Chapter Twenty-Eight
Charlotte
The plane carrying Charlotte and Annie chased the sunrise back to New York, landing in a wash of yellows and oranges. Charlotte was distraught she’d had to leave Cairo so quickly; the timing couldn’t have been worse. There were still so many unanswered questions about Henry and Layla—his whereabouts, what had happened the night of the sinking and in the intervening years, where on earth Layla was—but at the moment, capturing the thief of the Cerulean Queen had to come first. They would only have one chance, and retaining the element of surprise was of the utmost importance.
Back in Egypt, after Annie had shown Charlotte the photograph at the Farid Gallery, Charlotte had looked at her in confusion. But when Annie explained—and once again Charlotte thanked her lucky stars that the girl had invited herself on this trip—it all began to fall into place. Charlotte had spun into action, talking rapidly to the police and Omar in Arabic, making several calls to New York, and then sprinting to their hotel to collect their things before taking the next direct flight out.
After passing through customs, they caught a cab and proceeded to the Met. At the information desk, Charlotte wrote a quick note, and then she and Annie walked to the Met’s auditorium. Inside, the curator of the Arms and Armor department stood behind a dais on the stage, describing an Italian suit of armor from the fourteenth century to a room that was only about a quarter filled, mainly with women. Charlotte handed the note to an usher standing at the back of the room, and Annie pointed out to whom it should be delivered. As the intern strode down the aisle, Charlotte and Annie slipped out of the auditorium and proceeded to the Temple of Dendur gallery. They weaved around the rope and stanchions that blocked the entrance with a “Closed to the Public” sign attached and waited, tucked behind the huge stone gate that stood directly in front of the temple. The once brilliantly painted walls and columns had long ago faded, leaving only the outlines of bygone pharaohs and gods carved in sandstone.
Less than two minutes later, a woman walked into the gallery.
“Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone here? I was told to report to the Temple of Dendur?”
Charlotte stepped from behind the gate, followed by Annie. They waited in the temple’s courtyard as the woman approached, looking confused.
She was the same docent trainee who had helped her friend through a disastrous presentation about the Cerulean Queen two weeks prior, the one who had mouthed answers from the back of the room.
The one named Mona.
“What’s going on?” Mona stood perfectly straight in her Chanel tweed suit, her words echoing in the spacious gallery.
Back in Cairo, once Annie had explained to Charlotte that the woman standing next to Heba in the photograph was one of the Met’s docent trainees, Charlotte realized that she had seen her, albeit briefly, standing near her and Frederick during an error-filled history of the Cerulean Queen in the Egyptian Art collection, the same statue this woman later arranged to have stolen during the Met Gala. And now they were face-to-face. Everything depended on this single conversation.
“Mona. I’m Charlotte Cross, as you know.”
“I’m sorry, how would I know you?” Mona’s expression was one of polite interest.
“You arranged to steal my research folder.” Mona opened her mouth to deny it, but Charlotte cut her off. “I don’t know why. I don’t care. I just want it back.”
“I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you don’t mind, I’ll head back to my lecture now.” She turned to go.
“I’d stick around if I were you. We know you were behind the theft of the Cerulean Queen.”
Mona turned back. A small muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. “I heard about the theft. A terrible loss,” she said.
“We’re aware that you’re involved with Ma’at, along with Leon Pitcairn.”
At the mention of Leon’s name, Mona stiffened. She glanced back and forth between Annie and Charlotte, her composure rattled. “How do you know Leon?”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” said Charlotte. “I care about my file, nothing else.”
“Your file. Even if I did have it, why would I give it back to you?”
“Because otherwise I will tell Mr. Lavigne that you were behind the theft of the Cerulean Queen. Look, as far as I’m concerned, it should be on Egyptian soil, I don’t care if the Met never gets it back,” she lied. “What I do care about is my career, and that file, as you know, is vitally important.”
Mona looked around the courtyard, as if assessing whether it was safe to speak. “It looks like we each have something to hold over the other. How do I know if I give you back the file that you’ll keep your mouth shut?”
“You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.” Charlotte looked at Annie. “Trust us.”
Mona looked Annie up and down. “I thought you were banned from this place.”
“I’ve been assisting Charlotte.”
Mona let out a breezy laugh. “Good luck with that. Mrs. Vreeland is ruing the day she ever hired you.”
The direct approach wasn’t working, so Charlotte would try a different tack. “In any event, Ma’at appears to be shaking up the stodgy art world. I’m curious, what exactly is Ma’at up to? It’s not as if they can place a stolen work in an Egyptian museum without international outcry. Why bother?”
“Why bother? How would you feel if your beloved Constitution was on display in the Soviet Union? You’d want it back, right?”
She had a point. “I suppose so.”
Charlotte’s concession appeared to embolden Mona. “Ma’at is named for the Egyptian goddess of truth and justice. Our country has either given away or sold off some of its most important treasures, and Ma’at is fighting for the repatriation of Egyptian art and antiquities from those who plundered our past.” The more she spoke, the more animated she became, clearly thrilled to toss off the docent-trainee guise. “We see no difference between objects that were smuggled out and those that were looted with the full approval of the government. They all belong to the people. They should be in the Egyptian homeland, not flaunted in the trophy cases of museums like the Met.”
If Mona had her way, the only way to view the Benin bronzes or an Egyptian stela would be to go to the countries themselves. What a shame that would be for scholars and educators, or for children who would lose the chance to see actual antiquities from around the world up close. For Mona, there were no shades of gray whatsoever. Yet after Charlotte’s conversations on the subject with Annie while they were in Egypt, she’d come to understand that there were no easy answers to the question of repatriation.
Annie spoke up. “Are you the one who called the Museum of Natural History and told them to switch the butterflies for moths?”
This seemed like the least pressing of questions, but Charlotte kept quiet.
Mona laughed. “When Priscilla told me about your little project, I figured it would make the perfect distraction. And you pulled it off brilliantly. What an absolute travesty.”
“I’m guessing that you and your husband are the donors behind the loan of the broad collar,” said Charlotte. “Weren’t you worried that would attract undue attention, considering you were planning a major heist?”
Mona was obviously proud of what they’d done and eager to show off. “In order to steal the statue, I needed to gain inside access to the museum, and the best way to do so was by securing a place in the docent-training course—that way I could roam freely. The waiting list at the Met was ridiculously long, so the one-year loan was a way to fast-track my application, bump me to the head of the line. Then it was just a matter of figuring out when to pull our plan off. Unfortunately, you started asking questions, which made me think you needed to be put in your place.”
“So you stole my research file.”
Mona gave a catlike smile.
“How did you get into the administrative offices? And how did you even know about it in the first place?”
“Mr. Lavigne complained about your research when we had coffee one day. Before the Met Gala, when the Egyptian wing had cleared out, I persuaded one of the Lebanese janitors to let me in. It was easy enough to convince him that I was a curator and had forgotten my key with a little Arabic sweet talk. I figured I’d steal something valuable of yours so you could see what that feels like.”
Touché , thought Charlotte. “Where did you get the broad collar?”
“What do you care about that?”
“It’s a beautiful piece. I’m curious.”
Mona puffed with pride. “After my parents separated when I was a baby, my mother ran the Farid Gallery in Cairo and my father took over the branch in Geneva,” said Mona. “I’d visit him during the summer, but I rarely went outside—the other children were cruel to me. Instead, I entertained myself with what I found around the house. One day, I pulled out a drawer in his study and found it tucked way in the back. I put the collar around my neck, pretended at playing princess. When he caught me, I’d never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to murder me.
“As I grew older, I realized his hypocrisy. This respected antiquities dealer who spoke out against the black market had a hidden treasure. A few years ago, I went to visit and took it with me when I left. He arrived in Egypt not long after, searching for me. He was furious, not only because of what I’d done, but because he suspected I’d gotten involved in Ma’at and didn’t approve. When he finally tracked me down in Luxor, he demanded it back, but I laughed in his face, told him he should go to the police if he wanted it so badly.”
“How did your father acquire the broad collar in the first place?” Charlotte’s heart raced as she tried to process what Mona was saying.
Mona shrugged. “No idea. Never bothered to ask. It was a means to an end. We dangled it in front of Mr. Lavigne at the Met, had a forger produce some foolproof fake documentation, and soon enough, the Met agreed to the loan.”
“Why did the other children tease you?” asked Annie.
Another waste of a question, but Mona’s expression turned ugly. Annie had hit a nerve. “When they heard me speaking with my father, they said I must be adopted.”
“Why?” Charlotte straightened.
“Our accents are different. I was raised in Egypt speaking Arabic, but my father wasn’t. They laughed when I spoke with my strange accent.”
“Where was your father raised?” Charlotte tried to sound cavalier, not desperate.
“He was born in England.”
With shaking fingers, Charlotte reached into her handbag and pulled out the ripped photo of Henry. The same one that had sent Heba running into the back of the store to find a pair of glasses she didn’t need.
“Is this your father?” Charlotte asked.
Mona stared at the photograph, taking it from Charlotte’s hand to study it closer. “Yes, when he was younger, though. Where did you get this?”
“He was my husband,” Charlotte said simply. “Henry Smith.”
Mona shook her head. “My father’s name is Darius Farid.”
Charlotte stared at Mona, momentarily at a loss for words. Three years ago, Henry had argued with Leon about his daughter, and also had a confrontation with Mona.
Mona, his daughter.
Charlotte guessed that Mona was probably around the same age as Layla would be. Yet as much as she tried, she didn’t feel any kind of connection with the rigid woman standing opposite her. Wouldn’t a mother recognize her daughter, even after so many years? Wouldn’t there be some kind of pheromone or something that drew them together? Charlotte studied Mona’s features, trying to see if there was any resemblance at all. She had her father’s ears, visible when she tucked her hair back. But what of Charlotte?
“Darius Farid is Henry Smith,” Annie said.
Charlotte gathered herself. “This is uncomfortable to bring up; I’m not sure how to say it. Henry—Darius—and I had a child together. A child I never saw again, a child who was only three months old when she and Henry disappeared. I’ve been looking for her. She would be around your age, I’m guessing.”
The color drained from Mona’s face. Charlotte imagined the thoughts that were swirling through Mona’s head: What if she was the daughter of Henry and Charlotte? What if her strident patriotism for Egypt was all wrong and, in fact, she had no Egyptian blood in her at all?
What an awful reunion, if that was true. A mother and daughter staring at each other, an intractable void between them. A far cry from the tear-filled hugs that Charlotte had envisioned the few times she’d allowed herself to imagine such a thing.
If it was true, then Charlotte wished she’d never known.