Free Iron and Blood by Gail Z. Martin

done.”
    Jake drew a deep breath as he turned the doorknob, preparing himself for what was to come. He squared his shoulders, and drew himself up to his full height. The urn, still wrapped in oilcloth, was under his arm. If the urn is behind all this, Andreas is going to have some explaining to do.
    “Jake, please come in.” George Brand stood in the lobby. He wore a black suit with a black armband and pocket handkerchief. “I am so very sorry about your father.”
    “I want to know what happened,” Jake said, meeting George’s gaze. “I want to know what got him killed.”
    “Let’s go into my office,” George said, gesturing down the hallway to an open door. Jake followed him down the familiar corridor, and felt his throat tighten as they passed the closed door to his father’s office. No light shone through the frosted panel; Thomas had always worked well into the evening.
    George Brand’s office was testament to the success of Brand and Desmet. The building had electric lighting—something Thomas Desmet had been quite proud to announce. The walls were paneled in dark cherry, and an antique Aubusson carpet covered the oak plank floor. George’s desk, like its twin in Thomas Desmet’s office, was a massive mahogany piece. Two leather wing chairs sat in front of the desk, and behind it stood large bookshelves, holding mementos of George’s life. Several framed photographs of George’s wife and children graced the shelves, as well as items he had picked up on his travels around the world. To the right, above the fireplace, a mantle clock chimed the hour beneath an oil painting of the Yorkshire moors.
    “I think you’ll need this.” George poured two glasses of scotch from a decanter and handed one to Jake. “Drink. It’s not a pretty story.” He paused. “But first, tell me what happened in London.”
    George sat silently while Jake recounted the ambush, the wild carriage chase, and the airship battle. “I have to admit, I was relieved to see Miska when we arrived,” Jake ended his tale.
    George nodded. “Harold Cooper telegraphed the bare bones of what occurred in London. Cullan hasn’t given me his report yet, but from his telegraph I knew you’d run into problems.”
    Jake let out a long breath and took a sip of the Laphroaig. “What happened to Father?”
    George sat down in the tufted leather chair behind his desk.
    “Hold that question a moment,” George said. He held up a hand to forestall Jake’s objections. “I know it’s important. But there’s something I need to talk about with you first.” He met Jake’s gaze. “Your father named you partner in the business, should anything happen to him.”
    Jake choked on his scotch. “Me? Are you sure he didn’t mean Henry?”
    The corners of George’s lips quirked as if he were hiding a sad smile. “Your brother Henry is a good businessman, and well-suited to handling the New York office. But he lacks a certain level of imagination and expertise that your father thought to be essential to the future of this company.”
    “You mean, Henry doesn’t believe in the ‘shadow trade’ and he’s lousy in a fight.”
    “That’s part of it,” George replied. The ‘shadow trade’ was what Jake and Rick had dubbed the acquisitions they made skirting the bounds of legality. Sometimes, this involved stealing back an object that already had been stolen. In other cases, it meant liberating an artifact from an owner with dubious claim for a well-paying buyer who could convey the legitimacy of museum status. Many of the antiquities had been passed back and forth between kings, rogues, emperors, and ne’er-do-wells for so long that legal title was hopelessly muddled. In those cases, attempts to purchase the pieces, even for a museum, might be mired in scandal or politics, so discretion—and haste—were necessary.
    Brand and Desmet specialized in acquiring desirable objects for collectors and museums, items that were usually of suspicious