The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

  * * *

  Mutual awkwardness and embarrassment marked their first encounter the following afternoon.

  “I did as you suggested,” Kate reported. She noticed that, for the first time since they’d met, Blake was clean-shaven. The lack of fuzz emphasized the clean line of his jaw; he looked years younger. “I took the stone, the egg and the documents back to Irina’s safe deposit box at Rockefeller Center.”

  “Good God,” Blake responded. “Next time take me—or somebody—with you.”

  “It was on my way to the lawyers,” Kate said. She dropped her gaze. “Besides, you were still sleeping.”

  Struggling to regain a professional footing, Kate spoke in a bright, impersonal way about her morning meeting with the law firm of Kidder, Cushing and Wakefield. Blake seemed as uncomfortable as she about what had happened the night before.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars!” Kate repeated the lawyer’s retainer, still in disbelief.

  “Legal work on missing estate property is always high,” Blake countered, “and in the UK especially so. There are no contingency fees in English courts, and this matter is apt to be complicated.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Kate, still avoiding his eyes. “Of course, I have no idea where I will find it.”

  Kate paused, hearing her own words. Money had moved to the center of her life.

  “We also have a deadline, one I didn’t know about,” she went on. “It turns out there are many old accounts in England, and the banking industry succeeded in getting a law passed that reverts all deposits dormant for fifty years or more to the bank of record. It takes effect on the First of September, this year. That date falls in precisely twenty-one days.

  “So? You’ve got the stone, the egg and copies of the documents. What’s to worry about?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “There shouldn’t be a problem. But, as Mr. Cushing pointed out, I’m claiming an account that’s almost a century old. With interest, it could easily be worth more than $100 million. The Bank of England won’t simply hand me a check. I’ll have to meet their deadline, and prove our case to their satisfaction, under their laws. Oh, and there’s one more thing. Proof of ownership now includes DNA evidence.”

  “DNA evidence?”

  “‘Whatever additional proof meets the highest prevailing technical standards at the time’”—she emphasized the words, reading from a copy the Cushing firm had received from the Bank of England. A successful claimant must ‘establish with certainty that she is, in fact, Anya Putyatin or her heirs, directly descended from Nicolai Romanov II, tsar of all Russia.’”

  Years before, under retainer to Kate’s mother and Anya, Cushing and Wakefield had documented the secret Romanov account’s existence. In fact, one of the firm’s attorneys had become obsessed with the case, eventually retiring from the firm to work for the two women on a contingency basis. Before dying, he’d identified a numbered account at the Bank of England in the name Lydia Putyatin and had a letter from the bank’s director attesting to its validity.

  Lacking both the stone and the egg, however, Kate’s relatives had been stymied. Now, thanks to Kate’s trip to Russia, that obstacle had been swept aside. The lawyers possessed copies of the actual bank documents. The originals, together with the alexandrite and Faberge egg, were safely locked away in Kate’s bank just blocks from their offices.

  Blake listened carefully, then spoke.

  “One exposure still troubles me,” he said, “and it’s a big one. You’re telling me that your personal biological sample will be needed to certify this bank account claim in England?”

  Kate nodded.

  “That takes us back to personal risk,” he said. “Do you realize how much this multiplies the danger you are in? Good God, it’s bad enough that you’ve been walking around with a stone worth perhaps tens of millions. Now there may even be a price on your body parts.

  “I know one thing,” he continued. “You can never go back to Russia. Never. They wouldn’t even need the stone. They could just hold you—dead or alive—for ransom.”

  “That’s nonsense. Of course I can go back, and whenever I wish.” Kate thought about Vulcan Krasky and knew her words had the unmistakable ring of false bravado.

  He paused. “Let me tell you about the world I know.”

  In short narrative strokes, Blake recounted the fate of Bret Steiner.

  “I sent Bret to look for a source for Russian synthetic diamonds, and to do some general research about business conditions there,” he recalled. “The Russian mafia murdered him, brutally, left him in his hotel bathtub to bleed to death. He was about your age—twenty-eight, I think.”

  Kate ignored his flattering chronological error as Blake looked at her closely.

  “Bret,” he went on, “was killed for a pile of synthetic stones worth less than $30,000. If you went back, a woman alone, whose hair clippings might be worth $100 million, how long do you think you’d last? To someone desperate enough, even a a scrape of your skin could be worth a fortune.”

  Kate stood and walked toward the window. In her thin summer dress, the late morning sun flared around her, silhouetting her shape. Blake suppressed a surge of desire.

  “I know people who would help,” Kate said. “People my mother knew, who felt as she and Anya did about redeeming the Romanov legacy.”

  “By ‘friends,’ do you mean people like that inmate at Lefortovo Prison?” Blake’s tone barely concealed his sarcasm.

  “Him, yes. And others I am sure will come to my side.” Kate felt a flash of resentment. Why should she have to defend herself?

  “Ah, others,” he echoed in the same skeptical tone. “Others like the good Lt. Krasky. The only reason you’re still alive is that he doesn’t know where you are.”

  Blake sneered in disgust. His sense of protectiveness was clearly misguided, if not wasted altogether on a woman like Kate Gavrill. She seemed so foolishly headstrong. Just like Bret.

  Now she looked directly at him, her ice blue eyes wide and intense, her tone crisp. “I need your help.”

  “Where to get the $500,000?” Blake said, returning her gaze and again feeling a powerful pull. So much for disengaging.

  “Yes.”

  “I know someone,” Blake said, reaching out. For the first time since they’d made love, he touched her hand.

  Chapter 28

  “Why are you showing me this?” Jacob Massad’s eyes narrowed as Blake withdrew the glittering Faberge carriage from Kate’s brief case. Then Blake opened the top. Massad sighed. In the subdued evening light, the stone glowed intensely, as green as the center of the sea. Massad knew at a glance it was the finest alexandrite he’d ever seen.

  “Of course, you must keep this in strictest confidence,” Blake said. “Miss Gavrill has removed the stone from her safe deposit box only long enough for you to see it.” Kate sat silently beside him. The Persian jew was Blake’s friend; she’d never even met a Persian jew.

  Massad’s full lips pursed in injury. “How long have we known each other, Simon? Twenty years? How can you make such a comment? After all this time, do you doubt my discretion?”

  Blake’s eyes softened. After all, it was Massad who’d initially recognized his passion for stones, and helped him establish his business. Apologizing, he quickly summarized the alexandrite’s history and its key role in establishing Kate’s right to the Romanov account in England.

  “She needs $500,000 for legal representation?” Massad sounded incredulous.

  Blake nodded. “You know the drill. It’s a retainer against costs. Foreign courts are complicated and expensive. The bank may still try to deny her claim. Also, there’s a fuse running—if the claim isn’t settled by September, the money reverts to the bank.”

  “So the stone would be collateral, but I wouldn’t have it.” Massad’s eyes kept drifting back to t
he alexandrite. The gem emitted a soft red-green light as a slanting ray of sun brushed its surface. “Wouldn’t things be better all around if I just held it here in my safe?”

  “Miss Gavrill can’t allow that; anything that might cloud the chain of custody could undermine her claim on the bank account. She must retain possession so that it can be presented as evidence to the bank. In effect, you will have a lien on the stone.”

  “Are you vouching for its authenticity?” Massad’s gaze remained locked on the gem, as if no-one else were in the room.

  “I’ve examined the stone,” Blake replied, “and my analysis verifies its authenticity. As a precaution, I plan to have Alen Bertram at MGI take a look at it, using an infrared spectrophotometer. We both know how tricky alexandrites can be. But I’ve run all my standard tests. I’m certain it’s genuine.”

  Kate looked sharply at Simon. He’d never mentioned showing the alexandrite to someone else or further tests. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. Perhaps he was getting too involved in this project. On the other hand, she desperately needed his assistance. She kept quiet.

  At last, Massad pulled his eyes back to the two people in his small, simply furnished office. “I’m not a pawnbroker, Simon. Besides the lien, I’d want a right of first refusal on any subsequent sale of the stone, signed and notarized.”

  “And the striking price?”

  “Say $3 million.”

  “Wait a minute,” Kate broke in. “What is he saying?”

  “If you should sell the stone, he would have the right to purchase it for $3 million.”

  “No way,” Kate said angrily. “We all know the stone is worth millions more than that. Don’t we?” she added, looking at Blake.

  The friendly tone left Massad’s voice. “If you want my $500,000, Miss Gavrill,” he said, addressing her directly for the first time, “it will be worth $3 million.”

  Kate rose. “Mr. Blake, I think it’s time for us to say our goodbyes.” She extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Massad, we will go elsewhere.”

  Not taking her hand, Massad turned to Blake as if Kate didn’t exist. “Is she talking or are you talking?”

  Kate put both hands on Massad’s desk, leaning forward so that she came between the two men. “I’m handling this. Mr. Blake is my consultant.”

  For the first time, Massad fully focused on her. He suddenly smiled broadly. “Very well,” he said in a charming voice. “Simon is an old, old friend, and you are obviously his friend. His very beautiful friend, I might add.”

  “The answer is still no, Mr. Massad. As I said, Mr. Blake and I have a professiona—”

  Massad broke in, patting her forearm, and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Dear woman, I am nearly seventy years old. I have known Simon since he was very young. I have seen him grow in knowledge and experience. My advice to you, Miss Gavrill, is to listen carefully to the gentleman seated next to you.”

  Kate squirmed. “Mr. Blake has already been very helpful,” she replied. She blushed, thinking how her words must sound to Simon after the previous night.

  Massad turned back to Blake, his tone again businesslike. “If Miss Gavrill can’t pay me, how do I get possession of the stone?”

  “You have my word. If any thing interferes with your repayment—Miss Gavrill and I will personally deliver the alexandrite to you.”

  Massad looked at them both, shifting his eyes from one to the other. A dreamy expression crossed his face, as if he were savoring a romantic memory. “I’m sure we can work this out,” he said, “but let me sleep on it. We’ll meet again day after tomorrow.”

  “Is he really your friend?” Kate asked when they were outside. “I didn’t like how he looked at me. Like I was a rock under his microscope.”

  Blake shrugged, mumbling a vague reply. They left, and returned the stone and its container to Kate’s safe deposit box at Chase Manhattan. He drove silently back to Penn Station, where Kate bought a ticket for the next train to Philadelphia.

  Alone in the station, Kate felt an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. From the moment Irina uttered the words, “They have found us,” everything in her life had changed. It was as if she’d washed ashore on an uncharted island. To survive, she must endlessly press ahead, push on through a jungle of doubt. Meanwhile, the future seemed formless, shifting as quickly and easily as the imaginary sand beneath her feet.

  Before boarding, Kate glanced up and down the platform. Her eyes searched for a thick-shouldered Slav.

  * * *

  “You’ve learned nothing new?” Kate couldn’t hide her disappointment. She’d called MacMahon for a meeting as soon as she got home. Now they sat across from each other at a small desk in a spare office at the Marion police department.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Gavrill, sometimes this work is slow. We’ve checked out the few leads we have. We’ve now got sworn witnesses who say those two men were smoking, and didn’t appear to be Amish.” MacMahon’s eyes reflected compassion and concern. “Your mother’s death was no accident, I’m sure of that.”

  “You were sure of that weeks ago!” The emotions she’d kept in check since Irina’s death started to slip out of control. A trembling began in Kate’s abdomen and spread to her shoulders.

  MacMahon moved to the edge of his chair and stretched a hand toward her. He thought of his younger sister, about Kate’s age. “Miss Gavrill,” he said, “Please be careful. I’m concerned about you. I don’t have all the answers yet, but from the beginning I’ve suspected these people killed your mother deliberately, for a reason. We found the car. They burned it up to destroy the evidence. But we found enough to know the engine had been modified by pros. It’s tough. We know there were two men, everything points to them being gunsels for hire, but it’s as if they vanished from the face of the earth. There’s no reason to think you are in danger, but it is possible. We don’t know what they were after, so it’s hard to be sure.”

  Kate bit her tongue. Should she blurt out that she knew exactly what the men were after and why? That she bloody well knew she was in danger? Somehow, she sensed that the backstory—including her escape from Russia and the business about Krasky following her to Penn Station—should stay under wraps, at least for now. The first questions out of any law officer’s mouth would be how had she obtained the stone, and why, in both Russia and America, had she worked outside official channels with private citizens rather than authorities.

  She shook her head. She’d gone so far beyond anything she would have wildly considered doing just a few short weeks ago—so far beyond anything even faintly resembling safe boundaries.

  Kate stood, turning to face the wall, out of MacMahon’s direct line of sight. Her sobs came in a rush. The law officer rose, and walked behind the small desk. He touched Kate’s shoulder, then circled his arm around her. She leaned into him, feeling suddenly small and more than a little afraid.

  * * *

  Propping his elbows on the high countertop, Jacob Massad braced his forehead against the heels of both hands. He peered into the fiery planes of a five-carat, pigeon-blood ruby. He’d owned this, the centerpiece of his very private gem collection, for more than a decade. He still marveled at the stone’s purity of color and brilliance. It was a fine ruby, rivaling even the best museum specimens in every way but size.

  Massad’s was an eccentric, costly, clandestine and sometimes illegal hobby. His private collection was housed in a safe within a safe. To view Massad’s commercial inventory, customers entered the room-size chamber in which he stood, a cinder block fortress and his main business vault. But Massad kept his special stones in a separate dual-combination tool-and-torch-proof floor safe. No one else had ever seen its contents.

  Painstakingly acquired over many years, all the gems were world-class, the best specimens privately available. Resting regally on a six-inch square of black velvet, this blazing carmine stone had
only become his after lengthy and bizarre negotiations.

  As always, he’d been careful not to insult either the jewel or its seller. But with his Middle Eastern bargaining skills and almost unlimited cash resources, Massad nearly always got the piece he wanted.

  Massad shifted his 5'-6” frame and patted the white curls at the base of his neck. He looked longingly again at the ruby.

  Ten years before, the stone had been a consolation gift to himself. At age fifty-nine and as an eight-year widower, Massad had finally acknowledged that he would never remarry.

  His feelings for women, he found, had reached a kind of equilibrium with his appreciation for gems, growing at once more refined and more superficial. In both cases, it was the surface physical appearance that drew him. What was visible was honest. What you saw, you could trust. The rest—the subtleties of character, personality and emotion—remained infinitely variable and always subject to interpretation. Young women lured him with charms as clear-edged and directly apparent as a jewel’s facets, undiminished by age or guile.

  Regrettably, the most attractive younger Persian Jewish women were already the captives of arranged marriages. Thus, when Jacob Massad sought female companionship, he purchased it. Similarly, to meet his exacting standards for gemstones, at times Jacob Massad had been forced to make acquisitions through extralegal channels. He didn’t try to excuse this behavior, any more than he apologized for his occasional calls to escort services.

  Carefully, lovingly, Massad refolded the velvet around the ruby. Returning it to the safe, he pulled the heavy door shut, and spun the dials. His thoughts were already elsewhere—on what could be a last chance to possess the gem of a lifetime.

  Chapter 29

  Two days later, Kate and Blake again sat in Massad’s office. Their host went straight to the point.

  “I will lend you the money,” Massad said, handing Kate a typed agreement. His tone sounded as if he were making a pronouncement. “You will pay me back in twelve months, in cash, at fourteen percent interest. The interest portion will be paid every month, also in cash.”