The Hypnotist Read online

  All over the world, museums engaged in similar battles were watching what happened in New York. When accused of harboring looted treasures, most of them took it upon themselves to do the research necessary to prove the legality of their ownership. Not the Met. The director insisted the burden of that proof was on the claimant. The Metropolitan, he said, was under no obligation to prove the opposite. The last will and testament of Frederick L. Lennox had been verified when it was executed over a hundred years before.

  Reza had countered by getting a subpoena requiring the museum to turn over Lennox’s bequest and any other pertinent paperwork. When that request was refused, Reza filed with the Manhattan district attorney, asking to be allowed to review the Met’s documents and study the detailed history of the object’s journey to the museum in order to prove it was there illegally. The district attorney was quoted as saying, “A museum must recognize its obligation to return looted objects of art to their country of origin. That’s in the public interest.” But, stopping short of penalizing the Metropolitan, he added, “It is, though, incumbent on Iran to first present some proof that the sculpture was removed illegally.”

  A new fit of coughing overtook Samimi, who hated giving his boss the satisfaction of knowing he was affecting him.

  “This situation is taking far too long to resolve,” Nassir said. “I’m afraid that this isn’t acceptable.”

  “Cultural heritage issues are never resolved quickly. The result is what matters here, not how long it takes to achieve it,” Reza argued.

  “But will we ever achieve it? We’ve been involved in tiresome negotiations for more than a year and a half and have managed only to engage a rival country in our battle. We could wind up doing all the work, only to have the Greeks get custody.”

  “The sculpture was created there. It’s difficult to imagine that the Greeks wouldn’t stake a claim once it was reported that—” Reza started.

  “You should have anticipated that and found a way to keep our request out of the press,” Nassir interrupted, something else he’d never done before today.

  Samimi paid strict attention to the volley, looking from the squawk box to the lawyer and then to his boss, who was staring at the burning ember of his cigar.

  “Keeping something out of the press is simply not possible in America,” Reza countered.

  “Really? Don’t they say anything is possible in America?” Nassir asked.

  “Mr. Nassir, we’re arguing about something that happened over a year ago,” the lawyer said. “We have a new problem now and need to deal with that. I can’t take a chance—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Reza,” Nassir cut him off again. “Let me look into what you’ve told me and find out where this phony document originated and where the real one is. Because there is a real one, I assure you. Someone is trying to embarrass us. Can you give the papers back to Samimi… Samimi, are you there?”

  “Yes, Minister.” He sat up straighter in his chair as if the speakerphone had eyes that had suddenly been turned on him.

  “Please show Mr. Reza out and then come back. We have other issues we need to discuss that don’t relate to Hypnos.”

  Reza stood and walked to the door without waiting for Samimi, who rushed to catch up and then escorted the lawyer into the reception area. The mission didn’t allow visitors to roam through the offices unescorted.

  In the lobby, two uniformed security guards stepped aside to let the men through to the outer hallway where the elevators were.

  “I hope you can explain to your boss that we can’t untangle in so short a time what it has taken centuries to tangle.”

  “I will, Mr. Reza. At least, I will try,” Samimi said diffidently as he looked up at the lawyer, who had a good three inches on him. “We appreciate your efforts and so does the minister, even if he seemed impatient today.” He pressed the elevator button.

  “Seemed?”

  For the first time since Samimi had met him, Reza looked worried. Trying to be reassuring, the junior attaché smiled. “It was just the shock of finding this out on the heels of discovering how unsympathetic the museum’s new director is to our cause.” He shrugged. “If I were Tyler Weil, a cultural disaster wouldn’t be the way I’d want to begin my tenure.”

  “Or it would be exactly how you’d want to begin it. By making a strong statement cementing your position.”

  “Yes, I see your point,” Samimi said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

  The elevator arrived. Reza stepped inside, put his hand out to hold the door open and said, “Let me know as soon as you have any news.”

  Samimi noticed the high polish on Reza’s oxfords as the door slid shut and then looked down at his own shining shoes. He’d been paying close attention to everything about the lawyer. It was all part of what he called “the education of Ali Samimi,” a self-styled course designed to help him fit in the way Reza did, despite the man’s skin color and dark hair. Samimi wasn’t just impressed with the American Iranian, he was envious of him: Reza was a US citizen who called New York home and didn’t worry about being shipped back to Iran on someone’s whim.

  Returning to the stinking conference room and the call still in progress, Samimi didn’t wonder what he’d missed. He’d find out later when he played back the clandestine recording he hoped his boss had no idea he was making.

  The only way to play with wolves, his grandfather had taught him, was to be a wolf. And he was certainly playing with wolves. The minute he’d met Taghinia, Samimi had known that he couldn’t trust him. Taghinia, with his flatulence and his teeth yellowed from the constant cigars, who flaunted his superiority over Samimi and tried to humiliate the younger man at every opportunity. He’d piled more and more work on him, so that now Samimi was doing the lion’s share of his boss’s job as well as his own. The only thing that kept him from complaining was his long-term goal, to find a way to stay in America.

  At thirty-five, he’d arrived in New York and felt true passion for the first time in his life. He loved everything about his adopted city: its restaurants, culture, nightlife, energetic pace, its architecture and especially its women. Samimi felt as if he’d merely been alive before; now he was living. Complaining would only ensure his return to Tehran, so he put up with this fifty-two-year-old man who, among his other sins, was immune to the temptations of his adopted home. How was that possible? Taghinia lived three blocks away from the office and never strayed from the neighborhood for anything other than necessities, actually boasting that he’d never seen Central Park, Broadway at night, the Upper East Side or the inside of a restaurant other than Ravagh, the Persian eatery less than ten blocks away. Taghinia often said that he would gladly die for his country and living in New York was halfway to dying. Despising the city for its excesses, he focused on the day when his homeland’s recognition as a superpower would be restored. He repeatedly told Samimi that on the day Islam’s universal dominance was reestablished he would rest, but not before.

  Not me, Samimi thought as he sat back down at the conference-room table. Not me. Dying for a principle was a lofty ideal, but not when there was so much to live for—Laurie Yardley being a perfect example of how much. He’d left her apartment that morning while she was still lying naked in her bed, a wanton look on her face as she listed what would be waiting for him when he returned that night. And she was just one of the women Samimi was seeing. He sat down, just in time to hide the bulge in his pants.

  “The longer you let this go the more damage can be done. These antique rugs need to be mended as soon as they start to unravel,” Nassir was saying over the speakerphone. “Do you understand? The time to take care of this is now.”

  Samimi glanced down at his polished shoes on the brilliant sapphire-and-ruby rug. There were five other Persians of this quality in the office. Each was worth more than most people, even in America, made in a year. It was a travesty. These rugs belonged in museums, or at least hanging on the walls. Nonetheless, the minister’s suggestion didn’t mak
e sense. Regardless of how much traffic the rugs bore, or how much ash his boss dropped on the seventeenth-century masterpieces, none of them needed repairs. Taghinia and the minister were talking in a code Samimi didn’t officially know about but one he’d deciphered months ago.

  “We’ll stay on top of it,” Taghinia said.

  “I think it’s time to let Samimi be responsible for the rugs,” the minister said.

  Taghinia looked over at Samimi, his thick eyebrows raised as if to suggest he was impressed. “Yes, of course, Minister.”

  A shiver fishtailed down the younger man’s spine.

  “Samimi, are you there?”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “Taghinia will explain.”

  Samimi tried to quash the panic down deep in his gut. “Yes, Minister,” he said, hoping that Nassir couldn’t hear how dry his voice had suddenly become.

  “Excellent,” he said, and hung up.

  “Repairs? What is he talking about?” Samimi asked.

  Taghinia waved off the question. “We’re not talking about rugs, you fool.”

  “It was a code?” Samimi hoped his acting would pass muster.

  “Of course it was a code. The minister was telling me he wants us to get Hypnos home.”

  “We have Reza working on that for us.”

  “There is too much bureaucracy in this country. Too many regulatory commissions. Too many layers to deal with. We can do it much more quickly bypassing those formalities. We have to move the sculpture out ourselves.”

  “We can’t take Hypnos out of the Met illegally.”

  “We have men in place in the museum, don’t we?”

  “Just two.”

  “What’s to stop us from putting in a few more? Get five or six in there.”

  “We put them inside the museum to protect the sculpture.”

  Taghinia said nothing.

  “You said it was security,” Samimi insisted.

  “And it was, but it can become something else.”

  Samimi hadn’t heard anything about this on the tapes. What had he missed? He felt stupid and then sick as something occurred to him. Twice during the past eight months, Samimi had delivered small objets d’art to the associate curator of the museum’s Islamic art department from a wealthy Iranian who Taghinia had said wished to remain anonymous.

  “What about the pieces I’ve given to Deborah Mitchell…is she part of this plan?”

  “More insurance.” Taghinia nodded.

  “Are the pieces bugged?”

  “No.” Taghinia laughed. “They are quite legitimate. I wanted you to get to know someone inside the museum who was familiar with the Islamic art collection.”

  Samimi looked down at his fingers, splayed on the table. He had thought he’d outsmarted his boss, but he’d missed some important communiqués. “The Met is one of the most secure institutions in the world.”

  “Your point?”

  “It’s impenetrable.”

  “You sound in awe of this museum. Are you? This Deborah Mitchell…does she mean something to you?”

  From the first day that Samimi had walked into the great front hall of the Metropolitan Museum he’d been captivated by the marble and stone, the cool air perfumed by the gigantic arrangements of flowers tucked into alcoves, by the classical Beaux Arts architecture and the endless galleries leading to more endless galleries that offered up the artistic accomplishments of one great culture after another. It was hard for him to separate Deborah from where she worked. Of all the women he’d met in New York and was attracted to, she was the only one he’d refrained from trying to seduce. She was part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  “Of course not, but…what you are suggesting…it’s insane, Farid. You do realize that we are discussing an eight-foot-tall piece of sculpture. I know it’s an important artifact but…”

  “Don’t be a fool. We’re talking about more than just a piece of sculpture.” He puffed on his cigar and his reptilian eyes narrowed. “In researching the records for Reza, our minister found a set of documents that he hasn’t shared with the lawyer, or anyone else. It appears that Hypnos could be a map of sorts that holds the secret to how man can access his inner realms and higher consciousness, making visions, clairvoyance, pre-cognition and out-of-body experiences all possible. If tapped, this power would allow man to use his imagination to affect reality. You’d just imagine murdering someone and your imagination would make it happen.”

  “You can’t believe that.”

  “For all the time you’ve spent in America you still haven’t learned her lessons, have you? Is there anything more valuable than potential, Ali? Than possibility? Than a promise or a threat? Hypnos and his secrets are rightfully ours. We want them back.” He flicked a half inch of dead ash into a crystal ashtray. “Whatever the cost.”

  Chapter

  THREE

  The lanky man ambled down the narrow Viennese street with the lazy insouciance of someone who never worried and who’d never been weighed down with tragedy or illness. He walked as if the stone pavers beneath his feet had been laid for him; as if the sun were shining and it were morning. But it was night and it was windy and wet, with the kind of cold, pelting rain that one expects in April, not May.

  He’d been in this city for only six days but had seen enough to dislike it. Vienna felt tired to him, as if the weight of its secrets burdened its people with a heaviness they couldn’t shrug off and was too much for them to bear.

  Or maybe he didn’t like it because he’d failed here.

  He’d come to arrest Dr. Malachai Samuels for stealing ancient stones from an archaeological dig in Rome the year before. Samuels, a preeminent past-life therapist and amateur magician, had made all the evidence disappear, and to date neither Interpol nor the FBI had been able to connect him to the crime. But instead of taking the reincarnationist into custody, the agent had been involved in a bizarre incident at the Musikverein. Along with almost a thousand other people, he’d experienced a hallucination while listening to a performance of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony. To date, none of the investigators had offered a satisfactory explanation of what had occurred. Music could excite you or lull you into a state of extreme relaxation—but catapult you into a hyperreal fantasy of another time and place? Of another life lived and lost?

  The press, both here and abroad, was still reporting the rumors that the occurrence was the result of a sonic anomaly that had caused a mass hypnotic past-life regression. Because he was a rationalist, the agent hoped the authorities testing the air in the music hall would discover there’d been a chemical attack. He preferred a black-and-white explanation and refused to accept that what he’d experienced during the concert was a memory of an earlier existence. Clearly his subconscious had manufactured a story in which people from the present played roles in an imagined past. There were hundreds of painkillers that caused delirium and delusions; his doctors had prescribed several of them for him when he was younger. Under the influence of narcotics, anything was possible.

  A middle-aged man, carrying a string bag in one hand and a maroon umbrella in the other, hurried past, giving the agent only a cursory glance. Good. Everything about his demeanor and wardrobe was designed to disguise his involvement with law enforcement. The black shirt, jeans and leather jacket, the hair that fell over his collar—it was basically how he’d looked in college. The clothes just cost more now.

  Stopping at number 122, an artless building identified as the Toller Archäologiegesellschaft—the Toller Archaeology Society—he rang the bell. Seconds later he was buzzed into a lobby where a middle-aged woman, wearing a wrinkled and shapeless navy dress, waited for him. Dr. Erika Alderman greeted him solemnly, then opened a second door that would have been invisible from the street and ushered him deeper inside the building.

  He’d met the doctor yesterday at the funeral for the man Malachai had traveled to Vienna to vis
it. Her grief had been palpable and the agent had refrained from asking her about the events of the past few days. It wasn’t the right time or place. Besides, was there really anything left to discover? Malachai had been watched from the minute he’d arrived in Vienna, and although he’d visited here three times, there was no indication he’d had anything to do with his colleague’s death. So the agent was surprised when, after the ceremony, Dr. Alderman had approached him and, in a hoarse whisper that sounded as if she’d been crying too hard for too long, requested that he come by before he left for America. She had something to show him.

  As he followed her through the archway, under the carved letters on the frieze that revealed the brotherhood’s true designation, the change from ordinary exterior to extravagant interior was drastic. Leading him into the inner sanctum, she offered up some background. “The Memorist Society was secretly founded in 1809 to study the work of Austrian Orientalist Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall, one of the men responsible for the greatest dissemination of Eastern knowledge in late-eighteenth-century Europe. Did you know that already?”

  “I came across some information about the society in preparation for this trip, but I’m hardly an expert.”

  “When we met you said you worked for the FBI, but you didn’t say you worked with art crimes.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He wasn’t surprised she knew. His name and job description had appeared in far too many articles about the incident at the music hall. There were only eleven FBI agents in the Art Crime Team—ACT—and they made every effort to stay out of the press both overtly and in their covert identities. A photo of one of them could blow a persona that had taken years to cultivate.

  “Can you tell me about your unit?”

  “We investigate the theft of objects from museums and residences, auction fraud and consignment fraud between galleries or dealers. We also help out with international requests to find works stolen abroad or artifacts looted from archaeological sites.”