The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

  “My tests indicate with extremely high probability that the stone is genuine,” Blake replied. “But nobody’s perfect; there’s always the small chance that I’m wrong. And meeting the deadline won’t do us any good if we don’t meet the conditions. We can’t afford that risk.”

  “But I’m running out of time,” Kate protested. “The bank deadline is just two weeks away. Besides, I thought your analysis proved the stone was genuine.”

  “This is just one more way of being absolutely certain,” he said. “If we went in with only my analysis, the Bank of England is bound to require a backup certification. This way we’re doing that step for them.” He smiled and patted her arm. “But not to worry—your alexandrite is real.”

  Scattered, stop-start small talk made up their conversation during the rest of the drive from Manhattan.

  While they chatted, Kate found her thoughts returning to the man beside her. Only last week, she’d melted in his arms. Now, they seemed like distant business partners, plotting their next moves. Mostly, what they shared was silence.

  Condensation fogged the inside of the old car’s windows. Blake reached across to crack the passenger’s wing, lightly grazing her thigh. His touch recalled the fierceness of their hunger a week ago, and Kate’s heart briefly raced. She turned away.

  Behind them, the road stretched into the night, deserted except for a pair of headlights trailing far in the distance. Farther back, a second pair of lights escaped both Kate’s and Simon’s notice.

  * * *

  Professor Alan Bertram’s thatched brown hair fell over a nose that hooked as sharply as a parrot’s bill and, magnified behind thick glasses, eyes that seemed as large as eggs. Lit by his desk lamp, the alexandrite sat between Bertram’s hands, flaring crimson sparks. Turning the gem over in his hands, the scientist looked at Blake and Kate, his oversize orbs as sad as a Bassett hound’s.

  “I’m truly sorry,” Bertram said, “but your stone is not natural.”

  Blake’s stunned expression was only matched by his incredulity. “You must be mistaken,” he said. After spending the night in separate rooms at a nearby motel, they’d delivered the stone as soon as Bertram’s office opened, then waited in the hallway. The tests had taken less than ninety minutes. “Are you absolutely certain? I found no platinum residues of any kind in my tests.”

  “What does he mean?” Kate couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Synthetic stones are basically cooked in metal containers,” Dr. Bertram explained. “Usually platinum. The process almost always leaves traces of the metal in the gem.”

  “But I specifically looked for that, and ruled it out,” Blake protested.

  “You shouldn’t feel bad,” Bertram said. “The Russians have come up with a new synthetic alexandrite that can only be detected at the molecular level. They’re virtually impossible to identify without extremely sophisticated digital instruments. Actually, this is only the second one I’ve seen.”

  “I can’t believe this. You must be mistaken.” Blake felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “Well, of course you are free to seek a second opinion, but, unfortunately, there’s little chance I’m wrong—I wish I were.” Bertram replied. His eyes looked even sadder as he pushed a sheet of paper toward them. “The new Russian process is apparently used by criminal elements there. The police in Brighton Beach sent us one to test a few months ago. Completely mimics the natural in almost every way. In fact, I re-ran the entire suite of tests just to be sure. I’ve written you a certification memo reporting my findings. It’s a great fake, it’s a beautiful fake, but it is a fake. I am sorry.”

  Stifling a sob, Kate snatched up the alexandrite—and the report—and bolted for the door.

  * * *

  Twisting slightly, Blake hit the exit door’s release bar in full stride, half-stumbling into the Institute’s parking lot.

  Still spattered by rain, the burgundy Bentley gleamed like a wet plum in the early morning sun. Beside it, Kate sprawled on the damp pavement, facing away from him. Moving rapidly, a hulking figure widened the distance between them. Kate heard the door open, lifted herself on one arm and turned back to Blake. Her eyes were wild.

  “Forget me!” she screamed. “Get him! He’s got the stone!”

  A few feet beyond, Vulcan Krasky lumbered across the parking area toward his auto. Blake sprinted past Kate, cut him off, and dove straight into the slav’s expansive but surprisingly well-toned waist.

  Like wrestling bears, the men tumbled across the asphalt. Blake sprang up, sucker-punching Krasky with a solid shot across his cheekbone. The heavier man shook his large head and, from a half-crouch, launched a devastating uppercut toward Blake’s chin.

  Blake landed heavily on his back, out cold.

  #

  Chapter 33

  Some 150 yards to the east, screened by a row of bushes, a black Lincoln sat on a small overlook. Soft eyes followed the action below through binoculars.

  “He’s knocked the gemologist down,” Hector Molina said, “and he’s not getting up.”

  Mondalvo was already turning the ignition key. Below, the big man had reached his car and was pulling away.

  * * *

  Sitting in the Bentley in the Institute parking lot, Kate’s emotions swung between anger and despair. “That stone has to be real,” she said. “I took it from a cadaver that hadn’t been touched for eighty years. You told me they weren’t even making synthetics then.”

  Blake rubbed his chin. Blood smeared his gums. “You’ve got to retrace every moment that the stone’s been out of your sight.”

  “That’s easy,” Kate replied, her voice crisp. “Never. Not once. Except this morning with the professor. And then last week, when it was with you.” Her left brow arched and her next sentence dripped with sarcasm. “You do remember that night, I hope.”

  “Are you suggesting I stole your stone?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m merely stating the facts. The stone has been out of my sight exactly twice. One of those times the professor was testing it. The other time, you were.”

  “Do you think I would have taken that beating… that I would have chased that gorilla… if I had stolen your goddamned alexandrite?” Blake’s voice rose. “You’d think I’ve never handled precious stones before. I’ll tell you this: never have I been accused of being a thief.” Through Blake’s swollen lips, the last word came out as “teef.”

  Kate’s gaze returned his heat. She knew she’d dug a hole with her words, but she had to vent at someone and Blake was the only person handy.

  “All I know,” she said, “is that my entire future collapsed this morning, and not through my doing. And, frankly, I wonder if you’re being completely candid. Why did you want to come here in the first place? Was it because you were unsure of your own findings?”

  “I’m not going to apologize to you,” Blake replied archly. “I made an honest mistake. Not more than one person in ten thousand has ever even seen a real Russian alexandrite. In a twenty year professional career, I’ve seen perhaps fifty. Besides, as I told you before: Anybody in the business would have expected this test. And by the way, dear lady, the results saddle me with a problem every bit as big as yours.

  “Jeeeezus,” he said, and stopped talking.

  “Look,” he finally continued, “It took at least a year to grow a synthetic stone of that size and quality. So neither the professor nor I could have done it—we wouldn’t have had the time. Either the stone was a fake from the beginning, or it was switched in Russia. And that leads us straight to your friend Novyck.”

  “The stone was only in his cell for an hour. And I was watching every minute.”

  “Did he see the original descriptions or a photo of the alexandrite?”

  “I told you, he had a photograph. He gave it to me. Krasky got the picture in Kiev
. Why?”

  “Because if there is an original genuine stone, whoever made the fake had to have its specs. How big it was, its dimensions, how much it weighed. The one I tested matched the stone in the document you gave me—exactly.”

  “Imre Novyck had a photograph, and I showed him the stone’s original documents when I visited him in Lefortovo. But he also may have had the stone’s measurements earlier, through correspondence with my mother.”

  Fresh waves of regret swept over Kate. The stone she’d risked so much for wasn’t real. Or it had been real, and one of two men she’d thought she could trust may have stolen it. Or the thief might be a harmless old professor. If MacMahon had only found the monsters who’d run down Irina everything might be clearer by now.

  For the moment at least, she saw only a single course: Trust no-one.

  “So, basically,” Blake summed up, “We have two questions. Assuming a genuine stone exists, how was the synthetic made and how and when was the genuine stone switched?”

  Kate rubbed her chin. Her anger ebbed, giving way to a sense of descending gloom. “Logically, I can see what you are saying, but it just can’t be him. I have met this man. I know him. It just couldn’t be him. His family has been serving mine for nearly a century.”

  Blake spoke to the windshield. “Yes, and see the result. After nearly a century, your ancestors are finally found, shot and scattered in a field.” He paused. “What about the original stone? Could it have been switched? So that the stone you gave Imre wasn’t real to begin with?”

  “Not likely. Those coffins were sealed in the twenties.”

  Blake shook his head. “Well, at least we can forget the idea the original was a fake. The technology to create an imitation of this quality simply didn’t exist then.”

  Kate clucked her tongue. “Which takes us back to Imre. I can’t believe it. But you’re right, I have to start there. Which means I have to go back.”

  Blake shifted toward her. “Not you, Kate, not alone. Not again. You must allow me to go with you. You could be risking your life, and I’m not sending a second person to Russia to die. As soon as you set foot in that country, there will be people quite willing and anxious to kill you. And once the thieves who struck us just now discover the stone they have isn’t real, they may seek revenge.

  “And there’s something else too, something you need to know going in.”

  Kate waited expectantly.

  “Even if it exists, you may never find the real stone. Many important collectors keep their gems secret. They simply aren’t inclined to share their treasures, especially if they were obtained illegally. For them, the lure of owning such a stone is all about capturing its beauty for themselves.”

  Blake turned toward her, his voice becoming quiet. “Kate, the wisest course might be to give up now. Let it pass and move on with your life.” His eyes measured her intently.

  Kate stiffened. Was this just a ruse to throw her off the—perhaps his—trail? It didn’t matter. She felt the same competitive impulse that swept her when she stepped out on the board before a dive. Don’t give up now, girl, not now. Think of us—your family who went before.

  To Blake, she said, “Don’t you see? I don’t have a choice. I must find it. I’ve got $500,000 riding on this. And a pile of my money—my family’s money, Russia’s money—is sitting in the Bank of England, soon to be escheated. Many people could benefit from those funds. Besides, I’ll be damned if I’ll let them get away with killing my mother.” She brushed her palms across her thighs, then stared straight out the old car’s windshield. “I’m a competitor, not a quitter.”

  Nodding, Blake shrugged. Kate couldn’t tell whether the gesture was a sign of acceptance or resignation.

  “I have a lot at stake too,” he said. “As you point out so eloquently, my reputation is on the line.” He briefly fell silent, then spoke again.

  “All right, we’ll go for it. But I’ve got to tell Massad.”

  Reflexively, Kate extended her hand, touching his forearm. “Please, don’t. You can’t tell him. What will we say? Sorry, I don’t have the collateral for your loan anymore? Sorry, the stone’s a fake? What good would that do?”

  “I have to tell him. It’s a matter of ethics and a twenty-year relationship.”

  At that moment, Blake’s cell phone buzzed in the Bentley’s glove box. He pulled the car over, opened the clamshell case and spoke.

  “Yes, Jacob,” Blake said, swiveling slightly away from her.

  Kate sensed Massad was asking Simon whether she could hear.

  “No,” she heard Blake say, confirming her suspicion. “But go ahead, I’ll just listen.”

  Blake’s mentor spoke quickly and in a hushed voice. “I’ve learned something I thought you should know. Are you aware that Miss Gavrill has been treated for mental illness? Has she shown any signs of being unstable?”

  Blake masked his surprise with a brusque tone. “Of course not,” he replied.

  “A source tells me she regularly saw a psychiatrist in college.”

  With Kate sitting so near, Blake opted to remain silent. Massad’s informant was making a mountain out of a 10-year-old molehill. Probably just some p.i. running the meter on his day rate.

  “There’s something more,” Massad’s muted voice spoke into his ear again. “Some sort of scandal. I don’t have details, but it was serious enough that she left Princeton and finished her degree at Penn State.”

  “Well, Miss Gavrill and I are going ahead with our plans,” Blake said aloud. “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  Returning the phone to the glove box, Blake gazed at the striking woman who sat next to him, her profile etched against the passenger window. Despite the stressful morning, her skin looked fresh and luminescent. Her lips, scarlet and succulent, curled in a mysterious smile. Turning the ignition key, he realized how very little he knew about her.

  Chapter 34

  Hector Molina stood in the shadows cast by a collapsed pier, his form concealed by scattered pilings and debris. A parking lot and a stretch of sand separated him from a cheap oceanfront motel in Brighton Beach. As darkness fell, he grew more relaxed. During the day, his olive skin, dark eyes and Spanish accent made him uncomfortably obvious in this community of mostly pale, blue-eyed Russians and Ukrainians.

  It was called “Little Odessa by the Sea” for a reason. Long home to the nation’s largest population of Russian Jews, over the past decade Brighton Beach had become home to something else: the tentacles of the Russian mafia. Though much of the seaside town remained a pastiche of trash-littered lots, mob cash had built strip malls, flashy nightclubs and restaurants.

  It was here Vulcan Krasky had come, seeking a safety zone until his return flight to Russia.

  And it was here that Hector Molina had followed him.

  Molina knew the chances of Krasky leaving the stone in his room were small. But he’d been watching the motel since early afternoon, hoping the other man would come out. Even the slimmest chance that the Ukrainian might leave the gem behind would make the time he’d invested worthwhile.

  If Krasky were to leave the alexandrite in his room, its theft could still be relatively safe. Carefully executed, there’d be little risk of physical confrontation and—for a while at least—no one would know who’d taken the gem. He’d be gone, really gone. With plenty of time for a Spanish plastic surgeon to do his or her work, and for Hector Molina to become someone else.

  Over the last few days, Molina had followed the same disciplined approach that had earned him an international reputation. He’d listened to Russian language recordings, eaten in Russian restaurants, and scanned quickie Russian language books. But mostly El Mimico had listened to recorded taps of Krasky’s telephone conversations. Within a few days, to all but the most critical listener, Molina’s voice became that of one of Krasky’s local contacts. The vocal replica wasn’t
perfect—no mimic’s ever is. But he’d mastered the vowel inflections and “tells”—breath patterns and favorite phrases that amounted to an auditory signature. For example, Krasky’s most frequent Brighton Beach contact habitually snorted between sentences. And almost always began any new thought with the heavily accented English phrase, “that is to say.”

  Leaving his observation post, Molina walked from the motel parking lot to a phone booth across the street. His finger rested on a small tape recorder. Molina had electronically removed the voice from one of the tapes so that only the background noise of the Brighton Beach’s busy Boardwalk could be heard. When Molina called now, Krasky would hear the authentic background of shouting shopkeepers, people talking and honking horns.

  Minutes later, Molina “invited” Krasky to join him and couple of local “ladies” at a local Russian restaurant. Having heard his compatriot’s voice only a few times, the big man easily fell for the ruse.

  Molina crossed the street to the motel. He knew the deception would only hold briefly. When no one showed up, Krasky would begin fidgeting at the restaurant. Within half an hour, he’d be bound to call and discover he’d been duped. And never again would the big man be so easily fooled.

  Using a lock pick that retracted like a fountain pen, Molina entered the motel room. Moving rapidly, he turned the mattress, checked the toilet tank and hacked the stuffing out of the room’s single upholstered chair. Pulling open the nightstand drawer, he discovered a single one-way air ticket to Moscow, booked for that coming Sunday. Not until he fell to his hands and knees for a second look beneath the bed, did Molina glimpse the briefcase.

  A bungee cord held the elegant container tight against the bottom of the mattress. Concealed by the valance and the dark shadows under the bed, the maroon calfskin case would have gone unnoticed by all but the most determined searcher. Molina’s temples pounded as he freed the case and laid it down on the bed. His pick made quick work of the brass lock and in an instant the top flipped open.