Their choice. Always.
Which she liked.
Sister Rachel had only recently composed her statement and elegantly explained an unwavering devotion and a deep desire to continue serving. Rachel was young, not even forty years old, with twenty to twenty-five more years ahead of her before retirement. The Maidens of Saint-Michael had always stamped an end point on service. Sixty was the preferred age, though some had continued to sixty-five. The current abbess was sixty-four and there was already talk of who would succeed her. That person would be chosen by the maidens, in a vote, which had to be unanimous. Many had already approached Claire privately and said she would have their support. But she wondered if that loyalty would survive what had happened here on this horrible night.
She entered the convent抯 main church, where the fourteen older maidens and the two remaining from her contingent had gathered. Sister Ellen sported a purple bruise to the right side of her face. Claire walked down the center aisle and stood before the main altar. She was not the senior woman present but based on the situation, she was the on-site leader for the designated operation. That gave her command. She explained all of what had happened, leaving nothing out. Everyone assumed the risk, so everyone was entitled to complete information.
揥e are surely being tested,?she said when finished. 揟he panel has been destroyed, but those high-definition images are just as threatening. We will have to retrieve that laptop computer.?She paused. 揑抦 not sure how I was tracked here. But I was. So I accept full responsibility for the failures that have occurred.?
揥e cannot abandon Sister Rachel,?one of the older women said. 揑t is not our way.?
揥e will deal with that,?she said. 揃ut not now. There is something more pressing. We must prepare.?
揊or what??one of the women asked.
揗ore visitors.?
Chapter 14
Nick retraced his route from the earlier chase, ending back at the quay overlooking the river. The police cars were still there, as was the woman抯 body, sheathed by a plastic tarp. People had gathered and were kept back by uniformed officers. He approached one, flashed his credentials again, and asked for access.
Which was denied.
Instead, the uniform radioed to someone and a few moments later a man梥tockily built, with a heavily jowled face, high brow line, and wide mouth梐pproached. He introduced himself as Inspector Zeekers of the Federal Police. More specifically from the General Directorate of Judicial Police, the main investigative arm. The fact that it was the Federal Police here, not the locals, spoke volumes.
揑 am curious,?Zeekers said, 搘hat is the United Nations?involvement??
揂n art treasure was just destroyed. That always interests us.?
揑t was a copy. Of little value.?
揟hat it was. But the fact that someone went to a lot of trouble to destroy a copy raises questions.?
揂nd you just happened to be nearby??
揑 was here, in town, visiting the restorer who was working on the panel.?
揌ow utterly協ortuitous.?
揟hat抯 the way I look at it. Can I see the body??
The man shook his head. 揟his is a local matter. Not an international incident.?
He抎 encountered this type of resistance before. Law enforcement all across the globe possessed one thing in common. Like bears and their dens, they guarded their territory. But part of UN membership came with jurisdictional concessions. One of those, laid out with specificity in Section 9, Part C, Paragraph （f）， was the unconditional acceptance of UN assistance with the 搇oss, theft, or destruction of a cultural work risen to the level of world recognition.?He抎 invoked those words so much that he knew them by heart, along with the correct citation from the member-state agreement.
He repeated them, then produced his cell phone. 揥e can either get this over with now, or Brussels will be giving you a call.?He motioned with the phone. 揧our 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抯 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.
揂ny idea who she is??he asked Zeekers.
揘o identification was found. We抳e taken her fingerprints, so that may provide the answer.?