31

"What the Romans needed, Mike, was a good homicide cop," Lori said. "They rolled over on this one, big-time."

He was standing at the window, looking at the traffic going eastbound over the Brooklyn Bridge. I knew what he was thinking, because I was trying to make the same kinds of connections. What was it that linked the unnatural death of an Egyptian king in Rome back in 1965 to the murders in New York City, in the last few days, of a Harlem dancer and the daughter of a former CIA operative? "How'd it happen?" Mike asked.

"Most of what you know from history books and old newspaper stories is true. The man weighed almost four hundred pounds. He smoked like a fiend, and took medication for high blood pressure. Went out for dinner at a fancy restaurant, in full view of a big crowd."

"Something on the menu he wasn't expecting?"

"Let me remember," she said. "I think he had a dozen oysters, a nice rich lobster Newburg, followed by roast baby lamb, with about six side dishes, and flaming crêpe suzettes for dessert. He lit up his Havana, and in front of a roomful of spectators, his head fell onto the table and he dropped dead."

"Cause of death at autopsy?"

"What autopsy?" Lori Alvino asked. "That's the whole point. Nobody ordered an autopsy. The king died of excess, they said at the time. A cerebral hemorrhage. It seemed so obvious that people didn't question it."

"But in fact?" Mercer asked.

Lori Alvino rested her chin in her hands, propped up by her elbows, telling us what she knew was in the official files. "There's a poison called alacontin. Ever hear of it?"

None of us had.

"Tasteless, odorless. Causes cardiac arrest immediately, but wouldn't show up in an autopsy."

"Why not?"

"Ask your docs how the drug works. I just read the reports, I don't do the forensics."

"No, I mean why no autopsy?" I asked.

"On the orders of the Italian Secret Service."

"There's an Italian Secret Service?" Mike asked. "That's got to be as effective as the Swiss navy."

"Easy, Detective," Lori said. "I've got paisans over there."

"Now we're talking 1965," Mercer said. "Who wanted Farouk dead at that point? He'd been in exile for more than ten years by then."

"Pick your leaders. Some say the poisoner was working for the Egyptians. In a decade, Nasser had gone from being a dashing rebel to a socialist dictator. Loyal Egyptians talked of restoring the monarchy, bringing home the exiled leader. Farouk's death would have been a gift to Nasser from his supporters."

"Who else?"

"The Americans, of course. And the English," Lori said. I reminded myself that Peter Robelon's father had also been a British agent in Europe during that period.

"Why them? Why us?"

"Because things had not gone as planned with Nasser. Our CIA and the British intelligence agency thought, quite wrongly, that the young general was going to be more malleable than Farouk had been. But he wasn't."

"Then why would we hurt Farouk?"

"A lot of government people thought, at the time, that Nasser would be ousted and the Egyptian monarchy would be restored. The Brits wanted their old outpost again in Cairo."

"So why not put a king back on the throne, and control him?" I asked.

"You got it. But Farouk hadn't worked the first time around. Now he was older, still very undisciplined, and totally unacceptable to the Western leaders. His son, however, was the perfect candidate."

Of course, I remembered. After Farouk had lost interest in Queenie, he had sired a son with his young second wife.

"The boy was only a teenager, so he would need guidance from the British and American delegations, they figured. And he'd be very appealing to the Egyptian masses as a return of the last ruling dynasty. The U.S. could prop him up on the throne and we'd all be back in business."

"So Farouk's death could have been a first step in our Allied plan to regain control of the territory, rather than a gift to Nasser from his own followers?"

"It works either way," Lori said.

"So now, Farouk is killed, in Rome," Mercer said. "And what became of all the treasures he had taken there?"

Lori Alvino didn't answer.

"C'mon, Lori, too late to stop talking to us now," Mike said. "The CIA?"

"Or the British Secret Service. Or even the Italian Secret Service. There were enough slices of Farouk's pie for everyone to get a handful."

"I'm thinking," Mike said, "about how that Double Eagle got to Egypt in the first place."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"In a diplomatic pouch. What could be a more foolproof way to move something valuable around the continent, or between continents? Who would know what's inside the little bag? What if the Double Eagle also left Italy in a government pouch?"

"I hate to remind you two," Mercer said. "But the coin that Mr. Stark sold in 2002 was the only one left like it in the entire world."

"That's the one I'm talking about, too," Mike said. "The one Farouk had since 1944-the one in Stark's auction in 2002. What are our choices? The king left it in Egypt when he was deposed, then someone found it and sold it to the British dealer. Lori here says that's not likely."

He looked to her for a sign of agreement and he got it.

"An American CIA agent sat on the nest in Cairo, after the fat man fled," Mike went on. "Someone who knew where to locate the coin, someone who had access to the palace. Other people forgot about the little piece of gold over time, because of all the turmoil in the region, and eventually our guy brought it out on the black market."

Lori picked up on the possibilities. "Maybe the Italian authorities who cleaned out his apartment in Rome found the coin. Maybe even the British agents, who continued to keep a close watch on him all his life. Lots of people have theories about the whereabouts of the precious little object for the fifty years it was missing, but the fact is that no one knows for sure."

I glanced at my watch, as the sky darkened over the East River. "I'm sorry to break this up. It's been most useful for us. I'm afraid I'm taking a couple of days off, and I've got a flight to catch out of La Guardia. "

"Let me know what you need, Alex," Lori said. "Nobody's going to open those CIA files of Farouk's anytime soon. There was too much backstabbing and betrayal in play. None of the officials looks good, in hindsight."

We thanked her for the time and information, and I called a car service to meet me outside the building and drive me to the airport.

The three of us were talking over each other as we stepped into the elevator. Fortunately for us, no one else was aboard.

"McQueen Ransome, Paige Vallis, Andrew Tripping," I said, listing off some of the cast of characters. "They're all tied up with Farouk or the Middle East."

"You got Paige's father, Robelon's father, some nutcase calling himself Harry Strait," Mike added. " Bam.More Farouk."

I went on. "Graham Hoyt fancies himself a collector, on a smaller scale than Farouk, but with obvious delusions of grandeur. Spike Logan gained the confidence of Queenie-enough to wind up with a few expensive gifts that he knew came from Farouk, and a penchant to go hunting for more after she died."

"Nobody," I said softly, "nobody can really tell us how many Double Eagles were stolen. Ten? That's only the best guess. That's only the ones that were identified and recovered."

"You're dreaming big, blondie. And you're missing the point. Even so, even if you found a dozen of them on the floor of Queenie's closet, they were never monetized. Worthless. They're not legal. You heard Bernard Stark. You can't even get twenty bucks for them. Only the one that was auctioned in 2002 was monetized for Farouk."