The Stolen Crown 3n1g43

The Stolen Crown

The Cooke Chronicles

Eugene Hudson

Hudson Digital Press, LLC

Copyright © 2021 by Eugene Hudson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Lion Photo by Ondřej Žváček used under CC BY 2.5 Image was modified

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Newsletter

Prologue

April 13th, 1868 Magdala, Ethiopia

“How did it come to this?” Tewodros II, Emperor of Ethiopia, asked Abel, his valet and confidant. “They used to be our allies and now, look at how things came to be between us and the British.” Tewodros II, also known by his Anglicized name, Theodore, did not feel much like a regent anymore. In fact, he was immersed in dismay at the manner in which most people of his beloved country had turned on him and much of his amity with the British Empire had soured. Once a friend of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, Tewodros now faced her empire’s wrath because of one act of desperation. “I understand, my lord,” Abel replied solemnly, “but many of your people know that your actions were simply coursed to force an outcome for Abyssinia. It was not out of malice, my lord.” Abel tried to console his king, but he too, knew why the British and Indian belligerents were on their way to Magdala. He dared not voice it, of course. The citizens of Ethiopia had revolted against their emperor by late 1862 already; discontent was thriving throughout most of the land. Tewodros was engaged in continuous military campaigns against a myriad of rebellious forces and local militia. Abyssinia suffered a threat from the looming encroachment of Islam from Ottoman Turks and Egyptians that constantly invaded Ethiopia, and he soon found his defenses inadequate against their repeated attempts. “No, it was not out of malice, but I suppose in war, there are no guarantees when you act out of urgency,” the king sighed at the head of the massive oak table in a private chamber within his stronghold. His fingers grazed the items that had

formerly brought him such joy, gifts from other monarchs and leaders, when they still considered him a friend. Outside, the night air was hot, but what stifled his breathing was not the arid temperatures. His apprehension came from the impending doom that rode on the night breeze, billowing into his compound to deliver his sentence. Abel left the room to attend to his other duties, leaving the emperor in solitude with his thoughts. Holed up in his fortress in Magdala, he felt by no means safer from the coming onslaught of the British expedition sent to dissolve his power. His reminiscence tormented him as he sat by the oak table, waiting for the inevitable and lamenting what was. Running his fingers down his mustache with slow, thoughtful strokes, Tewodros gave great thought to his next move, but genuinely found only the morose in his contemplation. Not too long ago, he recalled writing Queen Victoria that their two great Christian Empires should be natural allies in the region. The queen had not so much as recoiled at the statement and even gifted the Abyssinian ruler a pistol that he had ired while visiting, so it was with much bewilderment that Tewodros learned that the British Empire ultimately chose to side with Ethiopia’s enemy—Egypt. After countless skirmishes and battles against the steadily invading Islamic forces, Tewodros sought out aid from Britain. He had lodged a request for aid in providing Ethiopia with much needed modern firearms which his empire lacked, but to his dismay, Britain refused. “They gave me no choice,” he whispered, his head hanging. Long locks of hair draped over his shoulders, covering his fine white garment. “They turned on me when I needed them. How else could I have forced their hand?” Aptly, his subliminal toils caused his brow to warm and perspire under the thin golden band around his head that proclaimed him emperor. He found it ironic and disturbing, but he had to confront his erroneous efforts in forcing the hand of the British Empire by seizing British diplomats and missionaries as hostages. Naturally, Britain did not appreciate their people being used as bargaining chips, but instead, it had only exacerbated matters. Tewodros had a sliver of solace: From the beginning, Britain had made it clear

that they did not wish to subjugate Abyssinia, but to merely depose Tewodros II and release his British captives. “They don’t wish to kill me.” He shook his head, his disappointment and fury mounting from the distress of his anxiety. Alone in the lavish chamber, Tewodros raised his voice in frustration. “But what is worse than death would be to be a shamed emperor, betrayed by his allies in favor of his enemy!” His eyes welled with tears of ruin and defeat as he mumbled to himself, feeling despair grip his heart. Inside him, he knew that most of Ethiopia’s people welcomed the British intervention and deposition of Tewodros II, and he could not bear the betrayal he felt. Most of his army had somehow dwindled in number, dissipating upon the imminent arrival of the British expedition. In fact, he had barely one thousand troops left to defend him against tens of thousands of Indian and British battalions preparing to storm his stronghold and most probably remove him from power in the worst way he could imagine. “Never trust the influence of Egypt on these people,” he wept hopelessly, “for they surely come to kill me. Not only do they desire to remove my crown, but I am certain they wish to remove my very head! Bastards!” The anger at this deceit and hostility coursed through Tewodros as he considered the decisive turn of his fate, and he slammed his fist down on the large oak table, sending a priceless golden crown clattering to the floor. “Ha!” he laughed maniacally at the ironic incident, tears obscuring his vision as he contemplated the sign that symbolized his coming end. “How cruel! How cruel you are, my God!” Furious at the tip of his doom, Tewodros rose up from his seat, picked up the fallen crown of Egyptian gold, and hurled it once more hard against the wall. He laughed in empty defeat, but his laughter and the sound of the clanging crown was suddenly drowned by the din of gunshots coming from outside. “They are here,” he said plainly, his mind and heart numb from the inevitable come to fruition. “Let me give them a proper welcome, for they will not have the privilege. I shall take the privilege from them so that they will their treachery.” Pulling the once valued pistol from his pocket, Tewodros listened to the ruckus

outside his door, the sound growing ever louder as his enemies advanced. Screams and the thunderous clap of gunfire echoed through his breached fortress as the dejected emperor thrust the pistol to his temple. As he counted the footsteps rushing up the stairs right outside his door, the Ethiopian emperor smiled in sorrow and spite as he pulled the trigger. Just as his limp body hit the floor, British troops kicked down the chamber door and stormed inside. Shocked, they stood for a moment. Before them, the monarch lay dead on the floor, his skull shattered by a fresh gunshot wound that birthed a crimson halo around his head. “He’s gone,” one British soldier gasped. His commander entered the room and noticed the discarded crown, cast aside moments before by Tewodros. He scoffed at the sight and remarked sarcastically, “Well—at least we’ll have something to him by.”

1

Present Day Hartford, Connecticut

It drizzled over the quaint but above-average area of West Hill in West Hartford. The neighborhood was quiet, apart from the occasional car whooshing by, splashing up the dormant puddles of the day. The sidewalks slept without the regular dog walkers and joggers, safely inside as the night grew colder. Yellow glows danced inside the windows of houses along the flanks of Brunswick Avenue, most of them with grand history and a lot of leisure value. Of course, the area was perfect for the more esteemed citizen, but still modest enough for the average professional to live there. Under the waning dusk light, the double story residence of the Cookes stood sentinel, hiding slightly behind a huge beech tree that marked their yard. Inside, Johnathan and Olivia Cooke discussed a new development. Both Jonathan and his wife worked at Yale University. He specialized in ancient languages under the Department of Classics and Olivia’s obsession and love lay in the world of ancient relics, working for the Archaeological Studies Department. “But is it a direct flight, Liv?” Jonathan asked, peering over his wife’s shoulder as she searched for the best available flight to London on her laptop. “I am so psyched for this trip; I don’t want to dally.” “Yes. I got that the first time, honey. Look, this one is an hour longer, but the service is better,” she remarked, glancing up from her laptop screen to her husband’s hovering 6’2” frame. “But is it direct?” he repeated.

“Ugh!” She rolled her eyes, scrolling down. “Look, one stop will rob us of over, like, $2000 each. Two stops…” “No, two stops are too many,” he interrupted, pacing up and down. “I need a direct flight.” “Jonathan Cooke,” she grunted, pursing her lips in vexation, “we can’t be fussy. I am not paying exorbitant ticket prices for the same destination, just an hour or two longer. Let’s take Bradley International to O’Hare to Dublin to Heathrow, less than a thousand bucks each.” “I’d rather pay more and get there faster,” he complained under his breath. “Direct, you know?” He sounded like an unhappy child scared to piss off his parents but needing to voice his opinion, nonetheless. “Say ‘direct’ one more time.” Olivia’s big green eyes leered at him, her slender finger hovering over the touchpad like a vulture waiting for carrion. “Jonathan,” she whispered in a mild warning, “you are being difficult. These are relics and codices from over a century ago. They are not going anywhere while we take a longer flight!” Jonathan ran his hand through his short brown hair, tilting his head in thought, while he knew they would ultimately take Olivia’s chosen route. After all, she was better with budgeting while maintaining her travel logic, unlike him. “At least we connect in Dublin?” She used the statement as a question to soften her insistence, but Jonathan knew that this meant that Olivia had categorically made up her mind already. His hand playfully pressed her shoulder as he growled with a grin. “Of course, my dearest,” he jested. “Naturally it is the one I would choose.” He walked away laughing and shaking his head at Olivia’s persuasion, only because his demeanor was lifted by the prospect of traveling abroad again. It had been some time since the Cookes had had some time alone, since Olivia’s mother had taken ill. “Direct flight. New York to London. Tomorrow,” she declared from the couch.

“Lovely!” he cried, grabbing the recently opened bottle of red Bordeaux Blend and pouring two glasses, their second helping in a mere 30 minutes. “I wonder what they have in mind over at the British Museum, Liv. Seriously, I am so curious to see what they have on display there.” “I know, right?” she replied, putting down her laptop and looking out the window. “Ethiopia, right? I must it, I have not had the pleasure of delving deeper into East African artifacts. This should be great for my thesis.” “Yep, they mentioned needing my expertise for ancient Ethiopic texts,” Jonathan bragged with a wink. The British Museum had elicited their help in a study of Ethiopian artifacts, held there since raiding Ethiopia in 1868. As Jonathan was aware, these intricate treasures and their secrets—especially the texts of Ethiopic origin—were still the subject of intense academic research. In fact, he had often found himself engaged in arguments over the authenticity and translations of similar codices. Therefore, it was no surprise that being selected to a of researchers to scour over the British Museum’s collection had Jonathan feeling like a kid in a candy store. “I am very excited to see which ages of the empires they keep,” Olivia added as she took her glass from Jonathan. “If I can expand my portfolio of examinations on earlier artifacts from Abyssinia and bordering locales, I could compile a whole new folder for publication. You in?” “What? Of course, I’m in! If we could combine our new material and publish a paper this year, old Butterman would have a stroke!” Jonathan cackled with a faux hostility toward one of his more competitive colleagues in the classic academia field of California. “Oh, Butterman,” she chuckled. “I can’t believe he still gets his foot so effectively into his mouth. Never learns, that man.” Jonathan snaked his free arm around his beautiful blond wife and kissed her roughly on the temple, almost spilling her drink, and Olivia burst out in giggles as the rain began to patter against the windows. Her laughter dwindled as she walked to the dinner table, sitting down, deep in thought. “You know, honey, I am stoked that we got this gig, and I really look forward to

it,” the 28-year-old relic specialist sighed, wiping her blond hair over her ear like she always did when she got serious. Jonathan knew that habit and instantly calmed his manner to Olivia. “It’s just that I worry about Mom, and I am reluctant to just leave for London like this, leaving her to her own devices…” “Hey, nobody is leaving her to her own devices. C’mon,” the 33-year-old Jonathan consoled her, “you know that is not the case. Look, she is doing great, right? She kicked the cancer in the cojones, babe.” Jonathan smiled, trying to approach his wife’s concerns with a light-hearted attitude. “I know, I know,” she whined, “but with Dad gone...” She sighed impatiently. “If I had siblings, a brother or sister who could take care of her, I’d feel so much better, but her well-being is my responsibility.” He set his glass down and embraced her tightly, rocking her from side to side, talking into her hair. “Liv, your mom is strong, and she is recovering like a champ!” he said. “Just , Mom has the caregivers from the hospital checking in all the time.” “But she relies on me,” Olivia persisted, “her daughter, not some butch nurse with a stern voice.” Jonathan laughed, drawing a slight smile from his wife. “That was once, babe! And she was very nice, even if she sounded like Mr. T,” he chuckled. “Look, I promise you we will be in constant with your mom while we are over there, okay? Nothing is going to happen, but in case anything does come up, we’ll be in touch and ready to come back if need be. All right?” His wife sighed, hiding the fact that she did feel a tad better about the matter, but her face remained riddled with concern. Jonathan reiterated, “Everything will be fine, Liv. No need to pre-worry, especially with her health improving so well, right?” Olivia plopped down on the couch, her eyes scanning the laptop screen that awaited her decision. Reluctantly, she reached out her index finger and clicked to confirm the flight.

“Almost direct flight, New York to London…booked,” she said, exhaling a long sigh, giving her husband a smile, because she knew he’d worked so hard to cheer her up. He lifted his glass in a toast, and she clinked hers against it. Softly, Jonathan said, “To our new gig.” “To our new gig. May it be an adventure,” Olivia chipped in and sat back in her husband’s arms.

2

London, England

Heathrow Airport was like an anthill, the hub of thousands of travelers that traversed the United Kingdom and Europe on a daily basis. The international arrivals added to the madness of the bustling hallways, their floors polished under massive high arches, illuminated by scores of powerful lights that gave the place the appearance of a gargantuan hospital. The sky was sunny, unlike what most of the engers expected of London, but the cold climate remained prevalent. By 1:30 pm, the captain thanked the engers for their patronage, while Jonathan and Olivia fumbled through their overhead compartment to fish out the sole piece of luggage they had each stowed up there. What made the couple such a good team was that they agreed on most things in the way of habit. Barring the obvious personality differences, the two young professionals tended to correspond on many things, and one of those was travelling light. Jonathan could not help but scoff in amusement at the struggles of other engers attempting to lug around large bags and multiple articles of clothing—mostly from the fickle weather conditions—while trying to navigate the narrow aisle. The Cookes had a process of packing for overseas trips, especially with the customs checks and delays when crossing a new border. A few changes in clothing and basic amenities were all they needed when travelling. Anything else they might need they assumed they would acquire during their stay from the local stores. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he mumbled, getting the look from Olivia again. “Relax, dammit,” she whispered, “you are like a puppy on a beach! We are in London, and we’ll be at the museum soon enough.”

Olivia could not help but smile to herself at her husband’s childlike excitement. Free of the burden of waiting and searching and worrying about luggage at the baggage claims carousel, the two could briskly make their way out of the mad mingling of people in the airport’s hallways. “Hey, I can’t keep up with you, Usain Bolt,” Olivia jested as she galloped to keep up with her tall husband. “Sorry, babe.” He smiled. “I am just so eager to see the British Museum and those texts.” “I would have thought that we could just take a breather before we go there. We just traveled for a week!” Olivia moaned and hit Jonathan with her trademark hyperbole. “A week,” he chuckled. “Sweetheart, I promise, once we’ve checked in with Martin, the museum director, we can relax until tomorrow. How’s that?” Huffing, she nodded and rolled her eyes, but secretly, Olivia was just as excited to see the famous museum and the immense historical treasures it had been guarding since its inception in 1753. To her, this was indeed an invaluable trip with a wealth of material she could research and publish, not to mention getting to scrutinize the Ethiopian artifacts of the new exhibit. With much dodging and excuse me’s, the two finally made it out of the airport’s white spaceship dome and out into the fresh air to hail a cab. “Taxi!” Jonathan called, raising his hand. “Honey, they are everywhere. Just walk up to one,” Olivia giggled, hooking her arm in his. A black cab pulled forward just short of where the Cookes were standing. A jovial Indian man jumped out with a huge smile, his teeth white against the black mustache he sported. “Welcome, madam, sir,” he exclaimed as he rounded the car. “My name is Waseem. Where are you off to, sir?” “Um, the British Museum.” Jonathan smiled.

The man looked confused at the lack of luggage the two engers had. “No bags, sir?” he asked. The couple chuckled and shook their heads, waiting for Waseem to open the cab door while a plethora of hire cars, taxis and civilian vehicles rushed past him with erratic swerves. Olivia winced as she watched the mad traffic churn, and she recollected a particularly dire day in New York City, when she had appendicitis and the nearest hospital was but five blocks away. That day, she’d almost died in the traffic congestion, and she never forgot the utter panic and anxiety she suffered afterwards. “What’s wrong, babe?” Jonathan asked as he scooted in next to Olivia on the back seat. She smiled. “Just flashbacks.” “British Museum, sire, madam?” Waseem asked one more time before pulling the black cab into the crazy lanes without a flinch. “My God, how do your nerves keep it together?” Olivia asked the driver. “Every day at the office, madam,” he laughed, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “Sir, do you mind if I take an alternative route?” “Hey, sure. It’s not like I would know the difference, Waseem. I have not been here in London since 2012,” Jonathan informed him. “Just for interest, why are we taking an alternative route? Road works?” “Uh, no, sir. A few blocks are congested because of the protest, but I know another way to get there, so no worries,” Waseem explained. “Protest?” Olivia asked, concerned. “Hopefully not violent?” “No, madam, just some picket signs and people occasionally blocking the access roads,” he told Olivia as he effortlessly pulled a bob-and-weave across lanes, turning circles. Jonathan had been to London a few times, but he still felt his chest tighten at the sight of driving on the left side of the road. “I am taking the A40 for most of the route, so we should be there in under 45 minutes, if all goes well, madam.”

“Thank you, Waseem. I hope we can still get through to see Mr. Schafer,” Olivia said to Jonathan. Both Americans found the Indian man’s impeccable Yorkshire accent fascinating, simply because it was unusual for an average London cabby to sound like that. “I’m sure it should not be a problem, Liv,” he assured her. “I am sure he has security looking out for us, because I told him we should be here this afternoon.” For a long while, they drove on the highway, but to the American visitors, it felt like an eternity. To their surprise, Waseem’s cab music was not intrusive or loud, but quite pleasant—an eclectic mix of traditional Indian music with a pop vibe— and it made the road more pleasant. When they ed Shepherd’s Bush, Jonathan caught a whiff of beef curry from one of the multi-cultural neighborhood’s restaurants and only then did he realized how famished he was. “Hmm.” Olivia beat him to it. “That smells good.” “First things first,” he contested with reluctant fortitude. “After we meet with Martin Schafer, I am ordering everything on the menu.” Olivia laughed and patted her whimsical husband’s forearm affectionately in some form of solace. Over 30 minutes had ed, and Jonathan could not help but look forward to the impending meeting with the museum director. He was immensely curious about the mentioned texts, about what they said, what secrets they would reveal, but he was adamant to see what else the museum had to feed his interest with. “Almost there, sir, madam.” Waseem smiled. “I am taking Bloomsbury Street and then turning off into…” He stopped with a groan. “Shit.” “What?” Jonathan asked as Olivia sat forward on the seat. “There.” She pointed to small, tight crowd in front of the British Museum’s front entrance. From the smaller streets surrounding the museum, more people marched with signs the Cookes could not quite discern yet. “We can breach that,” Jonathan said with an iota of defeat in his voice, “can’t we?” “Don’t think so, hon,” Olivia answered, studying the possibilities of the upset

crowd allowing their age. She narrowed her eyes to better discern the slogans on their signs and flags. “What does it say? Give Ethiopia’s Treasures back on that one.” “This one reads, Don’t steal our heritage and some kind of symbol next to it,” Jonathan reported. “That’s peculiar. I thought this was a celebrated exhibition. Wonder what that’s all about.” “It has been on the news also, sir, madam,” Waseem told them, idling his cab while the two engers decided whether they wanted to get off here or not. “These people are from Ethiopian descent, some of them second or third generation. British by birth, Ethiopian by blood. They are very unhappy about their ancestors’ relics being in the hands of the British. I suppose I understand.” Being of Indian descent, Olivia realized that Waseem’s ancestors more than likely shared in the history of the relics in question. The protestors were few in number, but they were firm and loud about their cause, some even leering into the black cab as if they questioned the presence of the two Americans there. “What do you think, babe?” Jonathan asked quietly, trying not to lock eyes with any of the protestors. “I don’t know; they look quite angry. Maybe we’ll just piss them off even more if we try to push through to the main entrance,” Olivia suggested. Jonathan measured the odds of reaching the entrance without incident and found it too daunting, considering the condition of the protest and its escalating fury. Police stood around on stand-by, ready for any disruptions or violence, and that was not a good sign. “Yeah, no,” Jonathan decided. “I think our timing is just lousy. Maybe we should just give Martin a call and tell him that we will report tomorrow morning?” Olivia nodded in agreement, ignoring the sporadic taps against the window next to her. She was disappointed, as was Jonathan, no doubt. However, she could not deny that she would really appreciate a hot tub and a long nap in the comfort of a hotel right now. After half a day in the sky and hopping airports, they both needed some rest, and it would be better to start afresh the following day. “All right, Waseem, could you take us to the closest nice hotel, please?”

Jonathan requested. “A nice one, sir?” Waseem winked. “You got it!”

3

“Surely you know that breakfast is included,” Olivia teased her husband as they checked into a rather prominent hotel but a few blocks from the British Museum off Brompton Road, a virtual stone’s throw from the Victoria and Albert Museum. “This is quite lavish, hey, Liv?” Jonathan smiled, marveling at the beautiful interior of the welcoming hotel. “You sure we can afford this?” “Of course.” She grinned and showed him her phone screen. “It’s on the British Museum, sonny Jim.” Olivia pointed to the email they had received from the museum authority’s private office, stating that all accommodation and expenses were covered. “Travel fares will be reimbursed to the tune of 50 percent as well. Sweet deal.” “I like it!” he whinnied. “Hope they have a mini bar I can raid. My God, I only realize now how tired I really am.” “The adrenaline wore off,” she agreed as they entered the mirrored elevator to the second floor. Her eyes found the slowly flashing numbers on the display blurry, a clear indication of her own fatigue. “Once that excitement dwindled, our bodies were left with only the exhaustion of the trip. I don’t know about you, but I am bushed.” Jonathan looked at his reflection in one of the mirrors and whistled in shock. “Oh, hell yes. I think I need about a week’s sleep.” He turned to his wife with his index finger under his right eye. “Why didn’t you tell me that I look like a zombie with a hangover? Geez, look at me!” Olivia laughed and nudged him, standing on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his neck. “You look like you’ve been dead for some time already…but you are my zombie.” “You’re too kind, my darling,” he said unenthusiastically. “Did you run out of

deodorant?” She gasped and gave him a timid wallop to the upper arm. “How dare you?” Jonathan had a good laugh as Olivia, ever so ladylike, smelled her armpits just as the automated voice in the elevator announced their floor. As they exited, Jonathan added, “You know there are CCTV cameras in the lifts, right? They just saw you check your pits, babe.” “Oh, shit,” she huffed, realizing that she must have entertained the security staff. “Aw, Livy, I’m just messing with ya,” Jonathan laughed as they walked down the corridor, checking the numbers mounted in golden plaques on the walls. The hallways were stunning but modest. It reminded the couple of some elegant, haunted hotel in an old Hammer film, perhaps the scene of an Agatha Christie mystery. They could not even hear their own footsteps, their soles sinking into the thick fiber of the Persian carpets that lined the length of the short corridors. Only five rooms lined each side of the hall, giving the place a more personal feel, and each room door was marked by two small potted Camellia trees that broke the slightly barren width of the age. A window at the end of the hallway overlooked the jutting roofs and balconies of the crammed buildings of the neighborhood surrounding the hotel. Old Gothic church steeples sporadically broke the skyline with their reach above, and Olivia noticed the pronounced roof of the museum nearby. Soft light persisted deeper into the bowels of the second floor, courtesy of gilded dainty lamps that crowned each doorway. “Found it,” Jonathan announced, unlocking their hotel room door and waiting for Olivia to lead the way. “Oh my God, Jon, it is so beautiful,” she sighed as she glided toward the window, fringed by green and gold drapes. “But does it have a mini bar?” he mumbled, scanning the apartment with zest. Jonathan Cooke was not a heavy drinker by any means, but he had enough culture to enjoy a good tipple at the right time. Olivia’s elegant fingers caressed the fabric of the drapes and bedding as she dreamily ed through to open the

window. She lifted the bar to inch open the window for some fresh air, when suddenly she choked. “What? What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked urgently, spinning round to face her. Olivia looked quite calm; her nose pulled up. “You’re right. I really need a shower. Ugh! Fifteen hours of sweat makes Livy a skunk.” “You’ll give me a damn heart attack. Now I’ll have to drink the whiskey too,” he jested as his wife kicked off her shoes and loosened her blond locks to fall to her shoulders and back. Jonathan looked at the pamphlets supplied by the hotel, citing all the local attractions. It all came back to him, the vivid reminiscence of the recent experience in the black cab and the slogans bobbing along with the jeers of angry people. “Maybe you should just call Mr. Schafer to tell him why we haven’t shown up?” Olivia called from the bathroom as she turned on the shower. “I was just about to do that,” he replied, thumbing through the leaflets and booklets provided by the hotel. “I wonder if those protestors will come back tomorrow.” Jonathan unbuttoned his shirt and sat down on the bed, picking up the phone. He called the museum and asked for the exhibit’s director, Martin Schafer, and waited on hold for quite a while before a tired tone of voice answered the call. “Schafer. How can I help you?” Martin said evenly. “Oh, uh, Mr. Schafer, this is Jonathan Cooke, your consultant on the Ethiopian texts,” Jonathan started, but the man interrupted him. “Of course! Of course. My apologies for the abrupt manner, but…it has been quite a day,” Martin explained. “And please, call me Martin.” “Thank you,” Jonathan said, “and I totally understand your predicament. In fact, that is why I am calling. You see, my wife and I actually did go to see you earlier, but the front entrance was a bit…”

“Busy?” Martin sighed. “Yeah, we saw the protestors, so we elected to stay in a hotel tonight and try again tomorrow. Is that all right with you?” Jonathan asked politely. He did not have to. As the visiting experts, he and Olivia could do as they pleased and needed no approval, but they were professionals, here in a professional capacity. “Absolutely, Dr. Cooke,” Martin answered quickly. “Better to stay in for the night.” “Jonathan, please,” the linguistics expert cut in charismatically, “and I was wondering if you could tell me what that drama is all about. It was quite unexpected for us to see, so I thought I would ask if there is something my wife and I should know about this exhibit.” He had Martin in a corner. The already exhausted director owed his guests an explanation, so he had to make an effort to fill the Cookes in on the details. If anything, he figured it would spare him all the explanations the following day when they would arrive. Jonathan put the call on speakerphone so that he could add some ice to his drink. “Well, Jonathan, it is a rather sensitive matter best handled by more diplomatic experts, because news of this exhibit seemed to have ignited an old debate whether these treasures should be returned to Ethiopia. It is especially delicate where it concerns the Magdala Crown and the Eucharistic Chalice,” he explained. “I can understand that the crown would be of immense value to these people,” Jonathan said as his wife emerged from the shower, drying her hair. “The Magdala Crown?” she asked softly. Jonathan nodded affirmatively. “You know, that is a splendid crown,” Olivia added nonchalantly, “made of pure gold. It has embossed images of the Apostles and Evangelists carved on it, and it is quite important as a religious vessel.” “That is correct, Dr. Cooke,” Martin answered. “The Eucharist Chalice was also

among the treasures the British looted from Emperor Tewodros II’s palace, especially for the more devoted among these nationals. They revere this artifact as well as iconography related to the church.” “More than the texts?” Jonathan asked, chugging back on the tumbler in his hand. His wife wagged her finger and mouthed I hope you are not getting drunk! but Jonathan shook his head innocently. “You see, by donating such precious objects and generally valuable items to churches, the Emperors of Ethiopia saw themselves as fulfilling an imperial duty. In fact, they were convinced that this would ensure that the clergy would then pray for their souls when they died,” Martin elucidated on the reasons for the protests. “No wonder they are up in arms,” Olivia remarked. “If anything, I imagine they see Britain as thieves of their very culture and with religious cultures, I find such relics are considered almost—holy.” A long pause followed from the other side of the line. At last, a weary sounding Martin changed the subject. “Well, I shall endeavor to get you both here safely tomorrow, then? I will send our curator to pick you up himself first thing in the morning. His name is Wilfred Stevens, and he…I suppose he can fill you in on anything else you need to know,” he told the Cookes. “Great! We look forward to see your exhibit, Martin,” Jonathan said, eyeing the chocolate mint on his pillow. “Oh, and my friends,” Martin quickly added, “may I ask you not to disclose too much about your position here to anyone you don’t know?” “All right,” Jonathan replied with a frown. “It’s just that, well, it would be better that you do not tell anyone what you are involved with. Just a bit of advice,” Martin tried to articulate, but only ended up sounding paranoid.

“Okay, then. Noted,” Jonathan answered in an assenting manner to appease the museum director. “See you tomorrow.” Jonathan ended the call and gawked at Olivia, who had just slipped into her loose jeans and baggy shirt. Her bare feet crossed on the bed; she silently regarded her husband with a likeminded thought he soon voiced. “Odd.” He frowned. “Quite,” she agreed. “I can’t help but feel bothered by that subtle warning. I mean, why is a supposedly casual museum exhibit shrouded in such secrecy?” he asked. “My thoughts exactly,” Olivia replied. “It almost feels like we are about to run into a Bond villain.” “I know, right?” Jonathan snapped his fingers at her. Olivia got up, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and cradled her chin in his neck. With a playful snarl, she suggested something more immediate and a lot more pleasant. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow, honey. I’m famished. I could go for some duck, and these people have room service.” Jonathan smiled and put on his best terrible British accent. “Then get to it, wench! Do you need a bloody phone book?” Olivia laughed with him, but deep in his gullet, Jonathan had lost his appetite.

4

The following day was a typical stereotype for London. Above the antique city center, the dark gray clouds wept and ruptured, shrouding London’s hub in ghostly sheets of rain. It was quite an effort for Jonathan to get Olivia out of bed. “No, five more minutes,” she mumbled as he tried to wake her. One thing about Olivia—she was adorable, logical, smart and laid-back, but God help the person who woke her wrong! Jonathan had learned early on in their relationship that she had to be mollycoddled out of sleep. Anything loud or abrupt instantly had her in attack mode, and then all hell broke loose for the rest of the day. He even once jested that her day’s mood depended solely on how she came into it, and he was right. “Babe, we are going to be late,” he tried, keeping his voice low. “Bullshit. I saw the clock. We still have ample time, even before breakfast,” she retorted in a sleepy rasp that made him smile. He sat back and slapped his knee. “Touché, my darling. Get up. I miss you when you sleep. I’m all alone in the room.” Olivia smiled—a good sign. She eventually turned on her back, pulled her naturally gorgeous face out of the pillow and opened one eye to look at Jonathan. He lifted a small cup and smiled. “See? I made you coffee!” “I thought we were supposed to have tea in London,” she said as she sat up and put her hair up in a ponytail to receive her caffeinated gift. “Probably is coffee-flavored tea,” he laughed as she took the cup and sipped. The rain pelted the windows, and Jonathan had drawn the drapes open just a smidge to assess the amount of waterproofing they would need to dress in for the coming day.

“I wish I could sleep in,” Olivia pouted. “I mean, just look at this weather, perfect for a bit of cuddling while watching movies.” “I know, babe.” He nodded, running his hand through her wayward bangs that coiled along the sides of her face. “But on the upside, I doubt the protestors will be there in this wetness. Then again, I’m sure many of them are native Brits by birth, so you never know.” Olivia finally dragged her slender body out of the warm bed and dashed for a quick shower to wake her up while Jonathan watched the incident from the day before reported on a local television station. There was not much more information on the reason for the protests that he did not already know from speaking to Martin Schafer at the museum. Still, he hoped that he could better probe into the motive behind Martin’s subtle warning the day before. There had to be more to the exhibition than just the odd looted artifact rubbing Ethiopian nationals the wrong way. There had to be something more…sinister…afoot, he reckoned, for them to ask the Cookes’ silence about their involvement. But what? An hour later, after a quick breakfast, they settled in the lobby of the hotel. They shared a maroon velvet couch with ball and claw legs that harkened back to Jonathan’s childhood. His grandmother had a similar design furniture, and he loved the smell of the wood polish. “I’m getting worried. Where is their liaison already?” she sighed. “Don’t worry, honey. Their guy is on the way, apparently. His name is, uh”—he studied his hand-scribbled note he made while speaking to Martin on the phone and read in his bad British accent again—“Wilfred Stevens.” “Ooh, blimey, old Wilfred. I say,” Olivia followed suit, but her accent was a bit more convincing. “What is his capacity there?” “Curator,” Jonathan answered, silently wondering if this Wilfred character was also under the veil of the big secret they were not to speak of. Jonathan Cooke was not an underhanded person, and it vexed him no end that he and Olivia could be involved in something nefarious. Their reputations, as well as their morality, would suffer greatly should this be the case, but for now, Jonathan had to focus on getting to know the museum staff and evaluate the importance of the artifacts and texts they harbored.

Olivia stared into space, zoned out, deep in thought. She was biting her lip, one of her biggest tells that she was gravely concerned about something. “What’s the matter, babe?” he asked. Olivia took a deep breath and sighed, her eyes remaining on the potted plant in front of her. “Mom.” She shrugged. “I can’t help but worry about her, about being so far away from her. She’s there in the States, all alone, while I am gallivanting in England on the other side of the planet.” “Hardly the other side of the planet,” he corrected her softly, but she flashed him a look, and he gestured a retreat from the remark. “You know what I mean,” she said in a ive tone. “I have reason to worry. Been texting Mom several times, and she is not answering me.” Her eyes began to search the floor as her mind ran with the worst-case scenario, and Jonathan knew that he had to nip it in the bud, not only to give his wife emotional solace, but to keep her attention on their task in London as well. “Listen, Liv, I guarantee you that she is fine. If anything was wrong, don’t you think the care people would have called us by now? Maybe she forgot to charge her phone or maybe had some painkillers that had her sleeping longer than usual,” he rambled, trying to think of as many reasons as possible. In truth, he did not like the lack of communication either, but he was not going to feed his wife’s hopefully unfounded anxieties. He saw his purpose as Olivia’s husband as one of protection, in every way. Now he had to protect her heart and her, keeping those incessant apprehensions at bay like a good watchdog. That is what he always imagined himself to be to Olivia—a watchdog, capable of ripping things to shreds if anything tried to hurt her, and ever vigilant. This was one of those times where he had to remind her that he was there for comfort and reassurance. “Hey,” he started, taking her hand in his, “you know I will never let you fall, right?” “I know,” she replied, her green eyes basking deeply in his. A timid smile crawled over her voluptuous lips as she squeezed his hand. “I know, honey. I

knew since I started my fellowship at Yale, since I met you…back in the old days.” Her last few words came with more cheer and whimsical reminiscence. In fact, she almost sang them. “Oh, yes, the old days, back when we were young,” he ed in her jest. Jonathan cast his eyes to the ceiling as he thought back. “It was what, about six years…?” “Five,” she interrupted. “…five years ago, when you, fresh meat, arrived in my neck of the woods,” he mused, gently kneading her hand. “I you had already been there for ages!” she teased. “Ages? I resent that, young lady.” He pouted, making her giggle. “Just a few years in the antiquities department by the time you showed up and rocked my world.” Jonathan winked at her. “Oh my God, yes. Do you how we bonded over our mutual iration for Tezcatlipoca and that Mesoamerican consignment those first few months?” She bobbed as she excitedly recalled, her recent somberness quite absent, to Jonathan’s delight. “I do, I do, but it was the 18 th Dynasty Egyptian studies that convinced me that reincarnation existed.” He smiled, flushing with romance all over again. “How do you mean?” she chuckled. His attractive face fell from silly to serious as Jonathan put his forehead against hers and whispered, “Because when I met you, I knew that queens like Nefertiti never die, they only come back as beautiful blond fellows to steal the hearts of linguistic experts.” He could hear Olivia gasp at hearing this, and her lips grazed his for a short moment that felt like it moved in slow motion. The moment bound them closer

and fortified their relationship while the entire world disappeared around them. Only their heartbeats pulsed between them as they sat hand in hand. So intimate was their conversation that they did not notice the man that had approached them surreptitiously, and when Jonathan looked up, he started somewhat. “Good God!” Jonathan exclaimed, but the smiling man was amused as he reached out his hand. “My apologies for the startling,” he said with a jolly demeanor. “I am Wilfred Stevens, your glorified chauffeur and curator of the British Museum, at your service!” Olivia felt slightly embarrassed at the manner in which the stranger had found them, but the men appeared to be locked in such conversation that she had to abandon her unnecessary blushing as she shook Wilfred’s hand. As her husband engaged the jovial man in small talk about the weather and such, Olivia studied him briefly. He was in his late forties, sporting a suit of very high-end fabrics, and his nails were meticulously groomed. She noticed his expensive wristwatch peek from under cuffs of silk, similar to his tie, and she knew that they were not dealing with some sub-par museum employee. Wilfred Stevens was as wealthy as he was stylish, though his meaty body betrayed his love for good food and the more refined drinks. “Shall we be off, then, Drs. Cooke?” he asked in a boisterous but welcoming voice as he waited for Olivia to before opening the door to the sub-level parking area of the hotel. “Jonathan and Olivia, please.” Olivia smiled. “Quite so. Quite so,” Wilfred replied with a nod. “Please follow me to my jalopy over there.” Jonathan threw back his head and roared with laughter when he saw the curator point to the dark blue S-type Jaguar that shimmered in the light of the parking area. The slick lines glinted along the smoothly polished paint, now dotted with droplets of rain from his journey to the hotel. “Oh, my, what a beauty,” Olivia marveled as Wilfred opened the back enger door for her. With her athletic, slender body, she gracefully climbed in and settled in the white leather seat.

“From one to another, dear.” He winked. “From one to another.”

5

Unlike Waseem and his black cab, Wilfred took a different route to the British Museum. It was a longer trip, but the Cookes had no complaints, sitting in the posh car with climate control from a dashboard that could easily be mistaken for the cockpit of a Boeing to the untrained eye. What a pleasure it was to glide along the wet road, even with the nerve-wracking traffic switches, and Olivia finally felt her excitement for the exhibit returning. Jonathan was sitting in the front enger seat, gawking out the window as Wilfred pointed out old watering holes and good local pubs with the best lunches. It was clear that he was not a fan of foreign influence or the cuisine of different cultures, although he was not overtly critical of these. Wilfred’s name was not the only raw British thing about the man, but his trivial remarks gave away his mild intolerance toward the immigrant English. He asked the Cookes the usual questions about the United States, such as the Native American tribes and their influence on the contents of American museums. Other than that, he mentioned Clint Eastwood and Las Vegas in short quips about his perception of American culture from when he had visited decades ago. “I think it is time you make another trip over to us, Wilfred,” Jonathan chuckled. “Things have changed quite a bit.” “Although Las Vegas is still what it always will be,” Olivia scoffed. “Dry, flashy, and full of charlatans.” “Liv is not a fan of Vegas,” Jonathan told Wilfred under his breath in a joking manner. “I just think it is overdone and debauched. Nobody needs to lose their money and their self-respect in one night,” she babbled, realizing she was getting too riled up about one weekend when she was in college.

“Don’t worry, Olivia,” Wilfred said with a wink. “London has a lot more style, and our palace is an actual palace.” The three laughed as Wilfred drove down a side street of the museum, the one way that Waseem had pointed out the day before. It was away from the main entrance and bent away from the main road, straight into the rear of the museum’s parking garage. It was a secure entrance, almost military in protocol, and the Cookes were very impressed. “Wow, looks like you have all the Aztec gold in there, the way the security is set up here,” Jonathan remarked in awe. “You would be surprised how tight security has to be where we keep these types of relics, Jonathan,” Wilfred boasted, clearing his throat as he navigated the car up one level. “Think about the value, not just in heritage, but in good old monetary , of the items we house here. To tell you the truth, I am surprised that museums aren’t higher on the mark for a lot of robbers. It is absolutely imperative that we guard these priceless treasures with the best security systems available.” “No doubt,” Olivia agreed. As they approached the parking bay, Olivia read the rather fancy sign against the wall that demarcated Wilfred Stevens’ spot. The sign overhead specified that the parking area was strictly for museum employees. Expertly, the jovial curator parked the car in one smooth turn and a gentle halt, clearly well practiced over the years. “Nice,” Jonathan noted. “I bet no unwanted elements can breach this place.” They exited the car and strolled toward the lifts. The odor of mud and motor oil floated through the rainy atmosphere, brought in by the few vehicles already parked there. “Exactly. If there are any protestors out front, we could avoid them. This elevator leads directly from the parking garage to the main floor of the museum, so it neatly byes any external interference,” Wilfred explained as they entered the lift and started upward. “I can’t wait to show you our grand museum and all the interesting trinkets inside. You, especially, will be well entertained by all the fascinating relics from such a vast collection,” he told Olivia.

“Yep, I have been looking forward to this for some time.” She smiled. “I am sure that very collection of antiques is what sparked the latest spate of protests,” Jonathan told Wilfred matter-of-factly, but it seemed to rub the curator the wrong way. His smile disappeared, and his brow furrowed in intolerant vexation. “You know, they get far too much consideration, that bunch,” he grumbled, his face quickly turning from cheery chubby to blushing annoyed. “I mean, after all this time, now they want to whine about their heritage and all? They are a bunch of attention seekers and common troublemakers, if you ask me. They’re definitely not worth the drama. Just ignore them.” The elevator pinged softly, and the doors glided open, practically inaudible. Jonathan and Olivia stepped out with Wilfred on their heels. “Oh my God, it is amazing!” Olivia gasped as they disembarked onto the main floor of the British Museum. “Is this where the Great Court is?” “One floor up, my dear,” the curator answered, his demeanor a tad cooler now. “This is the room we have reserved for the Ethiopian exhibit, since it relates to African artifacts and associated historical items of the African Gallery.” He showed them to the room, but the two fascinated fellows wandered about to look at all the other attractions as well. Wilfred Stevens stood still, amused by the childlike captivation of his guests. The Cookes gawked at the long vast areas that stretched ahead of them, pristine glass cases lining the entire length of the neutral painted walls, containing a plethora of artifacts from a swathe of cultures, some that Jonathan and Olivia had not even any knowledge of. Wilfred glanced at his watch as they ed items such as brass bust sculptures, thrones, tapestries, and wooden masks carved for witchcraft. “Amazing, hey, honey?” Olivia said dreamily, studying the detail on each piece. “Indeed,” Jonathan said, leading her toward the Ethiopian exhibit room. He could see that the curator was trying to move them along, obviously strapped for time. “These items must be so…” she started, but she turned to Wilfred and asked,

“Mr. Stevens, what do you estimate the Ethiopian treasures are worth, ballpark?” Seeing this as an opportunity to brag about the collections under his charge, the curator lolled his head and shrugged. “Well, the solid gold crown alone is worth, oh, millions! I can’t even conceive of the amount calculated should we lug everything in the collection together.” Hyperbole for the sake of ego, right, pal? Jonathan was thinking, but he maintained his esteemed smile. “Really?” Olivia nodded, sparking Wilfred’s pride, and he continued zealously. “Absolutely. And let’s not forget about the rare religious text written in the ancient Ethiopic language…” he added. “Geʽez, or Geez, babe,” Jonathan interrupted just to lay claim to the part that pertained to his expertise, pretending to enlighten his wife, while he ittedly just wanted to show off. “That’s correct,” Wilfred affirmed with a wry smile, clearly competitive in his lecture. “As I was saying, these texts are priceless as well, with some dating back to at least the 4 th Century.” “My, that is so intriguing. Imagine what must have been written down back then, things we people of today might not even have considered,” Olivia marveled as they walked in the great room full of East-African history. “Not to mention,” the curator carried on as they strolled, “that some of these scriptures are of great importance in religious studies, akin even to the Dead Sea Scrolls found in Qumran.” Jonathan and Olivia were properly impressed and very excited to scrutinize their respective items. “Come along, let me show you.” Wilfred smiled. “The museum is not open yet, so with nobody here, I can show you some of the more valuable relics. Come, come,” he said excitedly, leading them to the items he had mentioned before. As they went from item to item, Olivia found herself spellbound by an Ethiopian Bible.

“Look at this, Jonathan,” she almost whispered as if in reverence. “Look at these gorgeous illustrations, the detail.” “That is said to date back to over a thousand years ago,” Wilfred quickly declared. Olivia and Jonathan Cooke felt like kids in a candy store, thoroughly enjoying their impromptu tour of the African rooms. “Oh, before I forget, let me show you,” Wilfred announced much like a circus master under the big top, “the crown of the Ethiopian King!” They turned the corner of the last glass case to where the legendary crown slept, but Wilfred gasped so loudly that he instilled panic in his two guests. “My God! Where is the bloody crown?” he cried, his hand on his chest in shock. His eyes stretched in abject bewilderment as he quickly went behind the case, softly huffing from the sudden unpleasant surprise. He noticed that the display case had been opened. It had not broken or cut. His face dripped with sweat as the frantic search ensued. “I have to find it! By God, it can’t just have vanished! How could this have happened?” “Maybe it was removed to be cleaned?” Olivia took an uneducated guess, if only to sound helpful, but Wilfred Stevens was inconsolable. “No, my dear, no,” he moaned. “It was right here merely moments ago…Oh my God, this can’t be happening!” “Okay, this might sound stupid,” Jonathan intervened, “but let’s just have a look around and see. It couldn’t hurt, right?” “Right,” came the answer from Olivia and Wilfred in unison. For the next few minutes, the three scoured the room—and even the main floor —in hopes to locate the missing golden crown, but to no avail. Dismayed, they had to it that there was no sign of the artifact. Wilfred babbled incoherently under his breath as he paced in front of the display case, his hands positively trembling in panic. Olivia rounded the case to check the lock, but she noticed something the curator must have missed in his initial shock.

“Um, guys, there is a piece of paper, like, from a notebook,” she shared, frowning as she reached to retrieve it. Olivia grabbed the shred of paper and found words hastily scribbled on it. “What does it say?” Wilfred pressed nervously. “Well?” Olivia deciphered the terrible handwriting by narrowing her eyes as she read slowly, “‘You took our crown! But we took it back! Long live the Emperor!’” She showed the note to Jonathan and Wilfred. Upon perusing the missive, the already edgy curator breathed hard, his proverbial tether at its end. His eyebrows furrowed in anger, and he looked up at nothing in particular, his teeth clenched before he exclaimed, “I can’t believe it! They actually took it! Those Ethiopian radicals actually stole the crown!”

6

Olivia and Jonathan had a hard time keeping up with Wilfred as he raced to get to the security office. He was rambling on about the audacity of the protestors, citing how many ways the crown could have been stolen, speculating about the repercussions, and of course, voicing concerns about his appointment as curator now categorically in jeopardy for losing the crown on his watch. “Don’t worry, Wilfred, we will assist in any way we can to help you find this thief,” Jonathan assured him as they entered the service elevator that led to the secluded security offices. “I thank you, Dr. Cooke,” the curator panted. “I am furious about this, and the sooner I get to the bottom of this, the sooner I can recover the artifact. My bloody job is on the line. We lost this crown on my watch, and I will not tolerate that!” Olivia and her husband glanced at one another with a look of genuine concern as they got off the elevator. Wilfred darted ahead into the small corridor, lined with three separate offices. “And you thought this was going to be uneventful.” Jonathan winked at Olivia. “Yeah, but do you really think an item of immense value going missing is a good source of adventure? I would rather have an uneventful time with all the pieces safely stored here, truth be told,” she huffed, trying to keep up with the longer strides of the taller men. “I have a bitter taste in my mouth about this, Jon, and I don’t mind telling you that it bothers me something awful.” “There you go again, my little worrier,” he replied, putting his palm against her back to usher her into the doorway of the office that they’d seen Wilfred practically dive into. “There has to be record of this burglary. I’m sure it will be solved in a blink.” “From your lips,” Wilfred told Jonathan as the Cookes entered the office. “Drs.

Olivia and Jonathan Cooke, meet Nigel Taylor, head of museum security.” Behind him stood a short, bald man with a powerful build. He reminded Jonathan of his uncle who was a brawler in the streets of Detroit in the seventies, wrestling off-circuit for extra money when his motorcycle workshop did not get enough business. Nigel, however, had a steelier stare than Jonathan’s uncle and looked about 50 years old. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, after which Wilfred briskly recounted the unnerving discovery. “Not twenty minutes ago, we walked in here, Nigel. Not twenty minutes ago and all seemed well. No sign of any problems, I tell you,” Wilfred complained. “Calm down, my good man,” Nigel consoled the worried curator. “We’ll have a look see and sort this all out, all right? I’ll run the tapes right now.” “All right,” Wilfred scoffed reluctantly. “But we have to hurry. If this radical is on the run, time is precious here, see. The longer we take, the easier they will get away with the crown.” “I know, I know,” Nigel said. Olivia found it interesting how a man who looked like a pit bull could have such a calm and gentle demeanor. He looked like a skinhead biker to her, but his skin was smooth and his nails clean. “Have a seat, Dr. Cooke,” Nigel offered, getting Olivia a chair. “And you, sir,” he told Jonathan and grabbed another from outside the office in the hallway. The Cookes sat down in the security office and elected to help examine the footage Wilfred requested. “I’m running everything from last night closing time to this morning,” Nigel announced as he punched in his code to access the material. His stubby fingers were remarkably agile as he typed in the relevant timestamps, and Wilfred virtually jogged in place while the footage playback loaded. “Please sit down, Mr. Stevens,” Nigel suggested. “Take a breather while we check this, all right?” For a change, Wilfred Stevens obliged, keeping quiet and taking advice. He plopped down on the empty work desk to the right of Nigel’s elaborate

dashboard of monitors and keyboards. For about twenty minutes of fast forwarding to scan any discrepancies on the Africa floor, they all found the material quite monotonous. Not much happened at all, just the occasional patrols of remaining security guards that disturbed the monotony. Apart from the guards, the entire building had been empty as Nigel drew up the various sectors of the museum. “Looks on point,” Nigel muttered as he leaned forward to watch the footage on the monitor. “Should be coming up on shift change now, so there will be a lot of movement. Pay attention, folks.” The monitors presented the switch between shifts of the on-duty security guards. The Cookes, Nigel, and Wilfred all paid special attention to any irregularities, but everything looked legitimate. The glare of the screens illuminated the faces of the four viewers as they drew closer to see better. Under the ceiling light, they huddled to find the culprit as the seemingly endlessly static view persisted. A few minutes of this ed, and both Oliva and Jonathan hoped to see something soon because as visitors it was rather boring to view these playbacks. Suddenly, Nigel perked up. On the monitor he was checking, there was something unusual. “Look, look!” He nudged Wilfred, who immediately moved up next to the head of security and anxiously studied the lone figure in black that had entered the frame, rapidly exiting one of the restrooms on the main floor. They all scooted together to watch him, trying to find any identifying traits to mark. “Just as the shift switch happened. See?” Wilfred exclaimed excitedly, properly wound up. “They think they’re bloody clever, don’t they?” They all watched the shape. He sported black gloves with a black ski mask covering his face, and he moved swiftly to where the display case held the golden crown. The intruder pulled out a key and unlocked the case. Nigel’s mouth was agape as he watched this. He looked at Wilfred and noted, “He has a bloody key? Did you see that?” Stunned, Wilfred stared at the screen for a long moment, trying to mull it all around in his mind. It was inconceivable to him. Unless… “Only museum staff have keys, Nigel,” Wilfred suddenly remarked, looking

decidedly frustrated and bewildered. “That has to be a museum employee!” They watched the crook snatch the crown and drop it into a black velvet bag he pulled from the back of his pants. Briskly, he placed the handwritten note on the inside of the hinge before he shut the glass case without locking it again. “Bastard,” Wilfred scoffed. The black figure disappeared from the frame, and seconds later, he emerged on the same monitor that had initially captured his exit from the restroom. Once again, he slipped into the restroom and vanished from sight. At this, they all exchanged glances, sitting back in their chairs with a collective sigh. “Nigel,” Wilfred asked, “can you run through it one more time, please? I have… I have to make sure; you understand.” “Of course, Mr. Stevens.” Nigel complied, expertly flicking his fingers over the controls to set the footage at the beginning. They paid special attention, but ultimately, those few frames at the 4 am timestamp were the only visual of their perpetrator. “Shit,” Wilfred whispered, lightly slapping the surface of the desk with his left palm. “You all saw that, right? He had a key.” “Had to have known what the crown was worth,” Nigel added. Olivia shook her head. “It is clear that this is someone who knows the museum, knows the positions of the cameras and when the shift changes,” she said as the others nodded in agreement. “Bloody inside job, I say,” Wilfred huffed. “Look, the only people inside the building at that time were security guards, right?” “Right,” Nigel affirmed. “So I need you to give me a fix on where each of these guards were at the time of the theft,” Wilfred instructed Nigel. “That would for their whereabouts, and then we’ll see if our perp is indeed one of our guards or not.”

“Good man!” Nigel replied. “Let me have a look here. I know them all, so it should be easy to check who was where when this happened. Hang on, boss.” Nigel proceeded to sift through the various security cameras, flicking from post to post as he mumbled, “Jason. Liam. Ah, there we have Rahul and Gina… and…okay, Len…Rashid.” “irable that Mr. Taylor knows his people by name,” Jonathan told Wilfred as the head of security muttered names to himself. “Absolutely. He hires everyone himself. No agencies or third-party companies. That way, we know who we pay, you know,” Wilfred explained. “That’s a good rule of thumb,” Olivia agreed. “Ah! I think I know who is absent from our footage!” Nigel exclaimed suddenly. “I managed to identify every guard on my roster save for one—Tesfaye Ghebreyesus.” “One of your security guards?” Wilfred made sure. “Aye,” Nigel said. “Interviewed him meself a while back.” Wilfred took a deep breath, inflating his gut through his blazer as he shook his head slowly. Of course, he recognized the Ethiopian name, and without reservation, he allowed his prejudice to take over again. With a scoff, he exclaimed, “Oh—Tesfaye, is it? Ladies and gentlemen—I think we have found our thief!”

7

“What do you think, honey?” Olivia whispered as she leaned over to her husband. “You think he did it? It is too easy, don’t you think?” Jonathan shrugged and answered under his breath. “I don’t know, babe. Could be a frame job. I mean, if this guy was on the roster, he should have known that they would have checked his duty times. Then again,” he sighed, “some criminals are thicker than pig shit.” The Cookes watched Wilfred and Nigel exchange opinions in a hasty debate until they came to the point of agreeing that Tesfaye might be their man. “Let me have a look,” Nigel said, reaching over to his clipboard. He thumbed through the time sheets and checked on his Excel sheet of the work schedule to see when their suspect would be on duty again. “Do you think he will actually come back to his job if he has a priceless golden crown in his possession? Poppycock!” Wilfred rambled in frustration that refused to abate long enough for him to think straight. Nigel held up his hands to calm his colleague. “Mr. Stevens, listen, I don’t think he would want to rock the boat until he can fence the artifact, and until then, he would obviously keep things as normal as possible.” “That’s what I think too.” Jonathan nodded. Wilfred looked at the visitor. He respected Jonathan as a judge of character, even though he had only known the Cookes personally for a short while. He had, after all, studied many of Olivia and Jonathan’s respective and collaborative papers, and he knew that they were very astute people. “Okay, Mr. Stevens, my work schedule sheet says that Tesfaye should be back tonight. He is working nightshift tonight, so when he comes in, we can question him,” Nigel informed the curator, but the man was adamant and irate.

“I want to question him now, Nigel, now!” Wilfred seethed, slamming his fist on the desk. “But he is likely fast asleep right now,” Nigel retorted with a scowl, his hands at his sides. “Can’t very well expect him to be up and kicking at this hour. These people work all night.” “I don’t give a shite if he is likely asleep right now. I tell you what he is probably doing right now. He is probably polishing a valuable crown right now, waiting for his lift back to Africa, that’s what!” Wilfred ranted, obviously worried that the long-time lapse would facilitate the thief’s escape and make it more unlikely to track down the crown. “Wilfred,” Nigel attempted to reason, but the curator interrupted him again. “I want him down here right now! Right now!” Wilfred exclaimed, his chubby face red in his furiousness. “Geez, all right! All right, I’ll give him a ring and bring him in. My God, just take a breather, Mr. Stevens. We don’t need you having a stroke in my office as well!” Nigel surrendered. It was clear to the Cookes that Nigel, an ex-cop, was summoning all of his prior training and most of his waning patience to keep his cool with the willful curator. He pulled the employee file of the security guard, looked up his number, and punched it in. Nigel pressed the speaker button to make sure that his conversation with the suspect was witnessed. Eager to see whether the guard had fled London or not, the Cookes leaned forward in anticipation as the phone rang for quite a while. At the fifth ring, Wilfred pursed his lips and clasped his hands together. “I told you so, son,” he whispered to the head of museum security. “He is long gone.” “Hel—lo, hello?” a groggy Tesfaye answered the call. Nigel gloated in silence as he pinned Wilfred with an I told you so look. “Tesfaye?” Nigel asked. “Is that you?”

“Mr. Stevens?” the guard asked, sounding completely incoherent. “Tesfaye, I need you to come down to the museum immediately,” Nigel informed him, trying to sound as cordial as possible. “Um, excuse me, sir? Wha—what is this about?” he groaned on the other side of the line. “Tesfaye, last night, when you were on duty, one of the Africa rooms was breached, and someone stole the Ethiopian crown,” Nigel elucidated. “What?” Tesfaye exclaimed, a little more cogent. “They stole the crown? But how, sir?” Nigel, unlike Wilfred, wished to avoid an adversarial or accusatory tone. He tactfully explained, “Listen, Tesfaye, could you possibly come down to the museum now, please? We just need to ask you a few questions pertaining to the incident, you know, since you were one of the guards on duty.” “Right now, sir?” Tesfaye asked. “Would be good. If you could?” Nigel coaxed. “No, no, I understand, Mr. Stevens. Give me a few minutes. I have to catch the Tube, as you know,” he said, “and I’ll report to your office as soon as I get there.” “Thank you, Tesfaye. We’ll see you then,” Nigel replied and ended the call. “He should be here shortly, Mr. Stevens, all right?” Wilfred whinnied like a horse, uttering not a word but looking both frustrated about the incident and relieved that the guard was on his way and not hours ahead on some ferry to or something. “See?” Olivia nudged Jonathan. “Wait, nothing is conclusive yet,” he told her. “Want to wager on the outcome?” “Pish,” Olivia scoffed playfully. “And risk you losing again?”

Their private banter was interrupted by the mounting argument between the two museum officials. Wilfred could not let the matter rest long enough to hear Tesfaye’s side of the story, if he had one. Instead, he wanted to do something more proactive. “I say we call the police right now. If we call them immediately they could be here to arrest him on the spot when he shows up,” Wilfred rambled resolutely, folding his arms across his chest. “Or at least, you know, have them here if anything goes awry.” Nigel was done being compliant, and he finally snapped at the curator and his hasty plans to jump the gun. “Now you listen here, Mr. Stevens.” He raised his voice, silencing his pompous colleague instantly with his Scouse rasp. “I appreciate your position on this matter, and I do understand that you are responsible for the stolen item, but I have to impress on you that I know this man personally. You do not. I will go as far as to say that I believe him to be innocent until proven otherwise.” “Of course, you do, bec—” the curator started again, but the head of security spoke over him and again urged him to listen. “And, unlike you, I know firsthand that Tesfaye has been a model employee and he has not once, ever, caused any problems. In fact, he has never been absent, and he is always on time for work. Nothing about this man arouses any suspicion in me, and until you catch him red-handed with the golden crown in his hand, I will believe him to be innocent.” “That is your prerogative, Nigel,” Wilfred replied, “but do not think for one moment that your unshakable trust in him will at all alter my opinion. In fact, this perfect record of his is almost too calculated, and I will make sure that he does not fool anyone else once he walks through that door.” Jonathan and Olivia were quiet, but they formed their own opinions on the issue. As always, they worked as a team and they were used to solving problems together, even when they disagreed on the factors. They imagined that this matter, too, would need some casual dialogue in order to ascertain the solid facts and chisel away at speculative suspicion.

8

Jonathan escorted his wife to the canteen. With the recent protests and the sudden development in the previous night’s theft, the museum would not exactly be teeming with tourists or schoolchildren. It was quite vacant while the curator kept it off-limits, not to mention the pouring weather outside making for a drab day for cultural cultivation, even for those who may have wanted to visit. The Cookes loved the rainy day, bar the awful business with the stolen crown, and they carefully read the signs fixed to the wall to direct them to the cozy staff canteen while the security office awaited Tesfaye’s arrival. “Hey, we are doing well finding our way without a guide,” Jonathan bragged as they walked down the long, carpeted hallway that led to the glass doors of the quaint cafeteria. The beautiful Dr. Cooke flicked her hair back and tied it in a tight ponytail as she sighed, “I need a heavy one. I hope they have espresso. This tea business really is not my…” “Cup of tea?” Jonathan asked dryly, trying not to laugh at his own joke. Olivia frowned and nudged her silly husband, successfully holding back her smile. She did not want to encourage his boyish jests, not before she had at least had two more cups of java. “Here we go!” she exclaimed as they entered the small eatery. A lone staff member stared at them from the door of the kitchen. She was a plump middle-aged hen with an adorable bun on her head and a look of cynicism playing on her face. “Sorry, love,” she told the pair as they approached, “we are closed today, it would appear.”

“Oh, God, no. Please tell me that you at least have some caffeine on tap,” Olivia practically whined like a begging child. The woman looked them up and down, lolling her head sideways in a quizzical manner. “Oi, how did you lot get in here? Place is on lockdown.” She frowned. Her tone was one of confusion rather than reprimand. “Yeah, we know,” Jonathan said. “We are here as consultants, working on the Ethiopia exhibition. You can check with Mr. Stevens or Nigel Taylor.” “Americans,” she simply said, not revealing any form of opinion to go with her casual observation. Suddenly she gasped, “Oh! You’re the Cookes! Mr. Schafer said something to that effect to Mr. Stevens over tea the other day.” “Yep, that’s us!” Jonathan smiled. “And we would so appreciate a strong cup of coffee, if you could, please?” Olivia pressed again, putting on her best smile with her cutest expression to impress the woman. The older lady with the bulging eyes and double chin looked at the pretty blond academic for a long while, raising her eyebrow. Her eyes darted past the two visitors as if she was checking the door and then a wide smile cracked across her mouth. “I think I can do that, love,” she told Olivia. “After all, no use coming in for work for nothing.” She turned to the coffee machine and filled the jug, mumbling, “Getting up at bloody six o’clock to travel on the Tube for an hour and fifteen minutes, walking from Russel Square in the bloody rain and all that to hear, ‘We’re closed, Marla, we’re closed today’ like I’m their fool.” In the clanking of vigorous coffee making, the Cookes looked at one another in amusement and tried not to laugh in front of poor Marla, but they also understood her frustration. They too, felt the disappointment of showing up to work with the exhibition only to be stranded here, doing nothing after all. “We mustn’t take too long. I want to be in Nigel’s office when the guard comes, babe,” Jonathan said as they waited. Olivia just nodded in agreement, breathing

deeply while hanging her head back, eyes closed. “Liv,” he reiterated. “I heard you the first time,” she groaned happily and inhaled through her nose. “Just let me breathe in the coffee smell, would ya?” Jonathan chuckled. “Okay, babe.” Marla poured the coffee and served it in Styrofoam cups on the counter. “How much?” Jonathan asked her, but the friendly hen just winked and said, “On the house, Dr. Cooke.” “Bless you, Marla!” Olivia growled softly as she seized her cup. “I’ll definitely see you again.” Marla and Jonathan laughed as Olivia drank her coffee, looking decidedly ecstatic. “And it’s so nice and warm, perfect for this weather,” she remarked as Jonathan sipped his. They finished their hot beverages as they walked, making sure that they did not traverse any of the display rooms while drinking. It was one of the golden rules not to have snacks or drinks near the exhibits, for obvious reasons. They had very little to say as they made their way back to Nigel Taylor’s office, but both of them felt the friction mount as they approached it. The root of that friction was the new, unpleasant demeanor of the curator and his unreasonable arrogance. “There you are,” Wilfred remarked as they entered the security office. “Just had to get some coffee,” Olivia said. “Is he here yet?” Jonathan asked. Nigel’s transceiver suddenly crackled to life, and a loud voice came over the speaker, making them all jump from the unexpected loudness.

“Mr. Stevens, this is Halifax down at the parking area check. Tesfaye Ghebreyesus is here to see you, sir,” the voice said. “Over.” “Yes, I am waiting for him, thanks Halifax,” Nigel affirmed. “Over and out.” Barely a few minutes ed when a soft, almost careful knock beckoned at Nigel’s office door. “Here he is,” Wilfred jumped up, sneering. “Please sit down, Mr. Stevens. He is my employee, and I will question him. Are we clear?” Nigel asserted professionally, to which the curator just sat down and scoffed. “Good morning, Tesfaye. Thanks for coming in,” Nigel said as the tall, thin Ethiopian man walked in, dressed in sweats and sneakers with a beanie on his head. Immediately, he looked concerned at the countenance of the curator sitting in the corner. Tesfaye glanced at the two strangers and nodded politely, taking off his knitted hat and holding it between his hands. “Oh, this is Dr. Jonathan Cooke and his wife, Olivia. They are here to examine the Ethiopian collection, and they will be sitting in on this meeting, if that is okay?” Nigel explained. It did not matter if the guard approved of the Cookes’ being there, but the security chief believed in propriety. “Nice to meet you,” Tesfaye told the Cookes with a mere nod, and he sat down where Nigel showed him to a chair. “Now, you know why I called you in, right?” Nigel started. “I just need some information, since you were one of the people on duty when this happened, you see.” Tesfaye nodded, specifically ignoring the leering Wilfred Stevens. “All right, so the footage we watched at the time of the theft shows that you were not at your post, Tesfaye,” Nigel informed him. “Now I’m sure you understand why I am asking you this. Where were you at 4:04 am this morning, during your shift?” Tesfaye looked nervous, but not malicious. He swallowed hard and shrugged. “I

just wanted to get some fresh air, sir.” “Oh, for fuc—” Wilfred groaned. “Thank you, Mr. Stevens,” Nigel interrupted him. “I’ll wait for Mr. Ghebreyesus to fill us in on why he would need fresh air.” Nigel was playing with his finger on the frozen security footage of the camera that oversaw Tesfaye’s post on the Third Floor, and it drew the guard’s attention as he tried to find an excuse. “I was tired, sir. So I got some fresh air to wake up properly, you know,” he tried again. “Coffee helps,” Nigel remarked. “Nothing like stealing a priceless artifact to get that adrenaline pumping, I say. That shit will keep you wide awake,” Wilfred mumbled. Nigel knew his interrogation would get nowhere without a little proof. With a deep sigh, he looked at the anxious security guard for a moment, and, seeing no inkling of a change of heart, he said, “All right, Tesfaye, I want you to have a look at the footage we have here.” He ran the material captured over Tesfaye’s post, showing no sign of him. Nigel accelerated the playback to run the timestamps and the young guard grew exceedingly nervous as the minutes ran. “There!” Nigel said at once. “Right there, you come back into frame. Look at that. That is, what, about 35 minutes, give or take, that you are absent from your post. So let’s cut the bullshit and tell me where you were during this time.” Silence. Wilfred’s eyes narrowed, and he practically smiled as trickles of sweat meandered down Tesfaye’s face, his fingers madly fumbling at his beanie. Tesfaye’s head was bowed, and he stared to the ground while the silence in the room grew thicker. Above them, the fluorescent lights hummed loudly from the quiet atmosphere while everybody waited for him to answer.

Finally, Nigel turned up the heat under his security guard. “Well, looks like we have our thief, then.” He did not believe the young man to be guilty, but he had to force him to talk. It worked splendidly. “No, no, sir! I did nothing of the sort! I—I j-just did not want to l-look bad, but I swear, Mr. Stevens, I had nothing to do with the theft!” he rambled desperately. “Then where the hell were you, Ghebreyesus?” Wilfred hissed loudly. Tesfaye looked at him with a tinge of embarrassment and then looked at Nigel apologetically. “I have been”—he hesitated—“taking n-naps…sir…in my car, sir. Short intervals, I swear. That is where I was during that time.” Olivia and Jonathan gasped at the unusual alibi, and they saw Wilfred throw his hands up in the air, rolling his eyes in absolute disbelief. “I know how it sounds, sir, and I know that what I did was very wrong, but I am just so tired during my shifts because of my studies at school in the afternoon, Mr. Stevens. I am not lying to you. I was napping during my shift and I know that is not right,” Tesfaye groveled. “What school? What studies?” Wilfred asked, more to ridicule him than out of any interest. “I am taking part-time classes in a course at UCL, sir. My classes are in the afternoon, so by the time I start night shift, I am very tired,” Tesfaye finally itted, putting Wilfred’s foot squarely in his mouth. “Oh, what do you study?” Olivia asked out of turn. “The Institute of Archaeology is offering undergraduate programs, madam. I am enrolled there, an archaeology major,” he answered, delighted and relieved to be addressed politely, exactly what Olivia intended. She wished to comfort the clearly distraught guard and ease him up a little, but fund herself surprised at his choice of course, similar to hers. “You don’t say! That is my area of expertise.” She smiled excitedly. “I am

impressed. Well done, you!” As she commended the guard on his academic endeavors, she noticed a steely cold glare coming from Wilfred, so she elected to cut the budding conversation short. In truth, it was the most exciting conversation of the day for her thus far, apart from watching the footage of the crime, of course, but she realized that this was not the time. Like Olivia, Nigel also considered Tesfaye as more of a witness than a suspect at this point. Yes, it took him some prying to get the young man to tell the truth, but that hardly made him a criminal. “Okay, listen, Tesfaye, did you see anything suspicious at all this morning during your shift?” Nigel asked. Tesfaye did not take long to answer. He started with a slow response. “Nothing unusual at all, sir. Not on the Third Floor,” he reported, but suddenly his face lit up as he recalled something else. “But, but, there was something strange when I was napping in the car, though. In the parking garage, something unusual happened. Ripped me clean out of my nap.” “Oh? And what ripped you out of your unauthorized sleep, then?” Wilfred asked, deliberately accentuating the likeable guard’s transgression. “Was it perhaps some sort of crime being committed which you are paid to avoid during your shift?” Olivia and Jonathan looked at the sarcastic but clearly furious curator. “I woke up from this loud noise of screeching tires, sir,” Tesfaye reported. “Just as I sat up, I got to see a green Mini Cooper peeling out of the parking garage very loudly, sir, right out the open gate of the staff entrance. I that car because I have never seen it parked here before while on shift. Also, it has a ripped-off sticker of Arsenal FC on the bumper and I found it funny, because I hate them too.” Olivia frowned at Jonathan. “Soccer,” he whispered in answer, and she nodded for the enlightenment. Jonathan glanced momentarily to Wilfred and noticed a fleeting look of surprise (and a tinge of familiarity) on his face.

“Football, actually, not soccer.” Nigel winked at Olivia with a quick correction on Jonathan. He turned to face Tesfaye again and repeated, “It was in the staff parkings? And you had never seen this car before?” “No, sir,” Tesfaye agreed. Nigel noted this on his notepad and said, while writing, “Listen, we still have a lot of questions about what happened on this morning’s shift, Tesfaye, so we might have to call you back later.” “It’s okay, sir. I work tonight again,” Tesfaye quickly replied. “Oh, yes…about that,” Nigel sighed. “Look, I hate to have to do this, son, but due to your negligence on the job, I am going to have to terminate your employment with the museum. I’m sure you can appreciate our position on this matter. This is very serious.” Devastated, the young man sat in silent shock for a moment, but he nodded slowly as he stood up and shook Nigel’s hand. “I understand, Mr. Stevens,” he said in a wavering voice that broke Olivia’s heart, and with that, he left the room. Wilfred perked up, looking exasperated at the guard’s dismissal, free of any charges laid. “Where the hell is he going? Are you just going to let him march right out of here like that, Nigel?” he blathered angrily. “May I remind you that we have no concrete evidence that he was involved? I would look like a proper arse trying to have someone arrested without evidence, so all I can do at this point is to take down his testimony and keep the museum staff posted, Wilfred,” Nigel clarified. “That is true,” Jonathan agreed with Nigel. “Until you have his face on that camera screen, holding the crown in his hands, you’ve got nothing.” He shrugged as Nigel nodded, but Wilfred rose from his seat and straightened up his tweed blazer. Defiantly, he sneered at Nigel, “Well—we’ll just see what Martin Schafer thinks about this.”

Olivia and Jonathan could feel the tension in the office, thick enough to slow down a smoking arrow. Wilfred pursed his lips in vexation, folding his arms. Nigel stared him down as if he were daring him, so Jonathan decided to cut through the awkwardness of the moment with something casual. He slapped his hands on his knees as he rose from his chair. “Well, I suppose Olivia and I should get back to the exhibit. I mean, we are not here on holiday.” Wilfred shook his head and grumbled, “No, I’m sorry, but until we get to the bottom of this or at least make some progress in the protocols, there will be no exhibit. That’s that.”

9

The Cookes decided to return to the hotel, since there was nothing they could do at the museum. As they left the elevator on the ground floor, they shared their disappointment in how the matter was ultimately handled. “Wilfred is not going to let this rest, I promise you that,” Jonathan said in a low tone, just in case the cameras had sound, so to speak. “My God, you should have seen his face when Tesfaye talked about the car he saw speeding off.” “Everything Tesfaye said pissed him off about that interview,” Olivia remarked. “I can only see him pacing around in Martin Schafer’s office right now, demanding the guy’s arrest, looking like a total fool. Talk about prejudice!” “Yeah, he sure is vindictive. I bet he is going to make trouble,” Jonathan replied. They exited the first set of doors, and a waft of cold London air came through the main doors like a brush of death that chilled Olivia to the bone. She caught her breath and grabbed her husband’s arm. “Suggestion?” she said. “Can we please take a cab?” “No, dear, it is such a lovely day. We really should walk to the hotel,” he teased her. “Just for that, you are paying.” She smiled. From the shelter of the lobby, they called a taxi and waited just inside the main doors. “I can’t believe how nasty Wilfred was,” she dwelled on the curator’s behavior. “He was so nice this morning.” “Stress and the fear of losing a good reputation, I guess. Imagine the hell that will come down on management if they can’t find this relic. However, I am not excusing his behavior. Man was a damn boar, especially the way in which he

spoke to the guard,” Jonathan said, seeing the black cab arrive at the foot of the main steps. “I hope it is Waseem again,” Olivia exclaimed. “Honey, I think Waseem is one of hundreds of these guys driving in London. It would be a fair bout of chance if it is him,” her husband noted. It was not Waseem. This cabby kept his mouth shut and the music off as they traveled back to the hotel while the rain was pattering madly at the windows. It was really coming down now, and Olivia strained to see through the white-gray sheets. To her poetic sense, it felt as if they were flying through clouds—just white oblivion— and she could not wait to get back in the hot shower at the hotel. Oh, and another hot cup of coffee. After they had returned from the museum and had some room service lunch, the Cookes plopped down on the bed and watched a mundane movie with more drama than action. “My God, this is boring. If they don’t kill somebody soon, I’m falling asleep… like Tesfaye in his car,” he jested with a chuckle. Olivia scoffed and burst out laughing. “Poor guy, don’t make fun of him, Jon,” she giggled. “But that was a good one, right?” he insisted. “This movie just drags on, and I’m more of an action thriller man.” “At least this is in English,” she remarked, sucking on a strawberry. “ Montenegro? I was dying to watch Tomb Raider, and it was all dubbed.” Jonathan roared with laughter. “Yeah, and when we turned on subtitles, it was all in Cyrillic script, ?” “Wow, that was ages ago.” She smiled, curling up against her husband. “I’m gonna look for something else, okay? I’m bored shitless,” he sighed. “Maybe sports?”

“Cool, but no soccer! Please, I hate soccer,” she said. Jonathan imitated Nigel’s accent quite accurately this time and put on a whiny mocking voice. “Football, luv, not soccer. Oh geez, just don’t call it soccer!” As they laughed, Jonathan flicked through the channels to find something less lackluster while Olivia reached for her small sherry on the bedside table. “I still can’t believe they just shut down the whole place like that,” she whined. “Yep, the British Museum sure is paying us a lot of money to just sloth it up and watch bad television in a hotel.” Jonathan oozed with sarcasm. Jonathan scanned the channels as they flicked by, but suddenly something caught his attention. It was a BBC broadcast. There, on the screen, a reporter was standing in front of the British Museum. “Hey, look!” he cried excitedly. “It’s the museum on a live report!” “What now?” Olivia moaned. “Hasn’t there been enough crap to disrupt our work here?” “Wait, wait,” he hushed her. “Let’s hear this.” “This is Samantha Patel coming to you live from the British Museum, where this morning, a daring burglary robbed the museum of one of its most prized artifacts, the golden crown of Emperor Tewodros II of Ethiopia,” the reporter said. “Nothing else was taken, but museum officials believe that the heist could have been a deliberate act of sabotage in light of recent protests, urging for the museum to return Ethiopia’s artifacts to their rightful home in Africa.” A picture of the crown appeared on the screen, followed by a montage of pictures of the country and some of Theodore II to flesh out the report. “They are trying to get the word out in case someone tries to fence it, I guess,” Olivia remarked, but the reporter carried on, flipping the purpose of the broadcast to something other than the artifact. “Although no suspects have as yet been apprehended, authorities believe that a former security officer at the British Museum, Tesfaye Ghebreyesus, may have

had a hand in the orchestration of the theft.” The screen yielded a picture of Tesfaye, a rather unflattering identification image for the staff files that made him look like a common criminal. “Ghebreyesus, recently terminated by the museum for misconduct, is an Ethiopian national and may have ties to several of the protest groups involved in recent marches at the museum, but we do not have sufficient information on the status of the investigation as yet.” “Oh my God!” Jonathan gasped. “Are you hearing this?” Olivia sat staring at the screen in a frozen expression of horror and exasperation, her mouth wide open in bewilderment as she listened to the twisted media report. “They are making it look as if he was terminated before the theft, just to make him look like a crook, like it is some sort of revenge against the British Museum! Sons of bitches,” Jonathan continued, completely stumped by the audacity of the museum management. “I bet I know who is behind this little spinning lie,” Olivia hissed. “I thought he was a prick before, but now I know he is an asshole of the highest degree! I can’t believe he would stoop this low, can you?” Jonathan shook his head, dumbstruck by the false implications. “Talk about being tried in the courts of public opinion,” he muttered. “They just assume he is already the number one suspect. I mean, shouldn’t she try to hear his side of the story before just spewing this shit on global television?” “Imagine the political repercussions,” Olivia mused. “This will cause division between the people, no doubt. They are making it look like a hostile act. This is why I hate television.” Suddenly, a loud ring startled the Cookes. The phone on the bedside stand was ringing in sharp bouts. “Really?” Jonathan said rather amusedly. “I did not even know there were still landlines that functioned anymore!”

Olivia picked it up with a playful “Cooke residence. Who is calling, please?” Her husband smiled at his pretty wife’s whimsical way, but he soon watched her smile vanish and her eyes widen at once. Jonathan sat up and mouthed, Who is it? “Oh, hello, Tesfaye,” she said, staring at Jonathan. “Speak of the devil,” Jonathan mumbled in amazement. His mouth agape, Jonathan leaned in to listen in on the conversation on the other side of the receiver. “Dr. Cooke, I am so sorry to bother you,” Tesfaye said, sounding upset, “but I could really use your help.” “Of course, what can we do for you?” She frowned. “People think I stole the crown, Dr. Cooke, and I did no such thing,” he pleaded. “We believe you,” Jonathan chipped in. “How did you find us?” “Marla at the cafeteria told me where you were staying, so I asked for your number at the hotel lobby. Luckily it was before the television spread these lies about me,” he explained. “I think they are framing me for the theft, madam, and nobody wants to talk to me now. Nobody wants to help me prove my innocence.” “Who is framing you?” Olivia urged. “I think I know who it is, Dr. Cooke, but I—I need help to prove it,” Tesfaye insisted. “I need help, and you are the only people who might do that.” “Of course, Tesfaye. What do you need us to do to help?” Jonathan asked, pushing his cheek tightly against Olivia’s. “Dr. Cooke, I don’t think I must explain this on the phone. Could you perhaps meet me somewhere and we can discuss this all-in person?” Tesfaye suggested. “Okay, where?” Olivia asked, motioning for Jonathan to bring her the stationery

note pad and pen on the desk. “Abyssinia,” he replied. “I would love to help, Tesfaye, but that is a bit far to travel,” Jonathan mumbled in the background. Olivia’s mouth hung open at her husband’s silliness and she shook her head at his terrible timing. “This is hardly the time to crack dad jokes,” he sneered at him, her palm covering the speaker piece. He only shrugged with a boyish smirk as he briskly pulled his pants on. “What?” Tesfaye instructed them to meet him at the Ethiopian restaurant off the B510 south of the police station in West Hampstead, and Olivia jotted it all down. “Okay, Tesfaye, we’ll see you there in an hour,” Olivia confirmed and ended the call so that she could wallop Jonathan for his insensitive remark. “The man is practically a fugitive with the world on his shoulders. Just lost his job and probably going to have to abandon his studies and you make stupid jokes.” “I know, I’m sorry, babe,” he apologized. “It was just so…perfect…in that moment…” “Oh my God, you are hopeless!” she groaned as she closed the bathroom door to get her makeup redone. Although Jonathan was squarely behind the young Ethiopian man, he could not dampen his mental points of view from when he was an army reservist back in his college days. He had no serious military training as such, but he could not help but play devil’s advocate with every matter at hand. As he got dressed and tied his shoes, he could not help but wonder. What if Tesfaye really is involved in the heist? What if he is playing the victim and this meeting is a trap? Worst case, what if this meeting is a way to abduct Liv and myself to get back at the media accusations or retaliate against the British Museum in some primitive juvenile way? Jonathan speculated, playing both sides of the whole affair.

The bottom line was that the Cookes had to investigate, but they needed to be prepared for unfortunate eventualities, nonetheless. With that in mind, Jonathan packed his Colt Anaconda and a mentality of one eye open.

10

“I never thought we would spend more time taking cabs than we would examining artifacts and texts while in London,” Olivia mentioned as the Cookes once more climbed into a black cab. “Just consider it a regular night out to try new cuisine. We may as well do the tourist thing while we wait to do the expert thing.” Jonathan winked, sliding his fingers through his wife’s. This time, their cabby was a chubby, rosy-cheeked Cockney. He was middleaged and very jolly, but not overly talkative. His radio serenaded his engers with Kenny G on low volume as he rounded the car after closing Olivia’s door like a proper chauffeur. “Now, where are we going, guv?” he asked Jonathan. “Um, Abyssinia, please,” Jonathan started, but the cabby gave a hearty laugh. “A little far, that, but if you have enough for the fare…” he laughed. “Ha!” Jonathan roared, nudging Olivia in a suave move. “See? I’m not the only one!” “I’m delighted for you, darling,” his wife said smoothly, determined not to let her budding smile show. “Now grow up and get us to the restaurant, will ya?” “The lady has spoken,” the cab driver said with a smile and put on his turn signal. Olivia would never let her husband know this, but his silly, juvenile quips entertained her no end. It was, after all, her job as the woman to chastise him for his stupid jests, but it was actually one of the things she found most endearing about her husband. He was adventurous and game for anything, and she loved that about him.

Nothing was ever too much trouble for Jonathan Cooke, and he had a heart of gold, even though she had seen him in the throes of rage and danger. It was hard to believe such a goofy guy could suddenly become an academic tour de force with close combat skills that could whip the best of the SAS here in England. This versatility and knowledge of Jonathan made him even more attractive. The rain had subsided, but it was still quite cold. It was early evening, and the myriad of lights everywhere made the place seem magical. Olivia wondered what Tesfaye would be telling them, but she also noticed the familiar bulge under Jonathan’s jacket, and she knew that he shared in her mild apprehension about the true purpose of tonight’s meeting. When they finally arrived at Abyssinia, the place was a far cry from the eateries in the United States, even most restaurants in London. However, it had a wonderfully modest atmosphere that made customers feel as if they had been transported to Ethiopia. The music was modern tribal, filling the restaurant with beats while the two visitors entered. “Ooh, smell that! It smells like Morocco,” Olivia said dreamily as they took a table in the corner. A chubby woman with a bright headscarf and huge hoop earrings came over, holding menus in her hand. “Good evening.” She smiled. “Welcome to Abyssinia. My name is Kamali.” Olivia instantly glared at her husband, silently warning him that one more joke about the distance was going to get him into serious trouble. And so Jonathan refrained with a wry smile. “Thank you” was all he said, taking the menus from the lady, making puppy eyes at Olivia like a scorned pet. It made her laugh. “Would you like something to drink?” the waitress asked. “What is a traditional Ethiopian drink?” Jonathan asked with interest. With a blank stare, the lady waited for him to say more before she said, “Water.” Olivia was cackling beside him, slapping her hand lightly on his leg. Kamali

rolled her eyes and smiled. “I bring you a pitcher of water while you look at the cuisines, all right?” She smiled and turned to laugh softly at the customer’s question. The tables and chairs were unpretentious and functional, and Olivia and Jonathan studied the hand drawings of people eating that ran along the walls. The simple monotone art gave the restaurant a warm, personal feeling about the culture and the people while the divine flavors permeated through the room. On the pictures, only the food was depicted in color, which Olivia found quaint and clever. People were chatting all around them, most of them African, communicating in a few different languages and dialects that effectively fascinated Jonathan. The sounds and articulations had similar root words, and it tickled his fancy to listen to all the familiar roots in the ancient texts he was versed in. What he listened to, of course, was the modern dialects, but he could hear some old phrases and unusual colloquialisms thrown in as well. “What if he doesn’t show up?” she wondered aloud. “I’m sure he will,” Jonathan answered, looking around and tapping his foot to the music. “He is in too much of a predicament not to elicit our help. He’ll be here.” Tesfaye appeared in the doorway merely moments after 8 pm, as they had agreed. “Look at that. Right on time, as Nigel said,” Jonathan remarked as he lifted his hand to get Tesfaye’s attention. The young man was dressed in sandals and chinos, an odd combination that the Cookes wrote up to cultural preferences. He wore a loose hanging button shirt (on of his wiry physique) and a windbreaker with the zipper down halfway. The sheen of his bald head reflected the yellow light from the overhead lights, giving him a halo. “Dr. Cooke and Dr. Cooke.” He smiled, shaking hands with them before he sat down. “Thank you so much for coming. I was hoping you would trust me.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” Olivia asked, playing innocent. He shrugged. “Well, you met me under such unpleasant circumstances, and I am sure you have no reason not to believe those bad things. I am just glad you are giving me the benefit of the doubt.” “Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt, my friend,” Jonathan said, “especially with no evidence to the contrary.” Kamali showed up with a pitcher of water that she set down. She greeted Tesfaye, and the Cookes decided to let Tesfaye tell them which dishes were best. He was a regular there, and he knew Kamali well. They bantered in their own tongue, fascinating the Cookes, until Tesfaye turned to them and asked, “No vegans, no vegetarians, no worries?” Olivia laughed. “I’ll take a vegetarian dish. You order.” “Are you a vegetarian, Dr. Cooke?” he asked Olivia. “Oh God, no, I just feel like something light tonight.” She smiled. “I am sure Jonathan will make up for all the meat we both would have eaten.” “Absolutely.” Jonathan smiled. “Kamali, I think I want some injera.” Again, the waitress gave him the waiting look. “Oh, what did I do now?” he whined. Tesfaye smiled and said, “Injera is basically flatbread, Dr. Cooke, so it comes with everything. Not a dish by itself, per se.” Feeling sheepish, Jonathan looked at Kamali and simply said, “Okay, bring me that with some meat, my dear.” The group laughed at Jonathan’s defeated order and ordered similar dishes. Looking at the prices, the Cookes realized that it was a hefty bill to stick on the recently dismissed security guard. “I’ll cover the bill,” Jonathan offered, but Tesfaye shook his head.

“No, no,” he protested, “you are my guests tonight, and the dinner is on me. Besides, Kamali likes me, so I always get extras.” “Nice.” Olivia grinned. “Does she have coffee?”

Tesfaye’s obvious sense of propriety and generosity was imperative to the Cookes’ trust, giving them a bit more relief about the meeting and fueling their inquisitiveness about what he had to say. “So tell us what you think about all this,” Jonathan started. “You said you had an inkling on who was behind this. I won’t be lying if I tell ya I am positively riveted by the possibilities.” Tesfaye looked out the large window as if he felt exposed meeting the Cookes in public, but in truth, he was just formulating his words before slightly leaning forward on the table. “After Mr. Stevens asked me all those questions, I must say, I have not stopped running the whole interview through my head over and over since it happened. You understand, this was all very unpleasant for me,” he started to explain. Olivia nodded. “Totally understandable.” “So I have been thinking about the Mini Cooper I saw racing out of the parking garage, and I realized that I have, in fact, seen that car before,” he itted. “I don’t know why I said I had never seen it before during the questioning. Probably the pressure of answering questions while I knew they already considered me a suspect. I really don’t know, but as I kept recalling the speeding car, it dawned on me that I was mistaken. It had been in the garage before, once or twice, parked there when I started my shifts, even during regular hours when I worked days.” “Whose car is it? Do you know?” Jonathan pressed. Their food arrived. As stoked as the Cookes were about the gloriously colorful food and the sublime aromas that drifted into their nostrils, they were dying to know who owed the Mini Cooper. Tesfaye finally ordered coffee for Olivia. When Kamali strolled away, he continued.

“I know who owns that vehicle, sir. It belongs to Reginald Stevens.” “Wait, Stevens? Is he related to Wilfred?” Jonathan asked. Tesfaye nodded. “It’s his son, sir.” “And you think he had something to do with the theft?” Olivia made sure. “I do, madam, but I don’t have proof,” Tesfaye itted with a look of frustration. Jonathan was shocked to think that Wilfred’s family would be involved in the heist. Doubtful, he probed the claim. “But surely there must be many green Mini Coopers in London, Tesfaye. How are you so sure it was Reginald’s? It could be anyone.” Tesfaye scooped up some lentils with his flatbread and shook his head. “No. Same car.” “How are you so sure?” Olivia asked, even though she would not be surprised that an unsavory character such as Wilfred could not spawn more pompous morons like himself. “That ripped sticker, madam,” he replied. “I did not see it the other times, because it was parked away from my line of sight, but I am convinced you will find that Arsenal logo ripped away on that car, if you could find it.” “Plausible.” She shrugged, looking at Jonathan. “Would not hurt to run it by Nigel and see what he can find? He is a former police officer. I’m sure he can have someone run a check and see if it correlates with museum staff?” Jonathan gave it some thought, chewing heartily on the soft, cooked meat he savored. Finally, he nodded in agreement and said, “I agree. Couldn’t hurt to check. If it comes out as someone else, at least we tried, right?” “That is all I ask, Dr. Cooke,” Tesfaye said. “Jonathan and Olivia to you, young man.” Jonathan winked at the young man, drawing a smile from him. They could see the relief on his face, knowing that he had allies who were willing to help him.

“Okay, Jonathan and Olivia.” He grinned. They spent the rest of the meal chatting about all manner of things not pertaining to scrutiny and upsetting circumstances. The three customers chatted away another hour and reveled in the welcoming atmosphere of Abyssinia. They exchanged personal details before finally departing, both parties having a new goal to correct the wrongs at the British Museum.

11

After their dinner with Tesfaye, Jonathan and Olivia were in a great mood, all things considered. They left the restaurant with glee, having had their first taste of Ethiopian cuisine and great company. Both Olivia and her husband had a renewed interest in the culture of the artifacts they were here to study, and it inspired them to help Tesfaye settle his case so that he too could move on to a more suitable and lucrative career. The following morning, the Cookes traveled to the British Museum to speak to the head of security, Nigel Taylor, before reporting to the curator or the director. Naturally, their inquiry on Wilfred’s son’s vehicle had to remain secret until they had eliminated the possibility of his involvement. After a visit to Marla at the cafeteria, Olivia and Jonathan made for the security office to have a word with Nigel. “Good morning,” he greeted them, already busy writing his report for the last day’s shifts and arranging next week’s roster. “Brought you a coffee.” Olivia smiled as she handed him the cup. “I hope you are not a tea drinker?” “Love, what I drink is not even allowed on the job. The coffee be welcome. Ta!” he chuckled. “So, any new developments about the, uh, theft?” Jonathan asked matter-offactly in a subtle lead-up to the purpose of their visit. Nigel had his eyes glued to his Excel sheet, but he replied, “Did you see that damning report on the news last night? By God, I can’t believe the museum actually went that far so prematurely.” “Yeah, we saw. So unfair,” Olivia replied, looking at Jonathan to cue him. “Um, Nigel, we were wondering if you would hear us out about something,”

Jonathan said, clearing his throat while Olivia closed the door. The security chief turned to face them. “Looks serious if the door has to be closed. I’m listening.” “We have reason to believe that the car Tesfaye saw speeding out from the parking garage…could possibly belong to Wilfred’s son, Reginald,” Jonathan reported, expecting a roar of laughter, but to his surprise, Nigel nodded slowly, giving it some thought. He raised his eyebrows in a show of surprise, but he was not dismissive about the speculation. Nigel ran his thick hand over his bald head and said, “Well, if that really was Reginald’s car, that lad is in some serious trouble.” “Look, I’m not saying it was him. Nothing is definite, so I don’t want anyone to jump to conclusions just yet. It was just a suggestion, but we thought it would be worth looking into,” Jonathan said in a quiet tone, just in case someone would be standing on the other side of the door. “Couldn’t hurt to follow every lead we get,” Olivia added. Nigel nodded. “And this is a good lead, I must say. I believe it is solid enough to follow up on. We can’t ignore suggestions just because we don’t like them, hey?” “Exactly,” Olivia agreed, sipping her coffee and looking anxious about him taking action. Nigel smirked and said, “Let me see what I can dig up. I would have to go through the employees list on my database and see which of them have a car like this. Hang on.” Olivia smiled at her husband. It was exciting, even though it was not what they had come to London for. “You know what model that Mini Cooper is?” Nigel asked casually as he sifted through his information. “Not sure,” Jonathan replied, looking over the security chief’s shoulder at the swift results that appeared every time Nigel entered a code word. It was

impressive how diligent he was at keeping records of staff. “No mind, I’ll find it if it belongs to any of our people,” Nigel muttered. In the office it was quiet, but Olivia could hear people talking as they ed, and it made her a little nervous. You’re not doing anything wrong. Snap out of it, she said to herself while she watched Jonathan and Nigel focus on the monitor. “Ha!” Nigel exclaimed so loudly and abruptly that both the Cookes jumped. “Sorry for the scare, but I believe I found it. Green Mini Cooper ed to…” He turned to face them and smiled. “…one Wilfred Stevens. What do you know!” “Wow, spot on,” Olivia gasped as Nigel rubbed his hands together. “How old is Reginald?” Jonathan asked the security head. “Um, about 18 years old, as far as I know, so yeah, he would be driving a car ed to his father’s name,” Nigel answered. “Hhm, this is juicy,” Jonathan hummed. “Sure is,” Olivia said, looking very intrigued. “Curious coincidence, right?” “Hey, I better report this to the police right away then,” Nigel suggested, but Jonathan held out his hand. “No, not just yet, Nigel. Look, if Wilfred catches wind of his son being investigated, he will just deny his son’s involvement. You’ve seen how good he is with twisting the truth with that BBC news clip. He would surely employ the same cunning to cover up anything his son is scrutinized for,” Jonathan cautioned. “Yeah, and then we hit a dead end with that lead and he gets away with it…if he is the culprit, of course,” Olivia speculated. “Too right. Too right,” Nigel had to concede. “So what do you suggest, Dr. Cooke?”

Jonathan took a moment to think while the others waited. Suddenly, he smiled in his boyish way. “Oh God, here it comes,” Olivia mumbled, finishing the last of her coffee. “Olivia and I will devise a plan to retrieve the crown from Reginald by entrapping him in a mock sale. If he is guilty, we score. Two birds and all that. We nail the sucker—and whoever is behind it with him—and we get the crown back. How do you like them apples?” Jonathan babbled excitedly. Nigel chuckled and shook his head. “Look, I am all for being proactive, but this is high-end antiques fencing, something huge in the underworld of relic hunting, lads.” “So you think it is a viable idea,” Jonathan insisted. The security chief shrugged. “Are you sure you know what you are getting into, though? This could be very dangerous. If Reginald is the culprit, you have no guarantees that he is not working for some dangerous kingpin or just did some dirty work for a larger organization. These people don’t screw around. You are sure you can do this?” Jonathan shared a mischievous grin with his wife and laughed. “That’s never stopped us before.” “Look, you two, I do ire your spirit, and I appreciate that you must be bored what with not being allowed to get to your job here, but if you insist on walking in this shadow, we have to keep in close touch,” Nigel explained. “At least just take my card and call me if even the smallest detail smells like dog shit, all right? It won’t hurt to get back-up or pull out before things get hairy, right?” “Thanks, Nigel.” Olivia smiled. “We will call if we have problems.” “Yeah, of course, we can do with as many allies as possible, but don’t fret. Liv and I have done things you won’t believe. In fact, some of the stuff we have gotten into would make your hair stand up,” Jonathan winked, grazing his wife’s cheek while she nodded at Nigel. The pair made him smile. They were young and good-looking, and they had the spirit to match. It would be fun to work with the Cookes, he reckoned, even if it

was only to relive his action-packed days as a police officer.

12

After their discussion with Nigel, Jonathan and Olivia shared that old familiar feeling they had shared before—adventure, but the dangerous kind. They knew that they would have to plan out their execution and leave no margin for error, and if they did experience any hitches, they had Nigel to rely on. He was a good associate to have, considering his former training and his sharp faculties, his aptitude for problem solving and his cool head in times of pressure. Back at their hotel room, they started planning their sting operation, and it had to be done sooner rather than later. “We don’t know this kid, so how will we know how to draw him out?” Olivia asked as she sat on the bed, brushing her hair. “If he really did steal the crown, I wager his next move would be to try and sell the artifact. I mean, I doubt that this teenager is an aficionado or a collector.” “I love when you mock criminals like that.” Jonathan grinned, kissing her on the temple before sitting down at the small desk in their room. “One thing we know is that Reginald, or whoever is in possession of the crown, will be trying to sell it. Why else would he want to run such a risk to acquire the relic? He wants the money.” “Right, so we can hit all the pawn shops tomorrow and ask for a crown,” Olivia joshed. “Aw, you are too smart, babe. I’ll start with illicit street antiquities dealers and you hit the south side buy-and-sell,” Jonathan laughed. “You know full well people don’t sell priceless antiques at a pawn shop.” “I was joking.” She frowned. “They sell them on eBay, silly,” he cackled. “Just when I thought you could not out-stupid me,” she giggled. “But,” she said,

suddenly sincere, “this is a serious matter, and we really are running out of time, so let’s do this while I have the gall.” “Come on, you’re not timid,” he said. “No, but I am not gonna lie, honey. I am very nervous about entrapment. You never know who is sitting behind it, just like Nigel said,” she itted. “If I only knew that we are dealing with some dumb rich kid and not a bigwig evil billionaire with a private army that will capture us and torture us in the Sahara.” “Geez, babe. Dramatic much?” Jonathan gasped. “And who will take care of my mom then?” she pouted. Jonathan knew that it was strange that his wife had not mentioned her mother in two days. Her remark affirmed that she had been brewing on her worries without letting him know. Before Jonathan could think of something positive to say, Olivia clapped her hands twice and muttered, “No. No, we are not going to go there. This is a quick detour. Nothing to panic over.” “Honey, would you rather stay here when we try to catch him?” Jonathan offered. His beautiful wife turned to him and loosened her hair. Her long blond tresses plopped over her shoulders and framed her pretty face, her green eyes sparkling with fire. “Hell no!” she said. “I’m all in, and you know it.” “That’s my girl,” he growled, embracing her in a long hug. Olivia jumped back suddenly. “Wait a minute,” she said. “eBay.” “I was joking,” he reminded her. “No, I know, listen,” she said, clearly on to something. “If you are a teenager and you have an invaluable piece you need to flog, would you have businessmen on your Rolodex or Mafia s on your beeper, Jeeves?” “No, madam, indeed not,” he replied, playing along with her butler game. Olivia

always played Butler and Madam when she was trying to solve a mystery, and it usually worked swimmingly to help her formulate solutions by conjecturing aloud. “Where would you go, Jeeves, if you were a techno-addicted teenager with an ancient Ethiopian crown burning a hole in your black velvet bag?” She smiled. Jonathan thought it through, and within a matter of seconds, it came to him. “The Dark Web, madam!” he exclaimed. “Perfect! It is, after all, Satan’s eBay!” “Precisely!” She grinned. “So do you know how to get on the Dark Web?” he asked sincerely. “Bitch please,” she scoffed, showing off by grabbing her laptop and ceremoniously opening it. “Watch and learn.” From her TOR browser, it took Olivia no more than 15 minutes to find an antiquities fencing site, mostly populated with eccentric buyers and filthy rich crooks looking for a good deal off the radar. Olivia tried to avoid getting sidetracked by the plethora of amazing artifacts she saw for sale, being a lover of ancient items herself, while she searched. Her keywords all pertained to Ethiopia and golden items, historical value, and quick sales. “Bingo.” She smiled, calling Jonathan over from the mini bar. “Found it?” he asked. She read the post: Urgent and Final Sale Ethiopian crown of Tewodros II, solid gold For sale to highest bidder Code Aegis4068 to server H58Kl for Encrypted file for details

“Oh my God, that is so complex. Please tell me you know how to decrypt the details,” he said, but the look his wife cast him instantly put him at ease. He let Oliva do her thing while he enjoyed a double on the rocks, flicking through the channels again. He hoped not to get any more bad news on the TV screen when he ed the BBC but was pleasantly surprised to find old comedy episodes on it. “Jon, I have the kid’s ,” she reported from the desk. “Now we have to find someone to pose as a buyer to catch him in the act. You keen?” “Me?” He frowned. “Why not? You’re a respected expert on linguistics. Of course, you will as a buyer of antiques,” she reasoned. He shrugged. “I get that, but I don’t think we should get directly involved with this. We need someone else, not d with us or the museum. He might know us, what with Wilfred’s big mouth.” “Oh, yeah, that is true,” she agreed. Jonathan and his wife locked eyes and smiled. In unison, they said, “Tesfaye!” “He would be perfect for the job!” She nodded. “I’ll call the man real quick,” Jonathan told her, looking very impressed with their plan thus far. He dialed the number Tesfaye had given them the night before and gestured crossed fingers to Olivia. “Hi Tesfaye, it’s Jonathan Cooke,” he started. On the other side of the room, Olivia was perusing the various items for sale, many of which she ed going missing from digs and exhibitions in the past decade. She hated herself for enjoying the tour through the site, but she could not deny that so many beautiful artifacts were on display. Deep inside, she wondered whether she would have resisted the illegitimacy of this practice had she had unlimited resources and money, like the creeps on the website. The thought made her sick, not because it was wrong, but because she even wondered about it.

“Ugh, Catholic guilt,” she sighed and waited for her husband to get the green light from Tesfaye. He put the call on speaker so that she could listen in. “So would you be willing to do this?” Jonathan asked. “Dr. Cooke, I would be delighted to help catch this brat if he framed me,” Tesfaye affirmed happily. “Would you be there too?” “We will, but as your shadow unit,” Jonathan told him. They could hear Tesfaye chuckle. “Sounds kind of exciting, actually. Scary, but exciting.” “Good man! We’ll set up the meeting with him and let you know the plan,” Jonathan explained, and the two men said their goodbyes. Jonathan gave Olivia a thumbs-up. Jonathan made his way to the laptop. “Let’s send the brat his invitation.” “I’m going to take a shower, okay?” his wife called out as she closed the bathroom door. “Okay!” he replied, eager to get in touch with Reginald. When Jonathan sent the message, he implied that he was a descendant of Tewodros II and desperately wanted to get the crown back to the home country. He arranged the meeting for the following evening, citing that he needed to see the artifact in person before he would set an offer. Reginald accepted the bait.

13

Tesfaye was nervous, but the warm water of the shower calmed him greatly, and he knew that this was all to help him redeem his name and recover the priceless crown of King Tewodros II. In some way, Tesfaye thought himself the champion of his people to be the one that would claim back the antique crown, and this was his silent motivation. His lanky physique moved behind the obscured window of the shower, the late afternoon light shimmering through the window. He had received a call from Jonathan Cooke an hour earlier, confirming the meeting with Reginald. The linguistics expert told Tesfaye to dress a certain way and to bring an empty briefcase to make him look more believable as a buyer with a deal to make. Deep inside, the Ethiopian student felt excited, trying to keep his anxiety under wraps. After all, both Jonathan and his wife would be there to monitor the meeting, so he felt more secure with them at his back. Tesfaye’s flat was but a few blocks from the restaurant, a perfect place to set up the meeting. Reginald would not think anything suspicious of it, since it was an Ethiopian eatery, and he would meet a buyer from Addis Ababa. “You ready, my friend?” Jonathan asked on the phone. “No, sir, but this is the only way to put this jackal to sleep,” Tesfaye answered. “Don’t you worry, Tesfaye, Olivia and I have done this before and we are still in one piece,” Jonathan consoled his nerves. “Now, listen, you are to meet Reginald at Abyssinia at 10 pm. Is that all right with you?” “Sure, but why so late? I would think he would want more people to be around in case I am a bad guy,” Tesfaye asked naïvely. “That is precisely the point, actually,” Jonathan explained. “You see, that time of night, there are less people who can play witness, but the place is still busy enough not to raise suspicion for two men to have a meeting.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, that makes sense, I suppose,” Tesfaye agreed. “Now, when I spoke to Reginald, I told him that he would be asking for Ebo, not Tesfaye. Olivia reckoned he may have kept track of media reports to stay ahead of the cops, so he may have seen the report citing your identity and then we’d be screwed, see?” Jonathan elucidated. There was a long pause from the other side, prompting Jonathan to feel concerned. “Tesfaye, are you still there?” he asked. “Yes, Jonathan,” Tesfaye said with a slight crack in his voice. “Why did Olivia pick that name, ‘Ebo’?” “She looked up Ethiopian names and immediately picked that one because she liked the sound of it, why?” Jonathan enquired. “Tell Olivia…that…Ebo was my father’s name,” Tesfaye smiled through tears welling in his eyes. “He was my best friend. Taught me to love my heritage and our history. Giving me that name for this operation is truly a sign from God, Jonathan.” Jonathan gasped on the other side. “Woah, that is profound! I’ll tell Livy as soon as she gets back from the boutique. That is an amazing coincidence!” “Now I feel less nervous,” Tesfaye chuckled. “Good man!” Jonathan raved. “Okay, so we will be there by 10:30 and have a meal. Don’t fret; we’ll be watching every second. As soon as we see the crown, we’ll summon the authorities. You just stall with the payment as long as you can.” “Got it,” Tesfaye said. “This is very exciting. I feel like James Bond.” Jonathan laughed with Tesfaye and bantered on about the characters of the novel, speculating on all the saucy women before ending the call. “You hear that, Aba?” Tesfaye said, casting his eyes upward to address his late father. “Tonight, I wear your name. Tonight, will go well.”

Back at the hotel, Jonathan called Nigel to alert him to their impending sting operation. Nigel’s role would be to notify the police once the Cookes sent him a text to visual confirmation of the artifact. “Just make sure you get proper footage of the crown and the boy’s face. You know how easily footage can be manipulated with editing these days, mate. His father’s lawyers wouldn’t hesitate to spin that angle and get the evidence voided, so mind that,” Nigel instructed when Jonathan told him that the game was on. “Got it,” Jonathan answered. “We will use Olivia’s cell phone, so we can look inconspicuous.” “And where will you be? Don’t sit too close,” he warned. “No, we will be at the corner table, across the room. Already booked the table and informed Kamali that we are coming. She is the owner and head waitress,” Jonathan filled Nigel in with smaller details. “Also, if you are going to livestream it, I’ll record it as I watch over here, so that we have solid footage to present if this kid is sour,” Nigel said in his Scouse accent. “The moment I see issible evidence that will hold up, I’ll call my mates at the West Hampstead station and send ‘em over to Abyssinia to scoop him up, yeah?” “Perfect,” he heard Olivia say in the background, having listened to the speaker call. “Okay, guys, good luck!” Nigel said, ending the call. “Right, our two associates are ready and willing.” Jonathan winked as he kissed Olivia on the neck in front of the mirror, where she was putting on makeup. “This is almost more exciting than finding a new excavation site,” she purred. “Imagine if we get everything set up and the kid gets cold feet.” “Would you get cold feet for a few tens of millions?” he asked, looking at her in the mirror.

Olivia felt herself once more confronted by those moral dilemmas she had become accustomed to. Her big green eyes searched the ceiling as she hummed. “Argh! You know you would take that risk. Cold feet, my ass!” he laughed. Olivia smiled in a naughty expression of defeat. “I try to be good. Really.” “Actually, I don’t think it is a question of good or bad, babe,” he philosophized. “Most people who do questionable—but overall harmless—things are just in compromising positions.” “Or they are just plain greedy, Jon,” she sighed. “I get that, I do,” he retorted, “but I have seen it so many times. People sometimes resort to illicit activities for reasons other than malice or greed. I’m not saying that this kid has some noble reason for stealing the crown, but in general, non-violent crimes are committed for a myriad of reasons.” “Okay, Dr. Phil, can we get ready to go now? My phone is charged, and I have linked up the code to Nigel’s control room stream,” she affirmed. “Are you going dressed like that?” “What do you mean?” He frowned. “I look ravishing and rich.” “You are rich. Perhaps wear sneakers and jeans. You don’t look touristy enough,” she judged by stepping back, looking him up and down. “We should blend in, ?” “Jeans? What is wrong with my blazer and pants?” he whined. She leaned in suggestively and whispered, “I can see your gun, Jon.” He looked down with a gasp, mumbling, “She’s never complained before.” Olivia scoffed with a giggle and slapped him on the arm. “Look!” she said, pointing out the bulge under his blazer that clearly indicated the big Colt in his side holster. “Wear the windbreaker. It’s puffier. We can’t let anything jeopardize this meeting.”

Jonathan and Olivia showed up at Abyssinia just after 10:30 pm so that they could acquaint themselves with the people and surroundings of the evening crowd. Kamali ed Olivia and brought her a cup of coffee before the Cookes even started reading the menu. From their vantage point in the corner, they had a visual of the entire room. Chatting about trivialities, the couple skillfully surveyed the comings and goings of Abyssinia’s patrons as the time came closer. “There he is,” Olivia told her husband. “Don’t look.” He sighed, “Give me some credit, will you?” From the base of her purse, Olivia erected her phone to capture the table where Tesfaye sat down, briefcase in hand. He wore the white shirt and black jacket Jonathan had told him to wear so that Reginald would recognize him, and he casually looked through the menu. The waiter returned with some water, and Tesfaye asked the man to give him a few minutes, pretending to be indecisive in what he wanted to eat. “It’s already ten minutes past the time,” Jonathan told Olivia. “I hope he still shows up.” “I must say, I don’t like it,” she said. “Tardiness might allude to a change of plans, like, I dunno, a switch of representative?” “I don’t think so.” Her husband shook his head. “This kid wants to do it himself. If he had the audacity to steal the artifact, he is probably the type who does everything clumsily and selfishly. Let’s hope…” “He’s here,” she said under her breath, pretending to raise her cup of coffee with a smile. As she put her glass down, she activated the live stream on her phone, capturing the two young men at the front table in full view. “Now we wait,” Jonathan said, sipping water from a tall glass. “God, I wish this had some Johnny Walker in it.” Over by the window near the door, Tesfaye looked up to see a fidgety teenager approach him with a bowed head. His hair was dark ginger, unkempt and styled in an awful Irish undercut that made his ears stand out comically. The boy was emaciated and pallid, with dark circles around his eyes. His clothing, however,

was brand new and high end, the marks of a doting father. On the kid’s back, he carried a backpack, as most teens do. “Hey, are you Ebo?” the kid asked. “Yeah, Reg?” Tesfaye said in a thick African dialect. He had never been to Ethiopia, but listening to the regular older patrons of the restaurant over the past years gave him a good idea of what they spoke like. After all, he doubted that the rich kid ever bothered to research or recognize Ethiopian accents. “Yeah, I’m Reg. You got the money?” he asked briskly. “I got the money, but I also have business acumen, my friend. Sit down and we talk like men,” Tesfaye said firmly. Reginald looked at the briefcase and sat down. Tesfaye played his role so well that he actually enjoyed bossing the kid around as if he really was an African thug. He was such a modest young man that he had never spoken to anyone in a derogatory or commanding tone, but he knew such an attitude would be imperative to selling the charade. “You want something to drink, Reg?” Tesfaye asked. “Um, I’m actually in a hurry,” Reginald replied, looking around the restaurant. “Okay, but I am getting a Coke, if you don’t mind,” Tesfaye said. “All right, get me one too, then. Thanks,” Reginald sighed. “Thanks for doing this,” Tesfaye said. “Many of the sellers are much too cowardly to meet in person, trying to screw me and my associates over, you know. It’s grand right of you to come up and do business.” “Sure, sure, man,” Reginald said, doing the gangster head-tilt that he saw in the hip-hop videos he was addicted to. Olivia and Jonathan watched attentively, noticing how the youngster gradually became more confident. “Look, he imagines he is in the big leagues now. I wonder what Tesfaye said to

him,” Jonathan marveled from behind his plate of flatbread and mutton that was rapidly getting cold. Back at the table, Tesfaye and Reginald finally got down to business. “You got the merchandise in there?” Tesfaye asked confidently, motioning to the hidden bag under the kid’s jacket. “Yeah, yeah, keep it down, will ya?” Reginald whispered. “Why? In my culture, if you whisper in public, people distrust you. It means you are conniving, so we don’t whisper in fear here,” Tesfaye explained. In truth, he had no idea if such a custom actually existed. He had seen Jonathan and Olivia when he came in, so he knew that he had to get Reginald to show him the artifact in plain sight of the Cookes’ camera. “I can’t just show it to you in here,” Reginald protested, his eyes flitting about in dubious paranoia. “Show me the money first.” “I show the money when you show the goods, my friend,” Tesfaye countered confidently, all while his heart was racing madly in his chest. He leaned toward the kid and said, “Trust me, you don’t want to show this relic to me in the alley out back. My associates might not be as forthcoming as me, so I want to see it here and now or no trade for us.” A waiter was on his way to the table, but Jonathan intervened by calling the man over for some drinks, leaving Tesfaye to do his thing. Olivia ate scraps of her light meal, casually watching the screen of her phone as she did. “Okay, hang on,” Reginald told Tesfaye, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that nobody was paying attention. He swung around his satchel and opened it to pull out a black velvet bag, which he opened for Tesfaye to see the crown inside. (“Oh, that looks familiar,” Nigel muttered in his office.) To Reginald’s dismay, the Ethiopian grabbed the bag and pulled it out to examine it properly. He turned it to all sides as he pretended to check its

authenticity, but he was making sure that Olivia could capture the boy and the crown in high definition. Reginald snatched back the crown and quickly shoved it back in the bag with a wide-eyed glare. “Listen, Ebo, buy the piece or move on, man. I don’t have time to sit here and watch you make up your mind,” Reginald bitched under his breath, looking plain frantic. Suddenly, Jonathan received a text from Nigel. He looked up at his wife and said, “Nigel says 5-0 is on the way.” “Glorious.” She smiled calmly. “You don’t know much about these types of transactions, do you?” Tesfaye stalled. “You think I look in the bag at some tin foil rip-off and assume it is worth big money and just pay you? Nah, brother, I had to check that it is the real deal. If you want to fence antiques, my man, you have to let the buyer take his time. You want the money, right?” “Right, right, the money,” Reginald hastened, practically gasping.

14

Over London, the clouds parted somewhat, giving the city some reprieve from the incessant rain. It was late, just past 11 pm, and the nightlife was thriving, especially in the more central parts of London. It was a time for nefarious deeds and gleeful gatherings in the bustling streets, but it was also the scene of an attempt at one man’s redemption and another’s doom. In the window of Abyssinia, the two young men sat in a momentary stalemate, trying to come to an accord over a stolen artifact while the Cookes looked on from their cozy vigil in the corner of the eatery. “When are they coming?” Olivia fretted. “Don’t worry, Nigel will come through,” Jonathan assured her. They watched as the teenager grabbed the crown back from Tesfaye, and he sank it back into the black velvet bag. His face was frozen in panic, his eyes wild, and his hands trembling. Reginald Stevens was unstable, and the Cookes feared that he might run before being apprehended. He put the velvet bag back into his backpack, struggling with the zipper in his agitation. Jonathan sent Tesfaye a text. Stall for time. Cops on the way. “What was that?” Reginald asked, sounding tense. Tesfaye did not show him the screen, but he lifted the phone openly. “You can’t speak Amharic, can you?” Tesfaye enquired. “Speak what?” Reginald scowled impatiently, reminding Tesfaye of Wilfred in so many ways with his callous manner. “This is a text from my employer, asking if the artifact is genuine, otherwise they

do not pay,” he explained slowly and deliberately to condescend to the kid. “Wait, you don’t have the money in that case?” Reginald gasped. “I do, but if the crown is worth more, my associate will bring the balance within the next 15 minutes. It is a formality. Relax,” Tesfaye played with the spoiled brat in the hoodie who had framed him indirectly. Another text came through from Jonathan. Only a few more minutes. “Your associate?” Reginald asked snidely. Tesfaye knew the excuse was running thin, so he approached it more casually. “Ugh! It’s Blue,” he groaned. He shook his phone in disinterest and shook his head. “This gold digger from Hammersmith I dated last month. Obsessed with me. Can’t leave me alone for one damn day, now she knows I have money and all.” The kid smirked. “Ha! I can relate. Blue sounds like a stripper.” Tesfaye nodded proudly. “Really? No way, man. Lucky bastard.” Reginald grinned. “Tsk,” Tesfaye grunted and put his phone away. “Okay, let’s talk price here.” “Geez, finally,” Reginald said. “How much do you offer?” Tesfaye looked up in deep thought. “This crown is of great significance to my people, you know. It sure is worth a lot of money these days, but its true value lies in the importance of its historical implications. Its original owner was a great man with much power, who killed himself rather than be belittled by the British Empire. This very crown is considered a symbol of his defiance, you know, his pride,” Tesfaye lectured Reginald with distant attention, rambling on to stall for time. “That’s bloody great, man. That is totally ace, but can we get to the amount on

offer here?” Reginald interrupted, eager to seal the deal and go. “Okay, since the crown is so important, I give you £250K for it, mate,” Tesfaye said proudly, pretending that the boy should consider this a fair offer. Reginald stared at him in disbelief. “You’re having a laugh,” he sneered. “Are you serious?” “Of course! What did you expect, a billion?” Tesfaye scoffed. “Listen, you clown, I can get millions for this pathetic African tiara on the Dark Web,” Reginald seethed, thoroughly infuriated to have had his time sucked up like this. “You think I’ll sell this for a measly quarter million quid? You are out of your bonce, man.” Just then, Jonathan received a message from Nigel. Coppers are outside. “I pray to God Tesfaye knows what this emoji means,” Jonathan said, sending Tesfaye another text. “He is not a senior citizen or something, Jon.” Olivia shook her head. Tesfaye received the text—a thumbs-up emoji—and he smiled. “Your bitch again?” Reginald fumed. “If she knew what a cheap wannabe prick you were, she’d dump your ass in a blink!” “Ah, now you crossed the line, boy.” Tesfaye smiled. “I tell you what—I changed my mind about wanting to buy this thing. Looks like you won’t be getting my money after all.” “What?” Reginald shrieked, close to a meltdown of rage and frustration. “You’re a joke, mate. You have no associates!” “But I do. They are right outside,” Tesfaye said. “Bullshit. All of this was just bullshit. You are just a puppy, trying to piss with the big dogs! Go back to your mom’s basement!” Reginald ranted as he shoved the bag deeper into his satchel and zipped it up, slinging it over his shoulder and

giving Tesfaye the finger. Tesfaye got up and followed him out, looking on as two police units confronted the kid. “Reggie,” Tesfaye mocked him, “meet my girlfriend, Blue!” Reginald did not even try to run, because they encircled him immediately. One cop grabbed his backpack while the other grasped him by the arm and slammed him down on the bonnet of the squad car. “Reginald Stevens, you have the right to remain silent…” The officer started reading him his rights while Tesfaye sauntered back into the restaurant to Jonathan and Olivia in a celebratory drink. “Well done, Mr. Bond.” Jonathan smiled as Kamali brought them a bottle of wine. “Compliments of the house.” She smiled. Kamali bent down and whispered to Tesfaye, “I know what you did. The Cookes told me what happened. You are a hero, Tesfaye.” “Does that mean…?” he started asking, looking excited. “No, you still don’t get a date with me,” she teased and walked away, smiling to herself. “To Emperor Tewodros II,” Jonathan toasted, “and to his champion, Tesfaye Ghebreyesus!” “Hear hear!” Olivia smiled as she lifted her glass. “To Ebo Ghebreyesus”—Tesfaye smiled—“for helping me succeed tonight!” The three toasted to their success, all enjoying a midnight meal and a bounty of house wine, well deserved.

Epilogue

The following days were hell for Reginald Stevens, not because he was incarcerated as much as the fact that he was prevented from his daily cocaine fix. By the time he came down from his last hit, which he had taken the afternoon before his meeting with Tesfaye, Reginald felt the black hand of depression grip him. After the death of his mother when Reginald was a young child, he had been unstable and difficult to handle due to the emotional trauma. It was no surprise then, that his father, Wilfred, had provided him with everything and more to fill the hole in him. This was under control until the teenage Reginald started abusing drugs, as many wealthy kids in his circle of friends did. To them, it was a party favor, an affordable outlet, but to him it was a chemical rescue boat on a dark and stormy ocean of anxiety, low self-esteem, and depression. “I did it, Dad,” he told Wilfred in the presence of his lawyer and the local police chief. “I know it is not an excuse that I miss Mum and all, but that is how it started.” “You could have done anything! Didn’t I give you everything you wanted and needed so that you had a head start on most boys?” Wilfred Stevens chastised his son. “You could have done something with your life, for Christ’s sake, Reginald!” The boy nodded, his head bowed in shame behind the bars of his jail cell. “I just…I needed a gram or two for the weekend and I was out of money, you know. Been running up my tab with some dealers around Hammersmith and Wembley, and they know dealers from other parts, so the word spread that I wasn’t good for it,” he explained in a whiny, defeated tone. “I have run up some serious owings with these blokes, so I needed the money badly.” “So, you have been a drug addict for a long time?” the police chief asked.

Reginald nodded. “Few years, yeah, since I was about fifteen, I guess.” Wilfred gasped and pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, shaking his head. “I had no idea. Not one bloody iota.” He looked up at his lamenting son and asked angrily, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble? I could have sent you to the best rehabilitation centers…!” “But I liked it! I liked it, Dad,” the boy sniffled, tears reddening his eyes. “No way I was going to go to some juvie hall shit pit to get better, while my mates was partying and the like!” Wilfred was furious and devastated. He stepped back from the bars and walked in a circle behind the other two men to relieve his emotions. “How did you breach the museum security?” the police chief asked, checking that the video camera’s red light was recording the boy’s confession. “I, uh, I stole the keys of the room, the Ethiopian exhibition room, from my dad,” Reginald reported hesitantly, mortified to explain this in front of his father. “My car had a scanner for security access, because, you know, it is technically Dad’s car on the papers, so getting into the parkings was easy. I got into the floor access by climbing through the restroom window.” “My God, do you even know what you’ve done here?” his father muttered. “Made an utter fool of me. Made me treat people like crap and blaming innocent men like an idiot.” “I am genuinely sorry for what I did, Dad!” Reginald pleaded. “I’ll be good, I swear! Just get me out of this and I’ll change. I am really, really sorry that I left that note, but it was the only way to keep eyes off me. I saw the protests on the news, and I thought it would be a perfect smoke screen for a robbery. I never meant to destroy people’s lives or frame anyone, I promise you.” Wilfred was ashen, even in his fury. The shock of discovering that his own son was behind the callous act was almost too much to bear. He had done everything for his boy, and all he got was humiliation and disobedience. “Well,” he sighed, “I guess that is what you get when you raise your children with money instead of attention.”

“This is not your fault, Mr. Stevens. Teenagers are smart enough to know right from wrong, even on a fundamental level. He made his own choices, regardless of your nurture or help. I have seen this countless times, believe me,” the police chief told Wilfred. “So if I plead guilty, I might get, like probation or something, right?” Reginald fumbled his words. “I mean, I can’t go to prison. I have to pay these dealers back or they’ll kill me.” “You’ll be perfectly safe from them,” Wilfred said, finally accepting the sad truth, “in prison. Nobody can get to you there until you get out and settle your debts…with some old-fashioned work.” “Dad! You can’t be serious!” Reginald yelled. He looked at his father’s lawyer. “Mr. Hamish, you can make this go away, right?” Hamish was a seasoned and crafty lawyer, but, like his client, he was a man of morals. “I could make it go away, son,” he replied, “but that will not profit you anything. I agree with your father. A stint inside will honestly help you.” “What the fu…?” Reginald wailed, but his father interrupted. “Yes, inside for a few years will straighten you out in many ways, my boy,” Wilfred said with a sorrowful tone of regret. “Look, take the time to educate yourself and come out with life skills. Besides, the correctional services do offer drug rehabilitation. In a few years, you’ll still be young, but you’ll have important skills, and you’ll be clean.” “And being clean means that I won’t have to see you again, Reggie.” The police chief nodded in caution. “Hell, you’ll never see a jail cell again if you clean up your act.” So Reginald Stevens ended up serving time for robbery for the following few years. He eventually accepted his fate, but as was his way, still tried his luck to get a shortened sentence.

* * *

Back at the museum, Director Martin Schafer had called a meeting with Wilfred Stevens to discuss matters in hindsight. Wilfred was beyond agitated. He loved his job as curator, but he understood that having allowed such an error to cause one of the most prized artifacts to be stolen effortlessly, he would be terminated. When he knocked on Martin’s door, his heart was thundering in his chest and his fingers sweaty. He knew that he probably deserved what was coming, even though he had no part in the heist. It was negligent of him to let Reginald access the museum room keys, and there had to be some price to pay for this. “Come in, Wilfred,” he heard Martin say abruptly. As he entered, he noticed the wrongfully accused Tesfaye Ghebreyesus seated in one of the two guest chairs opposite the museum director’s desk. Oh my God, he is going to make me apologize to the Ethiopian, Wilfred thought, and then fire my arse right in front of him. This is so humiliating! “Please close the door and sit down, Wilfred,” Martin requested coolly. Tesfaye gave Wilfred a nod, not at all gloating as the curator imagined he would. Clearing his throat, Wilfred started right away. “Mr. Schafer, I understand if you are going to fire me. I suppose my negligence was my death knell.” “Oh, shut it, Wilfred,” Martin said in a light-hearted manner. “You know that your knowledge and experience—and your love for this museum—far exceeds one mistake made inadvertently. Why on earth would I terminate you?” Utterly relieved, Wilfred almost fainted as the initial stress of his expectations lifted from his shoulders. “Having said that,” Martin continued, making sure that his curator was not too relaxed, “there are conditions.”

“Of course, of course,” Wilfred answered rapidly, only too grateful that he still had his job. “Anything.” “You will accept an assistant curator to handle all the smaller details of our acquisitions, in particular, the Ethiopian Exhibition that will be on display as from Monday,” Martin instructed him. “I have appointed Tesfaye Ghebreyesus here as your assistant curator.” To their surprise, Wilfred had no qualms about accepting the condition and uncharacteristically gave the young man next to him a nod of acknowledgement as Martin added more. “Not only is this young man knowledgeable in the field, but he has proved to me that he could help bringing great sensitivity to the Ethiopian Exhibit’s origins, you know, what it means for Ethiopian people,” he impressed on Wilfred. “That makes a lot of sense,” Wilfred complied. “I’m sorry that I was such an arse, Tesfaye. I don’t think there would be anyone better to handle the Ethiopian displays than, well, an Ethiopian descendant of our own.” “Thank you, sir.” Tesfaye smiled modestly. “That means a lot.” “Oh, and furthermore,” Martin told them both, “the religious items and scared texts will no longer be shrouded in secrecy as they have been in the past. I want the public and the world to see that we have the utmost respect for what we keep here, and they will have access to these resources without question.” “Would make a great press statement, sir,” Tesfaye told Wilfred. The curator’s face lit up, and he gave the young man a wink. “I think that can be arranged. I know people at the BBC, you know.” Tesfaye just smiled and nodded. He knew this very well, after all.

* * *

“Did Tesfaye tell you about his new appointment?” Jonathan asked Olivia as they catalogued some of the last artifacts for the exhibition. “He did!” She smiled. “He was like a kid on Christmas morning. He said Wilfred took it like a man! How’s that for a surprise?” “I know, right? Looks like a bit of trouble can do wonders to a man’s demeanor, right?” Jonathan replied. Olivia’s phone rang—a United States phone number. Jonathan was very worried when he saw her listening intently, fearing the worst. When she was done with the call, she sighed and said, “Mom had a bit of a relapse and they had to give her another aggressive round of chemo, Jon. Can we please go back home? We are practically done here anyway.” “Of course, we can go home,” he soothed her, wrapping her in his arms. “I’ll tell Martin that we are leaving, and I’ll book the soonest flight back home, okay? Just promise me you will not chew yourself up with anxiety. I’ll take care of the rest.” “Thanks, honey,” she whispered. They left London the following day and returned to Hartford to be at her mother’s side. Fortunately, they found that Olivia’s mom had made it through and was recovering well from the treatment side effects. The next few weeks was a good break for Olivia, especially while Jonathan took care of everything else, as he had promised. While walking in the late afternoon, Olivia and her mother chatted about life’s little surprises. “You know, I’m a tough old broad.” Her mom smiled. “You two did not have to come back for me. Okay, if I croaked, I’d expect you to rush back, but you worry way too much about me. You know I have beaten a lot of bad breaks, kiddo.”

“I know, Mom”—Olivia smiled—“but you would do the same for me.” “You think so?” her mom asked playfully. “You think I would cut short an allexpenses-paid working holiday for you?” Olivia stared at her mom in befuddlement, but her mother burst out laughing at her daughter’s response. “You are so gullible!” the old lady cackled. “And you are cruel,” Olivia replied, reveling in her mom’s familiar dark humor. “Tonight, at dinner, I want to hear the whole story,” her mother said as the setting sun bathed her face in lavish bright oranges and yellows. “The story? It is a very interesting story, so I’ll let Jonathan tell you,” Olivia offered. “God knows, I don’t have the storytelling ability that man has.” Her mom patted her on the forearm and nodded. “I know, darling. You suck at telling stories.” They laughed heartily, prompting Jonathan’s curiosity. “Looks like you are revisiting the whole stolen crown epic tonight. Mom wants to hear what happened while we were in London,” she told Jonathan. He grinned. “Gladly.” Since Olivia’s mother insisted that they tell her all about their trip to London, Jonathan relayed the elaborate tale of the stolen crown and the subsequent spy games he and Olivia played, her mother’s eyes glimmering with excitement. Olivia certainly got her sense of adventure and humor from her mother. The spirited old lady loved their story, especially the part about the modest security guard that managed to redeem his name and now lived his dream as an assistant curator. That spark of intrigue had rekindled the Cookes’ affinity for adventure, and they could not help but wonder what their next quest would entail. After all, they loved the thrill of digging in the past, and the past had always been very forthcoming with its mysteries.

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