When they arrived at this small house on a winding back street in Nice, Anton had addressed the thug as Lub. Frank absorbed details like a sponge: heavy features, coarse dark hair, thick fingers, a plain blue shirt Lub had slept in for three days. French most likely wasn’t his native language but he’d learned it young or was simply a natural. At the beginning of the meeting, when he’d greeted Anton in English, he used heavy consonants with stretched-out vowels. Eastern Europe somewhere.
The two men accompanying this Lub were equally disreputable-looking and conversed rapidly with him in whatever native language they shared. Another one was obviously French and it was at his insistence—and most likely to exclude Frank—they all spoke French.
Frank had never studied a language, including his own, but he had a natural flair for words and had been around long enough to have picked up a few basics. For instance, he knew the central topic of this conversation was jewels, and by the number of times someone’s glance slid toward him he knew Anton was telling them about the piece Frank wanted to sell. He also knew none of these men trusted him. Fair enough—he didn’t trust them either.
What he didn’t understand was why all the hoopla. He’d brought the piece, Anton had studied it through his loupe and nodded approval. So … why didn’t they just agree on a price, hand over the money, and he’d be on his merry way? He already had that part of it planned out—a train to Cannes, switching directions a couple of times, ending up in Italy where he would catch the first flight he could get back to the good old U.S. of A. He was sick of historical (meaning cold) old buildings and skinny little streets where you couldn’t tell east from north.
If it wasn’t for the dangerous gleam in Lub’s eye, Frank would have demanded the answers to his questions. As it was, he had no logical choice but to bide his time and so he sat quietly in one of the chairs at the dining table in this place, some kind of safe house, where they’d been summoned this afternoon to meet. He feigned interest in a brochure he’d found, about some kind of wild animal park, while the rest of them chatted. He never took his eye off his necklace, though.
Chapter 68
“How do I look?” Amber asked, twirling so the black garment flared slightly.
“Like a true Arab princess,” Gracie said with a laugh. “And moi? Was my choice of fabric a good one?”
“Perfect. And excellent that you came up with a seamstress to make them for us on short notice,” Pen said, fitting the second of her dark contact lenses in place. Blue-green eyes would not do for this assignment, so she and Sandy had to go a little further with their disguises.
The doorbell rang and Sandy rushed to answer, unclipping the face piece, the niqab, from her chador as she ran.
“Ah, you must be Marcel,” she said.
“I am.” The handsome forty-year-old man with an impeccable haircut and traditional tuxedo stepped forward. “But tonight, you may call me Farouk.”
“Ooh-la-la, Farouk,” Amber teased. She turned to the other ladies. “Told you I was lucky to find an actor on such short notice. How’s your Arabic?”
He waggled his hand. “Passable enough as long as the subject is a simple one. I know my accent is spot-on. I’ve done a number of Arab language commercials.”
“We’ll make it as easy as possible for you,” Pen said, stepping forward and introducing herself. “The subject will be jewelry and we may have you pose a question or two, depending on what we see at this party. You must be our voice, since none of us speaks a word of the language. Mainly, you can pretend to be an interpreter and escort. Four Arab women would never be allowed to attend such a gala unaccompanied by a male relative. You are my nephew.”
Marcel nodded and offered his arm to Pen. “Are we ready then?”
Outside the hotel, a stretch limo waited and the agency had added the elegant touch of placing small flags at the front.
Pen whispered through the cloth covering her face. “Remove those,” she told Marcel. “It would be rotten luck if a real Saudi prince is there and knows those flags do not belong to any country he’s ever heard of. We may be breezing through the place in very noticeable costume but we do need to play our roles and be as inconspicuous as possible.”
The four women climbed into the back of the limo and Marcel discreetly pulled off the small flags as he circled to get into the driver’s seat. On the way to the Nice Acropolis they reviewed their plan. If something should go awry, they could flee without fear that anyone had recognized them. All carried their cell phones and a meeting place had been chosen two blocks away, a coffee shop where everyone would report in case they became separated.
Fairy lights decorated the trees outside the convention hall and Marcel pulled to the curb to discharge his four princesses. He had to hand over the limo keys to a valet, something Pen had not anticipated and did not like. But from this point forward the women could not speak except very quietly, only when absolutely alone with each other.
She exchanged a glance with Gracie, then a slight nod toward Sandy and Amber. Inhaling deeply, she took Marcel’s arm and proceeded toward the front door where two uniformed security officers were checking invitations. It was show time.
Chapter 69
Frank kept sneaking looks at Anton, wondering how long this frigging deal was supposed to take. He’d picked up on the fact that the Dutchman had other business with the men—yeah, he got that. But, geez, couldn’t they just get the money for the necklace and be out of there? Now!
They’d been in the house a good forty-five minutes before Lubnic got up and went to the tiny kitchen, coming back to the table with a bottle of vodka and some plastic cups. The atmosphere relaxed quite a bit—a sign to Frank that the most important topics had been discussed—and conversations flowed in several languages. Frank caught what he could in English.
“The Salem Diamond is to be on display,” said the Frenchman. “I would love to get my hands on that beauty.”
Lubnic shrugged, replying in English. “Forty-five carats, it could be cut down … but I do not like handling the famous stones. Everyone’s looking for them, the honest dealers will recognize even a fragment of one like that.”
Anton nodded. “I do not touch them myself.”
What he was really saying, Frank realized, was the Fitzpatrick necklace interested him only because it had not been seen by as many in the world of gems. Those stones would not set off international alarm bells.
“Ah, but the rest of the show,” the Frenchman said, “it is to be glorious. We will sweep in, we take away bags and bags …”
Frank’s interest sharpened, but a stare from Lubnic hushed the man. Frenchie abandoned the plastic cup of vodka and brought a half-full bottle of wine from the kitchen. He pulled the cork and poured a generous amount into a clean glass.
Anton finally began making restless movements. “We should go.”
The Frenchman took a slow, appreciative sip of his wine, set the glass on the countertop and walked out of the room.
Anton and Lub spoke quickly in the language they’d used earlier in the meeting. Frank listened intently but only caught a few words, a name—Leblanc—and something that sounded like mausoleum.
The Frenchman returned from what Frank assumed was a bedroom, approached Anton and handed over a large, thick envelope. Anton flipped through the euro notes inside, pulled out a large hunk of them and placed the envelope on the table.
“The necklace, please.”
Frank had placed the valuable piece in a cloth bag and carried it here in an attaché case he’d purchased this morning. Now he was glad he had. He didn’t want this bunch seeing his money belt, not that his few thousand in cash would be of interest to a gang that played in the millions of dollars. He carefully laid the bag on the table and pulled the necklace out. He heard a collective intake of breath. The emeralds were impressive, even to this group. He pushed the handsome piece toward Lubnic.
“We’re done, then?” he said, scooping up the envelope. As a show of trust, he mer
ely thumbed through the cash before placing it in his case. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.”
Although it really hadn’t been—more like a pain in the neck, all their wrangling and trailing Anton all over the place. He walked out of the house, turned a corner and waited in a recessed doorway to watch. When ten minutes passed with no one emerging from the meeting, he felt sure they wouldn’t try to follow. Once more he wondered how much money these guys had made through all their jewel heists. Enough that a quarter-million euros wasn’t worth their time to chase him down and steal.
A little wave of admiration—he knew plenty of con men who wanted to have the cake and eat it too, who would have taken the necklace and found a way to keep the cash as well. He wondered when he might feel that way.
Frankie, when is enough really enough? came his mother’s voice. He hailed a taxi, smiling to himself and thinking: Not yet, Mom.
“Nice Acropolis,” he said to the cabbie.
Although the theft and sale of the necklace had been a pain, now that he had contacts in the jewel trade over here, the idea of a large-haul job held more appeal. Hell, it was worth it, obviously, since these Panther dudes did it all the time. He’d always been a fan of the short con, quickly in and out, take some mooch for the cash in his wallet or some old lady for a social security check or two, but it took a long time to amass this kind of money with those jobs. The long cons paid better but took forever to complete. He found himself warming to the idea of getting into the smash-and-grab thrill of scooping up handfuls of jewels and then trading it quickly for a briefcase of cash like the one he carried now.
The Acropolis convention center was lit up like a Christmas tree when his cab pulled up at the curb. Guys in tuxedoes manned the door, and well-dressed people got out of nice cars which pulled around a circular drive and deposited them at the front steps. He paid for the ride and stepped aside to scope out the situation. He was wearing a decent suit. From the briefcase’s side pocket, he withdrew a silk tie he’d lifted from a hotel gift shop in Zurich, draped it around his neck and knotted it in place. With his standby Tiffany business cards, he might just be able to pull this off.
All he wanted at this point was a good look-see. He might be impulsive, but he would never dash into a place like this, with this kind of security, not knowing what he would find inside.
Chapter 70
About forty acres of jewelry filled the massive exhibit hall—or so it seemed to Sandy. Despite the restrictive black frame around her view, she had to admit she was in awe of the show. Glamorous women in the latest fashions browsed, and the men with them insisted they try on anything their little hearts desired. Hard to imagine there was this much wealth in one city at one time.
Watching the crowd also made Sandy glad for the cover of the chador. Actual, wealthy Arab women would be dressed to the nines under their black, but at least Sandy and the rest of the team didn’t have to keep up that pretense.
Pen edged closer and spoke quietly. “Remember to browse thoroughly but don’t spend too much time or we’ll never get through the whole place.”
All four women had spent time studying photographs of Pen’s missing necklace, memorizing details—not that there would be many pieces in the world to compare with it.
“We can’t split up too greatly or it will look suspicious. We only have the one male escort,” she told her team.
They devised a sort of system where the four would approach one of the glittering glass cases, keeping to the section featuring emeralds. No point in spending time over sapphires or rubies or mere diamonds, Pen reminded them. The search became easier as they automatically weeded out rings and bracelets, focusing only on necklaces.
Pen took a bit more time, scanning any piece with a single stone to rival any of hers. Although she knew the necklace had been intact three days ago in Zurich, there was always the chance Frank Morrell had moved it quickly and the stones were now dispersed.
With each seller, Marcel the actor put on his best accent and inquired whether the vendor carried other things that were not on display, especially any antique pieces?
Twice, they were shown tiaras purported to have belonged to European royalty but nothing compared to the necklace they sought. They had covered no more than a third of the offerings when Pen caught Sandy’s attention.
“This outfit is making me claustrophobic, I’m afraid. I must get some air.” Pen walked toward a sign indicating the women’s toilets.
Inside a stall, she latched the door and removed the cumbersome black fabric from her head. The cooler air on her face felt good but a restroom wasn’t the best place to breathe deeply of fresh air. Removing the garment entirely, she folded it to resemble a cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
An exit door at the end of the short corridor seemed unattended. It would surely lock behind her and not allow her back inside but if she didn’t get away from the hot lights and stifling crowd for at least a few minutes, she felt she would scream. Not for the first time, she yearned for the wide-open spaces of her home in Arizona, wished this entire adventure was behind her.
She pushed the door open, praying no alarm would sound, and stepped out into the cool evening air. The scent of flowers overlaid the sea air which was always noticeable in this city. She breathed deeply of it and let her eyes adjust to the relative darkness, pathways lit only by small lights and decorative strands on the trees. Almost at once a figure appeared, a man striding toward her.
Oh, dear, she thought. Am I in trouble already?
But as the man came closer she recognized him. Detective Caplin.
“Still looking for the missing property, Mrs. Fitzpatrick?” he said. His voice was not unkind and she accepted the question for what it was.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Trying to cover all the bases, I suppose you would say.”
“Me too. I’ve been tracking Morrell all day. He’s made contact with those thieves and spent some time with them. Frankly, I think he’s probably already sold the necklace. The only discrepancy in that theory is that I trailed him here. He tried walking up to the front door but was turned away. In the half-second I looked away he disappeared. I’m not sure what he’s up to.”
The detective cleared his throat softly, his eyes scanning the area constantly. “You’re better off to stay in disguise, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Go back inside and when it’s time, leave with your escort. I’ll contact you when I have anything new to report.”
“Are you certain? You will tell me where my necklace is, not hand over this Morrell character to the police?”
“I’ll contact you,” he repeated. He vanished into a shadow.
Pen felt the weight of discouragement once again. Caplin thought Morrell had sold the necklace already. She turned toward the door where she’d left the building but it had no outside handle. She would have to reenter through the front. She slid the black cloak over her clothes and walked back, showing the gold-toned identification bracelet she’d been issued when they arrived the first time.
Chapter 71
Frank cursed the doorman under his breath. Stupid rule about black tie attire, he thought as he walked away. Although the bigger obstacle had been that his Tiffany credentials carried no weight here. Everyone on the premises was in the jewelry business, the man had said. What mattered were the names on the invitation list. If your name wasn’t there, you weren’t getting in.
He stalked away, trying not to let his body language reveal his disgust. There was always more than one way to skin a cat, his dad used to say. Out of the doorman’s sight, Frank found a pathway leading to other entrances to the building. The west side one was locked down tight, draperies over the glass doors obscuring all signs of the activity inside. Circling to the north, the rear of the building, he saw a plain steel door swing open.
Out stepped a woman in a white dress with a dark wrap of some kind around her shoulders. Her blond chin-length hair caught his attention. Penelope Fitzpatrick. He felt sure of it. Her pre
sence at the gem show could not be a coincidence. And Frank Morrell didn’t believe in coincidences anyway. He shrank back into the leafy folds of a giant oleander bush and watched her stroll in the opposite direction. A man approached her but they were now too far away to identify Frank, so he casually walked away.
His mind raced—stay here and try to gain access to the building, or get a taxi and leave this city as soon as possible? He couldn’t keep lugging around this briefcase full of cash without taking a big chance on losing it, but the pull of that building full of riches still tugged at him. He’d give anything to know what the Golden Tigers had planned, how they would manage to rob a big place like this with such tight security. The more these thoughts ran through his mind the more he realized he was tired. Between dodging the Fitzpatrick woman and keeping up with Anton, he’d not had a decent night’s sleep in ages. He wasn’t thinking clearly and that was always dangerous. He spotted a stone bench a little farther down the pathway and he sat, just for a moment, to sort things out.
Not even the success of his recent con would ever be enough for him, Frank knew. The lure of the massive haul inside tugged at him. Anton and Lubnic had seen that Frank operated in good faith. With a robbery this big, the more hands, the better, he reasoned. They would surely let him join the gang for this one.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Penelope Fitzpatrick was gone. The man she’d been talking to was heading toward Frank so quickly he would have to jog to outpace him, and that would most certainly look suspicious. The guy had the look of law enforcement and the last thing Frank wanted was to answer questions about the briefcase and its contents. He tucked it out of sight beside the solid legs of the bench, rose and walked with his back to the man, keeping a leisurely pace. With luck, the guy would rush past him and Frank would switch directions, grab his case, and get the hell out of there.
Diamonds Aren't Forever Page 19
