The most extraordinary object in the room, however, was the giant tapestry hanging on the wall behind her. It was unmistakably Turkish, and no less than three hundred years old. Filaments of dark crimson, blue, cream, and black flowed through the green fabric, invoking lush hills and pomegranate trees heavy with blossoms. In the center the thread formed a tiny mosque with a splendid domed roof and four gleaming minarets. The tapestry’s graceful arcs and arabesques danced around her poised figure, the green color in the fabric setting off her olive skin.
“No, perhaps not so remarkable,” he said, “but I’m sure it came as a shock to many that a quiet mid-level Romanian bureaucrat had such a passion. From what I gather, he managed to amass quite the collection before he died—furniture, books, artwork, jewelry, relics.”
He drew out the last word so that it lingered, haunting the space between them for a second before fading away.
If she reacted, he couldn’t tell. She instead returned to scrutinizing him. “What is it that you said you did, Mr. Mire?”
“Doctor Mire, actually. I’m a university professor in the States. I teach history, and I write books about medieval and Renaissance Eastern Europe.”
“And what interest does an American university professor have in the antique collection of a Romanian civil servant?”
He held his hand out to the sunlight coming in through the open window. Over the years, Adam Mire had learned to appreciate simple things such as being able to feel the warmth of the late summer sun on his skin or watch the light play on the leaves of trees like the lindens just outside the townhouse. Sometimes, he felt sorry. He could understand her reticence. He had all but barged into her home and made what most would see as outlandish accusations.
He returned his attention to the dim room. “I’m not interested in the collection per se—but then neither are you. You’ve been making inquiries into the whereabouts of a certain piece rumored to be part of the Iliescu estate. I’ve been making the same inquiries. I just happened to discover our mutual interest.”
“And this piece you’re speaking of?”
“A medallion. It’s the likeness of a dragon, formed into a circle with its tail wrapped around its neck. On the dragon’s back is a cross, and all around there is an inscription that says, ‘O Quam Misericors est Deus, Pius et Justus.’”
A cloud passed in front of the sun. The room grew darker and colder, and, if possible, even more still. The shadows reached across the floor toward him like grasping hands threatening to ensnare his feet. Instinctively, he backed away, but the sun reemerged, and the shadows retreated, though not exactly to where they had been. Around her they remained darker.
