Eye of the God (33 page)

Dow clicked his tongue as he thought about the ramifications. “All right,” he conceded after a lengthy silence. “When do you need to leave?”

Abby grabbed her duffel bag and walked toward the door. “As soon as possible.”

Isaac greeted Alex on the tarmac at Warfield airstrip outside Columbia, near D.C., ready to celebrate the success of their biggest heist ever. Alex only glanced at his brother. He pushed past him and climbed the steps into the luxurious eight-passenger private jet. Isaac followed him.

“Tell me, Alex,” Isaac growled, settling into an empty seat opposite him. “When did it happen?”

“What?”

“This sudden growth of a conscience.”

Alex didn't look at his brother, nor did he answer the question.

“Because you know,” Isaac continued, draining half his glass. “I remember a time when you were a ruthless crook and could get in the pants of twenty broads while
keeping your head screwed on straight. Now one brown-eyed woman smiles at you, and you lose your edge. Great man. Just great.”

Alex gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned white. “You know, it must be nice,” he said, each syllable loaded with animosity.

“What?”

“Keeping your distance. Dealing with the logistics. Never getting your hands dirty.”

“Are you saying I don't do my part?”

“Oh, you do it,” Alex said, turning to Isaac for the first time. “You do it well.”

“Then what is your problem?”

“You're so far removed from what's happening on the ground that you don't realize how complicated it gets down there.”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.”

“The only complication I see is that you fell in love and almost ruined months of planning.”

Alex winced at the truth; he had fallen in love with Abby, and now he was leaving. Looking out the window, Alex tamped down his emotions and watched the ground slip away. Soon the jet lifted into the sky, and as they approached cruising altitude, his thoughts turned to the brunette who remained on the ground far below.

Abby boarded the Boeing 747 at Dulles International Airport two hours later. The flight was less than half full. She moved through first class, holding nothing but her iPhone and a small carry-on.

“Ma'am,” the flight attendant called after her.

Abby turned, her eyes bloodshot. “Yes?”

“You passed your seat. You're in B4.”

“But that's first class.”

“So is your ticket,” the attendant said with a wink. “May I take your bag and get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Abby rubbed her tired, swollen eyes and settled into the seat. Wisps of hair escaped her pony-tail, and she still wore DeDe's diamond earrings. “I just need sleep.”

“A Tylenol PM perhaps?”

“That would be great.”

“I'll be right back.”

Abby punched seven buttons on her cell phone and waited for Dow's voice. “Thank you,” she said when he answered.

“It was the least I could do.”

“It means a lot.”

“You mean a lot to us,” he said. “You deserve first class.”

Dr. Abigail Mitchell could no longer compose herself. She muttered an unintelligible good-bye, buried her face in the headrest, and wept.

When the flight attendant returned, she laid the Tylenol on the seat beside Abby, along with a flight pillow and blanket. Abby slept before the plane left U.S. airspace.

Although not a well-known tourist destination,
Hotel Le Bristol
was one of the most luxurious hotels in Paris. It sat in the middle of Paris's art and shopping district, across from the River Seine. Alex Weld and his brother
met with the Broker in the Panoramic Suite several times a year and exchanged stolen goods for garish amounts of money.

Alex stood at the hotel window and observed the whitewashed building and manicured lawns below.

Isaac's mood lightened up during the flight. By the time they landed in Paris, he was so drunk that he staggered to the cab and then passed out. When they arrived at the hotel, Alex managed to wake up his brother and guide him to the suite. Isaac flopped on the bed and immediately began to snore. Yet try as he might, sleep eluded Alex.

It was not the jet lag that kept him awake all night, but a single thought of Abby, curled up on her couch, hair in a ponytail, wearing those hideous blue-and-orange toe socks. Try as he might, he could not erase her memory.

Once the sun rose above the skyline, Isaac emerged from the bedroom, showered, dressed, and ready for their meeting later. Room service delivered fruit, pastries, yogurt, and espresso, a traditional Parisian breakfast, and the brothers ate in silence.

Isaac drained his coffee cup and leveled a frigid stare at his brother. “I've been thinking.”

“About what?”

“We've had this little arrangement going for what, nine years now?”

“Ten.” Alex felt the tension between the two of them.

Isaac pointed a half-eaten piece of pastry at Alex. “I think it's time to dissolve our partnership. You're holding me back.”

“I'm holding you back?”

“Yes. I'd prefer to work alone.”

Alex's harsh laugh filled the room, but there was no mirth on his face. “Well, I'd prefer not to work at all.”

“That can be arranged,” Isaac said. Suddenly, he pulled a handgun from the holster behind his back. A silencer was screwed onto the end.

Alex jumped to his feet and backed away. “Whoa! What is this?”

“This,” Isaac said, leveling the gun at Alex's head, “is a corporate takeover.”

Alex opened his mouth to respond, but Isaac pulled the trigger before he could speak. The gun popped quietly, and a wisp of black smoke curled from the barrel. Alex fell to the carpet, blood pooling beneath his head.

25

PARIS, FRANCE, JANUARY 21, 1793,

T
HE DAWN DELIVERED A BLEAK AND DREARY DAY, SODDEN WITH RAIN
and temperamental winds. More than 1,200 horsemen and hundreds of French citizens crowded the Place de Louis XV to carry out King Louis's execution. In the center of the plaza stood a scaffold holding the guillotine, and only there could a clearing be found. The people had come to see their king beheaded, but they did not want to be sprayed with his blood.

From a distance the heavy beat of a drum signaled the approach of the king's carriage. It was escorted by a contingent of horsemen, and a group of drummers announced his doom. They pulled into the plaza with all the drama and anticipation due such an event.

The doors to his carriage swung open, and out stepped the king of France, dressed in robes and possessed of the haughty expression for which he was so famous. Three guards immediately surrounded him and would have undressed him for the ritual beheading, but he gave them such a scowl that they backed away. King Louis XVI
removed his own robes, undid his necktie, and opened his shirt, maintaining the dignity of nobility.

No longer taken off guard, the soldiers attempted to seize his hands but were rebuked sternly. “What are you attempting?” he asked.

“To bind you,” replied a guard, feeling more and more uneasy.

“To bind me!” he shrieked, his voice breaking with anger. “No! I shall never consent to that. Do what you have been ordered, but you shall
never
bind me.”

Louis took the arm of a priest as he made his way toward the scaffold. For the briefest moment, he appeared to lose his nerve, but once he reached the steps, he climbed them boldly to stand before the blade.

Such a fierce glare crossed the king's face that the drums fell silent. A hush settled over the crowd.

His words were laced with defiant anger as he announced, “I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge. I pardon those who have occasioned my death. And I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.”

He would have continued with his speech were it not for a national guardsman on horseback who ordered the continuance of the drums. They roared to life again, pounding the death knell. With them roared to life the voices of those in the crowd who encouraged the executioners.

“Off with his head!”

“Death to the king!

“Justice for the people!”

It was but a fleeting moment, and the king knelt before the guillotine. Only a blink of an eye later the axe fell upon him. A young guard, not more than eighteen years of age, seized the severed head by the hair and lifted it for the
crowd to see. A macabre silence fell upon the witnesses, as though they realized for the first time that their king was dead.

Then a lone voice in the crowd bellowed, “
Vive la République
!”

One after another, the people took up the chant.

“
Vive la République
!”

“
Vive la République
!”

Within moments, it became the battle cry of a people deposing their monarch. The plaza reverberated with the sound of their protest, and then spontaneously, everyone tossed their hats into the air, darkening the sky and the ground on which laid the newly beheaded king of France.

26

W
ITH A BLANK EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE, ISAAC WELD STOOD OVER HIS
brother's body, tilting his head to the side. He picked the discarded bullet shell from the floor and unscrewed the silencer. His eyes lingered on Alex's face for a moment as he tried to beckon memories from childhood. Nothing surfaced in Isaac's mind, and he turned away with a shrug.

Isaac picked up the Hope Diamond from his nightstand, hung the black velvet bag around his neck, and slipped it beneath his shirt. He felt emboldened by its weight. Checking his wristwatch, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Isaac waited patiently until a voice answered on the other end.

“Munson Financial, Sebastian speaking.”

“This is Isaac Weld.”

“I expected your call an hour ago, Mr. Weld.”

“Yes, well, I was dealing with an unfortunate obstacle.”

“Has this obstacle been removed?”

He glanced at the pool of blood that spread out in a circle on the floor. “It has. I'm ready to make the transfer that we spoke about previously.”

“I can do that now if you like.”

“Please do.”

“The fee that we discussed will apply.”

“That's fine.”

“And you want to transfer the entire balance?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Eight hundred and twenty million dollars is being transferred from your Swiss bank account to an offshore account in the British Virgin Islands as agreed. It should only take a few moments.”

“And this will be untraceable?”

“Yes, as I stated earlier.”

“What about the other issue we discussed?”

“I have taken care of the details, and it is no longer a joint account.”

“I don't foresee that being a problem, but I must cover all my bases.”

“Of course, sir. All of my clients are careful men such as yourself. As a last precaution I need you to reconfirm your current account number.”

Isaac rattled off a twenty-one digit bank account number beginning with CHkk, Switzerland's international banking code.

“Number confirmed. It will take about thirty seconds to transfer the full balance to your new account number—”

“I would prefer,” Isaac interrupted, “that you not say it aloud.”