The bust he referred to was on permanent display at the Neues Museum, just north of where we were sitting. “The German team that found it had a license from Egypt, but Egypt was under Ottoman rule, and the British were dominating Egypt,” I said. “It’s all part of the legacy of colonialism.”

“Do you think, if all their artifacts were returned, they could care for all of them?” he asked. “You’ve been to Istanbul. Think of the national museum. They have so much Roman art they are drowning in it. It lies outdoors, getting rained on, with cats crawling all over it.”

We spent the next hour discussing art and politics, which was a welcome distraction. Afterward, we went to his office, where a series of files was laid out on his desk. Thraxton International had a photograph of every staff member, so if the man I remembered had worked at the hotel, I knew I’d find him. It didn’t take me long. The thirteenth file I picked up belonged to a man named Mehmet Badem. As I stared at his photo, time seemed to stop. That was the man who had carried me onto the plane.

“Does he still work for you?” I asked, holding up the photo.

“I don’t know him.” Pierre peered at the file. “He left work here on permanent disability five years ago. Some kind of accident, but it doesn’t say what happened. How odd.” He flipped through the pages, then went to his computer. “He does receive a pension.”

“You have his address?” It was hard to contain my eagerness.

While Pierre wrote it down for me, I flipped through the other files. There was no one else I recognized. But another curious idea was coursing through my brain with the insistent buzzing of a mosquito. Exactly how much of a coincidence was it that Juliet had been nearby the night Mirelle had died? She had still been a student that January, earning her Ivy League MBA. I could clearly picture her face, squeezed tight with anger. You ruined my week in Paris, you stupid piece of shit. I wish you were dead. It wasn’t the first time I wondered how far Juliet would go to take control of the business, but my blood had never run that cold when I’d considered the question.

CHAPTER 26 DEIRDRE

CHAPTER 26

DEIRDRE