Eye of the God (35 page)

Alex Weld kept a firm grip on the handrail in the elevator as he descended to the first floor of
Hotel Le Bristol. A
deep, searing pain burned his skull, and his arms and legs argued against what he asked them to do. Cold beads of sweat formed an oil slick on his forehead, soaking through the baseball cap.

The narrow hallway joined the hotel lobby through an elaborate art gallery. It was the perfect place to watch for Isaac and the Broker.

His body, weak from blood loss, lagged several steps behind his mind, sharply alert from pain. He saw Abby and the Broker long before he could get his legs to stop moving toward them. He was not sure whether it was luck or accident that prevented either of them from seeing him, but he used the opportunity to step behind a large, square column, less than ten feet away. They spoke in strained whispers, emotion filling the air.

Although they bantered back and forth for several moments, Alex heard only a single word:
Dad.
It took a few seconds for it to register.

Seeing Abby in this place startled him. Alex leaned his head against the cool stone, putting the pieces together. The Broker had used them both.

Douglas Mitchell hurried Abby to an open table tucked in the corner and pulled her into one of the plush chairs. He tossed an occasional glance over his shoulder.

His voice was neither kind nor gentle. “Why are you here?”

Abby recoiled from his tone. “Someone stole the Hope Diamond.”

“How?”

“I don't know how. I was wearing it while I gave my speech, and then the lights went out and someone snatched it from around my neck.”

Anger washed over his face, but he said nothing.

Abby dropped her eyes. “I'm losing my job over this.”

“You think?”

“I thought you might be able to help.” She stood up, suddenly desperate to escape his presence. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

Douglas Mitchell grabbed her arm and pulled her back to the table. “I just don't know what you want me to do about it, Abby.”

“I want you to help me.”

“How would you suggest I do that?”

“You know people.”

He did not respond, but watched Abby through narrowed eyes, waiting for her to continue.

“Nothing happens in the art world that you don't know about.”

“I wouldn't exactly classify the Hope Diamond as art,” he said.

“It's close enough, and you know it. You can find out what happened.”

“I don't know that I want to get tangled up in this mess.”

“Would you just get out of your self-preservation mode for one second and look at me. I'm your daughter, for God's sake, and I have never asked you for anything.
Never
. I need you on this one, Dad.”

After a long silence, he conceded. “Okay. I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” she said, relief overwhelming her.

“But I can't do anything about it right now. You caught me right in the middle of something.”

Her voice wavered. “What can be more important than … this?” Abby had almost said
me
.

“I wasn't expecting you.”

“Obviously,
Dad
. We're not exactly close.”

He ground his teeth and looked at his watch. “Look, I need to make a call. Wait here.”

“How long?”

“Just wait.”

She didn't want to oblige him but had no other option. “All right.”

He waved toward a waiter. “Can I get a bottle of Pinot Noir for the lady?”

Without another word, Douglas Mitchell walked away, just as the waiter returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses.

His mind spinning, the Broker punched in a number on his cell phone. In less than five minutes a carefully woven plan had disintegrated.

“Wülf!” he barked, as soon as his driver answered. “There has been a change of plans. I need you to pick me up. We're leaving immediately.”

“
Ja
,” Wülf replied.

The waiter poured Abby a glass of wine, and she reached for it with a trembling hand. After murmuring her thanks, he left to attend another table. She sat in the chair, lips pressed into a thin line, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. When someone dropped into the chair beside her, Abby jumped. It was a moment before she recognized the ashen face of Alex Weld. The hurtful emotions stirred up by seeing her father again soon melted into shock. The wine glass slipped from her fingers and tumbled through the air, splashing deep red wine over both their feet before it hit the tile floor and shattered.

“Daddy wasn't much help in getting the diamond back, was he?” Alex said, his words rash and laced with anger.

Her mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”

“Let's just say I'm on a business trip.”

The Alex Weld she knew was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp man who stared at her with unnerving blue eyes.

The truth settled in layers. “You took it?”

“Guilty as charged. Now, where is your father?”

Abby recoiled, her heart trying to catch up with her head. “What does my father have to do with this?”

“You tell me.” Alex reached for her arm, but she jerked it away. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Listen, Abby, I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice taking on an apologetic tone.

She shook her head and blinked back tears. “You already have.”

“I need your help.”

A strange, cold laugh filled the air. Abby barely recognized it as her own. “Haven't I helped you enough?”

“Your father hired me to steal the diamond. I have to find out where he's going.”

Abby leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She regarded him with disdain.

“I'm telling the truth.”

“Alex, I'm beginning to wonder if you have ever told me the truth.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an antique gold ring of woven vines and set it gently on the table.

Abby's eyes grew large and she gasped.

“Pretty ring don't you think?”

“That's mine!”

“I know.” A sad smile washed over his face as he spun the ring around his middle finger.

She looked back and forth from him to the ring. “You?”

He nodded. “Who gave you that ring, Abby?”

“My father.”

“Your father, huh? Let me guess. Last October?”

“Yes, it was a birthday present, but how—”

“Where do you think he got it?”

“I don't know. Bought it?”

“Sort of. You could say he bought it from me, and I stole it from a little old lady in Ireland who wore it every year on St. Patrick's Day. Poor old bat probably doesn't even know it's missing.”

“How could you?”

“I was just doing my job.”

Abby stood and lunged at him across the table, pounding her fists on his chest. “You're a thief and a liar!”

The other patrons in the gallery turned to stare at the scene, whispering among themselves about unrestrained and rude Americans.

Alex pulled her gently into the chair next to him. “The inscription says, 'Alligator Food' doesn't it?”

“You could have read that after you stole it from me.”

“And the box? It came inside a pewter box with red velvet lining. What about that? You didn't have it with you in Rio.”

Tears slipped unhindered down her cheeks. “How could you know about that?”

“Because I'm telling the truth.”

The black Mercedes, carrying Douglas Mitchell, pulled around to the entrance of
Hotel Le Bristol.

He leaned forward, addressing Wülf. “Don't do anything until I give the command. I'll let you know when I want him taken out.”

Wülf nodded and parked as a lone figure stepped from behind a manicured topiary.

“Get in,” the Broker demanded, rolling down the window.

Isaac settled into the dark gray leather seat. He avoided the fierce glance Wülf gave him in the rearview mirror.

“What do you think you're doing?” Douglas Mitchell asked.

Isaac grinned. “Let's just say I've gone into business for myself.”

“What do you mean? Where is Alex?”

“My brother is dead.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you up to, Mr. Weld?”

“I am eliminating all the obstacles in my path, including partners and middle men like yourself, Mr. Mitchell.” The Broker's eyes widened. “Oh yes, I know exactly who you are. As a matter of fact, I know everything about you.”

“I would be very careful if I were you.”

Isaac pulled the gun from his coat pocket and set it on his leg. “I'm tired of doing your dirty work and watching you make ten times more than I do for these little trinkets. Your services are no longer needed.”

Douglas Mitchell began to shake, not from fear, but rage. “Then what am I doing here?” he growled between clenched teeth.

“You will take me to the rendezvous point so I can auction off our little diamond to the Collectors.”

“No chance.”

Isaac pressed the gun into the Broker's temple and tilted his head to one side, watching him seethe. Wülf observed the interaction but did nothing to intervene.

“What do I get out of it?” Mitchell asked, eyes darting between Isaac's expressionless face and the lethal weapon in his hand.

“You get to live.”

28

HOTEL LE BRISTOL, PARIS, FRANCE, SEPTEMBER, 1910

E
VALYN WALSH MCLEAN STOOD ON THE BALCONY OUTSIDE HER SUITE
at the
Hotel le Bristol
, overlooking the
rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré
. The narrow street, home to virtually every major boutique in Paris, began as a road extending from the Louvre and snaked its way through the high-end fashion district. Although somewhat cramped, it was nonetheless considered one of the most exclusive streets in the world. Mrs. McLean would not have considered staying anywhere else while in Paris.

From her balcony looking over the hotel gardens, she had breathtaking views of both the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Her long, elegant fingers gently wrapped around the wrought-iron balcony rail. The air was mild, temperate this late in September, and a faint breeze wafted scents of jasmine and gardenia from the garden below.

A few tendrils of her dark hair, which was curled and pinned high on her head, hung stylishly to the nape of her neck and brushed the three strands of pearls. She wore a light-blue silk gown, sashed at her narrow waist, and white
lace-up boots. Tall and confident, she overlooked the city, a smile playing at the corners of her deep red lips.