“Do you have any idea why we're here?” he asked, looking a great deal healthier and more well-rested than he had the day before.
“I do now.” Her eyes ran up the sheer rock face of Table Mountain.
“Care to explain?”
“See those sandstone cliffs?”
“You mean we're going up there?”
“Apparently so.”
“Great.”
A mischievous smiled danced at the corners of her mouth. “You're not afraid of heights are you?”
“Heights, no. Dangling several thousand feet in the air by a wire, yeah, that's a bit unnerving.”
She smiled. “Don't worry. It's not the fall that kills you. It's the sudden stop.”
“Funny.”
“Oh, come on, Alex. It can't possibly be worse than some of the things you've done in your career.” The last word came out as an insult, and she immediately regretted it.
He turned toward her, trying to catch her eyes now planted firmly on the road. “I've done a lot in my career. Much of it I regret.”
She didn't respond, and they remained silent until Abby stopped the Jeep in front of the entrance to the cable station.
“Let's go,” she said. “We need to finish this.”
Isaac felt the diamond tug against his chest as they rode the cable car up the mountain. The Broker remained silent, face turned toward the window. Isaac on the other hand looked up toward the cocktail bar two thousand feet above. As he did, he noticed the large black helicopter that touched down for less than a minute and then rose in the air again.
The Collectors, he thought, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
34
ISAAC AND THE BROKER PUSHED THROUGH THE GLASS DOORS LEADING TO the cocktail bar. Although the restaurant could hold one hundred thirty people, fewer than twenty were scattered about the room, seated sparsely at the tables, sipping on a variety of wine and mixed drinks. Panoramic views spread along three sides of the restaurant, engulfing visitors with light from floor-to-ceiling windows. Clear blue water glinted off the white sand of Camps Bay below, and a cloudless sky stretched from horizon to horizon.
The Broker drifted to a table in the far corner, wedged between two windows that overlooked the cliff. He pulled back a chair and sat down, arms crossed and jaw clenched.
Isaac joined him at the table, his eyes wandering over the handful of customers. “What now?”
“We wait.”
“I need a little more information than that.”
The Broker clenched his jaw. “Pity you won't get any.”
“Don't mess with me.”
“Don't pick a fight.”
Isaac patted his sport coat gently, reminding the Broker of the pistol tucked beneath the surface. “We have an agreement.”
The Broker's lips twisted into a sadistic grin. “Do we now?”
The cable car chinked up the gorge, rocking gently in the wind. Empty except for Alex and Abby, only silence filled the space that would have normally accommodated twenty passengers. They stood at opposite ends, in an effort to balance their weight and the awkwardness they felt.
The sun flooded the city with caramel-colored light as it slipped toward the horizon, its arc almost complete for the day. Yet Alex's eyes were not on the breathtaking view, but rather on the brown-eyed woman who would not meet his gaze.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “It wasn't supposed to turn out like this.”
“I know. You were supposed to get away with it. The perfect crime.”
“That's not what I meant.” He ran the back of his hand across the stubble on his cheek. “I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you.”
The words shocked Abby into a quick glance, but she looked away again, unable to absorb the intensity in his eyes.
“Abby, I've never loved anyone. Ever.” He took a step toward her.
“Alex, please don't.”
He inched his way along the cable car. “You were totally unexpected.”
“And here I thought I was part of your plan all along. Isn't that how it works? Romance the girl. Steal the goods.”
“Usually.”
“But this time, you just happened to really fall in love? Wow! That's convenient.”
“It's not like that!”
Alex scooped her into his arms in one fluid movement. Their lips brushed for a moment, and then he pressed in, desperate to communicate his sincerity. For a brief second, she softened and returned the kiss. But then she stiffened and pushed him away.
“Nice try.” Abby wiped the kiss away with her forearm. But the look on her face left Alex unconvinced of her doubt.
He stood, eyes half closed, with the taste of her kiss still on his lips. Emotion erupted in his voice. “I'm sorry.”
A shadow passed over her face as she glanced between the top of the mountain and Alex. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. They were almost at the end of their ride.
Hardness settled around the edges of Isaac's face, and his demeanor cooled. “Double-crossing me is a big risk, considering I decide whether you live or die.”
“True. But from where I sit, the risk is acceptable.”
“Do explain.”
“You've yet to prove you actually have the merchandise, Mr. Weld.”
Isaac pondered for a moment and drew the black velvet bag from under his shirt. He lifted the diamond from the pouch and let it rest in his palm. “Satisfied?”
The Broker's ravenous eyes grew large. “Very.”
“Good. Now when can we expect the Collectors to arrive?”
The Broker tapped his fingers together and fought to control the self-satisfied look that threatened to spread over his face. “Ah, yes. Let just say they won't be coming.”
The edge in Isaac's voice was razor sharp. “I'm sure you're mistaken. Our agreement clearly stated that you would bring me to them.” He spat the words as he leaned across the table.
“Actually,” the Broker corrected, “I believe our agreement was to bring you to the rendezvous spot. And I did. This is where I've met with the Collectors for nearly twenty years.”
Isaac's nostrils flared. “That diamond is for the Collectors.”
“Not so.” The Broker ran his eyes over the stone as light reflected from the faceted surface. “This is for my personal collection.”
Isaac's hand crept toward the inside of his jacket.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Weld.”
“As an unarmed man, I hardly think you're in a position to threaten me.”
“True. I don't carry a weapon. I never have.”
“Well, then, it seems I have the advantage.”
“Ah, not so. I have a great distaste for guns, vulgar things that they are, but my assistant Wülf has quite the flare for them. Since he is standing but three feet behind you, I would think twice before pulling your weapon out.”
Isaac turned. Wülf stood at the window, one arm resting on the window sill, the other tucked inside the pocket of his sport coat. The look he gave Isaac was merciless.
“I sent him ahead,” the Broker said. “I would prefer he not kill you in here. You know, witnesses and all, but rest assured I will give the order should it come to that.”
Isaac leaned back in his chair; his nostrils flared. “It seems our little game has come to an impasse.”
“No, I believe you call this checkmate.”
“Ah, but you see, I still have this.” Isaac lifted the diamond and let it swing on its chain before the Broker. “And the truth is I don't believe you.”
“What exactly do you not believe?”
“I saw the helicopter land, and I know the Collectors are here. I will get what I want.”
A brief look of confusion crossed the Broker's face. “What helicopter?”
Even as Isaac enjoyed his moment of power, bedlam ensued.
35
WASHINGTON POST, JUNE 1, 1933
EVALYN WALSH MCLEAN STOOD AT THE WINDOW, HER BACK S
TRAIGHT as an arrow, as she watched the auction below on the front steps of the building. She wore a calf-length, black satin dress, fitted to her thin frame. Black heels, black mink coat, and a wide-brimmed black hat with netting completed the ensemble. As always, the Hope Diamond hung around her neck. The fingers of her left hand traced the facets of the jewel from memory. In her right hand she held a cigarette, smoke curling from the edges.
Her father-in-law had bought the Washington Post long before she and Ned married, but it had nonetheless been the primary source of her extravagant lifestyle throughout the years. Yet, like most things that Ned laid his hands on, it was poorly managed, and began to hemorrhage cash. During the year leading up to the bankruptcy, it lost twenty thousand dollars a month.
Ned stood three stories below, just to the left of the auctioneer, lost in a drunken haze. Alcohol had always been his preferred method of diffusing pain. Today was no different.
“Do I hear two fifty?” the auctioneer asked, scanning the crowd.
A bright red paddle flew into the air.
“Two fifty. Do we have three?”
Another paddle.
“Three, do we have three fifty?”
Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Just four years earlier, Eugene Meyer, head of the Federal Reserve, offered the McLean's five million dollars for the newspaper. Two years after that, publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst offered three million. In both cases Evalyn turned them down, hoping the paper would pass on to her children. Now here she stood, watching eager bidders salivate over the Washington Post for a mere three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
As the numbers climbed in fifty thousand dollar increments, tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them back with a fury.
“Four fifty, do I hear five?”
Paddles everywhere.
“Five, five fifty, six.”
“Six hundred thousand dollars. Do I have six fifty?”
The bidding slowed. Those who came to lowball the purchase of the newspaper dropped out.
“Six fifty. Do I hear seven?”
“Seven. Do I have seven fifty?”
She leaned forward in the silence as the sea of paddles remained lowered.
“Seven, going once …”
Then in the back, a paddle shot up.
“Seven fifty from the gentleman in the back. Do I have eight?”
That gentleman in the back was none other than Eugene Meyer, the very same man who had offered five million dollars for the paper such a short time ago.
The auction narrowed down to two people, ironically the same two who had offered millions for the paper in better days: Eugene Meyer and William Randolph Hearst.
“Seven fifty going once, going twice …”
“Eight from Mr. Hearst. Do I have eight fifty?”
An agonizing pause.
“Eight going once, eight going twice …”
“Eight fifty from Mr. Meyer! Do I have nine?”
Silence. Interminable.
“Eight fifty going once. Eight fifty going twice. Sold to Eugene Meyer for eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”
The crowd below erupted in applause, and Eugene Meyer made his way up the steps, grinning as spectators slapped him on the back.
At some point during the last few moments, Ned had slipped away, too embarrassed to remain.
Evalyn was so absorbed in the scene below that she did not hear the door open behind her.
“It's over then, I guess,” he said.
In disgust she examined her disgraced husband from head to toe, and then sucked on her cigarette holder. “It was over a long time ago.”
Ned remained by the door. His forehead looked clammy, and as usual, his breath was sour. Although he cleaned up for the auction, he was but a shadow of his former self.
“That's what I've been saying for years,” he said, “but you still contest the divorce.”
“There is no divorce,” she said, a vindictive smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“Apparently, you didn't get the papers I sent you at Christmas, wrapped in red and green paper?”
“Oh, I got them,” she said. “We both know that. And I contested them. And I will continue to do so every time you try to put me out by drawing up papers in some godforsaken Third-World country because no judge in the States will grant your wishes. I am not that easy to get rid of Ned McLean.”
Three decades of heavy drinking had caused many of the capillaries in Ned's cheeks and nose to burst, giving him a permanently ruddy complexion. His face grew redder and redder as they argued. “You just said it was over, Evalyn! You said it!”
“I was not speaking of our marriage, Ned. I tried to end that seventeen years ago, but you sent me those blasted telegrams, all sixty of them for God's sake, professing your love. And I believed you! What a fool I was!” Her hands were shaking, but her face remained still. “I was referring to this kingdom we have built. Nothing but a house of cards. Millions squandered. Six homes gone. The Washington Post gone. Our marriage nothing but a sham for the last twenty years. And Vinson!” Her voice broke. “My baby is gone. All because of you!”
She paced the floor in front of him; her expression was rabid and tense with anger. The edges of his scowl trimmed with fear, and he backed away.
“No, Ned,” she continued. “After all that you have put me through, you will not be rid of me that easily!”
“I want a divorce!”
“Never!”
“What good can this possibly do, Evalyn? We haven't been together in years.”
“That is not my fault. I've always been here. You're the one who's chosen scores of women over me. Scores! Don't you think I know about what you and Warren Harding did at your father's home on H Street? I know you two called it the Love Nest! I know about the women that came and went! Oh, and Florence knew too. And still, after Warren died, she tried to protect him—protect the both of you. What do you think she was doing for those eighteen days she spent at Friendship after he died?”
Ned stared at her, unsure how to answer.
“Burning papers, that's what! For eighteen days. You think you're in trouble now? You think you're humiliated now? Had she not destroyed the most incriminating evidence of your business dalliances with Warren, you'd be in prison. You owe me, Ned, and I will never forget. It would be best if you didn't, either.”
Evalyn stopped her rant and glared at Ned again. No tenderness remained in her heart. She could muster only apathy for the shriveled man that stood but ten feet away. All the sadness, pity, and anger were gone. It had all been spent over the last miserable twenty years. The only thing that stirred in her heart as she looked at a once great and wealthy man was power. For the first time since she met Ned McLean, she felt as though she had the power. Even better, Evalyn Walsh McLean had a plan.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke from her nostrils, then lifted her purse from the desk and walked from the office, her head held high.
SHEPPARD AND ENOCH PRATT SANATORIUM
TOWSON, MARYLAND, OCTOBER, 1933
“It seems you have made the news again, Mrs. McLean.”
Enoch Pratt, director of the upscale mental institution said, handing Evalyn a copy of the Washington Daily News. They sat in his office, overlooking the opulent grounds of the sanatorium.
She took it with a gloved hand and read the front page headline, MRS. MCLEAN WANTS HUSBAND ADJUDGED OF UNSOUND MIND. Her face was expressionless. “Not so, Mr. Pratt. We all know he is of unsound mind. I want him committed.”
He offered her a polite smile. “Well, if that be the case, you have most certainly gotten your wish. It was three days ago, was it not, that your husband was declared insane?”
“Four days ago, Mr. Pratt, but who's counting?”
“Indeed,” he said. “Now, if you will come with me, I will give you a tour of our facilities.” Enoch Pratt stood and ushered Evalyn from his office.
Ha
rdly what one would imagine when thinking of a mental institution, the Sanatorium was a sprawling campus of manicured lawns, lush gardens, and winding sidewalks. The numerous buildings were scattered throughout the grounds in an uncluttered sort of way. The only hint of it being a guarded facility was the ten-foot brick wall that surrounded the estate, but even it was covered in English ivy and climbing roses. To the casual observer the complex appeared more like an elite boarding school than a housing facility for the mentally unstable.
“As you can see,” Dr. Pratt said, as he led Evalyn down a sidewalk toward the edge of the property, “your husband has been given his own private cottage.”
“And where is he now?”
“Sedated, actually. Even though his mental evaluation showed that he is not a danger to himself or others, he still did not take kindly to being admitted. Would you like to see him?”
“Yes, Dr. Pratt, I believe I would.”
“Very well then, please come with me.”
A small white cottage with a wood shingle roof and green shutters sat on the edge of the property. Though benignly surrounded by gardenia bushes and climbing jasmine, Evalyn did not fail to notice the ornate wrought iron bars on the windows, or the fact that the door could only be locked from the outside.
“Charming,” she said.
“We thought you would approve.” Dr. Pratt approached the door. “Our medical team is inside, so depending on your husband's current condition, we may not be able to stay long.”
He swung the door open, and Evalyn entered the cottage, consisting of bedroom, bathroom, and living area. Much to her satisfaction she noted that the entire house was smaller than the living area of their suite at The Hotel Bristol so many years earlier.
“Given your husband's notoriety, we felt it would be best to isolate him from the general population. These are the mentally ill we are dealing with after all.”
“Of course, Dr. Pratt. I trust your judgment.”
Eye of the God Page 25
