Kate doubled up, her body shaking with laughter. Her breasts swung wildly beneath her blouse but she was quite certain that, with his impaired vision, the oh-so-authoritative Mr. Blake hadn’t noticed.
Lifting its strap, Blake carefully undraped the flimsy garment from his face. Smiling broadly now, he handed it back to her. “Well, I must say, Miss Gavrill, you do know how to make an entrance. Or should I say, exit?”
Pink as a rose, Kate pressed a hand to her lips. She took the bra, and handed back the alexandrite’s formal description. “Would you copy this,” she said, briefly summoning her composure, “and tell me what you think tomorrow afternoon?”
Blake nodded. He crossed the room, made a photocopy, and returned with the original. Then, bending low at the waist in a mock bow, he held the door wide for her. Halfway down the corridor, Kate began laughing hysterically.
Chapter 11
Kate needed only a few minutes to walk from Blake’s office to her hotel at 37th and Park. The documents from Irina’s deposit box were now spread across her bed.
The first, from the man her mother had mentioned in her tape, was a hand-written letter in an open envelope bearing Russian stamps and Lefortovo Prison, Moscow, as a return address. Hadn’t Irina said he was an official there? Dated nearly three years before, it read:
Dear Madame Gavrill:
This is to inform you that I have located the file referred to in my previous correspondence. This material verifies the existence of valuable property belonging to your family, originally entrusted to Archbishop Chenko of Irkutsk. I refer specifically to the so-called Romanov Alexandrite and fitted Faberge container. While very old, the materials, which eventually were passed along to my grandfather, Ivan Novyck, are quite clear. I’m sure they will greatly assist you in locating your items. I’m also certain that we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement for their transfer to you.
Your Servant, Imre Novyck
Kate stared at the short message. What did he mean by “materials” that had been “passed along” to his grandfather. He obviously wan’t referring to the actual stone or its container. Could Anya have been wrong? What did “originally entrusted” mean? Perhaps the archbishop had never been in possession of the alexandrite and documents or had given them to someone else out of fear for his own—or the treasure’s—safety. Who exactly was this Novyck? Did he know the location of the stone and the egg?
A second, partially completed note lay in the same envelope. Written in a shaky hand, it was a six-months old missive from her mother, presumably never finished or sent:
Dear Mr. Novyck:
It appears that your warnings were well founded. Earlier this week, while I was shopping in Philadelphia, the same man appeared in three department stores shortly after I did. He tried to be inconspicuous, but I am certain I was being followed. I finally hid in the restroom of the last store until past closing time. I must tell Katya soon…
Kate held the folded note in her lap and rubbed her forehead. Just months ago, Irina had been followed! Or thought she had. Of course, it could have been sheer coincidence or paranoia, but Irina clearly believed otherwise. She’d taken the incident as evidence that her fears were warranted, that someone had learned the secret she’d shared for all those years with Anya. Still, why hadn’t she sent this note to Novyck? And why hadn’t she told her, Kate, about her fears? But that was one question to which Kate already knew the answer. Her mother had held off telling Kate until her final hours because the wound between them had gone too deep.
* * *
“It’s not working.” Kate’s head hung to her chest as water from the pool washed off her body. Hands on hips, she stared at the floor. “When I don’t take the pills, I can’t hold my spots.” She shook her head. “It’s just no good.”
“Calm down.” Jack glanced around furtively. “I’ll call Dr. Borshel. Meantime, go back on the meds.”
“But it’s only a week before the first meet.” She shivered. Her swim suit felt clammy. In the big indoor pool, their whispers echoed as they might have in a subterranean tunnel.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“But I do worry about it. If the drugs aren’t out of my system by then, they’ll say I cheated.”
He put both hands on her shoulders and smiled that square smile she couldn’t resist, the one that made the muscles in his jaw break into taut, even planes. “Take it easy, Kate. We’ll figure it out. Let’s talk in my office tomorrow night after I’ve spoken to Dr. Borshel.”
The next evening, sitting on the office sofa after they’d made love, Kate looked at him expectantly. “So what did Dr. Borshel say?”
Turning away from her, Jack crossed his arms across his chest. “Forget Borshel,” he replied brusquely. Reaching into his briefcase, he withdrew a small plastic squeeze bottle and handed it to Kate. The bottle contained yellow liquid and a thermometer embedded in its side. Two wires with battery clips dangled from a metal plate at its base.
Kate held the apparatus closer for inspection. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s synthetic urine,” Jack said. “The liquid contains everything found in natural pee.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pair of 9-volt batteries. “They’ll be testing before our first event. Half an hour before you go in, attach the batteries. Once the indicator reaches 98 to 100 degrees—body temperature—it will hold for at least four hours.” He lightly tweaked her cheek. “Piece of cake.”
“Piece of cake?” Kate retorted. She pulled away. Perspiration still gleamed from her breasts. “You’re telling me to cheat.”
“You won’t get caught, Kate. Hell, anybody can buy this kit on the Internet. It’s called a urinator. Practically every other new hire for the government or major corporation has used one of these.”
Kate stared back at him coldly. Whatever their conflicts, Irina and Anya had instilled in her a sense of ethics based on the strictest tenets of Eastern Orthodoxy. Cheating in any form simply wasn’t on. She reached to her chest to fasten her bra, then slowly began buttoning her blouse. “I won’t do it,” she said.
“You’ve got to do it,” Jack countered. He looked deeply into her eyes. “And it’s not ethically wrong, or at least it shouldn’t be. You’re a great diver, Kate. You could be one of the best ever. Why should a minor mental handicap stand in your way? I’m not asking you to take something to increase your physical abilities—that would be wrong. I just want you to use a legally prescribed medication so your head can be all it can be. So you can compete on a level field.”
Kate imagined her mother and Anya. What would they think? “I’m sorry, Jack. I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
His gaze dropped to the floor. “Well, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us. Or do it for me. Look, I’m not getting any younger. I’ve got to produce champions if I’m going to move up to athletic director or go on to a bigger school.” Now he raised his eyes to hers. “We’ve talked about this before, Kate. If we’re going to have a new life together, I’ve got to be in a position to make that life work.”
“I won’t,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “It just isn’t right.” A strong odor of chlorine wafted up the concrete corridor from the pool two flights below. Kate loved Jack, but she couldn’t believe he was suggesting this.
Jack put both hands on her shoulders and stared hard into her eyes. “Look, you want to get to the next level in your diving. I want to get to the next level of coaching. Don’t you see, Kate? We can both win. We can get to the Olympics together.”
He paused again, and his voice grew husky. “Don’t take that chance away from us, Kate. Please.”
Still sitting on the leather sofa, Kate nodded silently. She glanced at the large photograph above Jack’s desk of the great American diver Greg Louganis. Louganis, who came back to win double Olympic gold after hitting his head on the diving board, had be
en her hero. He’d overcome his adversity, why couldn’t she?
“Hey,” Jack said abruptly, glancing at his watch. “I’ve gotta run. Will you lock up?”
She nodded. “Sure. It seems like you’ve always got to run.”
He flashed that chunky grin. “Lots of balls in the air, baby, just trying to do the best for us I can.” His dark blue eyes twinkled the way they did when he wanted to make love. “Think about what I said. I’ll call tomorrow.”
Leaving the office door partially ajar, he departed. Far down the hall, Kate heard the soft whirring of an overhead paddle fan. Across the opened door’s frosted glass, Kate read her lover’s name in heavy, gilt-edged black type: “JACK NARS.” Would she take that name someday? Would she be the coach’s wife?
Kate looked at her hands, still clenched in tension after their argument. She thought of Faust, the nineteenth century ballet she’d watched as a child with Anya and Irina. Dr. Faust traded his soul for the power of magic. Was she trading hers for an Olympic medal? Was Jack her Mephisto?
On the other hand, maybe Jack was right, and the rules were unfair. She wasn’t taking drugs to bulk up her muscles, run faster or throw farther. She was just trying to get her brain and her eyes to work the way nature intended.
After failing as a ballerina, she’d resolved never again to be overcome by her physical limitations. She’d vowed to be the best at whatever she did. Through hard work and talent, she’d almost succeeded—she’d risen within reach of the top rungs of her sport. Now, however, just like years ago, her continued success wasn’t being threatened by a superior competitor. The challenge came from her own body, her own physicality. Would she let those shortcomings defeat her a second time?
Kate was a grownup now and the decision she faced wasn’t about some little girly ballet. It was about a chance at global competition, an Olympic medal, perhaps even a world championship.
She picked up the plastic bottle and turned it slowly in her hands. After all, didn’t somebody say winning was the only thing?
* * *
Holding the copy he’d made, Blake crossed the room to a cabinet behind his desk. He removed a bottle of single barrel bourbon and a cut-crystal glass. Pouring neat, he started reading.
THE ROMANOV ALEXANDRITE
Approximately two inches long and an inch wide, the stone weighs 1275 carats, or more than half of a standard Troy pound. This makes it by far the largest gem quality alexandrite known to exist. The stone is rounded in shape, containing 528 facets in 16 rows.
Under candlelight, the stone is violet-red in color. It is much closer to a true ruby red than most fine alexandrites. In natural daylight, the stone is very slightly bluish green. It is much closer to true emerald color than most fine alexandrites.
The Romanov Alexandrite is believed to be the finest example known. It has a current estimated value of no less than ten million British pounds.
Philippe Genet Lukinoff, Chief Gem Analyst, House of Faberge May 10, 1911
Blake put down the glass and lowered his head into his hands. Slowly, he rubbed his temples. As a boy, Simon Blake had collected agates in streambeds near his Indiana home. More than three decades later, he remained fascinated by the mysteries hidden inside gems—their fractures, molten traps and myriad colors. Now he imagined the stone described in the document. Using his microscope, he would probe the deepest reaches of the alexandrite’s interior, entering a startling universe. The gem’s crystalline inclusions would float like emerald moons; as he added illumination, its facets would radiate slender spokes of crimson. It would be a masterpiece, as surely as any Michelangelo.
Brushing aside his brief gemological fantasy, Blake returned to the far greater likelihood: that despite the paper he’d just read, neither he nor anyone else had seen such a stone precisely because no such stone existed, now or ever. And there was something else, a truth he knew very well. If somehow such a stone did exist, sooner or later its owners would confront a question that inevitably came to haunt those who held jewels of great fame and fable. Did they possess its beauty or did its beauty possess them?
Chapter 12
Kate’s gaze rolled up the walls of her hotel room like a video camera, panning over the ceiling and back down again. The lens froze on her image in a mirror above the dresser. Despite her finely chiseled head, wideset eyes and striking cheekbones, she felt suddenly plain. She put her hand to her throat, tracing her pale, unadorned flesh.
She looked back down at the bed. Among the deposit box papers was a formal declaration, bearing the official Faberge coat of arms, and signed by the firm’s designer, Henrik Wigstrom. It read:
THE BALLERINA CARRIAGE.
The carriage is on wheels so that it stands upright without a base. It is made of six layers of red and green engine-turned enamel and trimmed in solid gold. Its egg-shaped compartment opens on top and is lined in white satin. The Romanov alexandrite fits into an impression that reveals the upper portion of the stone. When the egg is closed, a scrolled gold strip conceals the opening. An image of the Romanov Double Eagle is etched in a gold plate mounted on the front of the carriage. It matches a similar etching at the base of the stone itself.
The box’s final document was a tattered deposit slip carrying a Bank of England letterhead and dated June 26, 1913. It bore an official notary seal and the signature of Sir Edward Peacock. The slip contained a single entry line: “Lydia Natasha Putyatin, esq., deposit in interest bearing trust, in the amount of 5 million English pounds.” Rubber-stamped diagonally across the document were the words, “Confidential Private Account.” Nowhere was the funds’ source identified.
On one level, it was all just too much. The most expensive jewelry Kate had ever owned was a cultured pearl necklace she’d purchased for a party after receiving her PhD. She’d found it at Saks for $700. The prospect of great wealth seemed wholly unfamiliar to her and, in its own way, profoundly unsettling. Her quest for excellence in athletics—imperfect though it surely was—had been about achieving her personal best, not about money or fame. The pieces described in these papers might have belonged to Hollywood royalty like Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly or, for that matter, a real queen, like England’s Elizabeth. Yet not only had they been gifts to Kate’s very own great grandmother from one of the world’s most powerful men, but each had been individually designed and, in the case of the alexandrite, specifically cut for Anya. Nicholas must have cared for her—and their daughter—very much indeed.
Kate’s gaze shifted to the window. Across 37th Street, her eighth floor room could easily be seen from other buildings. She rose, walked to the window and pulled the curtains closed. Had someone been watching her? Could the same man who’d followed Irina be following her? A chill crept from the back of Kate’s neck to her shoulder blades.
Chapter 13
“Would you mind if I delivered the report over dinner? It turns out my afternoon is booked. Besides, I’d like to discuss this with you in person. We could meet at a restaurant near your hotel.”
Blake’s invitation took Kate by surprise. Was he trying to ingratiate himself with her for some reason? He’d seemed highly skeptical of the alexandrite. In any case, she accepted; she’d planned to leave the next day. Now, as she walked to the address of the theater district cafe he’d named, Kate’s heart raced. Perhaps he’d learned something that persuaded him the stone was real. She saw her reflection in a window and smoothed her hair.
The place turned out to be a cozy below-street-level bistro with red brick walls, rough plank floors and an unlit fireplace.
Blake met her at the entrance and led the way to a table in a deserted corner of the restaurant.
Seated, Kate glanced around the room. “Nice choice.”
He nodded back. “Best crab salad in Manhattan.”
She looked down at her hands, feeling suddenly nervous and distinctly awkward. Why had he wanted to have dinner? It
was as if they were on a first date. “Do you know the city well?”
“I suppose so. I’m an addicted Manhattan walker.” He smiled, but his eyes seemed to search hers, belying the blandness of their conversation.
Enough small talk, Kate thought. Even before their wine arrived, she got to the point. “What did you think of the stone’s description?”
“Well, first,” he replied, dodging her question, “here’s the appraisal for the frog brooch. I think you’ll be pleased to see its value. You should get it insured—right away.” He handed her a business envelope, closed but unsealed. “And, please, be a lot more careful about carrying it around. If you’re not wearing it, it should be kept in a safe.”
Kate opened the envelope and the enclosed estimate. She blinked.
“This is nearly $140,000.”
He shrugged, and nodded. “Yes, well, it’s genuine Faberge, beautifully crafted, and as I told you earlier the stones are rare. This is why I want you to be more careful.” He cleared his throat. “As far as the alexandrite is concerned, I’m afraid I have less positive news. It’s an exciting possibility, or perhaps fantasy is a better word. I think somebody’s pulling your leg.”
“How so?”
“I did some checking with a friend in the Russian history department at Columbia.”
The waiter interrupted, fussily arranged their table, and uncorked the wine. He seemed impatient as Blake rolled the liquid in his glass before tasting it.
Kate leaned to one side to resume their conversation. “And?”
Blake ordered their entrées and the waiter melted away.
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