“The mole is Marilyn Carstairs,” I told her.
She grinned, the kind of grin a cobra shows a mouse. “Oh, I know. I’ve got some plans for her.”
“We handled her too,” Helen put in.
Naomi’s brows rose. “Permanently?”
“We locked her in a compartment with a man who was missing his head,” Mary Alice said. “Muric’s courier. Marilyn will be sitting in a cell by now, trying to explain that to the Montenegrin police.”
Naomi gave a soundless whistle. “Permanent enough.”
“Will you get her out?” I asked.
Naomi made her expression carefully blank. “Get who out? I’m afraid I don’t know anybody in Montenegro.”
Chapter closed on Marilyn Carstairs, then. She had set us up to die and had been perfectly content with the murders of Lilian Flanders and Jovan Muric’s henchman. I was okay with her being tossed into a Montenegrin jail. If the conditions didn’t kill her, Muric’s connections probably would. Word travels fast in the Balkans. There was always a chance I might feel bad about it later, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t.
I reached into the pocket of my jacket and pulled out a small navy blue Smythson notebook. I held it out to Naomi.
“Pasha Lazarov’s planner. I know we’ve wrapped everything up here, but maybe your department can find something useful in his business contacts. It belongs in Provenance.”
She took it and dropped it into her bag. “Thank you. But we haven’t wrapped everything up here. I still don’t know exactly what Marilyn and Galina were doing on this train. If they were in business together, we’ve got to clean that up. No loose ends.”
“I think we can help with that,” I told Naomi. I gestured towards Helen and she dropped the backpack gently at myfeet. She held it open while Mary Alice pulled out the case. She handed it to me, and I opened it. I didn’t have to say a word. Naomi had been in Provenance all of her career. She knew everything about the ones that had gotten away.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. She put out a hand to touchLeda, just as I had. And just as I had, she drew back reverently. “Where has she been?”
I shrugged. “With Jovan Muric, most recently. Before that, who knows?”
“We’re officially handing her over to you for repatriation,” Mary Alice said.
Naomi nodded. “The family she was looted from is in Stockholm now. I’ll see to it they get her back before I go back stateside.”
“What about us?” Nat asked.
“What about you?”
“Marilyn Carstairs gets a heaping helping of Montenegrin justice. The family in Sweden gets their painting back. What do we get? I mean, I just got flung off a train and nearly killed. Mary Alice and Helen are bleeding all over the place, and the way Billie is holding her side, I’m guessing she’s got broken ribs—”
Naomi held up a hand. “Point taken. What do you want?”
“Bonuses,” Mary Alice said quickly.
“Housing stipend,” Helen added. “I’ve got to find somewhere to live while I rebuild Benscombe.”
I looked at her and grinned. “Maybe a flat in Brussels?”
She grinned back. “Maybe for a little while.”
“And pensions,” Nat piped up.
Naomi turned to me, clearly getting impatient. “Anything else, since I’m apparently taking orders like a Hardee’s drive-thru?”
“I agree about the pensions,” I said. “But it needs to be official. I want us on the books as having retired from the Museum. In good standing.”
Her expression softened. “I can do that. I’ll push through everything you’ve asked for. And I’ll arrange for your return home as well—first class. On the company’s dime, of course.”
“Not straightaway,” Mary Alice said quickly. “We need to head back to Venice first.”