Carina thought about the contrast between Austin’s warmth and the way he had coldly dispatched her attacker. She replaced the book on the shelf. “But there is nothing ambiguous about the pistols over the fireplace.”
“You’ve exposed my weakness for collecting. I’ve got around two hundred braces of dueling pistols, most stored in a fireproof vault. I’m fascinated by their history as well as the art and technology that went into them. I’m intrigued by what they say about the role of luck in our fates.”
“Are you a fatalist?”
“I’m a realist. I know I can’t always make my own luck.” He smiled. “But I can make your dinner. You must be hungry.”
“Even if I weren’t, the wonderful fragrances coming from your kitchen would make me believe I’m famished.” She handed over the bottle of wine.
“A Barolo,” Austin said. “I’ll open it and let the wine breathe. We’re dining al fresco.”
While Austin went to uncork the wine, Carina wandered out onto the deck. The table was lit with oil lamps whose colored glass lent a festive appearance to the setting. Lights sparkled along the Potomac, and there was the slightly rank, but not unpleasant, smell of the river. Austin put on a recording from his extensive jazz collection, and the soft piano notes of an Oscar Peterson number floated from a couple of Bose speakers.
Austin came out with two chilled glasses of Prosecco. They drank the sparkling Italian wine with an antipasto of Prosciutto di Parma over honeydew melon. Austin excused himself and came back with plates of fettucine with cream-and-butter sauce. Carina almost swooned when he blanketed the dishes with shaved white truffles.
“Dear God! Where did you find truffles like this in the U.S.?”
“I didn’t. A NUMA colleague has been going back and forth to Italy.”
Carina devoured the fettuccine, along with the secondi course, a sautéed veal chop, and a mushroom-and-cheese salad, again with white truffles. They polished off the bottle of wine. She didn’t slow down until she came to dolce, or dessert. As she dug into a dish of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, she said, “This is magnifico,” for about the tenth time during the meal. “You have added master chef to your array of accomplishments.”
“Grazie,” Austin said. He had been amazed at Carina’s gusto but not unpleased. A hearty passion for food often revealed appetite in other areas. They finished off the meal with small frosted glasses of limoncello liquor.
As they clinked glasses in toast, Austin said, “You never told me how you came to be babysitting an old statue on its journey to America.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time, as well as another bottle of limoncello.”
She laughed softly and stared out at the river to collect her thoughts. “I was born in Siena. My father, a doctor, was an amateur archaeologist who was fascinated with the Etruscans.”
“Understandable. The Etruscans were a mysterious people.”
“Unfortunately, their art was in great demand. As a girl, I saw a site that had been plundered by tombaroli, tomb robbers. There was an arm of pure marble lying in the ground. Later, I went to the University of Milan, then to the London School of Economics, and drifted into journalism. My interest in antiquities was revived by research I did for a magazine article on the role of museums and dealers in art theft. The image of that marble arm stuck with me. I joined UNESCO and became an investigator. Stealing a country’s history is one of the worst things someone could do. I wanted to take looting face on.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
“As I quickly found out. The trade in illegal antiquities ranks third in international monetary terms behind drug smuggling and weapons sales. The UN has tried to discourage the trade through treaties and resolutions, but the challenges are formidable. It would be impossible to stop the sale of every cylinder seal or tablet.”
“You’ve evidently had great success.”
“I work with a number of international agencies such as Interpol and governments trying to track down certain high-profile items, mainly through dealers, auction houses, and museums.”
“Is that what brought you to Iraq?”
She nodded. “Weeks before the invasion, we heard rumors that crooked dealers were in touch with the unscrupulous international art dealers and diplomats. They were taking orders for specific artifacts. The thieves were in place, ready to move in as soon as the Republican Guard moved out of the museum.”
“Where did the Navigator figure in all this?”
“I didn’t even know it existed. It was not on the list of artifacts that I tried to recover through an unsavory dealer named Ali. He was murdered, which is no loss to the world, but he knew where the objects were. I left the country after hearing a warning that I was going to be kidnapped as a hostage. Not long after that I was contacted by the Baltazar Foundation.”
“That’s the organization that is sponsoring your tour?”
“Mr. Baltazar is a wealthy man who was appalled at the Iraq looting. I met him for the first time at the reception last night. His foundation provided the funds to keep after the artifacts that had eluded me in Baghdad. Not long ago, an Egyptian source said the Iraqi objects were on sale in Cairo. I flew to Egypt and bought the cache. The Navigator was part of the deal.”
“What do you know about the statue?”
“It must have been taken from the museum at the same time as the other loot. Professor Nassir, the director of the museum, remembered the statue as being stored in the basement. He considered it a curiosity.”