Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

Brandy looked her in the eye. “There are suspicions,” he said in a low voice. “But I cannot say with certainty any more than you can.”

“I know of no others who steal artifacts at the point of a gun and are not afraid to pull the trigger.”

“Nor do I,” Brandy admitted. “At least not in our country.”

“Tell me, Solomon, who would have hired such a team?”

“Certainly not a dealer,” he spat indignantly. “I don’t have to tell you how things work in the black market. The preponderance of illegal excavating is done by dirt-poor Arabs who are paid a pittance for their discoveries. The artifacts are then passed through a series of middlemen—sometimes dealers, sometimes not—until finding a home with a public or private collector. But I can tell you that no dealer in Israel is going to jeopardize his livelihood by purchasing artifacts with blood on them. There’s just too much risk.”

Though Sophie had few doubts that half the artifacts in Brandy’s store were acquired from illegal excavations, she knew that he was right. The quality of the best dealers’ inventories was based on secret, shadowy deal making that entailed trust by both parties. There was too much potential exposure to trade with the wrong elements. Killing for artifacts just seemed far beyond the realm for the dealers that Sophie knew.

“I believe that no smart dealer would knowingly involve himself with such butchers,” she said. “Have you heard of any attempts to sell Roman papyrus scrolls from the fourth century?”

“So, that is what they stole from Caesarea,” he replied with a comprehending nod. “No, I am not aware of any effort to pawn such articles.”

“If the goods are not on the market, then it must have been a job for a private collector.”

“That’s how I would see it,” Brandy agreed.

Sophie stepped to the counter and picked up the small clay figurine. It was in the crude shape of an ox with a gilded yoke. She studied the shape and design closely.

“First Temple period?” she asked.

“You have a keen eye,” he replied.

“Who’s it for?”

Brandy stammered a bit. “A banker in Haifa. He specializes in early Israelite earthenware. He has a small but quite impressive collection, actually.”

“Any papyrus scrolls in his possession?”

“No, not his area of interest. He’s more of a hobbyist than a dire fanatic. The few collectors I know that are into papyrus are focused on particular texts or content. None are what you’d call a high roller.”

“Then tell me, Sol, who would be passionate about these scrolls and also have the means to go to this extreme?”

Brandy gazed at the ceiling in thought.

“Who’s to say? I know wealthy collectors in Europe and the U.S. who are willing to go to great lengths to acquire a specific artifact. But there are certainly dozens of other collectors in the same league that I’ve never even heard of.”

“Knowledge of the Caesarea scrolls was but a day old,” Sophie said. “It doesn’t seem likely to me that a Western collector could have responded so quickly. No, Solomon, I think that this was instigated by a regional source. Any local names fit the profile?”

Brandy shrugged and shook his head. Sophie expected little else. She knew that the high-dollar collectors were the gravy train for dealers like Brandy. He probably had no clue who was behind the Caesarea attack, but he certainly wasn’t going to raise suspicions about any of his major clients.

“If you hear anything, anything at all, you let me know,” she said. She started to leave, then turned and faced him with an admonishing glare.

“When I find these murderers—and I will—I won’t treat kindly any accomplices, whether it’s by act or knowledge,” she stated.

“You have my word, Miss Elkin,” Brandy replied impassively.

The buzzer sounded as the front door was opened, and a lean man with a stiff upright posture walked in. He had a square handsome face, sandy combed-back hair, and roving blue eyes that glistened in recognition of Sophie. Dressed in worn khakis and a Panama hat, he cut a dashing figure laced with just a hint of snake oil.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovely Sophie Elkin,” he said with an upper-crust British accent. “Is the Antiquities Authority here to expand its biblical artifact collection beyond those acquired by confiscation?”

“Hello, Ridley,” she replied coolly. “And, no, the Antiquities Authority is not in the artifact-collection business. We prefer that they remain where they are, in proper cultural context.”

She glided over to the case of Jericho pots. “I’m just here to admire Mr. Brandy’s latest batch of forgeries. Something you should know a thing or two about.”

It was a stinging rebuke to Ridley Bannister. A classically trained archaeologist from Oxford, he had become a high-profile authority on biblical history in print and on television. Though many of his fellow archaeologists viewed him as a showman rather than an academic, no one denied that he had a remarkable understanding of the region’s history. On top of that, he seemed perpetually blessed with good luck. His peers marveled at his uncanny ability to produce exciting discoveries from even the most obscure digs, locating royal graves, important stone carvings, and dazzling jewelry from overlooked sites. Equally savvy at promotion, he exploited book and film deals on his discoveries to attain a comfortable wealth.