Eye of the God (2 page)

“Excellent. And the price?”

“Two-hundred twenty-thousand livres.”

“A little steep.”

“We both know you will not find another such diamond for sale in Golconda. They all sit in the sultan's treasury.”

“Fair enough.” Tavernier shrugged. “But you still have not told me how you came by this stone.”

Mir hesitated a moment as he studied the coin in his hand. “I would not give that much concern. The last person to own this was made of stone and sat in a Hindu temple on the banks of the Godavari River. A slave named Raj, starving and half-mad, brought it to me three weeks ago, claiming he had chiseled it from the forehead of an idol named Rama Sita.” Mir cast a sideways glance at Tavernier. “
Cursed
, Raj said. The idol cursed the diamond and all who would come to own it.”

“And where is this Raj now?”

“In the bazaar. I believe my soldiers just relieved him of a hand.”

“That was your doing?”

“I paid him a fair price for the stone three weeks ago, but he came back this morning for more. When I refused, he tried to steal this.” Mir held up the coin.

Tavernier laughed. “A convenient story, my friend.”

“You don't believe me?”

“Weaving a tale of theft and vengeance is an old jeweler's trick to induce interest in the buyer. One I have used myself, as a matter of fact.”

Mir gave a curt nod. “May it be on your head. I am glad to sell it and be done.”

“At such a price, I am sure you are. But as far as my head goes, I intend for it to stay in place.”

“The curse does not bother you?”

“I don't believe in curses, Mir. Besides, we both know they increase the value of trinkets such as this.”

“Then we have only the matter of payment to attend.”

Tavernier rose and fetched his treasure chest from the litter. Returning, he set it on the rug before Mir and opened the lock with a small golden key. When he pulled back the lid, hundreds of gold coins spilled onto the carpet before them. Tavernier counted the purchase price before the prime minister, who eyed the gold with hunger. Only a few dozen coins remained in the chest when he was done.

Tavernier slid the great blue diamond back inside the buckskin pouch and tied it around his neck. “Should you stumble across the other eye you will, of course, let me know?”

“Of course,” said Mir with great satisfaction. “And thank you once again for your business.”

The men gave each other a polite nod, and Tavernier stepped from the tent. Within seconds his litter disappeared amidst the writhing mass of vendors, peasants, and hanging goods.

1

CARNIVAL, RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL—PRESENT DAY

A
BBY MITCHELL STARED THROUGH THE WINDOW AT THE FEVERISH DISPLAY
of dancing outside. She placed her palm on the warm plaster wall of the Chacara do Ceu Museum and felt the pounding Samba music pulse against her fingers. She observed the frenzied celebration from within the safety of the museum's main gallery. An old mansion, turned resting place for some of the world's most renowned art, the museum was a pleasant combination of low ceilings, cream-colored walls, and quiet elegance.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Good morning , Director Heaton.”

“It's not all that good, Dr. Mitchell. We have a bit of an issue.” His voice was raspy, the ravages of age and cigarettes.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What's going on?”

“The Collectors. They've taken two Van Goghs.”

Abby closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the window. “Where?”

“Amsterdam.”

“How?”

“We're not exactly sure. Investigators are baffled. The paintings just disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“Prints?”

“None.”

“Of course not. In ten years they've never left a print. Or a clue for that matter.”

“Abby,” his voice prodded on the other line. “You know what this means.”

She nodded, staring at her reflection in the window. “They can't get their hands on the Dali. And we know they want it.”

“You know what you have to do.”

A weak smile spread across her face. “Let's just hope I can.”

“Call me when you're done,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

A handful of tourists wandered the gallery, trying to study the timeless wonders on its plaster walls, but distracted by Carnival just a few feet away.

Lost in her thoughts, Abby paid no attention to the approaching footsteps until she felt a polite tap on her shoulder. She turned to find a woman, in her late fifties, wearing a white linen suit and a gracious smile.

“Dr. Mitchell, I presume?” she said with a distinct Brazilian accent.

Abby held out her hand. “Indeed. And you must be Director Santos?”

“Please, call me Ana.” Though aging quite gracefully, it was obvious Ana Santos had been a sight to behold in her prime.

“Sorry to keep you,” she smiled. “With all the tourists in town, I have been running behind all week. But
things should calm down now that Carnival is almost underway.”

“No trouble at all. I've been enjoying your remarkable collection.”

Ana stretched out an arm and motioned Abby to follow. They turned their backs to the window and made their way through the gallery toward a series of priceless surrealist paintings. One in particular caught Abby's attention, and she leaned forward, appreciation evident on her face.

“Now, Dr. Mitchell, you said there was an urgent matter we needed to discuss. I assume more than Carnival brings you to Brazil?”

“I'm afraid so.” She ran a finger over the nameplate which read
Two Balconies, Salvador Dali
.

Ana beamed. “Fantastic, isn't it?”

Abby nodded.

“
Two Balconies
is the only Salvador Dali painting on display in Latin America. It is one of the Chacara do Ceu's most prized exhibits.”

Abby tapped her lips in contemplation. “I don't doubt that.”

“Beautiful ring,” Ana said, glancing at Abby's finger.

“Thank you. It was a gift.”

She grinned mischievously. “He must love you very much.”

“You would think so.”

Ana smiled sadly and changed the subject. “So what is your concern?”

“I'm worried about this painting.”

“
Two Balconies
? What do you mean? I thought you felt it would be a spectacular addition to your exhibit next year.”

“I do,” Abby assured her. “My concern is not with the painting itself, but with its safety. I have reason to believe it may be in danger of theft.”

Ana relaxed a little and laughed. “I can assure you,
meu caro
, we have strict security measures in place. All of our paintings are bolted to the wall and connected to hair-trigger alarms. If a painting is moved even a fraction of an inch, the alarm sets off our security system. In addition we have state-of-the-art video surveillance and round-the-clock armed guards.”

“I wasn't suggesting your security system is sub par, merely that we have gotten word there may be parties interested in this particular Salvador Dali painting.”

Ana flashed a charming smile. “Do you mind me asking your source?”

“I've received notice from the art theft division at Interpol. There are rumblings of an illicit interest in Dali and this painting in particular. I thought it prudent to warn you, considering your partnership with the Smithsonian.”

“Why is the International Criminal Police Organization interested in
Two Balconies
?”

“There has been a rash of thefts recently, and Interpol contacted me with a warning.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Mitchell, but I feel confident we have taken the appropriate measures to protect our facility.”

Abby sighed. “All right. But know you have our full resources at your disposal should you need them.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I will certainly take that into consideration.” Ana glanced back at the painting and asked, “I assume the Smithsonian is still planning to include
Two Balconies
in next year's exhibit?”

“Absolutely. Preliminary preparations are underway for its transport and security.”

Ana beamed. “We would be delighted to accommodate you in any way. I will, of course, have to accompany the painting to Washington.”

“Of course.”

Both women turned back to the window as a loud burst of cheering and music erupted from the throng outside. Viktor Leite, the mayor, was barely audible over the din. Flanked on both sides by voluptuous women dressed in revealing Carnival garb, he screamed into the microphone so he could be heard over the pounding drums.

“Let the festivities begin!”

At his command the massive parade, seventy-thousand people strong, erupted in applause and began to snake through the streets.

“You will be staying for Carnival?” Ana asked.

“I'm afraid not. Duty calls me back to Washington.”

“I thought this was a working vacation?”

“More work than vacation, I'm afraid.”

“Surely the Smithsonian wouldn't object to you staying an extra day or two?”

Abby sighed. “My flight leaves at noon tomorrow.”

Ana opened her mouth to argue her case but was jolted into stunned silence by the thunderous sound of a gunshot. Abby and Ana spun around to find two armed men standing at the museum entrance.

2

A
LEX WELD STARED DOWN THE BARREL OF HIS NINE-MILLIMETER GLOCK.
The small crowd of tourists and museum staff gaped at him with open mouths. Dressed as an average tourist in khaki pants, white linen shirt, and Carnival mask, he looked as though he belonged outside with the multitude of partygoers.

An armed security guard ran into the main gallery. “Now!” Alex shouted to his brother.

“
Coloque suas armas ou eu porei uma bala em sua cabeça
!” Isaac Weld ordered in Portuguese.

The guard slid his handgun across the floor and backed away.

Isaac retrieved the discarded weapon from the marble floor and then pistol-whipped the unarmed guard in his temple. The unconscious man collapsed to the floor.

“
Quem está na carga
?” Isaac's voice rang dead and hollow behind the frozen lips of the resin mask. Almond-shaped openings revealed his cold, blue eyes, the only proof of life in the painted face.

No one answered.

Isaac raised his Glock and fired a single round into the ceiling. Screams echoed thoughout the room, and a shower of dust and small plaster chunks fell to the floor. “I said who is in charge?” he repeated in English, stressing each syllable.

“I am.” The well-dressed woman in her early fifties took a hesitant step forward, her gaze locked on the gun in his hand.

“And you are?”

“Ana Santos, the museum director.”

Isaac grabbed the back of her suit and forced her toward the security desk at the front of the lobby. “Disconnect the alarm and the security system or everyone here dies.”

Ana pulled a thin silver chain from inside her blouse. On it was a single key, that she slid into the console, and then punched a code into the keypad.

Isaac pressed the gun into the small of her back. “How long until the alarm is disabled?”

“Thirty seconds,” she said through clenched teeth.

Alex motioned his gun at the captives. “Everyone in the middle of the room, on your knees, hands behind your heads!”

Terrified, the small crowd obeyed the order without complaint. A young boy whimpered and buried his face into his father's chest.

Isaac moved toward the display wall, “If anyone moves, shoot them.”

“Picasso, Matisse, Monet, and Dali,” Alex said, nodding at the four paintings.

“No,” Ana moaned. She shook her head, lips parted and eyes large.

While Isaac cut the canvases from their frames with a scalpel, Alex circled the small crowd, holding them at
gunpoint. A woman knelt before him, hands laced on top of her head. Her brown hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck, exposing her face. He had never seen her before, but the ring on her left hand was unmistakable; intertwined gold vines and a single diamond glinted beneath the lights. Alex ripped it from her finger.

“Aahhh!” She screamed, turning to face him.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, as they studied one another.

Alex stared at her with guarded suspicion and then stuffed the ring in his pocket and moved on.

“Done here!” Isaac shouted as he rolled the last canvas and slid it into a cardboard tube, placing it in a black duffel bag with the other three. Without a word the brothers ran for the door, flung it open, and disappeared into the Carnival procession without a backward glance.

Ana stumbled to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks, and stared at the empty spots on the wall. “All of them. They have all of them!” The look she gave Abby was one of shock and accusation. “How did you know?”

“We didn't. I mean … not yet,” Abby said, trying to gain her composure. “I thought we had more time.” She rose slowly, rubbing her bruised ring finger, eyes locked on the door the thieves had just exited. She pulled the cell phone from her pocket and turned to Ana. “I have to make a call. May I use your office?”