kill for this artifact. It must have great value. We must be very careful. Does anyone know you have it?'
'Kurt Austin, the NUMA man I told you about. He's trustworthy. Some of those who were in the cave would know of it. And Renaud.'
'Ah, Renaud,' he said, drawing out the name. 'That's not good. He'll want it back.'
Her dark eyes snapped with anger. 'Over my dead body.' She smiled nervously, realizing the implication of her words. 'I can stall him, say the helmet is at the metallurgist.'
Darnay's phone rang. 'That is my call. We'll talk later.'
After leaving the shop, she went to her apartment instead of her office. She wanted to check her answering machine, hoping she would hear from Austin. Her discussion with Darnay had given her the jitters. She had the feeling that danger was lurking nearby, and hearing Austin's voice would have offered some reassurance. When she got home, she played her messages, but there was no word from Kurt.
She felt weary from her work. She lay down on the sofa with a fashion magazine, intending to relax before going back to the office.
But after a few minutes the magazine fell from her fingers to the floor and she drifted off into a deep sleep.
SKYE WOULD have slept less soundly if she knew what Auguste Renaud was up to. He sat in his office in a dangerous fury, head bent over his desk, compiling a list of complaints against Skye Labelle. His hand was mending, but his pride was still gravely wounded.
All his ill will centered on that insolent woman. He would pull every political string at his command, call in every IOU owed him to destroy her, ruin her career and that of anyone who had been even vaguely friendly to her. She had humiliated him in front of others and ignored his authority. She virtually ignored his demand that she produce the helmet. He would have her thrown out of the Sorbonne. She'd beg for mercy. He pictured himself as the Creator in one of those Renaissance paintings of God chasing Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden with his flaming sword.
He had encountered her in the elevator that morning. She had said good morning and smiled at him, sending him off into a simmering rage. He had his anger under control by the time he got to his office and was directing it to the list of complaints he had in front of him. He was writing a detailed description of her loose morals when he
