Sparkles (11 page)

“I asked for his story, not his stats. Where does he come from?”

“Everyone who meets Stephen Roman asks the same question. I play dumb, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Larry took Jan by the hand and said, “Come on, then, if you really want to know.”

Jan allowed himself to be pulled along through the crowd, down a short hallway and into Larry’s library. A small fire burned in the hearth. Books on the art of warfare filled floor-to-ceiling shelves. A large bust of Napoleon Bonaparte held a place of honor near a desk of polished rosewood.

Larry dropped his public persona—that of a flippant, sarcastic queen. It was a mien he employed as armor against the scorn of less accepting folk. He gestured to a pair of club chairs covered in navy blue leather. “Sit down.”

“You’ve grown serious, Larry. What’s up?”

Larry pulled the other chair close to Jan. “This is just between us, okay?”

“Of course. Keeping secrets is my job.”

Jan was certain Larry had no idea that Jan was Mundus’s North American Master. In fact he was pretty sure Larry had never heard of Mundus, or if he had, he didn’t know what it was.

“Roman isn’t Stephen’s real name,” Larry said. “I mean, not entirely.”

“I’m listening,” Jan said.

Larry drew in a deep breath. “It’s Romanov.”

Jan looked at the general, who had now grown more serious. “It’s a common enough name…. You aren’t suggesting—”

Larry nodded. “He’s the real deal.”

“So what? There are lots of real Romanovs living today. Why is it so important that this one needs a cover name?”

“He’s not only a Romanov, he’s a direct heir—not that he wants any power, or even the Russian crown.”

“Well, that’s good, because he wouldn’t get the crown, even if he did want it.”

Jan turned his head, listening for a moment. Muted laughter from beyond the closed door made the scene between the two men oddly sinister. He shot the general a sidelong glance.

“Why are you telling me this, Larry? You’ve plenty of connections. You don’t need me to help your boyfriend if he’s got himself in a jam.”

Larry stood up. He ran his pudgy hands over his belly. “Boyfriend! Look at me, Jan. Stephen is young and beautiful. Do you really think he’d give me a second look?”

“I don’t know him. I can’t say.”

“That’s the lawyer talking. But thanks for the benefit of the doubt.”

“Well, are you going to tell me about him?”

Larry paced the room. “I don’t know where to begin, except that he’s in trouble, or at least I think he is. He’s got money pouring out of his ears, if you know what I mean. The money the Romanovs stashed before the revolution in those Swiss banks was no lie.”

“I’ve already seen the Jag parked outside.”

“How did you know it was his?”

“I didn’t until tonight. We met quite by chance on the street. Stephen caught me admiring the car. He even offered me a ride.”

“Really?” Larry said with a tinge of disbelief mixed with envy.

“Larry, can we get off the car and back to the man? What’s going on?”

The older man went to a window. Beyond the wavy glass, pale footlights illuminated the boxwood and laurel garden he’d planted upon moving into the old house. He turned and faced Jan.

“No one is supposed to know this, Jan, but Stephen’s the owner of that fucking diamond that everybody is looking for. He’s afraid the police are going to suspect the theft was a setup for insurance. Of course, it wasn’t. The man has more money than God.”

Jan took a sip of Campari.
Talk about the six degrees of separation!

“What else?” Jan said. “You’re not telling me this because of a stolen bauble.”

Larry rubbed his fleshy hands together. “Jan, he’s beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do. I thought of you. You know everybody worth knowing. I—”

“Why did he buy the diamond in the first place?”

“That’s the confidential part I was referring to. I know this is going to sound crazy, but it’s for a ransom. The stone can be cut into smaller pieces. Spencer & Hillier was supposed to take possession of it and do the job. Once cut, the pieces would be untraceable. After the diamond’s breakup, he was supposed to hand the new gems over to some people. Of course S&H had no idea what’s going on, besides cutting the stone, I mean. People do that sort of thing all the time.”

Jan thought about the rash of armed muggings of gem couriers that had plagued Jeweler’s Row for months now. Bobby O’Farrell among them. Only new or unregistered stones were taken—nothing from Canada, where every stone imported or exported was carefully examined and catalogued, right down to where it was mined. He wondered if this theft was connected, and if so, could it be the break the police needed to find the thieves?

“Larry, Stephen has to go to the police, and—”

“Jan! If he does that, he’ll be killed!”

“The police aren’t going to kill anyone.”

Larry shook his head impatiently. “Not Stephen, his boyfriend, partner, lover, life-mate, or whatever—he’s the one who’s being ransomed.”

Jan thought,
This is beginning to sound like a B movie.
Then, “Does this partner have a name?”

“Armande, Armande Bonnet.”

Jan sprang from his chair, almost spilling what remained of his drink. “Bonnet? The banker’s son?”

Larry’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Do you know him?”

Jan nodded. “Yeah… well, no… I mean I’ve heard of him. Larry, how do you know this banker’s son?”

“I don’t. But I do know his father. He served on a board that oversaw some contracts for NATO. I was there, NATO I mean. I served as liaison for three years before I retired.”

Jan joined Larry at the window. His mind raced with questions. What could a prince and a banker have in common aside from the obvious? Money. The two stood for what seemed like an hour before Jan spoke. “I never realized how beautiful your garden is—especially at night.”

“Can you help? Will you help?” Larry pleaded, without taking his eyes off the quiet scene before them.

Jan considered the request and what it implied. He wondered if Jacques Malreve had known any of this before he asked Jan to find Bonnet’s son. He wondered, too, what Armande Bonnet was doing along Iran’s border. Was he really just a hiker who’d lost his bearings, only to be snagged by an Iranian patrol? How would Mundus’s investigating the disappearance of a French banker’s son impact the negotiations over Iran’s nuclear ambitions? The French Republic may try to find one of its citizens who’d strayed into unfriendly territory, but it certainly wouldn’t expend vital energy looking for a lump of shiny carbon, no matter how valuable it was or who wanted it back. No, Mundus would be needed to find both Armande Bonnet’s son and the Vice-Regal Diamond, wherever it might be.

Jan turned and looked at the old general.

“Perhaps, to your first question, and yes, if I can, to your second question. I’ll need to have a talk with Stephen. Can you get him to my office tomorrow?”

“Yes, I can do that. How much can I tell him?”

“Nothing for now. I’m getting a very uneasy feeling about all this—so mum’s the word.”

Larry nodded. “Loose lips sink ships, I know. In a past life, I was a general with secrets to keep.”

A Village on the Iranian Border

A RAW
wind howled across a narrow plateau high in the Sabalan Mountains. Joachim Nussbaum squatted in a one-room stone hut. A cast-iron coal stove provided the only heat against the biting cold. The ever present wind that swept over these mountains sucked away most of the room’s warmth.

Why in the world would anyone willingly choose to live in a place like this?
Joachim wondered.

A toothless old man, his dirt-brown hands and face cracked like crumpled paper, poured strong black coffee into tin mugs. He handed one to Joachim. A Jew in a Muslim’s home in this region was as rare as hen’s teeth, but once he saw the cipher of a flame surrounded by protecting wings that Joachim had scratched on the ground, the old man immediately rubbed it out with his boot and pointed to his tiny house.

As they settled down, the old man pulled a shawl around his broad shoulders and said, “It has been a long time since I saw that sign. Who sent you?”

“America,” Joachim answered.

The old man considered this. To most of the people on the mountain, America was a word tantamount to Satan. He looked at Joachim for some time before he spoke.

“Why are you here?”

“I am looking for a young Frenchman. He was hiking in these parts. It may be he has been arrested by an Iranian patrol, or kidnapped, perhaps by al-Qaida. My job is to find him, and bring him out—alive if I can.”

“Your search is ended. The word is, the one you seek is dead. He stopped here to ask the way to the Kala-Tor. It is the peak above where we are now. I pointed the way, and then he left.” The old man looked around the room and lowered his voice. “The ones you mentioned took him. A courier came through here some weeks ago. He had a silly letter demanding ransom.”

“You saw this letter?” Joachim said.

“Oh yes, the boy who was to deliver it to his contact was very proud of his position as a runner. He foolishly showed it to me.”

“Do you remember what it said? Who it was for?”

“That is the silly part. It was addressed to a dead man!”

“A dead man? What do you mean?”

“A Russian tsar.” The old man scratched an itch under his wool cap. “Foolish people, they live in a world where only their thoughts are real.”

“What was the ransom? I mean, what did the letter demand?”

“Oh, some diamond. I do not know what kind. As I said, it was nonsense.”

“Why would al-Qaida kidnap a hiker and demand such a thing? Do you know who he was?”

The old man shrugged. “He was French, I can tell you that, yet there was something about him that made me think he was a spy. Can you imagine, a French spy falling into the hands of al-Qaida?”

“If he was a spy, and I am not saying he was, do you think he learned anything?”

The man considered this. After pouring another cup of coffee, he said, “Perhaps. Al-Qaida is planning something, something big—possibly in America. Even I know something is going to happen, and I am but a poor old man. The rumor is, they have been moving large quantities of money, mostly through Holland.”

Joachim’s heart began to race.
Holland, the jewel capital of the world.

“You said the young man was killed. How do you know this?”

“This is a small world we have here. Nothing remains secret for long. I spoke with Nasreen, the woman who washed the man’s body before it was buried. For her service she was allowed to keep his possessions—his money belt had a picture of him with another man. She showed it to me. It was the same man I spoke with.”

“How did he die?”

The old man pulled on his earlobe. “If you are asking if he died bravely, that I cannot tell you. I can tell you his path to death was long, and painful.”

“And yet, you say his body was washed for burial? Was he Muslim?”

“Of that, there was some question. Nasreen told me he had a copy of the Noble Quran with him. She said it looked as if it had been read many times. That is why he was buried correctly. How an enemy is treated before death is one thing, but after he is dead, the Prophet, blessings be upon him, teaches that he is no longer your enemy, but one who rests in the arms of Father Abraham. Reverse the heavy hatred in your heart, lest it burden your soul.”

Joachim took all this in. He shook his head. “Then sadly, my job here is finished. I will leave you now. I want to be back in the valley before nightfall. I have traveled a long way. My way home will be longer still. You have answered many questions, and made more.”

“Perhaps not,” said the old man.

Joachim shot him a hard look. “What do you mean? Is the Frenchman dead or not?”

“Nasreen has a son. The story is, al-Qaida recruited him, but it was more like they took him against his will.” The old man took a sip of his coffee and once again lowered his voice. “This son returned home badly injured. It seems he was used as a live exhibit for their hand-to-hand fighting.”

Joachim’s stomach turned at the thought. “I suppose I should be surprised, but somehow, I’m not.”

The old man nodded. “It was a terrible thing to do to an only son, especially since Nasreen is a widow, and he was her only help in raising her goat herd. It was a miracle that he survived at all, but Allah is, as always, merciful.”

“So what has this to do with the Frenchman?” Joachim asked.

“The other day I saw Nasreen and her son walking down the mountain. I know that boy very well, and the one I saw was not her son, of that I am sure. So, I ask myself, where did this man come from? I believe you should see about this before you leave.” The old man shook his head. “I am sorry that I was not able to get more information for you. I must be very careful.”

Joachim thought for a long minute. “How do I get to her? A man, such as I, a stranger, cannot simply walk into her home.”

“Nasreen comes down every day to get the wood I gather. She pays me for my wood in goat’s milk and cheese. Sometimes she comes with the man, but she has not been down today. Do you wish to wait for her?”

“Of course!”

“You should rest, then. It may be a long wait.”

Joachim considered what he should do. Jan was clear that he was to be kept informed every step of the way, and that Joachim was to use the female contact that had sent him on this mission. He could send a text message, but he felt strongly that his wireless communications were probably being intercepted. That meant telling Jan what he’d been told had happened to Armande. Sending a death notice would also throw off anyone else who might suspect Armande was alive. If it turned out he had survived al-Qaida’s torture after all, no harm done. Joachim sent the message that Armande Bonnet was dead. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer that the text he had sent was false.

JOACHIM WOKE
with a start. The old man was shaking his shoulder. As the man turned away, Joachim instinctively felt for his gun. He had no reason not to trust the old man, but his training had taught him that survival favored the wary. He breathed a sigh of relief. The Luger the priest had given him was still there.