The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

  Blake nodded. “Tough terms. But fair. What are the penalties?”

  “If Miss Gavrill doesn’t pay me in full in twelve months, the stone is mine. As we agreed earlier, if she sells the stone within two years, I have first right of refusal. If she loses the stone, she owes me $3 million.”

  Blake and Kate looked at each other. Hardball the offer might be, but even these terms amounted to an act of kindness. No ordinary bank would make such a loan. Financial institutions rarely lent money on jewels, which were dead assets to a banker. And sharks would have charged far more, especially without the physical stone as collateral. Kate quickly signed the paper and they left.

  After they’d gone, Massad stood near his small office window and tugged on an earlobe. Reaching into his lowest desk drawer, Massad drew out the old-fashioned black telephone he sometimes used when expanding his private collection. Its private line was still registered in his late wife’s maiden name. The billing address was an anonymous post office box.

  First, he called Larry Halset, a local private investigator.

  His second call went to Colombia, to someone he’d known for years.

  * * *

  As part of their training, Hector Molina explained, the students would be taught the seven bells exercise.

  “You must practice as I do, each day,” Molina said, his teeth flashing in a wickedly white smile. “It is the only way to achieve complete control of every part of your body.”

  Contained in a soft oval, Molina’s dusky features—a delicate nose, large brown-black eyes and full, romantic lips—could almost be described as angelic. Despite his 39 years, at 5'-10” and 165 pounds, he was as slender and agile as a boy, attributes basic to the master thief he’d become as an adult.

  Thievery of jewels had lifted Hector Molina from Bogota’s hardscrabble slums to luxury. Now he served as mentor emeritus to a new generation of picaroons. The cartel saw to it that, in return for polishing the skills of their best and brightest estudiantes, he lived very well indeed.

  No longer, however, did he live happily. Staying at the top of his profession meant trusting no one. His life lacked a lover, a caring relative or even a close friend. Suddenly, desperately, Molina wanted to end his loneliness. At an age when many Latin men were counting their grandchildren, Molina craved a family.

  The need to be free clawed inside him, like a ferret in a bag. Hector Molina wanted out of the cartel.

  Separation would not be easy, but that he already knew. Once “made,” a cartel member’s only severance from his employers came with death. But some—admittedly few, but some—had disappeared. If he moved across the world, assumed a new identity, perhaps changed his appearance—who could say? Was he not, after all, a master of diguise as well as imitation? His work had created a global network of trusted contacts and colleagues who could help.

  Now, tapping a pencil against his lower lip, Molina paced in a small circle before his class. “As a philosopher said,” he intoned rhetorically, repeating a phrase he’d used many times, “discipline is the ancestor of excellence. It is the predecessor of precision and the precursor of progress.”

  To graduate, each student would be required to pass two tests. The first: a simple but real-life pickpocket theft wearing two of the bells. Next, working as a team, they must steal an item of high value from a specific victim. One would be the pickpocket or grab man, one the driver, one the technician—usually a specialist in electronics, especially alarms—and, finally, a fourth, the group’s leader and planner. Hector made the assignments based on his personal assessments of the students. Only after successfully completing both capers would they graduate.

  Molina was interrupted by the telephone. The call came from his superiors, speaking on a secure line from across town.

  “It is time for the return of ‘El Mimico’,” the voice said, using Molina’s former nickname as a thief. He’d become renowned for his proficiency at imitating voices familiar to his victims. Besides serving as a valuable tool for gathering pre-theft intelligence, his ruses drew owners away from their gems, minimizing the likelihood of gunplay. As a result, Molina had never felt the need or any desire for a weapon. In fact, as the years passed and his professional confidence grew, Molina became outright disdainful of violence and its instruments. He forbade his students to carry so much as a knife.

  “I am inactive,” Molina said, “you know that.” His last theft for the cartel had been nearly two years ago.

  “We have a special challenge, one that requires your skills,” came the retort. “Our intelligence sources have detected the movement of a large emerald—or ruby—through Moscow, destined for America. The stone was successfully disguised to pass through customs. There already have been two Russian mafia attempts to steal it, both unsuccessful.”

  Molina protested, “You don’t even know what kind of gem it is”—but his superior would not be dissuaded. “This may be the biggest single-stone opportunity in many years,” the voice said, “and you are the best thief in a nation of thieves. You must leave for New York at once. Your first class tickets will be in the usual place.”

  Hanging up the phone, Molina felt a twinge of excitement. In a twenty-five-year career, this sounded like a worthy challenge.

  But it also meant backpedaling from his dream. Molina wanted out, not deeper in. Even one arrest would make escape infinitely more difficult, reduce his chances of ever moving in “normal” social circles, and again put him firmly under the cartel’s thumb. Skilled thieves could count on at least three significant prison terms during their careers. He’d never served a single day. How much longer could he expect to stay lucky?

  Molina crossed the room and stared at the sidewalks far below. None of his arguments mattered. He simply wasn’t prepared to break away. Not yet. He hadn’t made the necessary arrangements. He wasn’t rich enough. He must accept the assignment. Dismissing his class early, Molina rode the elevator downstairs and entered a dark bar on the ground floor. Molina rarely drank, but on this late afternoon he needed a mood chaser. He drank enough wine to get sleepy, then took the elevator back up to his condo and fell into bed.

  The next morning the telephone rang again, with a call from New York City. And on this occasion, when Hector Molina replaced the receiver, he was smiling.

  Chapter 30

  For Kate, the past few hours had been a blur. She’d met for a second time with the attorneys, given them Massad’s $500,000 as a retainer and authorized the Cushing firm to access her safe deposit box in case they needed to ship the documents, gem and egg to London. Such a shipment, they stipulated, would only occur via armed courier.

  Now, rushing to get ready for dinner with Simon Blake, she brushed on her lipstick. So much had been crammed into the weeks since her mother died that sometimes it seemed as if Irina the person was being pushed out of her consciousness. Steadily, the grief, anger, and guilt that Kate felt at Irina’s loss was giving way to the day-to-day business of making her mother’s dreams come true. It was as if the older woman were urging, Don’t memorialize me. Make my life count by what you do.

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Kate, this is Dr. Borshel. I realize it’s been years since we talked, but I felt I should call. I got your phone number from the college. As a matter of fact, I’m calling all my former patients as a courtesy. There’s been a break-in at my home office.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kate replied. She knew the psychiatrist had moved to New York, but she hadn’t spoken to him in more than a decade, and couldn’t stay on the phone long. “I guess crime even comes to Park Avenue. It’s terrible, but how does this affect me?”

  “The break-in apparently happened two weeks ago. The funny thing is I didn’t notice at first. I’m semi-retired now and it took me that long to realize one of the file cabinets had been jimmied. Very carefully. The cops say they were probably looking for laptop computers—I
don’t even own one.”

  “So?”

  “As far as I can tell all the files are intact, except yours. Some of the tests you took back in college and a videotape are missing. The police think they were interrupted and just ran with whatever they were holding.”

  “Well I don’t know what that stuff would be worth to anybody.” Kate got a mental picture of Simon Blake pulling up his sleeve to peer at his watch.

  “Kate, they also took newspaper clips about coach Nars and the diving mess. I think your name is mentioned in some of the articles.”

  “Is my file the only one missing?”

  “No. They also took two of my papers based on government research I conducted years ago. About hypnosis. The hypnotic virtuoso phenomenon, actually. I meant to speak to you about it when you came to see me. Funny, it’s been on my mind—”

  “Dr. Borshel, I’m late for an appointment. I’d like to catch up, but can we talk some other time?”

  They said good-byes, but the call was more than a little troubling. Had it been a random break-in as the police suggested, or were her files targeted? And if so, why?

  * * *

  Blake was already seated. But he stood when Kate arrived and as she hurriedly explained she’d been delayed by a call from her doctor.

  “I’m sorry.” His face reflected concern. “I didn’t know you were ill.”

  “Uh, I’m not,” she said, feeling awkward. “I saw him when I was in college.”

  “What for?”

  “Nothing. I-I hadn’t been to him for years.” Why had she brought it up?

  Blake frowned. “Well, what kind of a doctor is he?”

  Kate looked away. The restaurant was brightly lit and noisy, with shiny floors and hard surfaces. Everyone, including Blake, seemed to be talking in a loud voice. Their meeting tonight should be all—and only—about business. “He was my sports psychiatrist,” she finally replied. “I went to him for some problems I was having diving.”

  Blake’s eyes narrowed. “Your psychiatrist?”

  Kate regarded him cooly. “Sports psychiatrist. I thought we agreed to keep our relationship on a professional basis. Anyhow, his call didn’t have anything to do with my treatment.” She quickly sketched Dr. Borshel’s account of the break-in, omitting any mention of the missing news clips. Her story only intensified Blake’s concern.

  “Think about it, Kate,” he said, touching her right hand. She pulled it back and put it in her lap. Blake went on: “Thieves looking for laptops don’t break into file cabinets. Nobody even has file cabinets anymore. They took personal records from your folder. Was anything else missing?”

  “Something, some work he’d done for the government a long time ago.”

  Blake scrunched his lips. “Somebody could be looking for an address, trying to find you. What if it’s that Russian cop?”

  “Ukrainian, actually. Anyhow, I’ve moved a bunch of times since then. I saw Dr. Borshel when I was in college, in New Jersey.” Kate gazed at the ceiling. Oh, why did I say anything?

  “Look, I know about this,” Blake said. “In my business, I have to. No professional thief would break into a retired doctor’s office to steal a couple of paper files and an old video tape.”

  Kate turned away to look at the other diners. She was sick of his prying. She was even more weary of the you’re-just-a-foolish-girl-who-needs-me-to-protect-her routine.

  “Frankly, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m 31-years-old—not 28—and I can take care of myself. Let’s order dinner.”

  Blake glanced around the room and then at her. “Listen,” he said in a hushed voice, “I’m concerned about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And we can dance around it all you want, but the fact is there are feelings between us. We both know it. I want to talk about it.”

  Kate stared at her wine glass. That sounds like the woman’s line, she thought, just before she asks why the guy isn’t ready to make a commitment. Where was he coming from?

  “I thought,” she said, “that we agreed to forget the other night. We were just two people, maybe a little lonely, thrown together in the big city, both excited about the stone. Okay, so we lost our heads. Anyhow, what happened happened. Right now we both need to keep our focus on professional, not personal, objectives.”

  She knew in a way it was a dodge. Clearly, strong emotions were simmering between them. But she hadn’t expected—or wanted—to confront the subject so directly. Keeping her voice low and her eyes on her plate, she went on. “In any case, I can’t afford to deal with this now.”

  “If not now, when?”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Certainly not until I file my claim with the bank of England or, God forbid, until after the first of September.”

  “You have to face life, Kate,” he said. “You can only run from feelings so long.” For the second time, he reached across the table for her hand. Again, she pulled away. They finished their meal in silence.

  Blake rose to help her with her chair, but Kate pushed back from the table on her own. She’d probably said more than she should. And the truth was, aside from the personal issues he’d thrust into their meeting, she had the same frustrating questions Simon Blake did. Could it really be mere coincidence that someone had broken into Dr. Borshel’s office? Who would want to pore over research he’d conducted back in the sixties? Or, for that matter, to pry into her own musty records of a decade earlier?

  Kate opened the restaurant door and stepped out into the humid Manhattan evening. Reaching in her skirt pocket, she touched a piece of folded paper. It was from the notepad she’d absently written on while phoning Simon from Moscow. Unfolding the scrap, Kate saw her own given name—Katya—scrawled over and over again.

  #

  Chapter 31

  Hector Molina’s rented black Lincoln Town Car was waiting at the curb when he walked out of the St. Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue. He immediately recognized the driver as a “wheelman” he’d worked with in the past.

  “Buenas dias, El Mimico,” greeted Ricardo Mondalvo, “It’s been too long.” He handed a small snapshot over his shoulder. “This is Kate Gavrill,” he said, continuing in Spanish. “Too skinny for me, but a looker, yes?” He chuckled. “Perhaps this time you will get a bigger reward for your services than a cold gem.”

  Molina smiled but did not respond. He held the photograph gently, as if it were a rare watercolor. Taken with a long lens, the photo showed Kate, in tight leather pants and bustier, as she had appeared during her first two days back from Russia. If Molina found her attractive, it was not evident: His expression remained impassive. His only comment was a terse question: “What kind of stone?”

  “We still aren’t sure. Somehow she coated the gem with wax or grease before bringing it through. We think it’s an emerald or ruby. There’s an odd thing though.” He paused.

  Molina leaned forward.

  “We’ve been watching her since she arrived. But she is also being followed by someone else.” Mondalvo handed Molina a second photograph. “This one you better be careful of, amigo.”

  Molina shrugged. The image depicted a large Slavic man aiming a camera with a telephoto lens. “He looks Russian. They are all stupid. What is he photographing?”

  “He seems to be interested in the man Miss Gavrill has been seeing lately.”

  Hector’s mobile phone rang. “Hola,” he said into the phone.

  The caller was a real estate agent in Bogota, informing him that—as he requested—his condo had been privately listed for sale.

  “Gracias,” he said to the caller, smiling to himself. He’d taken the first step toward a new life.

  Turning back to Mondalvo, he picked up their conversation.

  “And who would that be?”

  “A prominent gemologist named Simon Blake. The gem could be in his office safe.”
r />   “Has the Russian tried to steal it?”

  “Not that we know of. But he met with some other Russians who broke into an apartment on Fifth Avenue a few nights ago. So far as I can tell, the two events aren’t related. You know these Mafiya. They’re all just common criminals.”

  “Does this Russian have a rented car?”

  “A Towncar. Just like this one. It’s parked in the garage of his hotel, the main Hilton on Sixth Avenue.”

  Molina paused for a moment, weighing the information.

  The driver broke the silence. “You want me to punch it?” he asked, referring to a favorite ploy among Colombian jewel thieves. The technique called for drilling a small hole in the red lens of a prospective victim’s taillight. Barely visible during the day, at night the opening emitted a brilliant white glow, making a car easier to identify and follow.

  Hector Molina stared out the window. A sourness low in his stomach told him how badly he wanted this to be his last job. His head dropped in a nod. “Do it tonight,” he said. “And put taps on both men’s phone lines. I want studio quality recordings of their voices.”

  “Done, said the driver, smiling and speaking in a mix of English and Spanish. “El Mimico returns, si, jefe?”

  Molina’s face was somber. “Let’s try and get there first. Sooner or later this big Russian will succeed. I don’t relish having to steal the stone from him.”

  Chapter 32

  “I guess I don’t understand why we even need these new tests,” Kate said. An hour after their dinner, she was still feeling combative as they left the city. Nestled in the big Bentley cosseting passenger’s seat, Kate studied the outline of Blake’s profile against the dark window, now spattered with summer rain. He looked almost belligerent. Kate sensed he was a man who, once he’d made up his mind, rarely changed course.