Rocks (6 page)

Turning to leave, he looked at the metal doors of the safes that lay before him. In at least a dozen of those he knew resided enough wealth to keep him a happy man for a very long time, and his fingers itched with temptation. “Get a fucking move on,” he hissed at himself. Luck had been on his side so far, but if he pushed the lady too far she was liable to desert him.

Slipping through the door he ran quickly down the corridor, leaving the still-unconscious guard and pausing for a moment at the corner. There was a chance that the other guard might be making rounds down here, but he couldn’t hear anything. Uttering a silent stream of curses and prayers, he ran back towards the service stairwell. Lady luck was still with him.

Only once he was outside and had climbed back over the wall behind Boeckman’s did Hayden stop at all, pushing the mask up over his eyebrows again. His breath came in thick, heavy pants and his heart felt as though it would burst in his chest. He’d done harder, physical exertion plenty of times before, but now the adrenaline coursing through his veins was starting to make him feel sick. Resisting the urge to take out the Wallenstein, only checking that the pouch with its hard, sharp object remained inside his jacket, he looked at his watch once more. He had been inside Boeckman’s for less than twenty minutes.

He had to force himself not to run back to the safe house at full speed, keeping his pace steady and his head low as he passed the same petting couple he had encountered earlier. If they could remember anything more than their foreplay from tonight he’d be surprised. When he came to the safe house he lingered in the shadows for a few more minutes, waiting for the street to be completely clear before quickly entering and racing towards his secret lair.

“Oh fuck!” he groaned as he sank into a chair. “That was fucking good.” Although he was exhausted, his skin felt electric and a fire was burning in his belly. On the screens in front of him the video loop was still playing: he was tempted to turn it off and see what was happening inside Boeckman’s but fought back the urge. If he could see what was going on, then so would the two security guards in the control centre and he didn’t want to disturb their cocoa and card games, not just yet.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached inside his jacket for the Wallenstein. Its weight was enough to register in his fingers, and he almost fumbled the ziplock in his gloves, pulling them off so that he could hold the large diamond more steadily.

“My, my,” he crowed. “You have bloody well gone and done it.” The stone was huge as he held it up to the light, enjoying the way it sparkled and refracted the artificial rays.

Not that it seemed quite as bright as he expected. He’d heard all sorts of rumours about its cut—that the main craftsman assigned to the task, a difficult character, apparently, by the name of Maarten Kropp, had performed his best work. Certainly it looked fine, but the way it shone was the tiniest bit disappointing now that he held it in his hand.

Frowning, he moved to one end of the bench on which his equipment was stored, pulling out a large, high-powered magnifying glass. The Wallenstein was meant to be perfect, with absolutely no inclusions
nor any other flaws in terms of colour and purity. Certainly the rock in his hand was the largest he’d ever held, but to get back the highest price he could it needed to be without any form of imperfection.

Staring at it through the glass, Hayden regarded it with his expert eye. Certainly there were not even microscopic inclusions, but something about it didn’t seem quite right. Almost absent-mindedly, he picked up a handheld diamond tester and pressed it against the stone before staring at the small LED display.

It was a long time before he could move a muscle. No. That was wrong. He applied the tester again.

Now his heart was beginning to beat more quickly and his mouth became dry. He stared at the LED. The same result. Closing his eyes and muttering a small prayer, he tried once more.

The same result.

What he held in his hand was a pure, unalloyed piece of silicon carbide.

With a cry of rage, Hayden smashed it down onto the table before picking up the magnifying glass and throwing it to the floor. He trashed two of the computer screens before anything remotely resembling calm began to descend on him again.

Think! Think!
he told himself. What was going on? Had he made a mistake, fallen victim to a double bluff? Had Boeckman’s hidden the Wallenstein somewhere else and placed this dummy in the safe? Or had he stumbled on some almost impossible to conceive scam, that the company was preparing to fake its biggest sale in years? He shook his head at the latter—that was beyond the realms of possibility. But if what he had on the table was a copy, where was the real Wallenstein diamond?

A thought occurred to him. Someone had been in the vault before him that day, three men. Feverishly, Hayden moved to the nearest computer screen and began to search through the recordings on his hard drives. The camera showed unchanging serenity until three figures moved
backwards in rapid motion. Skipping to the beginning, Hayden played through the scene slowly, watching every scene with unforgiving eyes.

That was it! He couldn’t believe he’d missed it, but then he was looking for something suspicious now. He recognised the tall, black guy as an American rap artist, while the older figure beside him was one of the senior Boeckman partners. Beside them was a weedy, pasty man, clutching a briefcase to his chest. And as he placed the thin, black box
—the same box Hayden had held less than an hour before—onto his briefcase, Hayden saw the fumbling motions between case and box.

He zoomed in. The image became grainy, but it was enough to confirm that the man was holding something clenched tightly in his fist.

“You bastard!” hissed Hayden at the screen, slamming his fist down on the bench. “You slimy, treacherous, thieving little bastard!” He let the video play on for a while until the man’s face was clearly in camera. “Who are you, you little shitbag?” he asked no-one in particular. “I’m going to find you and shove that piece of fake crap you left behind so far up your arse you’l be constipated for the rest of your life!”

The face, he recognised it. Then, slumping back in his seat, Hayden let out a gasp. He’d seen
the man only that morning, scurrying from the lobby and holding the very same briefcase. He scanned his memory. “Who are you, you weaselly little bastard?” he asked himself, then the answer came as a flash of inspiration.

Of course! Maarten Kropp!
The very same genius responsible for the final form of the Wallenstein. Hayden gaped at the screen in amazement. Had this slight, insignificant jeweller formed such a lust for the stone he’d been working on for so long that he’d decided to steal it for himself? Did he even hope he could get away with it?

There would be plenty of time for such questions later. Instantly Hayden turned to another screen, calling up travel databases. It took him a little time to hack into the one he needed
—and any delay made him start to sweat. He should be on his way and out of here by now. However a search on Kropp’s name brought up exactly the information he needed. Maarten Kropp had taken a last minute booking on a flight to Heathrow seven hours previously.

“I’ve got you, you little bastard. You’re going to regret the day you were ever born,” he said, scowling at the screen.

He considered leaving the fake diamond behind but changed his mind. Everything else would have to go, of course, but then Hayden was not much of a man to let things get in the way of the life he’d chosen for himself. He’d already wasted an hour and while he doubted the police would be on their way just yet, with each passing minute that became more of a possibility.

Tapping on another keyboard, he set in motion the routine that would wipe the drives of all his equipment. That alone wouldn’t be enough, but then Hayden had a backup plan.

Before he turned on the gas to the cooker that stood in the far corner of the spartan living space that had been home for a month, he pocketed the fake Wallenstein in his pocket, alongside his mock passport and the various scammed credit cards he carried with him. A fake next to fakes. It seemed fitting somehow. Then, setting the timer on the small charge to explode in an hour’s time, he locked the door to his safe house for the last time.

The man sat on the chair, facing the two Boeckman brothers.

Although he was tall, with a sort of rangy grace and strength to his body, there was something about the way he moved and dressed that indicated a man who preferred to remain beyond scrutiny. His suit was dark grey, a not especially fashionable cut, and his face, lined and impassive, could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five depending on the angle from which it was viewed. His hair was almost blond and cropped close to his large skull, while his grey eyes above a twisted nose regarded the two brothers without any emotion. His hands, still in their gloves, rested on his lap.

Pieter regarded him slightly nervously. “Thank you for coming so promptly, Mister Torkelsen,” he said, smiling in what he obviously hoped was an appeasing manner.

Lars nodded, taking in the faint sheen of perspiration on Pieter’s upper lip and brow. His elder brother, Geert, was watching Lars much more suspiciously. Evidently he had not been as keen as Pieter to make contact. Lars said nothing.

For a few moments, the three of them sat in the private offices at the top of Boeckman’s in silence, Pieter because of nerves, Geert because he hoped to make the Norwegian betray himself in some small way, and Lars… Lars sat in silence because that was often the way he preferred to be. Perhaps listening to the music of
Edvard Grieg or Johan Svendsen. He could remain still without moving a single muscle for hours, if he needed to.

Pieter coughed and cleared his throat, reaching for a glass of water. “Well,” he mumbled
after gulping down some of his drink, “I suppose you want to know why you’re here, though I must—I must just repeat I’m glad that you were able to come so quickly.”

“I have had a quiet couple of weeks,” Lars replied. His voice was as quiet as his demeanour was calm. “Your call came at a good time for me.”

“I suppose you’ve had a quiet year,” Geert said, pointing a bony, accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know why we even bothered!” This latter was directed at Pieter.

“Please, please, Geert.” Pieter sighed. “This is difficult for me to explain…”

His voice trailed off. Lars cocked his head slightly. While he had no problem sitting in the very pleasant, walnut-lined office of the Boeckman brothers, sooner or later he would have to decide if he wanted to remain in this place. It was time for him to help Pieter come to the point more decisively.

“You’ve had something stolen from you,” he said, his voice still quiet and calm. “Something very important and you want it back. That can only mean one thing. Someone’s taken the Wallenstein.”

Pieter’s face betrayed fright and relief, but Geert simply looked even angrier. “How do you know?” he hissed.

“I didn’t, not until you just confirmed the fact for me, Mister Boeckman.” Lars shrugged. “However, like you I am slightly taken aback as to why I am here. Why not simply call the police?”

The two brothers looked at each other, Pieter guiltily, Geert fuming. “We would… prefer not to,” Pieter replied at last.

This made Lars raise one eyebrow but he nodded. That was not so surprising in itself. After all, if the police were to be involved, he would not be here. Despite himself he felt a thrill run down his spine and lifted his hands, cracking the knuckles of each in turn. There had been no need to bring a gun with him, but he still had a roll of thin wire running down the sleeve of his jacket, as well as a pen in his inside pocket. It was amazing what you could do with something as simple as a pen, with the right training, he thought to himself.
And your hands, of course.

“We don’t want the police involved just yet, not unless we have to.”

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” Lars said softly, “but surely the easiest thing to do would be to call the police and then claim against your insurance.” He shrugged. “I’m sure the Wallenstein is very valuable, but your losses will be covered without the need for…” he paused “any unpleasantness.”

Pieter sighed and looked out of the window, avoiding Lars’s gaze. Geert muttered some obscenity under his breath but also avoided the Norwegian’s eyes.

“We have a buyer for the Wallenstein,” Pieter told him, still looking away so that any nuances of deceit would not reveal themselves on his face. “He was—is—willing to pay a very good price.”

Papa Dee, thought Lars. He had never even heard of the singer before today, and the unsophisticated racket he’d heard as a sample convinced him he would never listen to his music ever again. Nonetheless, it had been easy enough to connect him to the Wallenstein.

“Which is why you’re not putting the Wallenstein up for auction,” Lars surmised. “You wouldn’t get as much for it as your… buyer is willing to pay.” Nor would the insurance be anything like the amount these two shucksters had managed to convince Papa Dee to pay.

Geert glared at him for this. “This is a mistake,” the older brother snapped.

Pieter, however, turned to stare at his brother before looking once more at Lars. His face seemed clearer now, resigned to the facts.

“We need the diamond returned to us,” he said. “We need it before the end of the week.”

Lars smiled. “Of course. It will cost you, of course, but I’ll be able to do it.” He named a figure.

Geert gasped. “That’s outrageous!” he blurted out. Lars shrugged.

“It is less than a tenth of the difference for what you will receive for the Wallenstein should your agreed deal take place, versus what I suspect you will gain from your insurers.” He smiled thinly. “That’s my price.”

Pieter nodded, thoughtfully. “Very well, we agree.”

It took longer for Geert to come around, but he too nodded his assent after a while.

“So, what do you know regarding the theft?” Lars asked.

“There were no signs of breaking and entering, but one of our security guards was attacked. His description is of a masked man, probably a similar height as you. He seems to have been well-prepared.”

“No signs of a break in,” Lars mused. “Any prints or other evidence?”

Geert shook his head gruffly.

“Did he have inside help?”

“We… don’t know.” It was Pieter who spoke while Geert looked at his fingernails obsessively. “We do know, however, that it was a well-planned operation. Someone had managed to compromise our security system.” Reaching into his suit, Pieter retrieved his phone. “I had a technician copy this across. It was encrypted in our software.”

Lars heard a slightly tinny but clearly English voice saying, “Catch me if you can.” This made him smile. “Well, that’s a provocation,” he remarked.

Geert’s fist slammed down on the desk. “Provocation! Provocation! I want to catch the little bastard who did this and pull his guts out through his arse!”

Compressing his lips, Lars nodded his head slowly. “That might work as a punishment,” he observed. “Of course, to administer it
—as our thief points out—first you must catch him.”

This made Geert glower even more and Pieter’s face flushed red briefly, more through anger than embarrassment. Lars smiled. “That’s why you need me. I’ll need as much information as you can give me
—don’t worry, I’m not especially interested in your precious security system. Checking that is bolting a door after the horse has not only run, but been caught and sold back to you in a burger. I’ll need to find where and how he had access, however.”

“We can help you there,” Pieter told him with a grimace. “We had… we had been running some upgrades over the past couple of weeks and
—”

“One of our bastard contractors hadn’t carried out the proper security checks!” Geert interrupted him. Lifting a sheet of paper from the desk, he pushed it towards Lars. “Frank Robeson
—well, that was the name he was going by. It seems he didn’t turn up to work this morning. Our contractor is very sorry, of course,” Geert sneered, “but until we can explain to them what happened—”

“Which we don’t want to do,” Pieter added with a shrug.

“Until we can explain, we can’t even sue them!” Geert collapsed back into his seat.

Lars nodded, thinking. “Obviously this Robeson was involved with the crime, but I would doubt he’d be the only person. There’ll also be the individual
—perhaps individuals—who would have actually had to break in and steal it. That’s also without even looking at any inside help. I doubt your criminal—or, more likely criminals—would have been able to achieve everything themselves.”

“Perhaps,” Pieter said. “There is another thing, however. Geert was looking up at the ceiling while his brother spoke. “There was a fire last night
—not far from here. Less than half a mile, in fact.”

“And?” Lars looked at the younger brother carefully.

“It was a gas explosion, apparently. I had one of our security guards ask some questions—discreetly. It’s not public knowledge yet, but it seems there was a considerable amount of surveillance technology destroyed in the fire. No fingerprints as yet—”

“Nor will there be,” Lars said. “I suspect the gang involved in this crime will be too smart to leave evidence of that nature. And of course we’ll find no indication of a Frank Robeson having left the country.”

“You think he’ll have left?”

“Who
knows. Those leads will take time to follow. I still think the best bet is to concentrate on an internal connection. Who had access to the Wallenstein?”

“Only myself and Geert, and our brother Michel, but he’s been in America for the past five days.”

Lars nodded and looked inquisitively at Pieter. “No one else? Has nobody had access over the past few days?”

“Access to the vault is kept to a minimum.” Pieter began to blush.

“What is it?” Lars snapped.

“Yesterday… yesterday I took our buyer down there to… see it.” Geert gave his brother a disgusted look.

“And? Was anyone else with you?”

“The man who cut the Wallenstein. Maarten Kropp.”

“I see. And has he given any indication of dissatisfaction? Of any abnormal behaviour?”

Geert laughed sourly at this. “Maarten Kropp is a walking museum of abnormal behaviour. He’s also a genius at what he does.”

“Though he was acting particularly strangely yesterday,” Pieter observed quietly. “Perhaps if he’s been blackmailed in some way…” He looked across at Lars.

“Or bribed,” Lars replied. “It happens. I’d like to speak to him, if I may.”

“He… he’s not here. He had a vacation booked. We tried to contact him this morning, but he had already taken out a flight to London.”

Lars smiled, an acid etch of pale lips across his tight features. “That is a coincidence. Well, I have my lead,” he said, standing and brushing away the slight creases in his trousers.

“How do you know he’s your lead? Aren’t you even going to check this house fire out first?” Geert asked incredulously.

“No need. Police will be all over it, for all the good it’ll do them. Maarten’s your man, I’m sure of it. He didn’t steal the diamond, but he’ll lead me to the man
—or men—who did. If I don’t catch up with him soon, it will be that more difficult to track down his gang.”

“Can you be sure he’ll tell you?” Pieter looked slightly doubtful for a moment.

“I can be very persuasive.” Lars turned towards the door. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements now. I’ll be in touch, gentlemen.”

“Wait!” It was Geert who called after him. Lars paused and looked back at the two brothers. “We want as few people as possible to know about this.”

Lars’s thin smile returned to his face. “No-one else will find out, I can assure you. I’m very thorough, ask your brother. That’s why I’m so expensive.” With that he grasped the handle of the door with one gloved hand and left the room.