“You haven’t been in a fight in a long time, have you?”
“No,” he said, his voice in a whisper. “I haven’t.”
“And you want one.”
He stared into her eyes, which seemed to grasp his pain. “I need one.”
“It won’t bring you redemption. What happened to you won’t be undone.”
Maybe not, but—
A knock came.
He knew who had returned.
Inna opened the door and invited Alle inside.
“Look,” his daughter said to him. “I’m sorry for my attitude. I’ve had a tough few days. I know you have, too. This is important to me. It was important to Grandfather. I did what I thought was best. I understand why you’re angry, I get it, but I want to be a part of this.”
She was lying. But God help him, he was glad she’d returned.
She was all he had left in the world.
“I’m going to Prague tomorrow,” he told her. “You can come with me.”
She slowly nodded. “I can do that.”
“Are you hungry?” Inna asked her.
“Some food would be good.”
The two women retreated into the kitchen.
He sat alone.
What an incredible mess. He should leave her here. But he’d come this far and made sure she was okay. Better to keep her within his sights for as long as she chose to stay.
And forgive her for lying.
Like Inna said.
That’s what fathers did.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
BENE READ HIS WATCH. NEARLY HALF AN HOUR HAD PASSED. He’d checked on the curator twice, the Cuban perched behind a desk, reading a book. Halliburton had gone through all four bins labeled 16TH and 17TH CENTURY, setting aside several items that appeared promising, now studying those in more detail. He’d noticed two other doors in the hallway—both locked—and wondered what they protected.
“Have you found anything?” he asked Tre.
“These are deed grants and colonial reports back to Spain. A couple of diaries, too. All of it is in bad shape. It can hardly be read.”
He decided a dose of truth was in order. “Tre, you said this archive is controlled by Zachariah Simon. I know him. He’s
Liars seemed to be everywhere. Felipe. Simon. The curator. He’d solved the first problem. The second remained to be seen. But the third he could handle right now. He reached beneath his jacket and found his gun.
Tre was surprised at its appearance. “What do we need that for?”
“I hope we don’t. Stay here.”
He retreated to the front of the house. The display room was quiet, the man still reading his book. He slipped the hand holding the gun into his pant pocket and casually walked over.
“Could you help us?” he asked in Spanish.
The curator smiled and rose from his chair. Bene allowed him to pass, then withdrew the gun and jammed its short barrel into the nape of the man’s neck. He then wrapped his arm around the throat and squeezed tight.
“You’re a liar,” he said in Spanish. “You called Simon, not Havana. I heard you. What did he tell you?”
The man said nothing, only shook his head.
Tremors racked the man’s body.
Bene increased the pressure of his forearm.
“I’ll shoot you. Right now, right here. What did he tell you?” His thumb cocked the gun’s hammer.
His captive clearly heard the click.
“He told me only to keep you here. Keep you here. Let you see what you want. Keep you here.”
“You said the important things were locked away. Where?”
He heard the growl of engines outside.
With his grip and the gun remaining firmly in place, he dragged the man toward the windows. Two white Peugeots topped with blue lights, each marked PATRULLA, skidded to a stop down the street.
