Niall paced around his living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It was his second since arriving home. He needed to be alone, to think, to clear his mind and come up with a strategy.
How much did Cobra know? Certainly not all that Niall did, not when he’d made a career out of studying the legends of Irish hoards. Those hoards were secreted treasures from centuries past, stolen or coveted, buried to be recovered later—a later that often never happened, leaving the hoards hidden and unclaimed. His fascination for them had increased as the years passed and he’d become a collector of ancient pieces of jewelry, coins, and other valuable artifacts. He read incessantly about them, following their history the way some people followed the stock market. He was well aware that the majority of the legends were just yarns passed down from generation to generation. Still, a large enough number had been recovered over the years—enough to make studying them both fascinating and purposeful.
Then came those two mind-blowing events that had taken place a year ago, one right after the other, too powerful to be coincidental.
The first occurred when he was browsing the streets of SoHo where an art fair was taking place. Everything from the works of small artisans to higher-priced works were on display. He never knew whether it was pure chance or divine providence that made him round the street corner and turn his head at that moment. But there, among the other canvas paintings, was the one he’d seen in Belfast.
His initial reaction was a knife in his gut, as the memories cut through him. But there was another, more overriding feeling, based on years of research and a knowledge that hadn’t been there before.
He didn’t take the time to scrutinize the details to ensure authenticity. Too risky. Someone else might purchase the painting and he couldn’t let that happen.
He’d bought it on the spot and brought it home, where he could look as he saw fit.
On the heels of his purchase came the second startling interaction.
He’d been having a Guinness at Quinn’s, minding his own business, when he’d heard a bunch of mates drinking at the bar, laughing and talking about some hoard that turned out to be nonexistent after countless people had spent decades turning their lives upside down trying to unearth it. The guys had all agreed that much of this hoard talk was a crock of shit, and they’d gone back to their drinking.
But at the far end of the bar was a weathered old sailor, drunk as a skunk, who kept muttering that they were wrong, that the hoard with the king’s treasures was real, that the Vikings had stolen it and buried it, that he knew it was true, that he knew the hoard was real, that someone had found it, taken it… He kept repeating the last part over and over, going on to mutter about spilled rubies and emeralds and diamonds, and Niall could have sworn he heard the word chalice slurred in the long string of phrases. But he couldn’t be sure.
He’d slid onto the stool beside the old guy and bought him another pint, then asked him what he’d been talking about. What treasure had the Vikings stolen? What hoard had been dug up? And how did he know about it?
The sailor had downed the beer, looking at Niall with bloodshot eyes and heavy lids. “The hoard’s real, all right,” he’d muttered. “Heard it from m’daddy. Came over from Ireland in 1920. The hoard was there.”
“There? On the ship? Did he see it?” Niall’s heart was pounding. “Did he actually have it?”
The sailor barked out a laugh. “Would I be sittin’ here, poor as a church mouse and drinkin’ a hole in my gut if he had?” He shook his head, half falling onto the counter as he did. “No, but he knew it was on the ship he came over on and that whoever had it planned on settlin’ down in New York. Good listener, my daddy. He knew.”
Niall had mulled that over carefully. The timeline fit. The hoard had reputedly been whisked away and brought to New York in the early 1900s. No one knew where it had been found or by whom. Or where it was now.
If it was the hoard he’d been reading about all these years.
“You said rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and a chalice?”
“Yup.” Another healthy swallow. “Other stuff, too. Don’t remember it all.”
“Did this hoard have a name?” Niall asked.
“’Course. They all do. Even the fake ones. But this one’s real.” A few deep swallows of Guinness. “The Vadrefjord Hoard.”
That was all the validation Niall had needed.
Now, he put down his glass of whiskey and left the living room, going directly to his private study.
The painting was hanging on the short wall hidden by the door. Secreting it there was probably a ridiculous precaution. He met with many real estate people here, true, but not a single one of them would have given the painting a second glance. The awareness of its significance belonged to him.
He clasped his hands behind his back as he studied the painting for the umpteenth time, having long since memorized details that far surpassed his initial viewing of it back in Belfast.
The battle depicted between the Vikings and the Irish was ferocious. One could almost hear the clash of swords and the screams of the fallen. In the background were the ghostly outlines of an abbey, shrouded in fog and mist. Next to the abbey was a small graveyard with the faint outlines of the distinctive Celtic crosses. But it was a lower image in the painting that told the story.
There lay the slain king. His priceless treasure was strewn on the ground, partially hidden by his body. Gemstones, gold and silver coins, pieces of jewelry, all spilling out of a golden chalice and tumbling down a small rise. And there, caught in action, was a dark figure, barely visible and reaching for the treasure, shovel in hand and a partly dug hole.
The Battle of Bawncullen was scribbled in Gaelic at the bottom of the painting, a vivid memory that had been emblazoned in his mind from that first moment in Belfast.
No artist’s signature. Just those four words.
Bawncullen, Niall’s research had told him, was one of the settlements the Vikings had invaded and claimed during their ninth-century invasion of Ireland. It was located in Waterford, then Vadrefjord, a seaport in southeast Ireland and the country’s oldest city.
Niall had found no hint of research that told him the hoard had originally been buried there, or anywhere in the entire County Waterford. The dark figure, shovel, and partly dug hole were clearly symbolic rather than actual. Not that it mattered. If his research, along with the old sailor’s claim, was correct, the Vadrefjord Hoard was no longer in its original burial spot, but right here in New York.
And that damn tapestry Rose Flaherty had been researching for Fiona McKay somehow held the key.
The tapestries had to have been bequeathed to her. Her great-grandparents had come over from Ireland in 1920, obviously on the same ship as the old sailor’s father. Which meant they either had the hoard or had enough contact with whoever did to weave its story. He was convinced the former was the case. He was equally convinced that none of the McKays had any idea of this, or they would have recovered the treasure and either bettered their life significantly by keeping it or, more likely, have turned it over to somewhere like the National Museum of Ireland.
Either way, the news of the hoard’s recovery would have blasted into the headlines.
So it was still out there. And Fiona was now working with Forensic Instincts. He had no intention of sitting back and following their lead. He had to get a step ahead, so he, not they, would be the one to claim the treasure.
It was time to light a fire under his computer kid’s ass.
***
Claire’s yoga room was sparsely furnished and utterly peaceful. Shutting her door to the rest of the world, lighting a few soft candles, and sinking down onto her mat in lotus position—the whole ritual was a true Zen experience.
She closed her eyes, taking some time to breathe, to relax, to release the tension that was rippling through her, to ready herself for the task ahead.
When the time was right, she leaned forward, spread out the tapestries on the thicker mat in front of her, and reached for the panel that had been calling out to her from the start—the center panel.
Her fingers lightly traced the woven fabric, literally tingling as they did.
She closed her eyes again, letting the energy flow.
The bejeweled crown. The throne.
She gasped with surprise as a connection she’d never expected took hold.
Violent images. A Viking invasion. A vicious battle. A king stabbed through—a high Irish king, just as Rose’s Post-it had read.
Death. Death. Death.
Claire flinched at the jolt of pain that shot through her. Reflexively, she jerked her fingers away and then repositioned them, instead lingering on the gemstones. A veritable treasure. Precious jewels, coins, broaches. All of it spilling out of a chalice and onto the ground, mingling with the high king’s blood. A chalice. Not a trophy or a goblet. A chalice—one that glistened like the sun amid a kaleidoscope of color.
So much beauty. So much darkness and death.
Her fingers shifted once again, gliding over the Tree of Life, and abruptly, all the painful images vanished, replaced by a surge of positive energy.
Hope. A bright future. A fresh start. And a sense of immortality.
The border of the tapestry, and its ambiguous funnel shape, commanded Claire’s attention, and she moved her fingers there.
It was a continuum of the feeling she’d just been experiencing, and it corresponded exactly with the archeology textbook page Rose had sent Fiona.
The symbol: “light at the end of the tunnel.” More new beginnings, fresh starts, endless spiraling into immortality. Interspersed with that was the paragraph on the second page Rose had sent Fiona: The spiral signifies light and the upside-down U signifies a tunnel or a dark place.
This center panel epitomized the juxtaposition between death and life.
With a huge intake of breath, Claire opened her eyes and gently set aside the panel. She’d absorbed all she could from this magnificent centerpiece for now.
Still energy-charged, she studied the other panels, pursing her lips as she chose the one to handle next. It had to be one she had yet to touch. Not only because it would hopefully bring a fresh perspective but also because the two panels that had been hanging in the McKays’ house were tainted by her earlier reactions. She intentionally wanted to experience this first round of tactile explorations as they were meant to be conveyed by Fiona’s great-grandmother, not as they were defined by Rose’s murder and the events that had followed. She might find she had no choice, as her insights came at will, but she had a better chance of accomplishing her goal with the panels that had been stored away in the attic, unseen and untouched—for now.
Her gaze fell on the panel with the Viking coins.
She now understood their connection to the center panel. The Viking battle and coins.
But what was their connection to the rest of the tapestries?
She pulled the panel closer and put her hands on it.
A flash of greenery. A brick farmhouse. A stone fence. Loose stones. The outline of a shovel. And then she was abruptly engulfed in darkness, unable to breathe. Panic surged through her, but she held on, trying to go with it. It was impossible. Her lungs were screaming for air and she had none to offer.
It was as if she’d been buried alive.
She yanked her hands away, sweat trickling down her back, as she dragged huge breaths into her body.
It took long minutes for her breathing to resume and for the pounding in her chest to ease. Both were replaced by a deep, wringing fatigue.
She couldn’t move on to the next panel, not now. She was way too drained to absorb anything more. On the other hand, she had no intention of giving in to sleep. She had too much to report to the team.
She glanced at the time, stunned to see that two hours had passed.
On shaky legs, she rose, glancing ruefully at the tapestries.
Then, she walked out, headed for the War Room.