Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

  With shaking hands, Evalyn reached out to take the box as Cartier continued his bloody tale.

  “Now I simply can't vouch for everything I am about to tell you, Mrs. McLean,” he said, “but I do believe it is worth solemn consideration. This diamond is supposed to be ill-favored and is said to bring bad luck to anyone who wears or even touches it. Selim Habib is said to have drowned when his ship sank after selling the diamond to the sultan. And we all know about the knife blade that sliced through Marie Antoinette's throat. Lord Hope himself had plenty of troubles that a superstitious soul might trace back to a heathen idol's wrath. And there are others, Mrs. McLean. Many others.”

  Evalyn lifted the diamond from its box, absorbed in the way light bounced from the dark blue facets of the gem.

  “Bad luck objects are lucky for me,” she murmured.

  “Ah yes,” Cartier said. “Madame told me that before, and I remembered. Myself, I think superstitions of the kind we speak of are baseless. Yet, one must admit, they are amusing.”

  Evalyn held the jewel up to the light. As she did, a resolve spread across her face. “I must have it.”

  29

  ALEX AND ABBY SAT AT THEIR TABLE IN THE LOBBY, BROODING. ALEX swayed in his chair, trying to control the dizziness that threatened to topple him at any moment. As he rocked from side to side, his forearm brushed against Abby's, sending chill bumps across his skin.

  “Every time I come to this city I understand why people believe in ghosts,” he said.

  “Been here a lot have you?” The sharp edge in her voice left little room for any whimsy he might impart.

  Alex chose to ignore the venom and continued. “Everything here is so old. Every stone has a history. Our entire country is not half as old as this one city.”

  “Your point?”

  “Generations of men and women have lived in this very place. You can almost feel their living history all around you.”

  “The only thing I feel right now is anger, Alex.”

  He turned and watched her gleaming hair fall across her shoulders. He had never wanted to kiss her more than he did at that moment, but he also knew there had never been a time it would be less welcomed. Pain and betrayal etched her face; he almost could not remember the shape of her mouth when she smiled.

  Alex dropped his head and stared at his hands. “I didn't know he was your father.”

  “Sure you didn't.”

  He thought about his visit to the DMV and what he had learned there. “At least not until two days ago.”

  “Would it have mattered?”

  “Not at first.” He cringed at the truth. “But later on when I … yes, it would have mattered then.”

  “Would it have stopped you?”

  He was silent.

  “I thought not.”

  Alex could feel Abby stiffen next to him, and he knew she was about to leave.

  “Please, don't go.” He heard the desperate, pleading tone in his voice and felt weak for it.

  “I told my father I would wait here.”

  Alex caught her eyes and tried to communicate that she hoped for the impossible. Her façade of strength was crumbling, and her lips began to tremble. Alex turned away so she wouldn't be ashamed of her own sorrow.

  “He isn't coming back, is he?” she finally asked, just a word or two away from tears.

  Alex shook his head.

  “What do I do now?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Trust me.”

  She snorted. “I did.”

  “Do you care about your father, Abby?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then you have to help me find him.”

  “I don't feel very inclined to help you do anything right now.”

  “Then your father is going to die.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked up, startled.

  “For the last ten years your father has been a broker for a group of men known as the Collectors.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “The Collectors put in an order. Your father—the Broker—gives my brother and me the marching orders, and we steal the piece. For the last ten years we have met him right here at the hotel to make the swap. He pays us, then takes the item back to the Collectors and auctions it off among them.”

  “I still don't understand why you think I can help.”

  “Because my brother tried to plant a bullet in my head this morning to remove me from the equation. We meet at this spot at exactly noon.” Alex glanced at his watch. “That was fifteen minutes ago. And as you can plainly see, your father and my brother are nowhere to be found. So the plan has been derailed, and a lot of people are going to die before this is all over.”

  “Die?”

  “Yes, die. This has gone far beyond the theft of some little trinket now. We're talking about the unraveling of the largest theft ring in the world. Don't you think they'd go to great lengths to keep their secret?”

  “So your brother wanted you out of the picture?”

  “You could say that.”

  “What? No honor among thieves?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “How do I know you're telling the truth?”

  Alex grimaced and peeled off the baseball cap. The bandage on the side of his head was soaked with fresh blood. “He didn't just try to shoot me, Abby. I was about two millimeters away from having my brains splattered on the wall.”

  She recoiled at the sight of his blood.

  “You think I got what I deserved?” he asked.

  “It crossed my mind,” she said, with a weak smile. She turned away from him.

  He grabbed her shoulders firmly. “Look, I know you could kill me yourself right now. Fair enough. I deserve it. But you need to decide what you're going to do because we don't have time to feel sorry for ourselves. That diamond will be gone forever in a matter of hours. How badly do you want it?”

  “What happens if we find them?”

  Alex grimaced. “I've got some unfinished business with my brother, and you get the diamond back. I'll do everything within my power to help you return it to the Smithsonian.”

  30

  DOUGLAS MITCHELL LED THE WAY ONTO HIS PRIVATE JET, PARKED ON THE tarmac at Charles de Gaulle International Airport, followed closely by Isaac Weld. Wülf disappeared into the cockpit and shut the door.

  “I'm going to trust you just this once,” Isaac said, reclining into the soft tan leather chair, “that you're telling me the truth about our destination.” He pulled the gun from the inside pocket of his coat.

  Douglas Mitchell had witnessed more than enough of Isaac's arrogance, and his tolerance was wearing thin. “Do you have a choice?”

  “Do you?

  The Broker cocked his head to one side and surveyed Isaac. “Would you like to know the truth, Mr. Weld?”

  “I rarely have use for the truth.”

  “The truth is,” the Broker continued, “you need me.”

  Isaac stared over the tip of his gun barrel.

  “You may think that you know who I am and who I work for, but you know very little. You can't find them without me. You can't sell your merchandise without me. They will not listen to you without me. So,” he said with a curt smile, “if I were you, I would put that little toy away, and the two of us can get down to business. I will make my offer once. Before you answer, I would remind you again, I do not like to be threatened.”

  Alex shivered, his jaw clenched tight to stop his chattering teeth. Dizziness swirled in his head, and he wobbled in the chair.

  “You don't look so good,” Abby said.

  “I feel worse.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  His mind raced through every option; his eyes shifted back and forth as though reading an unseen list. Finally, he squeezed them shut and shook his head. “There's nothing we can do,” he muttered. “It's over.”

  “What do you mean, it's over?”

 
His face clouded. “There's no way we can find that diamond now. I'm sorry,” he whispered. For the first time since meeting her, Alex allowed himself to feel regret. It hurt a great deal more than the searing wound above his ear.

  Abby returned his gaze, but with a great deal less intensity. She struggled to keep a smile from spilling onto her face. “Alex—”

  He winced at the reprimanding tone.

  “I never said I didn't know where the diamond was,” she continued, the satisfied note in her voice quite evident.

  “What?”

  “How much of a fool do you take me for?”

  He said nothing, only just beginning to realize how badly he had underestimated her.

  “Do you really think I would take the diamond out of its case, much less wear the thing, without taking appropriate measures? Do you think I'm that stupid?”

  “I don't understand.”

  Abby pulled the iPhone from her pocket and handed it to him. Displayed on the screen was a grid of green lines with two red lights, one blinking and the other stationary.

  “A GPS? That's how you tracked us here?”

  She nodded.

  His eyes filled with new light. “How far does it reach?”

  “Anywhere on the planet,” she said. “I know its exact location.”

  Alex looked at her with newfound respect. Suddenly, Abby Mitchell was transformed into someone he didn't know. He replayed the scenes from the event of the night before in his mind. “You weren't really having trouble with the clasp, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Impressive.” Alex returned her smile with an appreciative nod. “Okay, so the blinking light is the diamond on its way to God knows where, and the other light?”

  “Me,” Abby answered.

  He looked her over carefully. “Where's the transmitter?”

  She pushed her hair away from her face and touched one of the diamond stud earrings. Abby took the iPhone from him and tapped the screen a few times. “We've only got about five minutes to figure this out. They're at the airport right now, and my guess is they won't be there by the time we arrive.”

  31

  LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY, MAY 18, 1919

  EVALYN WALSH MCLEAN WOKE AS THE DOOR TO HER SUITE SQUEAKED open. She watched Ned stumble into the room, unshaven and disheveled. Sunrise glowed on the horizon, announcing the arrival of a new day. She had lain awake most of the night, wondering where her husband might be. By his drunken appearance, she now had a fairly good idea.

  Ned attempted to sneak to the bathroom without being noticed. Evalyn sat up in bed, the covers falling away to reveal a white satin nightgown. Around her neck she wore the Hope Diamond.

  “Where have you been?” she snapped.

  He staggered to a stop and ran into the back of a chair. “What?”

  “Where have you been?”

  “Celebrating our victory,” he slurred. “Sir Barton won the Derby, darling.”

  “Yes. Two weeks ago.”

  “But the money. How much did we win again?”

  “Eighty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Yes. Yes. That's what I was celebrating.”

  “From your condition, I'd say you were out spending it.”

  The color in Ned's cheeks rose, exacerbated by the flush of alcohol. “Don't lecture me about spending money!” he roared. “You're the one who spent $180,000 on that stupid blue rock.”

  Evalyn slid out of bed and grabbed her dressing gown from the back of a nearby chair. Her hair, now cut in a fashionable bob, fell into her eyes. She flicked it away and crossed the floor barefoot. Standing before Ned, hands on her hips, she thrust out her chin.

  “I want to go home,” she demanded.

  “I'm not done here.”

  “Then I will leave without you.”

  Spectacularly drunk though he was, Ned was still a great deal stronger than Evalyn. He grabbed her thin arm and pulled her close, fingers digging into the skin. “You won't be going anywhere,” he hissed, sour breath flooding her face, “without me.”

  Evalyn grimaced and turned her nose, yet she did not back down. “The children need us. We've been gone for a month.”

  “I'm sure the children are perfectly fine. Spoiled, in fact.”

  “What about Vinson? He's sick.”

  “That little retard?”

  Evalyn hurled the palm of her right hand against Ned's cheek; the sound cracked like lightning through the room.

  “Epilepsy!” she screamed. “He has epilepsy!”

  The shadow of regret passed over Ned's face. Yet he gripped her arm until she gasped in pain. “We're not going.”

  Unable to look at his rage-contorted face, she dropped her eyes. For a moment she thought the dark red smudge on his collar was dirt. It took her but a moment to realize it was lipstick, and certainly not hers. The last kiss Ned and Evalyn shared came nine months before their youngest child was born. She understood then why he did not want to leave.

  She tugged at his collar with her free hand. “Who is she?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I may be a fool for having married you, Ned McLean, but I am not stupid. Who is she?”

  He glared at her for a moment, then released his grip, and shoved her away. “Get dressed,” he spat. “You always did look like a hag in the morning.”

  MCLEAN ESTATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The McLean residence, benignly named Friendship, rested on seventy-six acres just outside Washington, D.C. Ned's father bought the estate years earlier for its historic mansion. George Washington was said to have visited the mansion on occasion, and John McLean had taken a fancy to the idea that he could live in a home where presidents once slumbered. Many wondered if he was secretly considering a bid for the White House.

  After Ned and Evalyn moved in after their honeymoon, she threw herself into renovating the house and grounds with great fervor. Open countryside converted to manicured lawns. She supervised the planting of new cedars throughout the estate, framing driveways, parks, and recreation areas. Fountains sprouted almost magically across the rolling terrain. Yet she was not content to stop just with the flora. Evalyn McLean wanted fauna as well. As much for her own fancy as that of her children, she collected a menagerie of donkeys, goats, cows, ponies, and all kinds of fowl. Her own favorites, however, were a pet llama, monkey, and parrot. The endless noise and mess of the McLean zoo drove Ned crazy, and in recent years he had spent less and less time with the family at the estate.

  For their children, particularly nine-year-old Vinson, the grounds of the McLean estate were a never-ending wonderland. Born with his mother's stubbornness and his father's bent toward adventure, Vinson disregarded the accepted rules of conduct at the estate and wandered about as he pleased.

  Slight of frame, yet sharp of mind, it was an unending frustration to Vinson that he could control neither mind nor body during one of his frequent epileptic seizures. Even at such a young age, he understood the look of worry in his mother's eyes, as well as the disgust in his father's. Two years earlier he took to escaping from his nanny so he could explore the acreage around the mansion, free of interference. One of his favorite places to loiter was near the front of the estate. He would climb the tallest tree, look out over the road, and watch the traffic as it passed. He told himself stories about the vehicle's occupants and where they might be going.

  That is exactly what Vinson was up to that warm afternoon in mid-May. He lay on his belly, stretched halfway out on a great limb that overhung the road. Their old gardener, Henry Graber, was pulled to the side of the road, changing a flat tire. Vinson did not know why his father fired the man, but he heard the argument all the way up to his second-floor bedroom. Henry did not look pleased to have broken down right in front of the McLean family estate.

  Vinson's mischievous streak rose to the surface, so he shimmied down the tree and snuck up behind the car. While Henry fiddled with a tire iron, the small boy crept inside the rear door and grabbed
two small ferns from the backseat. He would have gotten away with his crime had his foot not slipped in the gravel beside the road, alerting the old man to his presence.

  Knowing he was caught, Vinson darted into the road and ran for the front gates, quite sure that Henry would not dare to cross onto the McLean estate again.

  The old man reached for him despite the fact that he was at least fifteen feet away by then. “No, Vinson!” he yelled. The gardener was not concerned for his ferns, for he had been a kind man, sorely used by Ned McLean, but rather his fear was caused by the oncoming Ford Wagon with wooden panels.

  Vinson heard the concern in Henry's voice and stopped in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing a moving vehicle at such near proximity, or it may have been the curse of a broken body that caused him to stiffen as his eyes rolled back in his head, unable to move from danger in that split second before the accident.

  The Ford hit Vinson going only eight miles an hour, but Henry would forever remember the thud, almost wooden, as it collided with the child, knocking him to the ground, his head hitting the concrete. The seizure took full force of his little body, and Vinson lay in the road, twitching. Pandemonium ensued as the gardener and three women inside the car rushed to help the unresponsive boy.

  “He came out of nowhere,” the driver howled, her face streaked with tears.

  With worn, gentle hands, the old man lifted the boy into his arms, calloused fingers kneading his throat, looking for a pulse. “He's still breathing. We must get him into the house.”

  “Who is this child?” asked one of the women.

  “His name is Vinson,” Henry said, running for the gate. “Son of Ned and Evalyn McLean.”

  Horror struck the three women, their mouths agape. As he scrambled through the gate, Henry could only hear pieces of their hushed conversation as they traipsed after him.

  “That woman owns the Hope Diamond …”

  “They say the thing is cursed …”