Page 43 of Afraid to Hope

“So, I was going to make you a substantial breakfast, but when I passed the office, I noticed the door was ajar, which was odd, and when I peeked inside, I saw the cabinet door was slightly open. I walked in, and it seemed like things had been moved on top of the desk too.”

“Are you sure?” Bane asked while looking at the antique Moroccan cabinet of silver filigree and espresso-brown leather. One drawer was above each of the two larger doors, which opened from the center.

Natasha tapped her knuckles softly against her lips as her eyes panned the room. “No. It’s just a feeling.”

“Look, you didn’t get much sleep. Maybe you’re imagining or forgetting things.” He backtracked when she shook her head. “Okay, maybe not.”

“I began to close it but decided otherwise. All of this”—she indicated the mess on the floor—“was inside, in disarray. Nothing was in its designated folder. Someone rifled through the cabinet. The drawers are disturbed too. But the other side appears untouched.”

Bane frowned at her, then nodded at the other door of cabinet, which was closed. “Is that a mess?”

“No.I’d started to place things back in an organized way when my fingers brushed across a rough, recessed area on the bottom of the compartment, similar to a knot in wood, but this type of wood doesn’t have knots. It struck me as odd, so I stopped. I couldn’t really see anything, so I took your flashlight from your rucksack.” She splayed her hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry. I normally wouldn’t go through your personal belongings.”

“It’s fine.” He squeezed her hand, then laced his fingers with hers.

“Anyway, with the flashlight, I discovered there were a number of rough areas in the compartment. As I said, odd.”She slid her fingers from Bane’s and her hands became animated as she spoke more quickly. “Forwhatever reason, I started pressing on them. There was a click and the center panel fell out. I thought I broke it at first. But”—Natasha pivoted and took something from the top of the cabinet, blocking what she held until turning back—“it held this.” She handed him a leather bag, mostly flat and roughly nine by twelve inches. The entire thing was hand-sewn and tooled, beautifully detailed. “I’ve never seen this either. It’s Berber. It had to be a snug fit.”

He examined the leather, which had aged to a black-brown where it was soiled. The finely stitched, once-white leather lacing had mellowed to a peanut brown. Patterns of red and black leather lacing created ornate patterns on an exterior purselike compartment, and the flap folded and rested above it. A decorative forged silver medallion was inserted into the center of the bag, matching the two medallions on its flap. The straps were woven of finer brown leather with silver, resembling ornate bridle reins but much shorter. “Nice. Old, huh?”

“Quite. Look inside,” she said, sitting in a side chair and wringing her hands.

Bane reached into the funnel opening created when he pulled up the flaps. His hand closed over the contents and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a smaller, soft-sided leather journal. He studied both. “They’re in French. No surprise there.”

“Correct.” Her face paled. “Keep reading.”

“You looked at these already?”

“I did.”

“It says—Whoa.” He dropped onto the desk and stretched his long legs in front of him. “L’accord Américain.The American Agreement.Cadre.Framework.” Bane searched her eyes. “Is this what I think it is?”

Natasha hated the answer. “Yes.”

Bane whistled and shook his head, skimming each of the pages.“This agreement is fully laid out. It details the founding, how the network began. Christ. I wonder how long it took the bastards to expand outside Morocco once they got a taste of the money.” He slapped the papers against his thighs.

She yelped, “Please don’t damage the papers! And your towel. Is it damp? Be careful about having them on your towel.”

“Cut me a break, okay? My towel is dry or I wouldn’t be sitting on this desk,” he said, running his fingers over the pages. He massaged the back of his neck as he read quickly. “Nat, this is all kinds of fucked up. They agreed to sanction looting. They provided the seed money,” he uttered, flipping to the last page and wagging his head again. “Conclu et convenu ce 23e jour d’avril 1944, à l’Américain, Casablanca, Maroc.Hmm, okay. ‘Agreed and entered into on this day, April 23, 1944, at the American, Casablanca, Morocco.’ A handful of signatures. I assume these people were powerful and influential. We may need some help on these names. Do you have any idea what the American referred to was?”

“It’s a famous café in the heart of Casa, opened during World War II. It was a favorite ofPépé’s.My grandparents took me there often enough. It’s still in business.”

“I see. It seems this agreement was signed at the American Café and the network adopted the name of the café. Misleading, but also smart. The American is singular, denoting a person, which is who you were after, and you believed to have apprehended, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I remember your reaction when Emmet told you that the American is a fucking hydra of sorts, all over the place. Local, regional, global. They’ve been able to hide under that illusion for decades as they expanded, until you apprehended Schaus in Guatemala. You lopped a head off, and now the others are in danger of being discovered. At least one is here. We’ll get the fuckers.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

Bane ran his hand over his face and opened the small leather-bound journal. “Damn.Manifeste.”

Natasha watched morosely as Bane thumbed through the leather book that held what she’d already seen—a manifest with pages of archaeological artifacts and recipients, dated shipments, cash payments and receipts.

“What do you think all this was doing in your grandfather’s cabinet?”

“I believePépéhid it. OrMéméfound it after he died and hid it.”

“Why would you think that?” he asked, his eyes studiously searching hers.

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