"So he was locked up?" Mike asked.

"For taking these later items. Never charged for the Eagles, because he never admitted being the thief. But the feds thought the method was the same. When the coins came in for assay-and mind you, he had sole control of the keys to the samples-he simply took ten of them out of the bag and replaced them with coins of the same weight and size, but no value."

"The old bait and switch," Mike said.

"Exactly. No one ever looked in the bags," Stark said. "Once it was realized the Double Eagles were not going to be declared legitimate legal tender-never monetized-they were just left to sit out their fate until the moment of meltdown. McCairn had exclusive access to the samples, and had helped himself to ten of the beautiful birds."

"How did they arrive at ten as the exact number?" Mercer asked.

Stark paused. "By the weight of what was recorded in the assay process. That's the best they could figure."

"That Secret Service agent worked damn fast," Mike said, making notes of the people and dates that Bernard Stark had mentioned. "What did you say his name was?"

"The man who tracked down the Double Eagles? It was Strait. Harry Strait."

28

"Did I say something wrong?" Stark asked, scanning our faces.

The three of us must have reacted to Strait's name with the same degree of surprise.

Mike made his notes and picked up the conversation. "No, no. Now this Double Eagle that made its way to Egypt, what can you tell us about how it got there?"

Stark pursed his lips. "Not very much. I think you'll have to get that story from the Secret Service."

He reached for his Rolodex and wrote down the name of the supervisor he'd dealt with when he auctioned the great coin for seven million dollars. "Harry Strait is dead," he said, "but I think you'll find this fellow most helpful."

"But the one you sold in 2002 was legal?"

"Oh, yes. We weren't about to walk into that mess again. I can't account for the half century that the coin was in Egypt, but a well-known British dealer brought it back into the States in 1996. What do you call those, um, shall we say 'rats'?"

"Confidential informants?"

"Yes. One of them tipped off the Secret Service, who did some wiretaps and all that, and intercepted the poor bird on his way home. Lawsuits and depositions and lots of haggling, but finally the government admitted a great mistake had been made."

"Worse than McCairn's theft?"

"A good deal so. When Farouk bought his Double Eagle, FDR's Treasury secretary-I can't recall his name-"

"Morgenthau," I said. "Henry Morgenthau."

"Yes, of course. Morgenthau actually issued an export license to the royal legation of Egypt, making that one lonely coin legitimate."

"Why?"

"No one is quite sure. To avoid government embarrassment, probably. He knew it was going out of the country to a king we were trying to keep as an ally, and there wouldn't be much harm in letting the twenty dollars that had been promised to Farouk before the error was caught go to the royal collection."

"So when the Double Eagle was finally sold, you and your firm got the seven million big ones, Mr. Stark?" Mike asked.

"In a very agreeable split with Uncle Sam, Detective. Perfectly reasonable."

"Play with me for a minute, sir. What if I were to turn up another stolen coin? Say everybody guessed wrong back in the forties, say McCairn reached in the bag and pulled out a dozen Eagles instead of ten," Mike said. "Tomorrow I walk in your door with one more plastic evidence bag, Liberty holding her torch aloft, 1933 and all that?"

"Without the certificate that monetizes her-and Morgenthau very likely didn't sign two of them-it's just one more lovely piece of gold. Carry it in your pocket for good luck or melt it down and turn it into a ring for your sweetheart."

"So it's the piece of paper that makes the coin worth its weight in gold?"

"Now you've got it."

"But how did this Englishman get the coin-the one you sold-from Farouk?" Mercer wanted to know.

"The depositions are all sealed. Perhaps you can convince the agents to tell you. And then, Ms. Cooper," Stark said, standing to usher us out of his office, "maybe when you bring me some of Ms. Ransome's coins to inventory, you all can let me in on the full story that you get from the feds. I've been curious for years myself."

We thanked him for his help and waited for the assorted security devices to let us make our way back to the reception area and downstairs to the lobby.

My cell phone was vibrating. As we stepped out of the elevator, I took it out of my pocket. "You call the Secret Service and make an appointment for noon tomorrow," I said to Mike. "Let me get this."

"Alex?"

"Yes."

"Christine Kiernan. Your trap-and-trace with the cell phone came through with the goods."

"You got the rapist?" I turned to Mercer and gave him a thumbs-up. "Where?"

"Just like you said, he was standing on the corner of One Hundred and Second and Madison, talking to his grandmother down in the Dominican Republic."

"Reach out and touch someone. Works every time. Fit the 'scrip?"

"As much as she could give, including a surgical scar on his groin area. Had the doc's cell phone and two of her ID cards."

"Track marks?"

"Yeah, he's a junkie. Stone-cold."

"Priors?"

"Depends which name you run him under." She laughed. "Once the fingerprints tell us what his real name is, we'll know more. But he's been through the system before. He's greeting everyone in the station house like he's a regular."

"Want me to come up and help with a statement?"

"He's not talking. Ponied up for a lawyer right away. Found the phone on the street, found the doc's ID in a garbage pail. That's all he gave us and now he's not saying a word. I'll do a court order to get a saliva swab for his DNA, and I'll draft a complaint. I don't think I'll need to bother you till tomorrow."

"Good job, Christine."

"Thanks. See you in the morning."

I snapped the lid of the phone closed.

"Where do you get a drink around here?" Mike asked.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was six-thirty. "Let's try Michael's, over on Fifty-fifth Street. We can sit quietly and figure out where we are in this maze."

"Has the rain let up?" he said, opening the door to look outside. "Where's your car?"

Mercer pointed up the street to where we had parked. Mike's was closer by, so we crossed Fifty-seventh Street in the light drizzle and squared the block on Fifth Avenue to get to West Fifty-fifth Street.

We had almost made it through dinner when Mercer's beeper went off. He left the table to return the call.

"You still going to the country tomorrow?" Mike asked.

"Absolutely. Any chance you and Val can join me? I'd love the company."

He ran his finger around the rim of the glass, which he'd almost emptied of his first vodka. "Val's having a bad time of it, Alex."

Mike had met Valerie Jacobsen after she had undergone a mastectomy. She had completed an intensive course of chemotherapy, but the doctors warned her that it was such a virulent strain of cancer that she had to be watched for every minor health change.

"Want to tell me?"

"Maybe it's nothing. I just know how it frightens her, even when she doesn't want to worry me about it. Mostly she's run-down, exhausted, listless. They're working up a whole slew of tests this week. Maybe you could give her a call, cheer her up."

"I'm mortified that you have to ask me to do it. I haven't spoken to her in a couple of weeks, between my vacation and the trial. Of course I'll call her. Don't you think a few days on the Vineyard would-"

"She can't do it right now, Alex."