FI’s War Room was the complete antithesis of the sleek, structured, orderly layout of the main conference room. With floor-to-ceiling whiteboards on three of the four walls, “flexible furniture” like rolling chairs and small movable round tables, and sticky flip charts for Post-its and print-outs—both of which now filled the charts—the room practically vibrated with activity, a buzzing hive filled with worker bees.
Ryan was marching around and talking to the team when Claire came in and sank down into a chair. He took in her depleted state and frowned. “You look like hell. What happened with the tapestry fondling?”
“A lot.” She brushed damp strands of hair off her forehead, giving him a quizzical look. “Before I get into it, did you find out anything on Niall Dempsey?”
“Some, but there’s a huge roadblock there,” he replied, still eyeing Claire with concern. “Ostensibly, he’s pretty much as Fee described. But I’m finding a huge hole—lots of info on the Niall Dempsey of today, almost nothing on the Niall Dempsey of the past. It’s like he deliberately erased his life in Ireland.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. But I couldn’t get a clear picture of how or why.”
“Neither can we,” Emma said. “That’s as much as Ryan’s gotten so far.” Her brows drew together. “What do you mean by erased his life?”
“He came over from Ireland thirty-five years ago, in 1985, during the Troubles.” Ryan was referring to a particularly violent time in history when the Irish were battling the British for a unified Ireland. “He was twenty years old at the time. No red flags there; many people fled the country during that time. Plus, all that information is written up in articles about him in various business publications. It’s the before part I’m not getting any hits on.”
“Nothing at all on his pre-immigration years?” Marc asked, seeking clarification.
“Just the bare basics. It’s like searching for scattered breadcrumbs—breadcrumbs that were planted. A place and date of birth, complete with a birth certificate. That lists his mother’s name only, and it appears she’s deceased, with no background info of any kind. No reference to additional family—a father, siblings, anything. No milestones like residences, schooling, or jobs. I’m still researching to find specifics on his voyage over, but even there, I’m not finding a manifest that lists his name.”
“So he has something in his past to hide,” Casey said.
“Sure seems that way—and he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it.”
“Where was he born?” Patrick asked.
“Belfast—which would certainly explain why he was desperate to get out of the country. The fighting there was intense.”
“I’d like to hear his brogue,” Patrick responded. “As you know, I have an Irish background myself. If he’s really from Northern Ireland, he’ll speak quickly and with a more pronounced accent than, say, if he were from Dublin.” A shrug. “Then again, I’m sure he’s thought of that. My guess is he’s too smart to give himself away on something so simple. Still… Belfast is a big place. It’s like one of us saying we were born in New York City. That’s five boroughs and millions of people. Easy to get lost. You said the birth certificate named his mother. What about the hospital he was born in?”
Ryan shrugged. “One that doesn’t exist anymore and whose records can’t be found. So, yeah, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to suggest he’s hiding from his past. Which would gel with Claire’s assessment that there’s something dark there. I just don’t know what—yet. But I will.” Another glance at Claire, who had sunk down into a chair. “You’re really not okay, are you?”
“I’m fine, just drained,” she said. “And I have a lot to tell you guys, too.”
Casey had already crossed the room and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Ryan’s report had spawned a seed of an idea—one she wasn’t ready to get into with the team yet. She had to handle this just right. Besides, it was time to shift the focus to Claire.
“Drink,” she instructed as she handed the bottle to her, more concerned than usual because this was the second time tonight that Claire had been reduced to this state. She needed to hydrate, and she needed to regain her strength. Unfortunately, the recouping would have to wait. She knew it and so did Claire. So she didn’t insult her by suggesting it.
“You’re sapped,” she noted ruefully. “I wish I could tell you we can put this conversation off.”
“That’s not an option,” Claire replied, shaking her head. “I want to tell you everything while it’s still fresh in my mind.”
“How many of the panels did you handle?” Fiona asked eagerly.
“Only two.” Claire shook her head in self-deprecation. “I wanted to cover a lot more ground. But after what I experienced from touching those first two, I couldn’t go on. I’m so sorry. It’s just that nothing comes when my energy is drained.”
“Don’t apologize.” Fiona sat down beside her, her concern as real as her desire to know. “You were in there for hours. Which two panels did you handle?”
“The centerpiece and the panel with the Viking coins.” Claire went on to relay everything she’d experienced to Fiona and to the team.
“The farmhouse was the one you suggested belonged to your great-grandparents,” she concluded. “And the stone fence—the one he built—and the loose stones were on their property.”
Marc was standing, leaning back against a table that had papers strewn all over it, still in the sorting-out stage. “When you say buried alive, do you think there’s a dead body down there?” It wouldn’t have been the first time Claire had sensed exactly that and had turned out to be right.
She hesitated, weighing her answer. “I don’t think so. I didn’t sense a body. I felt as if I were in the ground. Which tells me I was experiencing the actual burial—of something, not someone.”
“The king’s treasure?” Casey asked.
“That would be my guess,” Claire replied. “But it’s just a guess, not a powerful sense of certainty. Hopefully that will come later, after I’ve handled some of the other panels, but not yet.”
“An Irish hoard,” Fiona breathed, her mind alive with realization.
Emma reacted to the excitement in Fiona’s tone. “What’s that?” she demanded.
“In essence? A buried treasure.” Fiona began pacing around, unable to stay still. “Claire’s images all fit. I never dreamed… but Rose used to talk about legendary archeological hoards from all different historical periods, treasures that were buried centuries ago and were still out there, unclaimed.”
Ryan arched a dubious brow. “Legendary doesn’t mean real.”
“Dozens of them have been discovered.” Fiona shot him a challenging look. “Which makes them very real. Who knows how many of the legendary ones are just as real?”
“Do the real ones have names? Where are they now? Where were they found? Who found them?” Emma was in true Emma form. But in this case, the rest of the team was right there with her, leaning forward to catch every word.
“I’m not an expert,” Fiona replied. “But there are a few that are pretty well known, and Rose talked about them. There’s the Broighter Hoard, which consists of all gold artifacts—I think Rose said from the first century BC. And there’s the Ardagh Hoard, which experts determined had been deposited around 900 AD. That one also had a chalice among its pieces. Both the Broighter and the Ardagh Hoards were recovered hundreds of years later, the former by a ploughman on a farm and the latter by a couple of kids digging in a potato field. I don’t remember which counties they were buried in, but I’m sure you can Google them to find out. As for where they are, I think they’re in the National Museum of Ireland.”
“This is fantastic,” Emma breathed. “It’s like living our very own Romancing the Stone.”
“And you’re right.” Ryan had been punching information into his iPhone browser. “They are real. Sorry, Fee.”
“You’re forgiven.” Fiona was way too exhilarated to feel smug about exacting an apology from her always-right brother. “Ry, do you understand what this means?” She waved her hands in excitement. “There must have been a Viking hoard buried on our great-grandparents’ land—and they discovered it.”
Casey had been digesting all this thoughtfully. “Even without Claire’s talent, I think we can assume that they didn’t turn it over to anyone. They brought it to New York with them.”
“Of course,” Fiona said defensively. “They sailed here in 1920, probably right after finding the hoard. As for turning it over, the Irish War of Independence was at its peak. They were probably terrified the British would find out about the hoard and fight to claim it. So they took it and fled.”
“Yet they never sold any of the pieces.” Patrick responded to Fiona’s reaction with a soothing reminder of the probabilities. “They wouldn’t have lived in Hell’s Kitchen as poor immigrants if they had. Nor would your great-grandmother have taken the time and trouble to weave these tapestries. Clearly, they wanted this hoard for their family. And if it was legendary, they most likely hid it for the same reason you just gave. They were frightened that someone would figure out it had been found, where it had been taken, and come after it.”
Marc frowned, bothered by the blatant holes in the explanation. “That makes sense, up to a point. But later, when they had a grown daughter, why didn’t they just tell her about this hoard and the tapestry panels? Why leave them in the memory box and say nothing? And on another note, how did they manage to get the hoard through customs? I know that, back then, the biggest concern the US had with the arrival of immigrants was disease, but surely a cache of gemstones, jewelry, and ancient coins would be confiscated.”
Fiona shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to any of those questions.”
“I’m going to do a little genealogy research,” Ryan said. “I’ve never been into that kind of stuff, but maybe I can find something to answer Marc’s first two questions, because they’re valid ones—ones that are bugging me, too.”
“I’m going to do a little digging of my own,” Patrick added, steepling his fingers on the table in front of him. “I’m really curious to see if I can use what Claire’s given us to locate information on this particular hoard. If it’s legendary, then it’ll probably show up on blogs, even websites that speculate on this subject. If I get lucky, I’ll find out more about it, especially what it’s called. Irish hoards are generally named after the places they were found, but in this case, that doesn’t apply since no one knows where it was discovered. Let me see what I can dig up.”
Claire lowered her bottle of water and sighed. “I wish I were making connections to all this. I wish I could regain my energy and find out what other images the tapestry panels offer me, since they might help you both in your research.” She rose. “I’m going to bow out of the War Room for a while if that’s okay. I need a change of scene to jump-start me. I’ll go home, have a cup of herbal tea and a shower. Sometimes my thoughts flow there. I’ll come back ASAP, hopefully with some answers and certainly ready to resume my work with a vengeance.”
“Go,” Casey replied. “In fact, I’m going to reverse my earlier decision about camping out here all night. It’s after one in the morning. I think we should take a few hours off. As much as I want to push us all to the max, we’re pretty depleted. Twenty-four seven sounds great in theory, but we’re not working at maximum effectiveness if we’re brain-dead. I’m personally at a standstill. My whole idea about creating a thread from the text and email contacts between Fiona and Rose was a waste of Yoda’s time. Glenna wrote all of Rose’s emails, since her employer never learned how to use a computer. All their interactions were either in person or on the phone. Hopefully, when I get back to work, I’ll have heard from Rose’s UK and New York City contacts.”
With that, she turned to Ryan, who was rumpled and red-eyed. “You look like death warmed over. Take Claire and Fiona home with you. Have a beer while Claire drinks her tea and Fiona has a well-deserved glass of wine. Then collapse and sleep, all three of you. Your iPhones will wake you up in four hours.” She scanned the rest of the room. “That applies to all of you. Patrick, go home to your wife. You, too, Marc. At least remind them what you look like. Emma, get reacquainted with your bed. Hero abandoned us an hour ago for his. We’ll reconvene at six a.m.”
“At the latest,” Ryan replied. “I’ve got to stay ahead of the bad guys, especially their computer guy.”
“Fine. Good night, everyone.” Casey shooed them out. “See you before dawn.”
Casey waited for the last of them to leave. Then, she locked up and engaged the Hirsch pad, peeking outside just long enough to ensure Patrick’s security detail was in place. Yup. As always. Patrick didn’t make mistakes like that.
She went up to the third floor, where she locked Claire’s yoga room from the outside.
Privacy ensured. Just in case. She couldn’t have Hutch walking by and spotting the tapestries. And since she planned on getting him here now, this precaution was necessary.
She pulled out her cell phone and called him.
“Hey, stranger,” he answered. “I thought we weren’t going to make a habit of these long nights apart.”
“That’s why I’m calling. Could you come over now, or are you already tucked in for the night?”
Hutch chuckled. “Is this a booty call?”
“That’s exactly what it is. I sent the team home for a breather. We’re reconvening at six. That gives us a few hours to—”
“I’m on my way.”