Chapter 5 - The Man Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Julian Mercer didn't speak for almost a full minute.
His father, Daniel Mercer, had died in a private plane accident twenty-two years earlier.
Everybody in Boston knew the story.
The wreckage had been found off the coast of Maine.
No survivors.
The body had never been recovered.
Julian had inherited a trust at eighteen.
Evelyn became the public face of the family.
Daniel Mercer became a tragic footnote.
Until Victor Langley said four words.
“Your father is alive.”
Julian stared at him.
“You're lying.”
Victor's eyes were fixed on the microfilm.
“I wish I were.”
Owen stepped between them.
“Security, leave.”
The guards hesitated.
Victor nodded.
They exited.
The door closed.
Julian moved closer.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said—”
“I said he's alive. I didn't say I know where he is.”
Julian grabbed Victor's jacket.
I had never seen him lose control before.
“Julian,” I said.
He didn't hear me.
Owen did.
“Let him go.”
Victor wasn't fighting back.
That made it worse.
He looked almost relieved.
“Your father never boarded that plane.”
Julian released him.
Victor adjusted his collar.
“The crash was arranged.”
“By whom?”
“Daniel.”
“Why?”
“Because the ledger existed.”
Julian looked toward me.
Then at the microfilm.
Victor continued.
“Daniel was working with Malcolm Vane. They created private channels for artifacts removed from the Al-Rashid trust.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your father wasn't stealing sculptures for himself. He was brokering them.”
“To who?”
“Collectors.”
“How many?”
Victor looked at the capsule.
“That tells you.”
Julian sat down.
For the first time, he looked less like a billionaire than a boy whose father had just died a second time.
Leah watched him from across the room.
She walked over and quietly placed her battered library book beside him.
He looked down.
“What is this?”
“When I'm upset,” she said, “Mom tells me to hold something real.”
Julian looked at me.
I felt my throat tighten.
He rested his hand on the book.
“Thank you.”
Victor watched them.
Then said, “Thomas Carter discovered Daniel's network.”
I turned.
“My father knew?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't he expose him?”
“Because Daniel threatened you.”
My stomach dropped.
Victor continued.
“Thomas spent years gathering proof. Arthur Mercer agreed to help. Then Arthur died.”
“Did Daniel kill him?” Julian asked.
Victor shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“That's convenient.”
“I was afraid of Daniel too.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You expect sympathy?”
“No.”
“At least you're right about that.”
Victor looked at me.
“I helped falsify documents.”
There it was.
The first confession.
“I helped change the trust translation. I helped bury inventory discrepancies. And I spent twenty years telling myself I was protecting the museum.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
His answer surprised me.
“I was protecting myself.”
Silence.
Julian stood.
“Why tell us now?”
Victor looked toward the windows.
“Because Daniel contacted me three weeks ago.”
Owen stepped forward.
“How?”
“Encrypted email.”
“What did he want?”
Victor looked at Leah.
“That child.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“No.”
“He didn't ask for her physically.”
“Choose your words carefully.”
“He wanted to know whether Thomas taught her Arabic.”
Julian's eyes darkened.
“Why?”
Victor swallowed.
“Because Thomas hid something Daniel never found.”
“The ledger?”
“No.”
Victor looked at me.
“Something worse.”
I couldn't imagine worse.
Apparently, my father could.
“What?”
Victor shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You're lying again.”
“I'm not.”
He pointed to the microfilm.
“Read the ledger. You'll understand why Daniel is afraid.”
We left the museum through a private garage.
Julian insisted Leah and I not return home.
Normally I would have argued.
After the break-in, I didn't.
He arranged a suite at a hotel owned by a friend, registered under another name.
Leah thought the enormous bathtub was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to us.
I let her believe that for an hour.
Then, after she fell asleep, I met Julian and Owen downstairs.
The microfilm had been digitized.
There were 284 entries.
Artifacts.
Dates.
Prices.
Initials.
Account numbers.
Some names were coded.
Others weren't.
The numbers were staggering.
Millions transferred through foundations.
Private acquisitions.
Shell corporations.
Owen scrolled.
Then stopped.
“Here.”
Entry 119.
A carved ivory panel.
Removed October 3, 2001.
Buyer:
D.M.
Julian stared at the initials.
“Daniel Mercer.”
Owen shook his head.
“Look at destination.”
The destination was Boston.
Not overseas.
A private warehouse registered to Mercer Historical Holdings.
Julian frowned.
“That's one of our old companies.”
“Still exists,” Owen said.
“Where?”
“Chelsea.”
The warehouse had been untouched for twelve years.
We arrived the next morning with attorneys and private security.
Inside were hundreds of crates.
Most empty.
One wasn't.
A wooden crate marked AR-47.
Julian opened it.
Inside was not an artifact.
It was a file box.
Photographs.
Passports.
Bank records.
And a videotape labeled:
FOR J.M. ONLY
Julian.
His hands trembled.
We found an old monitor in the security office.
Owen connected the tape.
Static.
Then a man appeared.
Mid-forties.
Dark hair.
Same eyes as Julian.
Daniel Mercer.
Alive.
The recording date in the corner was 2015.
Eleven years after his supposed death.
Daniel looked directly into the camera.
“Julian.”
Julian gripped the desk.
“If you're seeing this, Thomas Carter failed to destroy the ledger.”
I turned toward the screen.
Daniel continued.
“You will be angry.”
A faint smile.
“You inherited that from me.”
Julian looked sick.
“But anger wastes time.”
Daniel leaned closer.
“The museum does not own the Al-Rashid collection.”
“We know that,” Julian whispered.
Daniel continued as if answering him.
“But neither do the families who signed the trust.”
Owen frowned.
“What?”
Daniel lifted a document.
“The artifacts were never the real purpose of the expedition.”
The image flickered.
“The collection was cover.”
Julian leaned forward.
“Cover for what?”
Daniel answered.
“For a document recovered beneath Al-Rashid in 1998.”
My skin went cold.
“A manuscript,” he said, “containing evidence about financial accounts created during the final years of the Cold War.”
I looked at Julian.
This was no longer archaeology.
Daniel continued.
“Thomas Carter took the original.”
My father.
“He believed it was too dangerous for any government or private family to possess.”
Daniel's expression hardened.
“He was wrong.”
The tape skipped.
Then Daniel said something that made me stop breathing.
“Thomas gave the manuscript to Rebecca.”
I stood.
“No.”
Julian looked at me.
“Rebecca?”
“I've never seen it.”
Daniel continued.
“She has had it for years without knowing what it is.”
My heart pounded.
Then the screen showed a photograph.
My kitchen.
My old apartment.
A familiar object circled in red.
Not a book.
Not a box.
A framed photograph my father had given me after Leah was born.
Dad holding baby Leah.
I had kept it on my bedside table for ten years.
Daniel's voice filled the room.
“The manuscript is behind the photograph.”
I felt dizzy.
The break-in.
They had searched the kitchen.
The notebooks.
The coffee tin.
But the photograph?
Our apartment.
The police.
Security.
Had anyone moved it?
I called the officer assigned to the break-in.
No answer.
I called our building manager.
“Rebecca?”
“Can you check my apartment?”
“Now?”
“Please.”
Five minutes later, he called back.
His voice sounded strange.
“Your door is open.”
My stomach dropped.
“Don't go inside.”
Too late.
“I already did.”
“Is the photograph beside my bed there?”
Silence.
Then:
“What photograph?”
I closed my eyes.
It was gone.
But the manager wasn't finished.
“Rebecca... there's someone here.”
“What?”
“A man.”
My blood froze.
“He says he's your father.”
For one insane second, the room tilted.
“My father is dead.”
The manager whispered:
“He told me you'd say that.”
Then another voice came through the phone.
Old.
Weak.
But unmistakable.
“Becky.”
The phone almost fell from my hand.
Because I knew that voice.
I had buried that voice three years earlier.
“Dad?”
He exhaled.
And said:
“Don't trust Julian Mercer.”
May you like
Then the call ended.
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