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THE ANTIQUE WEAPONS COLLECTOR recommended by Professor Carson owned several acres along the Delaware River in the Bridesburg section of Philadelphia, slightly north of the Betsy Ross Bridge. Zan pulled over on Richmond Street to go over the background check the clerk had included with her copy of the consulting agreement.
Rainer Barakiel, 33, had immigrated to the United States from Germany nine years previous. The owner of several offshore companies, he was known for his philanthropy, especially his support of the Philadelphia Orchestra. The man spent a lot of money on violins as well, the kind that had names. More to the point, he collected antique bladed weapons. Her information did not include a picture. Zan wondered what a guy who collected violins and weapons would look like.
Probably nerdy.
When she arrived at the address she paused to take it in. The place could withstand a siege. It was ringed by a high stone wall in front of a line of thick hedges and black alders, with a stand of cherry trees at the western boundary. It sat behind some kind of disused industrial facility, with a few small businesses along its southern side. The northern boundary was the old course of the Frankford Creek, with the river to the east.
Zan drove through the open gateway to find a modern building made of glass and mismatched wood that extended almost all the way to the river. Two small outbuildings sat beside it. She figured living on a former industrial site was a small price to pay for all that space and privacy, and those beautiful cherry trees just beginning to bloom.
The front of the main building had a set of double wooden doors and a smaller entrance to the side with the bell. She rang.
When the door opened, Zan forgot she was supposed to speak. He was gigantic, she guessed nearly seven feet, with broad shoulders and a lithe, athletic build. High cheekbones framed a fine patrician nose. Full lips complemented a strong jaw. A few strands of unruly blond hair fell over eyes that seemed to be several shades of blue at once. They drew her in with more than their beauty, as if they hid something primeval, just barely restrained. He smiled. Her face felt hot.
What the hell. Don’t be such a fool.
“Um, hello, I’m Special Agent Alexandra O’Gara of the FBI.” She stuck out her hand. “My office made an appointment.”
“Yes. I’m Rainer Barakiel. A pleasure to meet you.”
His voice was deep and rich. He spoke with a slight accent. When he shook her hand, she held it too long. She still felt flushed.
“I, um, I appreciate you taking the time for this, Mr. Barakiel.”
“I’m happy to help.”
God, so lame. He must have to deal with swooning women all the time, but I doubt he expected it from an FBI agent.
Turning gracefully, he showed her through the door. Zan tried not to stare at the way his jeans fit his hips or the contours of his muscles beneath his gray cashmere sweater. Gripped by a strong urge to run her hands all over him, she was lucky his place was filled with fascinating things to distract her. Antiques and art were arranged tastefully in the open space, among brown leather couches and chairs and colorful woven rugs. Pale sun from high skylights glinted off a sunburst mosaic above the mantle of a concrete fireplace. Zan tried to concentrate on her surroundings, at least until her pulse slowed down.
“What a fantastic place.”
“Thank you.” He dipped his head in an old-fashioned display of manners that she found charming.
“This whole property is great. What was it used for, before you lived here?”
“The land was part of the old Rohm and Haas Chemical plant you can still see as you enter. The facility was shut down in 2010. Dow owns it now.”
“I wish more people would reclaim these abandoned places by the river. Most of it just goes to waste. Meanwhile, they’re developing Chester County farmland.”
“Yes.” He looked at her intensely. “I felt good about redeveloping a brownfield. I had to do a lot of remediation, but now it’s an excellent place to live.”
“All you need now is for the city to buy the front parcel and turn it into a park.” Zan gave him her best sunny smile, with an openness she knew made people trust her.
“That would be ideal,” he replied, “but I’m not holding my breath.” He returned her smile.
My god, you’re beautiful. How are you that beautiful? Why am I here? The knives.
“Um, I assume Professor Carson told you about the knives.” Zan held up the case. “Daggers, I think. Did he explain where we found them?”
“Superficially, yes.”
“Well, someone conducted some kind of ritual in Independence National Historical Park. We wouldn’t be that concerned with weird people doing weird things at night, but we found a human spleen. We tested the DNA and ran it through the database and discovered that the spleen came from a body found this past winter by the Philadelphia police. All its internal organs had been removed. The police called us because they thought it might involve organ trafficking, but we never found evidence of it, so we weren’t much help. No one ever filed a missing persons report on this man. Philly PD was never able to identify the corpse, let alone solve the crime.”
“Disturbing,” he said.
“Very. We thought if you could tell us something about the knives it might give us some insight into what the whole thing was about, maybe generate a lead. They look old, and Professor Carson said you are an expert in antique bladed weapons.”
“Yes. I collect them. I’ve learned a lot over the years.”
“Let’s take a look,” Zan said. He led her to a heavy carved table to the left near the kitchen area. She opened the case and laid the daggers out on a cloth. After he leaned down to scrutinize them, he said they were ceremonial daggers and asked if he could pick them up. Zan told him that because they were evidence, he would need to wear latex gloves. She handed him a pair. He tried to put one on for a minute, then frowned at her.
“I’m sorry. It’s too small.”
Zan stared at his hands. They were huge, but not meaty. They looked like they could crush a man’s skull, but also assemble a fine Swiss watch.
Or maybe gently touch me.
The heat rose to her face again. He lifted an eyebrow.
“You can use the glove like a handkerchief and pick it up that way,” she said, fixing her gaze on the floor.
Picking up a dagger, he held it level with his eyes. When he had done the same to all four and they were back in the case, he motioned Zan closer and directed her to lean down. He showed her the intricate motifs and the manner in which the blades were joined to the hilts. He explained that from these features, he could determine that the blades were ceremonial, made in France in the late 19th century. She struggled to listen to what he was saying. That impossible face was so close, and she could smell him. He smelled like a pristine forest in the spring.
“What kind of ritual was it?” he asked. “These daggers would’ve been used for a variety of civil ceremonies. They’re valuable as antiques, but they’re not real weapons.”
“We haven’t really explored the ritual yet. We’ve been concentrating on the spleen.” Zan shook her head. “That sounds odd, doesn’t it?”
“It’s an odd situation.”
“Would it help if I showed you some crime scene photos?”
He rubbed his chin. “I might be able to say whether the daggers were related to the ritual.”
“That could be helpful. May I bring them by?” Zan asked, failing to disguise her pleasure at the idea.
“I leave for a business trip tomorrow morning. Can you come back later today?”
“Yes, I think so.” She paused to consider. “I need to remind you that you can’t discuss anything about this with anyone. Did you read the agreement?”
“Yes. I understand that I’ve agreed to keep all this confidential.”
“Good. I should be able to come back around 7:00.”
“I’ll be here. In the meantime, if I may take some photos of these daggers, I can send a few emails. My contacts may be able to discover their provenance.”
“That would be fantastic, but don’t reveal they were used in a crime,” Zan said. He nodded and began to snap pictures of the knives with his phone.
“I have to say, Professor Carson was right,” Zan added. “I’m amazed you were able to identify a time period and a use for those in just a few minutes. I would love to have that kind of expertise. I know a lot about guns because it comes with the job, but I love edged weapons. They’re so elegant.”
“Yes.” He looked at her intensely again. “Would you like to see my collection? I rarely get to show it off.”
“It’s here?”
“Of course.”
“I’d love to.”
Just great, O’Gara. One handsome face and you toss your professionalism right out the window.
He led her behind the open kitchen to an ultra-modern staircase of black and silver and honey-toned wood leading to a mezzanine lined with bookshelves. Zan enjoyed following him up the stairs.
Look at that ass. That ass is perfect.
They walked along the mezzanine to a big sunny room at the back. Zan stood gaping when they entered. Save for several large windows, every square foot of the stucco walls was hung with bladed weapons: axes, pikes, halberds, and swords, mostly swords, in more styles and sizes than Zan knew existed. Wood and glass cases filled with daggers and other small blades sat at the far ends, with an island of leather couches and chairs left of center, rimmed around a thick Persian rug in velvety red.
“This is the coolest room I have ever seen,” she said. He chuckled and thanked her.
That was adorable. God. Get ahold of yourself.
“So, um, Mr. Barakiel, what kind of time span do these weapons represent?” she asked.
“Please, call me Rainer.”
Zan flushed and looked up at him. He still had that adorable look on his face, like a little boy showing someone his secret clubhouse. Before she gave a thought to what she was doing, she had asked him to call her Zan.
“All right, Zan.” He uttered her name in a tone so resonant she wished she could hear him say it over and over. “In answer to your query, my earliest dates from the 8th century, a Saxon sword that I keep in an airtight case.” He gestured toward the left-hand wall. “My most recent, this here, was delivered just last month from Watanabe Korehiro, one of the last master sword makers in Japan.”
“A work of art.” Zan surveyed the sword from different angles. “Do you have favorites?”
“The swords. My favorites are always changing. I loan them to museums on occasion. When they come back I usually become interested in them again.”
“Any favorites at the moment?”
“A few. Here’s my perennial favorite.”
Rainer walked several steps to the right and pointed to a simple, heavy broadsword hanging about six feet up the wall, a huge blade of bluish metal that gleamed dully, like platinum.
“I’ve never seen a sword that big, or metal like that. When was it made?”
“The 15th century. The sword maker was ahead of his time. This steel alloy is immensely strong. Would you like to take a closer look? It’s a superlative weapon.” Rainer reached to take the sword off the wall. He held it out to her.
“Can I touch it without gloves? It must be so expensive.”
“You can’t harm it.”
Zan took the blade with both hands and did a simple block stance, then a thrust. Rainer raised both his eyebrows.
“I’m surprised you can lift that to shoulder level.”
“I’m a strong woman.”
“I can see that.” The way he looked at her made Zan almost drop the sword. She adjusted her grip.
“This sword is unbelievably well-balanced.”
“Exactly.”
Did I just impress him? God, I hope so.
“Ah, see now,” Zan said. “My arms are getting tired, so you weren’t far from right. I could never actually use this sword.” She pivoted and held it out to him with a slight bow. “Your sword, sir.”
Rainer smiled as he took it. Zan realized he hadn’t been smiling before, not a real smile. This time it was like strong sunlight falling on a person who’d been trapped in the bitter cold.
“You’re trained?” he asked.
“A little. I used to study kendo in college, Japanese sword fighting, but I don’t have the time now. For the job, we’re mostly trained in firearms, but we get a decent amount of training in hand-to-hand, some other weapons. How about you? Is your interest more than aesthetic?”
“Yes. I’ve studied the fighting arts since I was a child.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
Rainer tilted his head and regarded her, his lips pressed together.
He doesn’t know what to make of me. I don’t know what to make of him either, but oh, those lips. I better get away from this man. I’m on duty.