The Devil’s Share Read Free Page B

houses, the motel set back from the road.
    She checked in, carried her bag to the room. From the front desk operator, she got the number of a local rental agency, called and arranged to have a car delivered in the morning.
    She opened her bag atop the bureau but didn’t unpack. If she didn’t like what she heard tomorrow, she’d leave immediately, catch the next flight east.
    She showered and changed, feeling the fatigue now, the displacement of long-distance travel. She was too tired to leave the room, scout around for a place to eat. There was a folder on the desk with menus from local takeout places. She’d order in, rest, sleep. Tomorrow, she’d listen to the rest of what they had to say. And then she’d decide.
    *   *   *
    Hicks laid out the photos in front of her. They were 8-by-10 color prints of a large statue, a winged bull with a man’s head and a square beard. It seemed to be emerging from a wall, half-freed from the stone. A piece was broken cleanly off the top, and other spots were cracked and chipped.
    â€œAssyrian,” Cota said from across the table. “Seven twenty-one BC.”
    They were in the big room on the third floor, the French doors closed, a pair of ceiling fans turning slowly in the shadows above. Hicks sat to her left.
    â€œHow much does it weigh?” she said.
    â€œFive hundred pounds,” Cota said. “Give or take. It’s called a lamassu. A mythical creature, sort of the Assyrian version of a sphinx. It was built to guard the throne room of Sargon II, in Dar-Sharrukin.”
    â€œWhere’s that?” she said.
    â€œNorthern Iraq,” Hicks said. “Near Mosul. At least that’s what it is now.”
    â€œThis one will give you a sense of scale,” Cota said.
    In the next photo, the statue rested on a large wooden pallet, half covered by a canvas tarp. A dark-skinned man in green fatigues stood beside it. The top of the statue was even with his shoulder.
    â€œThere’s another one like it, much larger, at the University of Chicago,” Cota said. “In their Oriental Institute. And a third at the British Museum in London. This one is the smallest of the lot, and has sustained more damage than the others, as you can see. Who knows what might have happened to it eventually, if I hadn’t brought it here?”
    Hicks took more photos from a tan folder, set them out. There were pictures of the statue from different angles, all taken in the same high-ceilinged warehouse space.
    â€œYou take these for potential buyers?” she said.
    â€œFor the serious ones,” Cota said. “If it got to that stage, yes.”
    The seventh photo was of a different piece, half the size of the first. A section of wall depicting two robed figures with elaborate headdresses and the same square beards.
    â€œFrom the same excavation,” Cota said.
    The last three photos were of the bust of a man’s head. Wide staring eyes, curved beard, the neck ending in a jagged edge where it had been broken from a larger statue. There was a wooden ruler on the canvas next to it for scale. The height was a little over seven inches.
    â€œDon’t let the size deceive you,” Cota said. “That’s one of the most valuable pieces that’s ever crossed my hands. It’s from the Third Dynasty of Ur. 2000 BC.”
    She looked through the photos again. “I don’t know anything about this type of stuff.”
    â€œYou don’t need to. I just wanted you to get a sense of what we’re talking about.”
    â€œJust these three?”
    â€œThat’s it,” Hicks said.
    â€œThese other two could be moved easily enough, but that one…” She touched the photo of the winged bull.
    â€œIt’s actually in three segments,” Cota said. “That’s how we had it transported over here, by ship. We reassembled it once it arrived, for photographic purposes. It has to be