Crown Jewel

by Christopher Reich

  And now, as he let himself into the princess’s home through the servants’ entrance, he would know those feelings again.

  Vika had her cry.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, head in hand, asking why things had turned out as they had and why she hadn’t tried harder to change it all. She’d asked herself the same questions many times before. The answer was that she had tried to change things, over and over again, but her mother hadn’t wanted to listen, let alone act. More difficult to accept was that too often one’s best efforts counted for nothing. Things just turned out the way they did.

  A creak from the foyer cut short her silent tirade.

  “Hello?” Vika called.

  No one responded.

  She crossed the living room to the front door and peered down the corridor. “Hello?” she tried again.

  The corridor was dark, the lights activated by motion sensors.

  Reassured, she closed the door and locked it. No one could hear her scream anyway and she preferred not to have someone sneak up on her.

  She walked down the hall toward Mama’s bedroom, tucking her head into the guest rooms along the way. Both were made up and appeared untouched since Vika’s last visit.

  The door to the master was ajar, which frightened her more than the shattered brandy glass, the empty vodka bottle, or the pee in the toilet. Doors in a home were either open or closed. Never ajar. With her fingertips, she gave it a shove. The door swung inward.

  Vika took a step, steeling herself.

  The room was immaculate. The king-sized bed neatly made, the sable bedspread placed just so, the silver lamé throws arranged as Mama liked them. There was a stack of books on her night table, and Vika was reassured to note that they were the same books as ten years earlier: Donna Leon’s biggest hits of the aughts. Next to them, arranged as neatly as soldiers on a parade ground, were Mama’s pills. A rogues’ gallery of vitamins, nutrients, and supplements that would have done Severus Snape proud. (She was the mother of a twelve-year-old boy. Of course she’d read Harry Potter.) If Vika saw eye of newt she wouldn’t have been surprised. Herbs, yes. Doctors, no. Nothing better illustrated her mother’s mental state.

  She picked up a bottle to read the label and noted a sudden change in the light. Bright to dim to bright again. Startled, she spun, expecting to confront an intruder. A moth fluttered below the ceiling lamp.

  Vika expelled her breath. A look down the hallway calmed her. Of course there was no one there.

  Seized with the urge to find what she’d come for, she entered the master bathroom. The sinks and countertops were as spic-and-span as the bedroom, toothpaste, toothbrush, eye cream, and a variety of cosmetic nostrums all in their rightful places. There was no glint of metal to be seen, no chunk of gold hiding anywhere on the white stone surface. Vika dismissed the sink with an unprincess-like snort. It had been foolish to think Mama would leave it there. If the ring was anywhere, surely it was in the safe.

  Vika marched into the closet. Dropping to her knees, she swept aside row upon row of shoes like a scythe through wheat. Decorum be damned. She needed to find the ring.

  A corner of the carpet was dog-eared. She took hold of it and yanked ferociously, peeling it back to reveal the floor safe. The combination was Papa’s birthday, of course. The door sprang upward.

  A spray of diamonds winked at her. Vika had seen the tiara a thousand times but it dazzled her nonetheless. One hundred carats of diamonds, half again as many of rubies and sapphires. It was named the Brandenburg tiara, created in 1815 for another Princess von Tiefen und Tassis’s appearance at the very first opera ball celebrating the Congress of Vienna.

  Why wasn’t it in its proper case?

  Vika propped herself up on an elbow and removed the tiara. Looking closer, she noted that there were a few diamonds missing and that one arm was slightly bent. Oh Mama, she thought, imagining her mother parading around in one of her drunken states while wearing the tiara and probably a formal gown as well.

  With care, she set the tiara aside.

  She lay on her belly and sorted through the safe’s contents. There were legal documents and bundles of cash in different currencies, some long since out of use. (French francs, anyone? Dutch guilders?) There at the bottom was Mama’s jewelry box, black velvet with her initials embossed in gold. Finally, thought Vika. She stretched a hand into the safe to retrieve it.

  “Zat’s a fuck lot of diamonds.”

  Vika screamed as a giant’s hand took her by the neck and dragged her to her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a hooded figure, a large man in dark clothing, a balaclava pulled over his face. He yanked her head back and she cried out.

  “Jebena kučka,” he growled in a Slavic language she did not understand. “Now we have some fun. You and me.”

  The fingers dug into the muscles of her neck, paralyzing her. He guided her out of the closet to the bedroom, slamming her against the wall, shoving her onto the fur bedspread, never lessening his grip on her neck. Stunned, panicked, too confused to make sense of what was happening, Vika lay facedown, motionless, fighting for breath. Then he was on her, his weight smothering her, his loins shoved against her. She smelled his breath. Liver and onions and coffee. She gagged. She felt him, insistent and hostile. A hand slipped into her pants. She threw an elbow and hit something hard. The man grunted. His weight shifted, and she slid off the bed, tried to stand, desperately wanting to reach the door, only to be slammed onto the floor, her cheek landing first, a tooth coming loose. She tasted blood.

  The man ripped her pants to her knees. She was hurt, frightened, in shock. She writhed. She fought. A fist slugged the side of her face. She stopped struggling. Rough hands pulled at her panties. Fabric ripped. She felt him against her, ugly and probing.

  “Stop it!” she screamed.

  Another fist landed on her skull.

  She saw stars.

  “Help me,” she whimpered.

  Suddenly, the weight lifted. He was no longer on top of her. Someone else was in the room…Another man…It was Simon Riske. He was yelling…something French—“Espèce de salaud”—and he grabbed the attacker by his shoulders, hauled him to his feet, and tossed him against the dresser.

  Simon glanced at Vika, saw her head move, blood on the carpet. She was alive, thank God. He looked back as the attacker regained his balance, pulling up his pants. The man grabbed a glass vase and backhanded it at Simon, the vase glancing off his head, stunning him. The attacker charged, leading with a shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pinning him with his body weight. Thick hands found Simon’s neck, thumbs digging into his throat, collapsing his windpipe. Simon forced an open palm under the man’s jaw, pressing up with all his might. His left hand dropped to his side and he thrust it into the man’s unzipped trousers, took hold of his testicles, and crushed them.

  An unholy scream filled the room.

  The grip on Simon’s neck loosened. The hands fell away and Simon head-butted the man, forcing him back a step. Simon curled his knuckles and launched a jab at his larynx, sending him stumbling. In desperation, the man grabbed a drawer and pulled it clear of the dresser, the contents falling onto the floor as he swung wildly.

  Simon turned, taking the blow with his shoulder, the force splintering the wood. The attacker dropped the drawer and snapped up something on the floor. A letter opener, long and sharp as a dagger. He lunged at Simon, just missing. Simon grabbed a book off the nightstand and, clutching it with both hands, used it to deflect the next blow, and the next. He allowed the third blow closer, too close, feeling the blade slice into his belly, and brought the book down on the man’s wrist, swinging his shoulders in an arc, driving the book into the attacker’s throat. In the same motion, he aimed a kick at the man’s knee.

  The attacker was agile for his size and dodged the kick, retreating several steps.

  It was a standoff. The men faced each other, panting. The attacker’s eyes were black and hooded and Simon promised neve
r to forget them. He felt light-headed, his throat swelling, his gut aching terribly.

  The attacker flipped the letter opener in his hand so that he held it by the tip. In a lightning motion, he threw it at Vika, as deftly as a knife thrower at a circus. The blade embedded itself below her shoulder blade. She cried out. In that instant, the man fled.

  Simon pursued him down the hall and into the kitchen, the man dashing through the maid’s entrance and down a flight of stairs. It was the same entrance that Simon had used minutes before. The stairwell was dark and promised danger.

  He pulled up. “I will find you!” he shouted, consumed with rage. “You are dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”

  Simon hurried back to Vika, who was still on the floor. With care he freed the blade, noting that it had not gone in too deeply. He told her to remain still and returned with a warm washcloth. He knelt down next to her and held it in place as she sat up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Simon placed an arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder. She sobbed once, then was quiet. They sat that way for a while. Simon suggested that it was time they go to the hospital. She would need stitches. It was important that a doctor see her. He noted that there was blood on his shirt and the fabric was torn. He was certainly doing a number on his wardrobe.

  “He didn’t,” said Vika, answering a question Simon would not ask.

  “I’ll find him.”

  “How?”

  Simon could only shake his head, for he had no answer.

  Chapter 30

  A distant church tolled the midnight hour as Ratka climbed the gangway to the Lady S. He headed fore, where lights burned in the salon. He descended two flights of stairs, past the living quarters and the pantry. He entered the office without knocking.

  “Well?” asked the man behind the desk.

  “Four million.” Ratka tossed an envelope containing the checks onto the table. “So far. Two hours left.”

  The man swept it into the top drawer, locking it afterward. Honor among thieves was overrated. He looked more closely at Ratka. “What happened to you?” he asked, then raised a finger. “And don’t even think of lying to me.”

  Ratka poured himself a glass of raki, the Turkish firewater the Jew was fond of, and slipped into a chair. “Bitch,” he murmured.

  “What have you been up to?”

  “She went to the apartment. I wanted to have a little fun.”

  “Fun? You and I have different conceptions of the word.”

  Ratka ran a hand over his throat, wincing at the spot where he’d been slugged. Reluctantly, he related the details of what had transpired. He hated the Jew as he hated all Jews, but he respected him. They were partners, and without him, Ratka knew none of their plans would have been possible. When he’d finished, the man simply stared at him. It was the look a man gave an animal, a beast of burden, not another man. Ratka threw back the rest of the raki. Maybe he was an animal. God knew that he had done things other men could not.

  “Why?” asked the Jew, more mystified than angered, a hand appraising his shorn silver hair.

  Ratka met the blue eyes and looked past them, to a time twenty-five years earlier, when he’d met the gaze of a man who’d looked very much like him. Not a Jew, but a Bosnian Muslim, a Bosniak. Ratka had not been looking at him across a sleek teak table aboard a luxury vessel, but through the crosshatched wire of a fence at a makeshift concentration camp Ratka and his men had built in a secluded valley ten kilometers outside the town of Srebrenica.

  Ratka had ordered the men in the camp to dig a slit trench deep in the forest. It was to be used as a latrine, he’d told them. He’d taken the prisoners there in groups of twenty and executed them. Three thousand over the course of a day. Including one Bosniak who’d looked as if he could be the Jew’s twin.

  “Why?” Ratka shrugged, the memory of his requited power fresh after all these years. “Because I could.”

  “Do you know who saved her?”

  “The same as before.”

  “The one with the Ferrari?”

  Ratka nodded without shame. “I will find him.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Dov Dragan. “I know where he is.”

  Chapter 31

  They crossed the lobby like survivors of a catastrophe, their path uncertain, leaning on each other, the only important thing to keep moving. It was three in the morning. A skeleton staff presided over the hotel. A clerk left her position behind reception and floated ahead to summon the elevator.

  Simon took Vika to his room. She entered without protest. He gave her a T-shirt and a pair of boxers. She entered the bathroom with a tired smile, saying she wanted to clean up. Simon kicked off his shoes and collapsed into an armchair. He wore a doctor’s smock under his jacket. A strip of gauze covered his wound. Four stitches and a staple deeper down. The doctor had warned him that the blade had nearly penetrated the peritoneum. All Simon knew was that it hurt like hell. Vika’s stitch tally was lower and she escaped without a staple, but her injury was the worse, psychological and long-lasting.

  The bathroom door opened and Vika came out looking very much younger and vulnerable, the T-shirt much too large and falling midthigh.

  “I hate the Sex Pistols,” she said.

  “It’s more about the statement,” said Simon.

  “I’ll take Brahms any day.”

  “A lover of the classics.”

  “Of course,” she said, with flair. “I’m a princess, after all.”

  She was suddenly wide awake, her eyes bright, her motions lively. “Want something?” she asked from the bar. “Tea? Shall I make you a drink?” She turned to look at him, hands on her hips. “You’re a whiskey man, but definitely not scotch.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Bourbon?”

  “Why not? Neat.”

  She found a bottle of bourbon among the others and poured a healthy measure in a short glass. For herself, she decided on mineral water in a champagne glass. His eyes didn’t leave her as she crossed the room. She handed him the drink, then joined him where he sat, nimbly placing one knee to either side of him and settling on his lap.

  They touched glasses. “Cheers,” she said.

  Simon sipped the bourbon and set down the glass. Vika lowered her face to his and kissed him twice.

  “One for each time you saved my life.”

  For once, Simon was at a loss for words. He looked into her eyes and felt a part of himself slipping away, slipping into her. It was not a feeling he was familiar with and it made him at once giddy and uncomfortable. He was in dangerous waters.

  “Why did you come?” she asked.

  “I was worried when you weren’t in your room.”

  “You checked?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “No, really…”

  “The telephone directory. Crafty of me.”

  “I saw you leaving the hotel and go to the casino. It made me angry.”

  “Work.”

  “You looked so excited.”

  “That’s part of it. I was engaged to look into a spate of cheating. Actually, more than a spate. It’s important that I appear to be just another gambler.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “Maybe. It’s not just a question of finding them, but of proving how they do it.” There was a last thing that Simon failed to mention. He intended to track down the stolen money and return it to Lord Toby Stonewood. Every last penny.

  “Actually, I was jealous,” Vika said shyly, as if admitting it to herself only now. “I wanted you to be with me.”

  She brushed her lips against his. Simon ran a hand across the small of her back. Her skin was warm to the touch. They kissed. Softly, at first, slowly, an exploration. He touched her breast. Her nipple hardened. She gasped, and kissed him harder, passionately giving herself to him.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.


  Vika nodded.

  Simon placed a hand beneath her buttocks and stood, carrying her to the bed. He lowered her to the sheets and, with care, pulled her shirt over her head. She lifted her hips wantonly, and he slipped off the boxer shorts, thinking they looked better on her than they ever would on him. He undressed and lay beside her.

  “Carefully,” he said as he took her in his arms.

  He knew that they were both riding out the adrenaline, his born of savagery, hers of fear. He also knew that this was the start of something.

  He kissed her neck and her breasts, running his fingers across her shoulders, her arms. His hand found hers and their fingers interlocked. She was as hungry as he, and they used each other’s bodies without shame, climaxing together, and afterward shared a good-natured, loving smile.

  She closed her eyes and was asleep instantly. Simon lay beside her, studying her features, the tip of her nose, the ridges of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest. He was bewitched.

  Dangerous waters.

  Sleep wouldn’t come.

  Simon rose and left the bedroom, drawing the pocket doors so as not to disturb her. He made himself an espresso and sat at the desk, laptop open. He accessed a software program called Apache. It was Vikram Singh’s name, chosen because of the Apache Indians’ famed ability to track an adversary over any surface. The screen showed a map of Monte Carlo. Simon pulled down the menu. Four objects were listed: SR1, SR2, SR3, and SR4, each a designation assigned to one of the miniature tracking devices he’d deployed in the casino.

  He double-clicked on the first—SR1—and a track in the form of a solid line appeared on the map, with dots along the path indicating five-minute intervals. The track started at the casino, passed by the Café de Paris, then carved a winding route through the city. In turn, Simon selected the next three objects. One line was black, one blue, one red, and one green. Finished, he studied the map and smiled.