The Omega Factor(4)
He was employed by a small appendage within that giant beast. The Cultural Liaison and Investigative Office. CLIO. A play off the Greek goddess Clio, the muse of history. Officially, he was a credentials-carrying UN representative, which definitely opened doors. In reality he was boots on the ground. Trained eyes and ears. A field operative. Sent where needed to deal with artistic and cultural issues that could not be resolved through conference calls, ceremony, or diplomacy.
Sometimes you just have to kick a little ass, one of his bosses had said.
He’d been there right after ISIL plundered Iraqi churches, museums, and libraries. On-site in the Maldives when radicals dynamited Buddhist artifacts. In Timbuktu, after the Battle of Gao, when parts of that ancient city were ravaged by war. His job, first and foremost, was to stop any cultural destruction. But if that wasn’t possible, then he’d deal with the aftermath. He’d come to learn that many so-called cultural purges were simply smoke screens for the hasty acquisition and subsequent sale of precious artifacts. Fanatics weren’t entirely stupid. Their causes needed money. Rare objects could easily be converted to a stream of wealth that was virtually untraceable. No worries about bank accounts being seized or frozen by foreign governments. Just make a deal with reclusive buyers more than willing to supply gold, cryptocurrency, or cash in return for the seemingly unobtainable.
Thankfully, this trip to Belgium did not concern anything threatened, except perhaps his heart. He’d been looking forward to seeing Kelsey again. She was here in Ghent doing what she did best. Art restoration. It had been a mutual love of art that had first drawn them together. Then something wholly unexpected, at least from his point of view, pried them apart. He’d never seen it coming. Should he have?
Hard to say.
Nine years had passed since they last saw each other face-to-face. Their parting had not included any tearful farewells, hugs, handshakes, words of comfort, or encouragement. Not even an argument or anger.
Just an end.
One that had left him stunned.
Their communications since had been through social media. Not much. Electronic comments here and there. Just enough to stay in touch. She had her life and he had his, and never should the two mix. He’d many times wondered if maintaining any contact was a good idea, but he’d done nothing to curtail it. Was he a glutton for punishment? Or maybe he just wanted her in his life, however that might be?
Two weeks ago she’d suggested in a Facebook direct message that he come to Ghent. A first. An invitation to visit. Which made him wonder. Good idea? Bad? But once she’d told him what she was working on, he’d decided, what the hell, why not. Now he was here and the building he’d been sent to, per her texted directions, was on fire.
Was she inside?
He ran faster.
He was a few blocks over from the ancient Cathedral of Saint Bavo on a darkened street amid Ghent’s old town. All of the buildings around him seemed a tribute to Flemish architecture, a gauntlet of brick brownstones with stoops and chimneys. He was not far from the famed Graslei. A stunning ensemble of riverside guild houses spanning centuries and styles. Once part of a medieval port, one of the oldest sections in a town dating to the fifth century, it had been a focal point back when Ghent acted as the center of Flanders’ wheat trade. The district now was a touristic hot spot with a high concentration of café patios. He was hoping to have a late supper with Kelsey at one of them after seeing what she’d promised to show him.
The building ahead, ablaze in smoke and fire, rose three stories to a stepped-gable roof, but all of the destruction seemed localized on the ground floor. People had gathered in the narrow street, watching, but no one was moving to help. He ran up and asked if the fire department had been notified. An older woman said in English that a call had been made. He heard sirens in the distance and decided not to wait for their arrival. Instead, he bolted toward the front door in six quick steps and pushed the heavy wooden slab inward.
Intense heat and smoke poured out.
He grabbed a breath and plunged inside a large studio, metal racks of art equipment and supplies lining the walls. Tables filled the center. All consistent with a workshop, where Kelsey had told him she wanted to meet.
But no fire raged here.
“Kelsey,” he called out.
He heard a noise from the next room and headed toward the open door. There, he saw Kelsey engaged in a struggle with another person. The figure was black-clad, in tight-fitting clothes, the head and face hooded. It was hard to see much through the smoke, the only light coming from a raging conflagration on the other side of the room that was rapidly burning, the flames crackling and curdling like the sound dried wood made in a hearth.
He moved to help, just as the black figure pushed away and landed a kick to Kelsey’s gut that staggered her back. The attacker used the moment to bend down, grab something from the floor, then disappear into the smoke. He blinked away the burn from his pupils and found Kelsey.
He helped her from the floor, gentle with his touch, and they fled the room. “You okay?”
Her eyes were red, watery, and wild. Her gaze changed from rage, to fright, to recognition. “Nick.” She coughed out the smoke from her lungs and nodded fast. “I’m fine. Really. I’m okay.”
The curtain of time parted in his mind. It was like nine years ago again, and that familiar connection clicked. But he forced his thoughts to the present. “We have to get out of here.”