The Seventh Stone (34 page)

They released each other. Christa gestured towards Daniel. “Ahmed, this is Daniel Dubler.” Ahmed offered Daniel his hand. Daniel shook it, brusquely. Ahmed guided her around the round, brass tray table to the settee. Daniel squeezed in next to her.

Ahmed winced as he lowered himself, grabbing at his thigh. Christa reached for his forearm to help ease him down.

“
I’m fine,” Ahmed said. “It is nothing.”

She clasped his hand. “It is good to see you. How are Leila and Ambar?”

“
They are with me here, in Brooklyn, at my cousin’s home. I have a photograph.” He fished it from his shirt pocket and handed it to her.

“
They’re lovely,” Christa said. And they were, true beauties, with midnight black hair, radiant smiles and the unmistakable look of love in their eyes. Ahmed deserved this. She returned the photo. And now for the real question, if she dared. “And my father?” Ahmed had said nothing about him in his brief email.

A small round copper tray with a chrome teapot and set of six small, etched glasses sat on the table. Mint tea, its aroma both comforting and invigorating, in better times. Ahmed poured the steaming tea into three of the glasses. He offered one to Daniel and wrapped Christa’s fingers around the other. His expression was grave. “Pirates attacked the treasure hunter ship,” he said. “Many good men died, but I was able to save the Emerald. I returned to my village to deliver the Emerald to your father, but his did had been attacked. My mother had already left for the city to deliver Salvatierra’s letter and crucifix to you.” He clasped her hand. “Your father took the bullet that was meant for my mother. He saved her life.”

“
How bad is he?”

“
I did not want to leave him,” he said, “but your father pleaded with me to come. His wish was that I get the Emerald to you as quickly as possible.” He couldn’t bring his eyes to meet hers. “It will take more than a bullet to bring down your father.” In other words, Dad was still alive when he left, but barely. Ahmed leaned in closer. “I do not believe in curses, but when we brought up this Emerald from the depths of the sea, we brought with it the depths of darkness. Friends betraying friends. Good men shot down like beasts.”

She reached behind her neck and unclasped the golden chain. She slipped the crucifix from beneath her blouse and laid it in her palm. She held it out towards Ahmed. “Thank you for all you’ve done. According to Salvatierra’s letter, this crucifix belongs to your family.” It was the least she could offer, besides giving him back his life.

Ahmed pulled back, raising his palms in defense. “I do not want it,” he said. “I want no more part of this.” He jammed his hand into his pocket and yanked out a brown velvet sack attached to a long, braided cord. He thrust it towards her, but hesitated. “It is not right, placing this burden on you.”

Daniel leaned in suddenly, nearly upsetting the brass tray table from its stand. “We’ll decide what’s right.” He reached for the sack. She pushed him back. “Christa, we are running out of time,” he said, his teeth clenched.

“
I am well aware of the time,” she said. Four o’clock. Two hours before Contreras was going to call, expecting Gabriella’s findings, the Emerald and the Turquoise. She laid the crucifix on the table and turned to Ahmed. “And I’m aware of the danger, but I have no choice.”

“
Nor did I,” Ahmed said, “or that is what I tell myself.” He drew open the drawstrings of the sack and shook its contents onto her open hand.

The Emerald rolled onto her fingers as if alive with a light from the past. It came to rest in the well of her palm. This was it. The Emerald that once adorned the Breastplate of Aaron. Touched by the high priest in the Holy of Holies. And lost at the bottom of the Atlantic for five hundred years. Contreras predicted that she would be a believer. And, damn him to hell, he was right. The Emerald emitted a tingling, an energy, like the armillary sphere. It couldn’t be denied, no matter how deep she’d buried her clairvoyance after her mother was murdered in Peru, deciding it was more of a curse than a gift.

Daniel leaned in closer, his breath on her neck. “That’s it?” he said. “I expected something bigger, more extraordinary.” He was right. The Emerald, without its provenance, was the deepest of greens, but it was only an inch across. It was a simple cabochon cut, smooth and without facets.

“
It is a cat’s eye emerald,” said Ahmed, “very rare. You can’t see it in this light, but it’s as if the Tear of the Moon can see inside you, and it does not blink.”

“
You’re sure this is the Emerald that Contreras is after,” said Daniel. He grabbed for the gem.

Christa closed her fingers around the Emerald. “I’m sure Contreras is not going to get it, not from me.” She pushed the gem into the velvet sack, drew it closed and looped its lanyard around her neck. She tucked the sack beneath her blouse. “Now we have to find the Turquoise.”

The street door opened. A shaft of gray daylight stabbed the interior of the restaurant. Two stocky men were silhouetted against the gloom beyond open door. They entered and then stood aside. A third man came in. He stepped forward into the dim light and deftly removed his pistol from the shoulder holster beneath his sport coat. He aimed at Christa. Another, more portly, man stepped in behind him, remaining in the shadows. “Professor Devlin,” he said, “how civil of you to invite me to tea.”

CHAPTER
41

Braydon Fox knew it wasn’t his rugged good looks that kept catching the eye of the woman at the front desk of the Waldorf. His stern demeanor was out of place in the opulent, gilded age lobby that had tucked the era of the uppercrust New York hotel in a bell jar. The carved Oriental rug, plush upholstery and crystal chandeliers were better suited to an age when women flaunted feathered hats, uniformed men came home on leave from the war in Europe, telegraph boys scampered for tips, and everyone knew the good guys from the bad guys. A covey of excessively cheerful old ladies passed by, all dressed in red with purple hats, but most of the people were dressed in either jeans and sloppy sweaters or business suits.

Fox doffed his trench coat to ensure the receptionist that he was not concealing a bomb, only a wreck of a suit. The entire city was on edge, with the G-20 in town and the feds upping their terrorist alert due to increased chatter. Downtown was a mess. He only had to tune in to the local radio on the drive into the city to learn that the protesters for peace were rapidly re-engineering good intentions into violent threats.

He slung his coat over his arm and sent her a wry smile, then checked his wrist watch for good measure as if waiting to meet someone, and shrugged. She smiled, assured that her guests were not in danger, at least not from him. If only the receptionist knew that the man she should fear had already walked right past her, out of the elevator and onto Park Avenue to a waiting Rolls Royce Phantom.

Fox smothered the urge to follow Baltasar Contreras. He hesitated just long enough to watch the man pull away and make sure Jared didn’t duck out after him. Torrino was carrying a metal Halliburton briefcase, not the custom mahogany box that encased the Lux et Veratis sword. He caught Torrino’s worried face in the passenger window as the Rolls muscled its way into a stream of yellow cabs.

He didn’t like placing his faith in a man like Torrino. He didn’t question Torrino’s loyalty, but the man’s nerves were all in a knot. Torrino didn’t scare easily, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to be scared of Contreras. Neither was Braydon. Torrino would have to take care of himself and keep Braydon apprised of Contreras’s next move. Braydon was still dealing with Contreras’s last move. He didn’t like being one step behind. He crossed the lobby to the elevator.

Braydon rapped on the door to Suite 1066, the year of the Norman Conquest, the beginning of a new empire. He and Jared had shared a laugh about the serendipity of it all when they checked in.
The year that King Edward the Confessor died
, Braydon had said.
After almost a thousand years, the sapphire from his coronation ring is still in the Crown Jewels. Tradition. That’s where you Brits have it all over us Yanks.
Jared hadn’t responded. The man probably thought talking about the Crown Jewels was tantamount to sharing state secrets, even though he understood that Braydon, as a gem expert, probably knew the history as well as he did. Forever harping about his duty to queen and country, Jared didn’t seem like the kind of man who could be bought by Contreras, but every man had his price. Contreras was expert at manipulation. Jared didn’t know who he was up against.

Braydon pulled out his keycard, sliced it through the lock. With his left hand, he pressed down the brass lever and clicked the door open. His right hand rested on the butt of his nine mil. He kept it in the holster. He didn’t want to startle the flirty wife. He hoped all was well, but knew it wasn’t.

A sudden, pitiful cry of anguish sounded from within the room. In one move, Braydon drew his pistol, shoved open the door and shouted “FBI.” The sharp, metallic scent of blood hit him in the nose. Damn it. Jared lay spread-eagled on the Aubusson carpet, a stain of red seeping across the floral weave. The Lux et Veritas sword was impaled through his gut. This guy was a jeweler. He was no match for Contreras. Braydon should have taken a risk, sent in back-up. Not everyone could be on Contreras’s payroll. And he had just let Contreras walk out of here.

Jared flailed his right arm about, grasping for the ice that had scattered across the rug from the silver ice bucket that had fallen to the floor behind him. He twisted his head towards Braydon, struggled to crane his neck to look up. He shouted in pain. It sounded wet with blood. His head lolled back to the floor.

“
Jared, don’t move,” Braydon said in a hushed voice. None of this made sense. If Contreras was after the sword, why leave it behind? Unless Contreras still had a man in the room. Shit. The wife.

Braydon swept the room sighting down the barrel of his gun. On the chrome serving cart were two champagne flutes, one empty, one nearly full, and one bottle of Dom Perignon, nearly full. The sword’s mahogany case, empty, lay open on the writing desk. The desk lamp was on, the draperies open. Braydon stepped carefully around Jared. He moved to the open bedroom door, gun first. The sheets on the bed lay in a rumpled pile. Two dresses were flung on top, rejected. Three pairs of spike heeled shoes were scattered in front of the full length mirror on the bathroom door. A book lay on one bedside table, a bodice-ripper, had to be the wife’s, next to the clock and phone. Closet doors were open. The wife’s clothes left barely enough room for Jared’s two suits. Three suitcases were stacked neatly in the corner of the room.

Fox eased the bathroom door fully open. Lipsticks, blush and various lotions and potions cluttered the small vanity. The bathroom was only occupied by the lingering scent of expensive perfume. He holstered his weapon, made a perfunctory call to the paramedics, stating only his name, badge number, location and type of emergency. He snatched a clean white towel from the rack. He returned to Jared, knelt and wrapped the towel around the blade, pressing down to staunch the bleeding. The man groaned miserably. His face paled.

“
I’ve seen worse,” Fox said. He couldn’t lie to a dying man and tell him he’d be fine, even a man who had apparently double crossed him. The only reason Contreras would have been in that room, and run through Jared with his own sword, was because Jared had tried to make a deal with Contreras.

“
No,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “You haven’t seen worse.” Jared lifted his trembling fingers towards Braydon. “You think I’m a traitor.”

Braydon, compassion trumping reluctance, grasped the man’s hand. “Doesn’t matter what I think,” he said. He’d blown it. His charge was bleeding out, fast. Contreras had done worse than stolen the sword. He’d robbed it of its value as a symbol of peace. Fox hadn’t pegged the pharmaceutical heir as an anarchist, but that’s what this murder would bring to the G-20 banquet tonight. Most of all, he was worried about the little girl. A man who would do this would easily sacrifice Lucia Hunter. She was no more than a pawn in some insane game where Braydon was always one move behind. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“
Look,” he said. “The Kohinoor and Edward’s Sapphire.” He released Braydon’s hand, pointed a shaking forefinger at the scatter of ice from the knocked over bucket.

Fox had been with dying men before. None of them had been delusional. In fact, at death, a man had a better grip on the grim reality of his life than ever before. He scanned the ice, caught a glimpse of blue among the clear cubes. He looked closer. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered. He held in check the nearly overwhelming urge to reach out and pick up the sapphire. He had to keep the crime scene as intact as possible. His friends on the agency’s Jewelry and Gem Team had joked that the only gems in the world that they need not worry about being stolen were British Crown Jewels. They were kept locked away in the Tower of London, under constant surveillance and armed guard. It was high treason to take them out of the country. And they were cursed. Thieves were superstitious. Braydon looked down upon Jared Sadler, Britain’s Crown Jeweler. The crown jewels had been taken off public display three weeks ago for restoration. Under Jared’s supervision.