“You think your father’s contact is a Russian oligarch who lives in Malta?”
Kira released her pent-up breath. He didn’t voice doubt. Just a pertinent question.
She cleared her throat. Pertinent, but not easy. “That’s where things get…murky. It’s true that many Communist Party leaders became oligarchs in the decade that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. In 2014, Malta started a ‘golden passport’ program—pay a certain amount, invest a certain amount, and have resident status in the country for a year—and you too can become a Maltese citizen, with a European Union passport. Mind you, you don’t have to actually live in Malta for those twelve months. You just need resident status. The price has fluctuated and is currently down due to severe limits on the program thanks to concern from other EU countries. But the end result is Malta has become a haven for oligarchs who want to get their money and base of operations out of an increasingly unstable Russia.
“The government has sold thousands of passports and it’s estimated they’ve raised more than a billion dollars. But for me, this means I’ve got a lot of oligarchs to wade through. A list of new citizens is part of the public record, but I don’t have time to sort through them all. So I figured I’d start with the art connection. Hence the gallery tonight.”
“But you’re looking for someone who’s been here for decades, right?”
“Yes. My father’s passports and the letters go back to the eighties. It’s possible for an oligarch to have had a summer home here since before the Iron Curtain came down. Malta opened business relations with the Soviet Union in 1979 and embassies were established in both countries in the early part of the eighties. It would make sense for an oligarch who long had a home here to seize upon the golden passport program. Now their vacation home might be their full-time residence. According to the letter I found in my father’s safe, his correspondent wanted him here by July third.”
“And what was your father’s reply to this? What did he tell you?”
“Absolutely nothing. And I suspect if he has notes on his work in this area over the decades, he’s hidden or burned them.”
Anger flashed in Rand’s eyes. “You know what that means, right? Yet you didn’t say a word. Not to Freya. Not to me.”
“When did I have a chance to tell you? We hardly spoke on Tuesday, and you showed up out of the blue tonight.”
“Fine. But you should have told Freya. Dammit, Kira, if your father burned his notes, he didn’t want you to have them. Probably because reading them has put you in danger. He was very protective of you. Hell, he was fast to warn me off. I presume he saw me as a threat.”
She closed her eyes and thought of the pain Rand’s ghosting of her had caused. Her father might have been protective, but he sure hadn’t balked at causing her pain. “Yes. His protectiveness would be a reason for him to destroy his notes. If he destroyed them.”
“He didn’t want you to come here.”
She nodded. “Which means this is the place I most need to be. There are answers for me here.”
“What kind of answers?”
“Who was my father? Where did my mother come from? Do I have more family I don’t know about?”
His anger faded, and he looked at her with something in his eyes she couldn’t read. “Those are rather big questions.”
“For a person who has devoted her life to history, I know very little of my own.”
Fireworks popped in the distance, and jazz music caused the air to vibrate. The second—no, most—handsome man she’d ever known touched her cheek and looked at her with unreadable eyes. “Okay, then. We can’t change the past, and we both know you—and I—would still be here even if you had given Freya the heads-up. So what can I do to help you in your quest?”
Her heart might have flipped at that acquiescence. Understanding.
For the first time, she looked at him and felt a surge of emotion that went deeper than lust or respect for the man who’d saved her—twice. But there was no place for that here. “Tomorrow, I’m going to meet with Reuben Kulik—alone. He knows something about my dad. I intend to flirt with him if I have to.”
Rand gave a sharp nod. “I understand, but I’m not a fan of the alone part.”
“We’ll be outside, at a busy restaurant during the height of tourist traffic.”
“I will be one of those tourists.”
“Fine. But not conspicuous. I don’t need you coming across as a stalker or it will be that much harder for me to act as your art consultant if we use that cover to get into private homes with art collections. We need everyone to believe your being here is happenstance. Kismet.”
He nodded and took her hand, pulling it to his lips. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not enamored of you. You’re the inspiration for my next heroine.”
They would both be playing roles. This was, for better or for worse, about to become an op. Maybe she was a Valkyrie after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday dawned bright and hot, and the mantle of jet lag was lighter for Kira as she left the hotel to grab breakfast from a pastry vendor on a nearby side street. She messaged Rand, giving him her destination.
He’d accepted the boundaries she’d placed on his protective duties. First and foremost, she was here to find out about her father. Rand’s presence by her side could ruin that for her. They would play by the rules they’d agreed to—she was careful in her walking, turning often, ostensibly to marvel at the architecture, but really to see if she’d picked up a tail. She used reflective shop windows to her advantage as well as making sudden decisions to enter shops or take an about-face to examine a menu she’d passed or a sign she’d missed.
It took her twenty minutes to go just a few blocks, but she was certain she wasn’t being followed. The extra time and attention to her surroundings wasn’t a hardship. Valletta was utterly gorgeous, and she enjoyed the leisurely exploration. Plus, she’d selected several restaurants she wanted to dine at this week.
The pastizz—a local pastry filled with ricotta cheese—was crispy perfection that cost less than fifty cents American, given that euros to dollars currently were in her favor. She ate and sipped her coffee as she made her way down the street full of tourists out enjoying the day before it got too hot.
She approached the archaeology museum, which would open in ten minutes. She wanted to talk up the employees and find out if anyone knew her father. In Malta, art and archaeology were deeply intertwined, from The Sleeping Lady to other Neolithic works that were both art and artifacts.
The Sleeping Lady was the kind of artifact that her previous employers would have loved to license for their artifact replica retail chain. But Malta was too smart to let the Historie fox into the Neolithic hen house. Months ago, she’d known that if she never did anything else in her work as an art historian, having helped take down the retail chain was enough.
In a lot of ways, it even made her personal nightmare worth it.
But now she had a new quest. She would continue her father’s work tracking down art stolen by Nazis. Seeing those works repatriated would be so very satisfying.
Rand wasn’t following Kira, but he stayed in her orbit. The interior of the walled city was relatively small, making it easy for him to be within a few blocks of her at any given moment. She didn’t know he was tracking her phone, which triggered more than a little guilt.
Freya had suggested that there was another reason Kira didn’t want him close: She knew more about her father than she let on, and his activities in Malta hadn’t been legal.
