Mafiya scum, and kleptocrats calling themselves without a hint of irony ‘New Capitalists,” he grumbled. ‘The pay is better, but the more things change…’ he added with a laugh. They chatted of trivial things while the computer searched the database looking for a match to the sample, the computer was fairly ancient, and taking its time. When the match had been found Karick keyed his cell phone and called Alan and Neil back from their coffees. ‘Samarkand,’ Viktor pronounced triumphantly. ‘From the workshop of the Master, I would guess early 1500s.’ ‘The Master?’ Alan asked. It was Neil, to the surprise of the other three who answered. ‘The Master of Samarkand, a dyer, name unknown, who worked from about 1480 to 1515. His product was of exceptional quality.’ Neil pointed to the parchment laying on the lightbox. ‘This is the Stradivarius of paper, parchment, whatever,’ he said correcting himself. ‘If the provenance can be proven,’ he ventured, getting a small snarl from Viktor in response. Turning sharply, I headed for the bar, I'd need a drink. Maria returned to her room to escape from the hot sun and to collect herself. She lay on the cool cotton sheets and felt a warm languorous sensation spread slowly up her body. She was a sensual woman, she knew it, but life's bitter experiences had caused her to deny her true nature. She got up from the bed to take off her bikini, since the elastic was beginning to cut into her flesh. She caught sight of her reflection in the closet mirror and studied herself with detached interest, but without much pleasure. Her satin-skinned flesh tinted a golden tan except for the tiny stripes of her bikini. She gazed at her taut, high breasts, they curved up to firm deep pink nipples. She moved her eyes to the black silky pussy hairs and opening her legs, she touched gently the softly molded vaginal lips. She could see the tiny tip of her clitoris peeking from the crested valley of her vagina in almost childlike shyness. She looked at her.
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