Haunted Echoes

Conceived in love and forged in stone,Legend says in her belly alone Lie the hidden seeds of eternity --The Lady, the Babe, the Sword and Key -- And he who holds her safe from strife Shall be rewarded with the Gift of Life.-- from theLegend of the LadyThe soaring notes of the aria washed over me, exquisite. Like Swiss chocolate melting into satin decadence on my tongue. Well, okay. Maybe not that good. But close. I have a few guilty pleasures in my otherwise bland life, and opera and fine chocolate are two of them. On my salary I can't afford either often, but when I do, I make sure to savor every last morsel.The opera was close to ending when something vibrated against my right hip. Oh, hell. It was Saturday night for goodness' sake. I was off duty. But my cell phone continued to vibrate insistently. I leaned over to the side and made the guy beside me grumble as I dug out my phone and flipped it open. And gulped. Uh-oh. Armande St. Germain. My boss's boss. A big dog in the hierarchy of Interpol. Chief of the Stolen Cultural Property Group, also known as the Painting and Pottery Patrol.St. Germain was callingmefrom Interpol headquarters in Lyon this late on a Saturday night? My voice message light blinked on, indicating I had a new voice mail. I slipped out of the theater, tromping on the toes of my neighbors and generally irritating an entire row of patrons in the process.I stepped out onto the Grand Staircase and looked around. Chandeliers the size of small cars dripped crystals from the ceilings, and the matching marble staircases swept downward toward the main floor, guarded by two giant carved women in togas, reminiscent of the Statue of Liberty. Huge, cast-iron streetlight-type fixtures on tall posts lit the stairs. I tried my phone. As I expected, no signal in here. Too much steel and stone.I walked toward the Grand Foyer to my right. It was possibly even gaudier than the cavern I'd just left. Ornate gold pillars rose to the painted ceiling, which was divided into gilt rectangles and ovals framing naughty-looking cherubs. Curly, cast-iron chandeliers lit this space with thousands of electric candles. I felt as if I was trapped inside a giant, turquoise-and-gold FabergÉ egg.I tried my phone again. Better. I called my voice mail service. "Agent Reisner." St. Germain's clipped tones bit my ear. He took pride in his command of English and always used it on me, since I'mAmerican. "An urgent situation has come up that requires your immediate attention. Call Littmann right away. He will fill you in on the details. This...problem...has come down from the highest levels of the French government."High enough that he was calling me just to make sure I got on it right away? Isodidn't like the sound of that. I'm an art historian. I catalogue works of art at museums and galleries in the Paris area. If one is later stolen, I'm occasionally called upon to verify the details I've entered into Interpol's master database of cultural property. But I don't get calls on Saturday evenings asking me to attend to urgent problems of national importance.Thoroughly alarmed, I stepped outside into a triangular courtyard made up of rue Auber on my right and rue Halevy on my left. The limestone gingerbread facade of the Opera rose behind me, completing the triangle. The pavement was wet. It had rained while I was inside, lending a certain chill to the September evening. A steamy smell associated with wet worms rose from the shiny asphalt.I dialed my boss, FranÇois Littmann, on his cell phone. I had no idea whether he'd be at home or the office at this hour of the night. You never could tell with him. He alternated between fretting over his blood pressure and giving in to his workaholic tendencies. He picked up on the second ring. Sounded more upset than usual, which was saying something. He was as hyper as a French poodle most of the time."Ana. There you are. Finally. I hopeDees, Cindy is the author of 'Haunted Echoes ', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373514151 and ISBN 0373514158.