Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(40)

“Terrorists are terrorists. They want the world to go up in flames, and they don’t care how it comes about.”

“As long as their cause is the winner.”

“Of course.”

“What you’re telling me is interesting. Fishy, but interesting. But the job of the MFAA in World War II was to—” she looked at her screen and read “‘—to safeguard historic and cultural monuments from war damage, and as the conflict came to a close, to find and return works of art and other items of cultural importance that had been stolen by the Nazis or hidden for safekeeping.’ I can’t believe the MFAA in its current inception will be terrorist fighters.”

“Reopening the MFAA was our idea, Jessica’s and mine. The declared intention of the agency is to interrupt the flow of cash. That’s the only reason we were able to convince the Feds to green-light the restoration of the agency.”

Good, succinct, sensible answer. She wanted good, succinct, sensible answers, because everything she’d looked up so far checked out. But was it possible to manipulate the internet, to make everything conveniently fit? Of course it was. Lies were made truth all the time. The MFAA website was a dot-gov website, so maybe that made it supervised?

Yes, by someone in the US government.

She was so right not to trust this information.

Nils continued, “No one else in the government thought to go at the problem of terrorist funding, but I did.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m an art major.”

She couldn’t help it. The tension in the cottage was so high and the idea of this manly man studying art was so funny—she grinned.

He didn’t seem to see the humor.

She swallowed the grin and asked, “So what is your agenda with reopening the MFAA? Don’t you want to interrupt the flow of cash to terrorists?”

“Very much so. But more than that, I want to save the museums, the tombs, the libraries. Ancient cultures should be preserved, not destroyed.” He sounded a little like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade. “When I went for the degree, I knew what I was getting into, job-and salary-wise, so I joined the CIA and got a graduate degree in tough guy.”

“What about the Marines?”

“I served time with them on a mission.”

That explained a lot. His fighting technique, his ferreting out of her military background, his ability to blend into the crowd and pass himself off as a harmless, bumbling author… Sure. CIA tough guy. He had been trained to deceive. But—“Why are you here?” she asked. “You said this was a smuggling depot. That means Yearning Sands Resort is one of many. Why are you here instead of—” she waved an expansive arm “—in Louisiana or Florida or San Diego or Cancún?”

He stood.

She lifted her pistol.

He retrieved a long piece of paper from the stack on the kitchen counter and held it toward her. “Here’s a list of antiquities shipments that we’ve identified over the past five years and, if possible, what they were and where they were delivered.”

She stood up, grabbed the spreadsheet, returned to her seat and studied it. “On the East Coast, it looks as if most art and artifacts were European or Middle Eastern in origin and delivered to wealthy collectors across the country. West Coast—Far Eastern and Central and South American artifacts. Makes sense.”

He pulled out another spreadsheet, handed it to her. “Here’s a list of the bodies we’ve found and approximate dates of their deaths.” He sat back down. “We assume others are undiscovered.”

She examined the list. Eight bodies over the past five years, on both coasts, in remote coastal areas off the beaten track. She compared the two lists. “Huh. The center of the action seems to be here.”

He leaned back in his seat and radiated satisfaction. “That’s what Jessie saw, too. What I saw.”

“With shipments coming in on both coasts—”

“Which we at first didn’t recognize.”

“—and a murder here and a murder there…”

“We couldn’t see a pattern for a long time.”

“It’s not certain.”

“It is if we all saw it. That’s why I decided to bring you in. I’ve read your profile. You can put it all together.”

Yes, she could. “Who’s in charge of the smuggling?” she asked.





17

“That is the question I’m here to answer.” Nils hitched forward. “The ultimate end of all looted antiquities is in the home of a wealthy collector or a private museum. The wealthy don’t deal with terrorists. They fear, and rightly, that they could end up on the auction block being held for ransom. The wealthy want to deal with reputable smugglers.”

“An oxymoron.”

“Not at all. The terrorists aren’t the most terrifying part of the chain. Worldwide smuggling is controlled by one man—or woman—a ruthless bastard who brooks no opposition.” Nils looked taut, determined and darned cute when he said, “He is, or she is, called the Librarian.”

“The Librarian? That doesn’t sound too tough.”

“Neither did the Godfather.”

She would give him that.

“The Librarian controls a huge network of smugglers on both US coasts. He has a reputation of loving books. Collects all kinds of literature. Antique books. Scrolls. First editions. Hieroglyphics.”