by Kim Foster
Templeton shook his head. “We haven’t picked up any activity from them lately.”
That was good. I did not enjoy my last brush with Caliga Rapio, a nasty organization of violent thieves and underworld types, and I did not relish the idea of a repeat encounter.
“But the fact is, this egg has resurfaced in the past,” Templeton said. “Twice before it has appeared to have been destroyed. And both times it turned up again, the contents of the egg unharmed.”
Ah, yes. The contents.
“But, Templeton, I dropped it. I saw it fall from the top of Big Ben. I wouldn’t hold my breath that it’s going to come back after that.”
“Ah, but, Catherine, did you see it land?”
We both knew I hadn’t seen that. The egg had been swallowed up in thick fog and darkness before I could witness it smashing on the ground far below. As Agency superiors had told me at the time, nothing had been recovered. There was no evidence the egg had even landed on the ground.
Which didn’t make any more sense now than it did then.
But I really couldn’t think about the Fabergé and Caliga and all that right now. Not like this, not when I had Faulkner hanging over me.
Faulkner. The Hope Diamond. How was I going to get over this goddamned fear?
Templeton seemed to read my thoughts. “Never mind about the Fabergé,” he said soothingly. “You’ve got much more pressing issues on your plate. As for what happened to you last night on that building, don’t even think about it. You will be fine, my dear. Shake it off.”
I looked at him with doubt.
He studied me carefully. “Don’t be afraid of fear. It shows only that you value your life above all else. Which is as it should be.”
I was disappointed Templeton didn’t have a clearer way of helping me. But even still, I began to feel a glimmer of hope. If I could wrestle the fear thing—if I could figure out how to prevent a panic attack—well, the Hope Diamond certainly represented a tantalizing target. It would be the job of a lifetime.
Chapter 8
As I walked away from Templeton, my stomach grumbled. I walked a direct line from the fish market to the Chinese restaurant in Pike Place. I was going to be right on time for lunch with my girls.
I walked into the tiny, one-aisled Chinese restaurant and saw Mel and Sophie sitting there. The delicious smells of onions and beef and bean sprouts frying in hot oil and steaming rice curled into my nose. Misted, grimy windows offered a fuzzy view of the working harbor of Seattle. This place had cracked vinyl booths and aluminum-lined tables, but the best Chinese food in the city.
I slid into the booth, and once we’d caught up on gossip, I told them about my adventures last night. And, in particular, about the panic attack.
“I’m not surprised,” Mel said, picking up rice with her chopsticks over the sounds of clattering dishware and orders barked in Cantonese from the kitchen right behind our backs. “In my opinion, it’s about time. Your job is terrifying. I’m surprised it’s taken this long.”
Sophie nodded in agreement, crunching into an egg roll.
My girls knew all about my line of work. They weren’t thieves or con artists or any other brand of criminals themselves. Mel was a pediatrician, and Sophie a computer engineer. We’d been best friends since the days of sticker collections and soccer practice and friendship beads.
Sophie chewed thoughtfully and then said, “Maybe it would help if you remembered how you felt about the danger before. How did you deal with fear on past jobs?”
It was a good question. “I don’t know. It was never really an issue.” I squinted out the hazy window, trying to come up with some way of explaining. “It’s like when you’re driving. You’re not sitting there thinking about the two tons of steel you’re encased in, hurtling down the road at top speed.... You’re just doing it,” I said. “You’re listening to music, thinking about what you’re going to make for dinner. Driving itself is a truly dangerous act statistically, but you’re not feeling it. That’s what it’s like for me, doing my job. Yes, it’s dangerous, but because it’s what I do, I don’t feel the fear constantly.” I paused. “Until now, I guess.”
They watched me closely. Then Mel nodded. “That actually makes sense,” she said, sounding mildly surprised.
“What? I don’t usually say things that make sense?”
“Not typically.”
I gave her a wry look. I went on then to describe my most pressing trouble, the Albert Faulkner situation and my conundrum over the Hope Diamond.
At the mention of the Hope, Sophie gasped. “Oh my God, Cat, you can’t go anywhere near that thing,” she said, eyes wide.
Mel and I exchanged a glance.
“You know,” Sophie continued, lowering her voice and fidgeting with the boho wrap bracelets on her wrists. “The curse,” she hissed.
Ah. I laughed. “The curse of the Hope Diamond?” I said. “Soph, that’s a bunch of baloney. Nobody believes that anymore. They discredited all that a while ago.”
“Well, that could just be propaganda. That’s what they want you to believe,” Sophie said.
Mel put her chopsticks down with a loud clatter on her plate. “What are you two talking about? Curse?” she demanded.
“You know,” Sophie said impatiently. “The curse of the Hope Diamond. It goes way back.” She lifted her soup bowl and took a sip of the steaming broth. “All kinds of people who have had contact with the Hope Diamond had terrible things happen to them. Like, they were killed. Or their kids were killed. Torn apart by wild dogs, that sort of thing.”
“Well, that one is totally untrue,” I said. “You’re talking about the guy who first found the Hope in India and brought it back to France, Tavernier. But it was just a rumor, that wild dog thing. He lived well into old age and died in his bed.”
“So you have looked into the curse,” Sophie said wryly, eyebrow raised over the edge of her soup bowl.
Okay, so she was right. I had looked into it, late last night. It was fascinating stuff, truth be told. You know, ghost tales for the most part. But I had to admit, there did seem to be some weird coincidences.
Like the postman James Todd. He was the one who delivered the package to the Smithsonian in 1958 from Harry Winston in New York. His leg was crushed by a truck, his wife had a heart attack and died, then he was in a second car accident, his dog was strangled by its leash, and finally, his home burned down. All within a year following his fateful delivery of the Hope Diamond.
Even I had to admit that was strange . . . and disconcerting.
“What about Marie Antoinette?” Sophie said. “And King Louis . . . the Fifteenth or Fourteenth . . . whatever. Anyway, they were the Hope’s most famous owners. And how did things turn out for them?” She made a slashing motion across her throat. “Not so good, right?”
Okay, so yes. This was true, too. Having your head chopped off at the hands of the peasants revolting and throwing over your rule certainly fell in the category of “bad fortune.”
“And that socialite? Evalyn something, I think,” Sophie continued. She was really working up a steam here, and I knew exactly who she was talking about. Evalyn Walsh McLean. “There was a whole PBS special on her. She didn’t believe there was a curse, either, when she bought the Hope from Cartier. Her son died in a car crash, her daughter committed suicide, and her husband went insane and was committed to an asylum. How about all that?”
Mel’s eyebrows went up. “That’s true? That all happened?” She looked at me for confirmation. I shrugged, conceding the truth.
“Okay, Sophie, okay,” I said. “I get your point. It’s weird, and I’m not sure I can explain it all. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t refuse because of that. Faulkner is serious,” I said, taking care to lower my voice. “When he says he’s going to sever my hands . . . well, I believe him.”
Sophie said nothing.
“If I have to choose between a possible threat of some mysterious curse that may result in me gett
ing my head cut off like Marie Antoinette . . . and the very real threat of a flesh-and-blood bad guy who will remove my hands? I’m taking my chances with that curse. I have to. It’s the only thing I can do.”
At that moment, a waitress came by to clear our dishes. We watched in awkward silence as she stacked the plates and left.
“Besides,” I continued, lifting my coffee cup, “nothing bad has happened in recent years. People freaked out when the Hope was donated to the Smithsonian.” I smiled and took a sip of hot coffee, thinking of the self-righteous and panicky letters I’d read last night, written to newspaper editors with outrage. One began,
If the Smithsonian accepts the diamond, the whole country will suffer.
“But nothing has happened lately. In fact, most people feel the Hope has been nothing but good luck for the Smithsonian, bringing in millions of visitors.”
I hoped my voice sounded firmer and more confident than I felt. And that my friends could not tell that a creepy, cold fear twisted my gut.
They were right. It was a crazy thing to do. It was impossible, curse notwithstanding. I needed a way out of this mess. But so far, there didn’t seem to be one.
The curse? That was the least of my worries.
It was actually the Louvre I was more concerned about. The guards at the Louvre carried semiautomatic weapons, for one thing. And then there was just the matter of being a thief in general. Things went wrong sometimes. You had to escape through the roof sometimes. You had to crawl through vents sometimes. Places where there was little ventilation. Places where you could fall from.
There were infinite ways a thief could be injured or killed. I had no illusions about this.
And even if nothing went wrong . . . there was still that pesky issue of my own fears. Was I going to have a panic attack at a critical moment, say, and ruin everything?
We left the restaurant and walked through the underground labyrinth called Down Under, a jumble of merchants, comic book stores, and antiques dealers. Our heels clicked on the polished wooden floors. The air down here smelled of incense and patchouli tinged with the faint smell of urine coming from the truly terrifying public washroom down the corridor and around the corner.
We passed a shop, a tiny wedge-shaped nook of a store, with a sign that read: WORLD-FAMOUS “ROMANY ROSA,” SOOTHSAYER, FORTUNE-TELLER, GYPSY. FORTUNES TOLD. PALMS AND CARDS READ.
“Oh, perfect!” Sophie said. “Let’s go in.”
I hesitated, hanging back. This was not the kind of thing I went in for. Mel flat out refused as a first reaction.
“Come on,” Sophie said, goading us. “I missed my appointment with my psychic last week. Ridiculous meeting at work ran late,” she grumbled.
“Um, your psychic, Soph? That’s not normal. You know that, right?” I said.
She ignored me. “I just want to go in for a sec and get caught up.”
I glanced at Mel, and she just shrugged. Reluctantly, we walked into the fortune-teller’s shop, parting a jangling curtain of beads. The air was heavy with the perfumes of tea and sandalwood. Soft flamenco music played from an old radio in the corner.
As soon as we walked into the room, the fortune-teller looked up. She gazed at the three of us in turn, but her stare fixed upon me. “You, dear. I shall read your cards, no?”
She looked to be about fifty, but a hard, haggard fifty. Her weathered face bore lines and creases that came only from a lifetime of heavy smoking. Above her small eyes arched very thin eyebrows, overplucked and drawn on to creepy effect. Gauzy scarves surrounded her like an aura.
“Thank you, but no,” I said. “I’m just here with my friend. She’s the one who needs her cards read.”
The fortune-teller slid her beady glance to Sophie, who was standing beside me. “No, you can wait.” She looked back at me. “You must allow me. I will charge no fee.”
Sophie urged me forward. “It’s okay, Cat. I can wait. You should do this.”
“Hey, Cat, you might as well,” Mel said flatly, but I could see the laughter in her eyes. She wasn’t buying into the hocus-pocus act for one second.
I wished I could be as dispassionate as Mel, but I couldn’t deny the chilled feeling that crept up my scalp.
I sat down on a stool upholstered with threadbare gypsy fabric in faded, peculiar swirls and flowers. Romany Rosa lit a candle, then shuffled the large, old cards, brown around the edges, with her eyes closed. She opened her eyes then and laid the cards out reverently.
I was prepared to scoff, to dismiss this whole thing. But, strangely, as I watched her work, a peculiar coldness came over me.
She laid the cards in a cross formation, with a column to her right. As she set each card down carefully, she spent just a moment looking at each one. When she had spread ten cards on the table, she paused and looked at the entire display.
I was reading upside down, but I could see the names printed on the bottoms of the cards. The Star. Wheel of Fortune. King of Coins. The Empress.
Rosa frowned and tilted her head. She touched each card in turn.
“You are on the doorstep of fire,” she said, gazing at the cards. “There is much danger, but also much reward at stake. But you have little choice. Your hand is being forced.”
An interesting choice of words. I rubbed my wrist, happy that it was still intact.
The gypsy continued. “However, although it is hard to see, there is always a choice. There is always an alternative path,” she said. “You are too close to the venom. You need protection.”
At this, Sophie gasped. “Oh my God, Cat, the curse,” she whispered loudly.
In spite of myself, I was hanging on the fortune-teller’s every word. The things she was saying were just too close to the truth to be ignored.
I shook my head. No, fortune-tellers were just like the rest of us con artists, I staunchly reminded myself. They told people what they wanted to hear. They read nuances in reactions and modified their responses moment by moment as they went along.
That was what I told myself, and that was what I had to believe.
There was no curse of the Hope Diamond. There was no such thing.
“Much harm will come to you if you touch the object,” Rosa said, still gazing at the cards. “It is too deep. The magic too old. You must not come close to it or possess it.” Even Mel stiffened at this, standing beside me. “You are talented, and you are strong,” said the gypsy. “But you cannot outwit magic this old.”
Then Rosa reached forward and plucked a card from the table. She held it out to me. “Here. You must take this. This will keep you safe.” Printed on the bottom were the words The Star. The card pictured a naked woman kneeling by a pool of water, pouring liquid from a jug. A large star sparkled above her head. I took the smooth card into my hands and looked at the gypsy with surprise. She nodded her head. “Take it.”
Sophie whispered in my ear, “The Star. That’s the card of hope and tranquility.”
As I walked home, thoughts of the fortune-teller’s warning swirled inside my head.
Death. That was what this was all about, wasn’t it?
I remembered when I was a kid and first beginning to grapple with the issue of my own mortality. I would lie in bed late at night, thinking about the fact that I was going to die someday. It scared the hell out of me. It almost made me wish I’d never been born. Because if I’d never been born, I would never have to die. It was like I was on a horrible runaway train, heading inexorably in one direction and totally powerless to stop it.
There was nothing I could do. One day I was going to die. For a little while, I attempted to convince myself that I was special—that I was the one person in the world who wasn’t actually going to die. People would study me and write about me and wonder how I’d done it . . . but I was going to be the girl who lived. The one who would never have to face that threshold. The one who would never have to cross over and feel terrified, not knowing what was on the other side.
But although I wanted to believe
that fantasy, I never fully did, of course. I knew I wasn’t special. I wasn’t immortal. I was going to die. And there was nothing I could do.
I became terrified then of dying. Every day I’d wonder if this was my last day. My last day had to be someday, so why not today?
I think it was becoming a thief, ultimately, that helped me get over my fear of dying. When I discovered and honed my skills, I began feeling special. And powerful. And . . . perhaps just a little bit invincible.
So what was I going to do now? Now that the full terror of death had returned to me, stopping me from doing the one thing that made me feel indestructible.
Chapter 9
Jack walked into the office at FBI headquarters with a feeling of dread. The office was buzzing, phones were ringing, and file cabinets were clanging. It smelled of stale coffee and printer toner. Fluorescent lighting glowed reluctantly against the dull white walls and industrial-grade blinds and carpets.
He was not looking forward to having to admit to his boss he’d lost the guy from last night. Special Agent Victoria Sullivan was a real ball breaker.
Somehow Jack needed to convince her that he was still worthy of being out on field duty. But he also wanted to know what the hell was going on with this case and why Interpol was involved.
Jack hated office work. He much preferred to be out in the field. He shuddered, thinking of his recent jailbreak from the world of paper and computers and watercoolers. He couldn’t go back to that.
Jack walked into Victoria Sullivan’s office. He pressed his mouth into a line and closed the door behind him, shutting out the chaos of the outer offices.
Her office was quiet and very still, as if the very air was afraid to disturb her.
“Barlow. They tell me you lost him,” she said.
Jack cleared his throat and shifted. “I did.” He lifted his chin. There was no point denying it. “But the main reason was because of Ludolf Hendrickx.”
“Who?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t know that name.”
