Eye of the God (36 page)

It was in moments like this that Evalyn allowed herself to remember that she had been born the daughter of a poor Irish miner, living in squalor in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Then, in the most improbable, but often dreamed of, stroke of luck, she landed in her present life of luxury. Miners don't often strike the mother lode, but when they do, it changes their lives and that of their children forever. Evalyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath, drinking in the scent of what wealth could buy.

“Darling, he's here,” her husband, Ned, called. Stretched out on a
chaise longue
, a cigar dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth. “The butler is bringing him up.”

She turned, resting lightly against the railing, but she was in no hurry to make her appearance. Evalyn studied their room with an appreciative eye. It was the best hotel suite money could buy: elaborate woodwork, red toile curtains that draped the windows and puddled on the floor; matching bed linens; lush white wall-to-wall carpet, and a private bath of white carrara marble. Just then the butler rapped on the door.

“
Entrez
,” Ned called, rising from the chaise.

Édourd swung open the paneled doors leading to the McLean suite and stepped aside as he ushered in their guest. “
Monsieur Pierre Cartier
,” he said with a slight bow.

Evalyn observed Cartier with muted interest. He was a demure sort of man, self-possessed, and uninterested in making a statement of wealth with his physical appearance. Although well-dressed and of pleasant demeanor, he could have passed as any French businessman, as opposed to the most notable jewel merchant in the world. On that
day he wore a modest three-piece suit of light gray wool, covered by a charcoal overcoat and black bowler hat. His wide smile showed large teeth, giving him an unfortunate resemblance to a horse. It was the small box he carried, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax that was of particular interest to Evalyn. Cartier held the package out before him, giving its entrance to the suite more priority than his own.

Ned crossed the room, shaking Cartier's hand firmly, while Evalyn swept in from the balcony, her dress lightly trailing the floor. “Pierre,” she cooed. “So wonderful to see you again!”

He took her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers. “Madame McLean. Always a pleasure.”

Evalyn beamed, never shy about receiving attention from the opposite sex. “Please do come in.”

Pierre Cartier followed Evalyn and Ned into the suite, and they settled themselves in the living area.

“I trust that you are enjoying your vacation in France?” Cartier said.

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Just yesterday we drove the most marvelous yellow Fiat coupe from Vichy. We had the top down the entire way. It was just
glorious
!”

“Vichy was it? Gambling I take it?” Pierre asked, a mischievous light in his eyes.

“My wife's favorite pastime,” Ned jibed, offering Cartier a fine Cuban cigar.

“And a profitable one at that, darling,” she said. “I added seventy thousand dollars to the coffers.”

“No doubt money that will be spent before Monsieur Cartier leaves us today.”

Evalyn turned her gaze to the parcel in Cartier's lap. “Do tell me what you have brought me today, Pierre. You
know I am a great fan of yours, given that marvelous gem you sold us on our honeymoon.”

“Ah, yes,” Cartier said. “The Star of the East. Ninety-four carats, pure white, and in the shape of a tear drop, if I remember correctly.”

“You astound me, Pierre. Such a mind for gems!” Evalyn exclaimed. “But, please, don't keep me waiting any longer. I simply can't stand it.”

Ned rolled his eyes as he clipped the end of his cigar.

Pierre looked at Evalyn, a mysterious smirk on his face. “Tell me, Mrs. McLean, do you know anything of the Turkish Revolution?”

“Something of it. We were in Constantinople for part of our honeymoon, and we stayed with Sultan Abdul Hamid. Why he had the most glorious emerald and diamond studded porcelain cups!”

“Indeed. It was during your honeymoon that we first met.”

“A most fortunate event in my life,” she grinned.

“You told me then that you had seen a jewel in the harem, a great blue stone that rested against the throat of the sultan's favorite.”

She thought for a moment, trying to recall those days spent with the sultan. They were, by this point, lost in a haze of alcohol and frequent heroin use. After a moment or two, she said, “It seems to me that I did see that stone.”

“The woman who had that jewel from the sultan's hand was stabbed to death,” Pierre said, leaning forward, his gaze locked on Evalyn.

She sat up stiffly in her chair. “Is that so?”

Cartier proceeded to tell her of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier and his journey to India, and she took special interest when he recounted the grisly deaths of King Louis XVI
and Marie Antoinette. Evalyn hung on every word and was not aware that Pierre Cartier bent the facts slightly to suit his purpose. The main players and general time frame of his story were all correct.

“Do continue,” she said. “This is most fascinating.”

“The stone disappeared after the Revolution. Simply put, Mrs. McLean, it was stolen,” he said, a finger running lightly over the yet unopened package in his lap.

Evalyn glanced eagerly back and forth from Cartier to the brown paper box.

“It is my understanding,” Cartier said. “That Tavernier had stolen the gem from a Hindu, perhaps a Hindu god. A most unfortunate decision, indeed, since Tavernier was later torn to pieces and eaten by wild dogs during a trip to Russia.”

“Why, Monsieur Cartier, you make it sound as though all the violence of the French Revolution was just a repercussion of that Hindu idol's wrath.”

“I am simply relaying the story of what I am about to offer you.”

“And yet you do it in a most entertaining way.”

Ned remained silent. He had long since learned that when Evalyn put her mind to something, there was little use in arguing. Eventually, she would get her way.

“It was some time later that the diamond appeared in London in the possession of the Hope family,” Cartier said. “Lord Francis Hope's fortune as well as his marriage dissolved. The diamond was sold to Selim Habib and the Turkish sultan.”

“I must see the thing!” Evalyn implored, nearly bursting from her ottoman.

With great flourish, Cartier unwrapped his package, breaking the wax seals and artfully unfolding the brown
paper wrapping. Inside lay a black jeweler's box. He turned it to face Evalyn and flipped open the lid, revealing the stunning blue diamond.

With shaking hands, Evalyn reached out to take the box as Cartier continued his bloody tale.

“Now I simply can't vouch for everything I am about to tell you, Mrs. McLean,” he said, “but I do believe it is worth solemn consideration. This diamond is supposed to be ill-favored and is said to bring bad luck to anyone who wears or even touches it. Selim Habib is said to have drowned when his ship sank after selling the diamond to the sultan. And we all know about the knife blade that sliced through Marie Antoinette's throat. Lord Hope himself had plenty of troubles that a superstitious soul might trace back to a heathen idol's wrath. And there are others, Mrs. McLean. Many others.”

Evalyn lifted the diamond from its box, absorbed in the way light bounced from the dark blue facets of the gem.

“Bad luck objects are lucky for me,” she murmured.

“Ah yes,” Cartier said. “Madame told me that before, and I remembered. Myself, I think superstitions of the kind we speak of are baseless. Yet, one must admit, they are amusing.”

Evalyn held the jewel up to the light. As she did, a resolve spread across her face. “I must have it.”

29

A
LEX AND ABBY SAT AT THEIR TABLE IN THE LOBBY, BROODING. ALEX
swayed in his chair, trying to control the dizziness that threatened to topple him at any moment. As he rocked from side to side, his forearm brushed against Abby's, sending chill bumps across his skin.

“Every time I come to this city I understand why people believe in ghosts,” he said.

“Been here a lot have you?” The sharp edge in her voice left little room for any whimsy he might impart.

Alex chose to ignore the venom and continued. “Everything here is so old. Every stone has a history. Our entire country is not half as old as this one city.”

“Your point?”

“Generations of men and women have lived in this very place. You can almost feel their living history all around you.”

“The only thing I feel right now is anger, Alex.”

He turned and watched her gleaming hair fall across her shoulders. He had never wanted to kiss her more than he did at that moment, but he also knew there had never been a time it would be less welcomed. Pain and betrayal
etched her face; he almost could not remember the shape of her mouth when she smiled.

Alex dropped his head and stared at his hands. “I didn't know he was your father.”

“Sure you didn't.”

He thought about his visit to the DMV and what he had learned there. “At least not until two days ago.”

“Would it have mattered?”

“Not at first.” He cringed at the truth. “But later on when I … yes, it would have mattered then.”

“Would it have stopped you?”

He was silent.

“I thought not.”

Alex could feel Abby stiffen next to him, and he knew she was about to leave.

“Please, don't go.” He heard the desperate, pleading tone in his voice and felt weak for it.

“I told my father I would wait here.”

Alex caught her eyes and tried to communicate that she hoped for the impossible. Her façade of strength was crumbling, and her lips began to tremble. Alex turned away so she wouldn't be ashamed of her own sorrow.

“He isn't coming back, is he?” she finally asked, just a word or two away from tears.

Alex shook his head.

“What do I do now?”

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Trust me.”

She snorted. “I did.”

“Do you care about your father, Abby?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Then you have to help me find him.”

“I don't feel very inclined to help you do anything right now.”

“Then your father is going to die.”

“What do you mean?” She looked up, startled.

“For the last ten years your father has been a broker for a group of men known as the Collectors.”

“I'm listening.”

“The Collectors put in an order. Your father—the Broker—gives my brother and me the marching orders, and we steal the piece. For the last ten years we have met him right here at the hotel to make the swap. He pays us, then takes the item back to the Collectors and auctions it off among them.”

“I still don't understand why you think I can help.”

“Because my brother tried to plant a bullet in my head this morning to remove me from the equation. We meet at this spot at exactly noon.” Alex glanced at his watch. “That was fifteen minutes ago. And as you can plainly see, your father and my brother are nowhere to be found. So the plan has been derailed, and a lot of people are going to die before this is all over.”

“Die?”

“Yes, die. This has gone far beyond the theft of some little trinket now. We're talking about the unraveling of the largest theft ring in the world. Don't you think they'd go to great lengths to keep their secret?”

“So your brother wanted you out of the picture?”

“You could say that.”

“What? No honor among thieves?”

“Apparently not.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

Alex grimaced and peeled off the baseball cap. The bandage on the side of his head was soaked with fresh
blood. “He didn't just try to shoot me, Abby. I was about two millimeters away from having my brains splattered on the wall.”

She recoiled at the sight of his blood.

“You think I got what I deserved?” he asked.

“It crossed my mind,” she said, with a weak smile. She turned away from him.

He grabbed her shoulders firmly. “Look, I know you could kill me yourself right now. Fair enough. I deserve it. But you need to decide what you're going to do because we don't have time to feel sorry for ourselves. That diamond will be gone forever in a matter of hours. How badly do you want it?”

“What happens if we find them?”

Alex grimaced. “I've got some unfinished business with my brother, and you get the diamond back. I'll do everything within my power to help you return it to the Smithsonian.”

30

D
OUGLAS MITCHELL LED THE WAY ONTO HIS PRIVATE JET, PARKED ON THE
tarmac at Charles de Gaulle International Airport, followed closely by Isaac Weld. Wülf disappeared into the cockpit and shut the door.

“I'm going to trust you just this once,” Isaac said, reclining into the soft tan leather chair, “that you're telling me the truth about our destination.” He pulled the gun from the inside pocket of his coat.

Douglas Mitchell had witnessed more than enough of Isaac's arrogance, and his tolerance was wearing thin. “Do you have a choice?”

“Do you?

The Broker cocked his head to one side and surveyed Isaac. “Would you like to know the truth, Mr. Weld?”

“I rarely have use for the truth.”

“The
truth
is,” the Broker continued, “you need me.”

Isaac stared over the tip of his gun barrel.

“You may think that you know who I am and who I work for, but you know very little. You can't find them without me. You can't sell your merchandise without me. They will not listen to you without me. So,” he said with a
curt smile, “if I were you, I would put that little toy away, and the two of us can get down to business. I will make my offer once. Before you answer, I would remind you again, I do not like to be threatened.”