The Omega Factor(24)

He repeated them, then produced his cell phone. “We can either get this over with now, or Brussels will be giving you a call.” He motioned with the phone. “Your choice, Inspector.”

Zeekers thought only a moment, then caved, as most did. Something about their government knowing they existed bothered them. Unlike in America where the locals could give a rat’s ass whether you called Washington.

He followed the man across the cobbles to the body, where Zeekers peeled back the yellow plastic. A cocoon of illumination from tripod lights lit the scene. The black hood had been removed to reveal a woman in her mid-to late thirties, blond hair cut short, her face like a waxen mask, pale white with no makeup, bruised badly from the impact to the ground. A dark pool of blood welled across the stones from several bullet wounds, the entries neat, the exits not so much.

“Any idea who she is?” he asked Zeekers.

“No identification was found. We’ve taken her fingerprints, so that may provide the answer.”

“Why was she killed?”

“The officers reported that they thought she was carrying a weapon. When she made a threatening move, they fired.”

Not exactly what happened, but he wasn’t going to admit he was anywhere near the scene. “I assume your division was called in on the chance the rest of the altarpiece might be in jeopardy?”

“That thought had occurred to us. We’ve dispatched additional security to Saint Bavo’s. All is safe.”

“And that’s why the police carried loaded weapons tonight?”

Normally, Belgian authorities, like many across Europe, rarely toted live ammunition in their guns.

“We were alerted to a possible terrorist situation,” Zeekers said. “We responded accordingly. Which is procedure. I see your point. This woman was clearly unarmed and the police fired too quickly, but bad things happen in situations like this.”

Nothing here was certain besides a woman’s needless death. Nothing could be proven until more details were unearthed. Names. Dates. Times. The minutiae were what always mattered. Then it would all have to be verified. His mind ran through a familiar debate. The one he had with himself every time when he had to involve local officials. The second rule of working the field was knowing your opponent. The first was to identify your friends. Here? Both calls were easy. That convent had to be searched and he had zero authority to make it happen. But this guy? Inspector Zeekers of the General Directorate of Judicial Police? He could ring that bell.

Nick stood from the body.

Zeekers bent down to replace the tarp.

But something caught his eye in the light. Just beneath the black outer garment, on the right shoulder, where the thin material had been shredded by an entry wound into the pale skin.

“Wait,” he said.

He crouched back down, carefully parted the shards of Lycra and spandex, and revealed a small tattoo.





“A vulture?” Zeekers asked.

“It appears so.”

And strange for a nun to be sporting one. Perhaps it had been applied before this woman took her vows. Something meaningful only to her. That was possible. Then he noticed a chain around her neck.

“You see that?” he asked Zeekers.

The inspector crouched down and carefully tugged the links out from the gash in the bodysuit, revealing a silver medallion dangling at its end.





A fleur-de-lys.

Personal to her again? Or something more?

“Mind if I take a few pictures?” he asked.

Zeekers nodded.

He found his phone and snapped an image of the tattoo, the medal, and the woman’s face.

Then he faced Zeekers.

Time for truth.

“There’s somewhere we have to go, and there’s someone who has to come with us.”





Chapter 15



Kelsey stepped from the police car in front of the convent for the Maidens of Saint-Michael. Nick had returned and explained the situation—which, at first, had sounded fantastical. But once she realized he was serious her skepticism had changed to intense curiosity.

Thank goodness he was here.

For so long she’d lived a solitary life, mostly away from her family and friends. Fulfilled? Absolutely. Complete? Working on it. Satisfied? That one was still on the table. She’d definitely made the right choice devoting herself to God. Every day she felt an intense inner satisfaction. But hurting Nick? That she regretted with all her heart.

She’d hoped time had helped him to better understand. That was one reason she’d finally suggested a face-to-face meeting after so many years. She wanted to say again how sorry she was for the pain and judge for herself the degree of his healing. It was important that he was okay. They’d once trusted each other, and, to some degree, she’d violated that trust, however justified her actions might have been. He hadn’t been her first love, but he had been the last and most important.

Her person.

She’d specifically chosen the Congregation of Saint-Luke for its dedication to culture, and its desire to draw people toward faith through the beauty of art. The order was started by a Carmelite nun who’d lived in Florence during the 1930s. She’d noticed among the city’s many museums and fresco-covered churches that there were few to no works by women, and what did exist lay unseen in storage rooms. So she embarked on a quest to find and restore the lost artworks of Florence’s forgotten female artists, digging into museums’ archives and dusty deposits. By the 1960s she’d formed a new religious order dedicated to the evangelist Luke, the patron saint of artists. Her recruits shared that passion, many becoming skilled restorers. Hundreds of works, most from female artists, had been brought back to life by the sisters of Saint-Luke. Eventually, the convent targeted its recruitment to women either trained in or passionate about art, and Kelsey’s early restoration work had definitely come to their attention.