The Romanov Stone

by Robert C. Yeager

  Molina inhaled sharply. He’d not expected the contents, whose sight made him instantly nauseous. Polished brass knuckles with flesh-tearing spikes, a seven-inch switchblade knife, a nine-millimeter machine pistol and—in two sections—a sniper’s high-power polycarbonate rifle and scope. All were nestled snugly into a fitted, Styrofoam lining. On top, lay a coiled wire garrote, its ends wrapped with non-slip tape.

  Krasky had obviously secured his working tools for pick-up by a stateside “associate.” The fact that to get past airport inspectors Krasky must dispose of these deadly implements did not keep Molina from feeling a twinge of fear mingled with his disgust. These were the tools of a killer, not a thief.

  As he slipped out the door, Molina knew three truths he hadn’t known before. First, Vulcan Krasky must be carrying the stone. Second, his own success—perhaps his survival—would now depend upon his skills as a pickpocket, skills he’d not actually plied in several years. Third, he must steal the alexandrite in the next thirty-six hours or be forced to follow Krasky to Russia. If Hector Molina were seeking a farewell challenge, he’d clearly found it.

  * * *

  Exhausted and cold, Molina resumed his watch from the shadows. It had taken longer than he expected for Krasky to return to the motel. The big Slav entered his room, then burst out again, pistol in hand. He paced up and down the length of the building in the vain hope of spotting the room’s ransackers. Molina waited thirty minutes, then walked back to the street where he’d made the phone call. A few more blocks and he reached the darkened lot where his driver had parked the Town Car hours before. Moments later, the two men checked into the same motel where Krasky now slept unevenly only ten rooms away. Before turning in, Molina placed a small, folded piece of paper on the floor directly in front of Krasky’s door. When he returned to the room, Molina picked up the telephone. While Ricardo Mondalvo snored, he booked three flights, the first for one-way first class accomodations to Barcelona, Spain; and then—the tickets he hoped not to use—for round-trip coach fare between New York and Moscow.

  #

  Chapter 35

  “What are we going to do?” As she sat beside him on the airplane, Kate’s ice blue eyes fixed on Simon Blake’s battered features.

  He stared ahead, swollen lips pressed together like strips of uncooked meat. The rush to get to the airport had exhausted his last reserves. And he was still trying to assess Massad’s disturbing news. Could it be true? She’d seemed tightly wound since the first day they met, but he’d never suspected that Kate might be mentally ill. Next to him, she sat stiffly, twisting her fingers together, occasionally chewing at her mouth. Wearing a set of loose-fitting exercise sweats, she seemed somehow smaller in the airline seat.

  “At least you could have thought to send the stone by armored carrier,” she said at last. Disdain edged her voice.

  Simon suppressed an unaccustomed urge to smack Kate across her spoiled mouth. Who did this Russian princess think she was? Then his anger crumbled into guilt: He’d asked himself the same question. For three hundred and change he could have hired a security guard for a few hours.

  And why hadn’t he picked up that they were being followed out of New York? Truth be told, he’d been too distracted by the stone and the physical nearness of Kate. He still remembered brushing her thigh when he’d reached over to close her window in the rain.

  Now, of course, that glow was gone, smashed into oblivion by the professor’s finding, the theft of the stone and Massad’s revelations. Before, he’d been drifting in a romantic haze with a woman he might love. Now, Blake found himself on a needle-in-a-hay-stack mission to a country he feared, accompanied by a woman who might not be stable.

  Beside him, Kate looked away. Her thoughts also centered on their fateful drive to Massachussetts. Her mood, however, was even less romantic. She needed his help, but that didn’t mean she had to trust him, or even like him. She kept recalling a pair of distant headlights in a sideview mirror. Had she missed a warning? How had Krasky known to follow them to Massachusetts?

  * * *

  Kate awoke to the steady roar of the aircraft engine—and to find Blake studying her closely. Moments after they’d changed planes in Paris following a long layover, she’d curled into her seat and fallen into a deep sleep. Now, somewhere over Poland, she’d reawakened. As an intensely physical person, Kate hated long-distance flying. Now, instinctively, she stood beside Blake’s aisle seat and groggily began a series of deep knee bends.

  “Look, I realize we’ve talked about this before,” Blake began as soon as she sat down again. His voice, irritating in its intensity, cut through her comfortable drowsiness. “But if you’ve been treated for mental illness, I need to know.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. Even in first class, the cabin smelled of stale coffee, hours-old air and slept-in clothes. Clearly, he’d been simmering since their last discussion. “Why are you bringing this up again?”

  Blake kept his voice low. “Before, you told me that years ago you saw a sports psychiatrist for a minor neurosis. Now I’m asking you directly, was it more than that? Do you have a history of mental illness? I’m not trying to pry. I need to know. It could be a safety issue for both of us.”

  “Whom have you been talking to?” She asked. “Have you had me investigated?”

  “Massad mentioned something.”

  “Mentioned something,” she mocked. “Lovely. Really lovely. So your best friend had me investigated?”

  “I think he may have hired a detective.” Blake paused, feeling cornered. “Do you think it’s that unusual, to try and learn something about someone you loaned $500,000 to, and don’t know much about?”

  Kate hunched down in her window seat, forcing Blake to turn back to see her. She shoved up the shade, blasting his eyes with sunlight.

  She brought her face close to his.

  “He lent that money because of you, because of your relationship. And if he’s sicced an investigator on me that’s because of you too.”

  Abruptly, Kate’s eyes grew moist.

  “Since you think you know everything about me,” she continued, “there are things you don’t know. Some traumatic things happened in my life, beginning with the death of my father when I was a little girl. Later—years later, when I was in college—I made a bad decision. I hurt myself and my family. Mostly, I picked the wrong guy to fall in love with. But of course no emotionally healthy woman has ever done that. And that, Dr. Freud, is my extensive history of mental illness. Are you satisfied? Are you proud you and your friend invaded my privacy? For all I know that’s who broke into Dr. Borshel’s files.” Kate glared at him through flooded eyes.

  Blake devoutly wished he’d never brought up the subject.

  But Kate had a head of steam. “What I’ve told you is part of me. I carry my own water and deal with my own problems, just like any other functioning adult. Why am I risking my life to find this damn stone? A big part of it is to make up for the pain I caused my mother. If you don’t like it, that’s too damn bad. And, no, I am not crazy.” Though whispered, the vehemence of her words turned fellow passengers’ heads.

  Her shoulders shook. “I thought I could trust you,” she said, inwardly cursing her unaccustomed fragility.

  Stop your sniveling, she commanded herself. He’s not worth it.

  Blake stretched out a hand; she brushed it away.

  “You can trust me,” he insisted. “I didn’t investigate anybody. And nothing has changed.”

  Kate turned away, feeling violated. She pushed her hands under her; the seat’s slick leather chilled her palms.

  * * *

  Kate stretched her arms as their plane approached Moscow. Blake’s behavior troubled her on more than one level. From the outset, she’d known that her attraction to him bore a singular resemblance to the pull she’d felt toward Nars. Both were older, both secure in their professions,
both seemingly emotionally strong. Blake was about the same age her father had been when he died—he even had grayish hair.

  Imre, too, was older, and in many ways more intriguing. Here was a man whose family had earned the trust of hers for generations. He had history on his side, especially compared to Simon Blake, whom she’d known—what?—barely a month.

  She dismissed Blake’s suspicions of Imre. Someone else had switched the stone. In any case, of one thing she was certain: No matter what anyone said, the gem that blazed like blood in the catacombs of Kiev had been real.

  Chapter 36

  The sound of a bell ringing softly at his elbow caused Molina to abruptly halt his morning exercises. Enraged, he ripped the bells from his naked body and flung them across the room, startling the snoring driver out of his sleep. Damn it to hell! He knew his body was getting older, but he also knew two hours of daily exercise kept it sound. Something—some frustration—must have broken his concentration.

  Molina dressed and went outside. He crossed the street and entered a grimy corner diner, where he ordered breakfast. On the way back, he sidled by Krasky’s room. The folded paper sat in front of the door, exactly where he’d placed it. That meant Krasky was still inside. Again, Molina retreated into the shadows of the piers.

  For the next eight hours, Molina kept his vigil, alternately sitting, standing, squatting. Despite the soothing salt air, his entire body ached. At one point, he removed his shoes and rehearsed the opening moments of Swan Lake in the sand, his finely muscled legs kicking out in perfect arcs. He rested, leaning against the piers, his eyelids sliding to halfmast.

  Mostly, he worried: Had Krasky somehow disposed of the stone during the previous evening?

  Shortly before 7:00 p.m., the Ukrainian emerged, his dark hair slicked back, his heft draped gracefully by an elegant Italian suit. He pulled a white handkerchief from his sleeve, looking almost foppish as he blotted his brow.

  Molina quick-stepped across the sand, slipping into the Lincoln’s front passenger seat. “Vamanos compadre,” he ordered Mondalvo. They followed the bright spot in the other man’s taillight as Krasky drove out. Approaching an upscale seafood restaurant, Krasky pulled over. Two fleshy blondes and a short, swarthy man approached his car. After introductions, the foursome entered the building.

  After Mondalvo parked the car, Molina waited several minutes, then followed the foursome inside. He found a table on the opposite side of the room, where he could study his prey at a safe distance. Molina saw no evidence Krasky was carrying the stone—no bulge in his coat, no fanny pack or brief case, and he wore no vest.

  The Latin felt apprehensive again. Could the stone be in an inconspicuous parcel on its way to Moscow? Not a chance, he answered himself. No thief would trust that stone to a courier. Perhaps, through accomplices, he’d secured it someplace locally, say in a bank safe deposit box. Molina stared across the room again, his eyes raking the Slav’s bulky form. Krasky rose, started walking, and for a moment seemed headed straight toward him. Molina’s heart leapt. Then the big man veered to his left, making for the bar.

  Standing, Krasky leaned forward, and hooked his shoe on the bar rail. When he reached down and rubbed his right leg, Molina spotted the small lump below his calf.

  Of course. How had he missed it? An ankle pouch. Usually supported by straps that looped below the heel and around the lower leg, the pouches were often used by couriers and jewelry salesmen to conceal their precious cargo. The container rode just above the ankle, large enough to carry a bracelet or necklace, a man’s watch or—as in this case—even an outsized jewel.

  Molina left the restaurant. He’d located his target now, and he knew precisely where and when he and Vulcan Krasky would meet.

  * * *

  EARLY MORNING. A brightly lit corridor at Kennedy International Airport. Vulcan Krasky felt the merest brush of air against the left side of his coat. He noticed an Hispanic-looking man passed him as they both approached the KLA check-in area. But in that fleeting moment, Krasky failed to see or sense the shiny metal disc Hector Molina slipped into his pocket.

  A green cylinder rolled slowly past Krasky’s foot. The Ukranian blinked. It was a tightly wound wad of $100 bills.

  The Hispanic man knelt beside him, but Krasky got there first, stooping from his waist to retrieve the money.

  Fingers light as breezes touched Krasky’s ankle.

  Awkwardly, both men rose at the same time, nearly colliding.

  “Pardon me,” Krasky said politely, almost as if he were speaking to a stylish woman. He handed over the roll. “Is this your money?”

  Murmuring thanks, the man with curved lips and soft eyes turned away. Moments later, a security guard glared at Krasky as the metal detector buzzed.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the guard, “you’ll have to step over here.” When he triggered the buzzer for the third time, Krasky was motioned to one side, where another guard held an electronic wand.

  Krasky’s blunt features bore a puzzled frown. He’d been careful to remove any traces of ferrous metal before approaching airport security. Of course, he’d returned the borrowed suitcase of weapons to his Brighton Beach colleagues. He’d emptied his pockets of coins and keys. He’d even thrown out a package of chewing gum and taken off his belt.

  The guard traced the wand over his large upper frame. Krasky’s eyes followed the device down to his own waistline.

  “I believe it’s something in your pants pocket, sir,” said the officer triumphantly. Krasky reached into his pocket, and pulled out a foil strip about the size of a stick of gum. He must have missed it when—

  He felt a sudden nakedness at the end of his leg. The pouch—and the treasure it contained—had been cut away clean.

  Krasky started screaming.

  “You fools,” he yelled in Russian. Two security guards quickly seized both arms. “That man—that faggot Mexican—stop him! He’s a thief!”

  Jerking an arm free, Krasky gestured frantically down JFK’s huge polished corridor. But there was no one to be seen.

  * * *

  Until he stepped into the Boeing’s tiny john, Hector Molina’s flight to Barcelona had been uneventful. Now, as he sat on the commode, the severed pouch seemed heavy in his hand. He’d cut it clean, bringing a single-edge razor within a fraction of an inch of Krasky’s skin. Now the leather straps dangled like fringe from their container.

  The stone slipped into his fingers and with it a scrap of paper. In the low fluorescent lighting, the gem gleamed a deep green.

  Molina unfolded the paper and his world changed.

  “Massachusetts Geological Institute,” the letterhead read, and in smaller type, “Official Analysis.”

  The document bore a date only a few days old. Under the heading “Certification,” it listed a series of tests, culminating with the label, “spectrophoto analysis” typed in capital letters across the middle of the page. It went on: “This stone is certified as synthetic chrysoberyl, species hydrothermal alexandrite, probably Russian in origin. Test performed using two-stage, infrared Spectrophotometer.” The document was signed, “Alan Bertram, Phd.”

  Molina groaned. The big Russian could not have avoided seeing the paper, but his lack of technical knowledge about gems—and his poor English—had combined to make the report indecipherable. Molina, by contrast, instantly recognized its significance.

  The Latin rose, stared into the mirror and rubbed his chin. His skin felt suddenly clammy, as if he were coming down with a cold.

  What had happened? Clearly, the young woman who brought the alexandrite into the U.S. believed it was real. A corrupt customs agent might have switched it. Another possibility would be that someone in Russia made the switch, so perhaps the real stone had never left that country. Or, of course, it could have been a fake all along.

  There was a good chance he’d never know the answers t
o these questions. But this Molina did know: His dream of stealing the alexandrite, changing his identity and disappearing in Europe lay in ruins. He could no longer afford the plastic surgery, let alone the purchase of an annuity to fund his hoped-for retirement. And if he tried to pawn off the synthetic as genuine, he’d either be killed or arrested.

  Arriving in Barcelona, Molina immediately booked a return flight to New York.

  Arriving at JFK International in Manhattan, he stepped into the first class lounge, called his real estate agent in Bogotá and cancelled the listing. If his superiors found out about his trip to Barcelona, he’d pass it off as a vacation gone awry.

  He faxed his contact in Colombia a copy of Prof. Robertson’s report, then called on a voice line.

  “Tell our friends in Bogotá to be more careful when they send me on an assignment,” Molina said. “El Mimico does not like to waste his time, or to take great risks for nonexistent rewards.”

  “I’m going to remain here for a few days,” he continued. “I intend to enjoy myself at the cartel’s expense. Do not disturb me unless it is for a very good reason.”

  Reaching his room, Molina made another call. “I’m afraid our arrangement is cancelled,” he said. “The stone is a synthetic. I’m mailing you a photocopy of the certification report.” He heard an oath as he returned the receiver to its cradle.

  For a moment, Molina had a mental picture that made him cringe. It was an image of the container he’d opened at the motel: Vulcan Krasky’s weapon-crammed suitcase of horrors.

  Chapter 37

  Simon Blake spoke to the curator of the Catacombs through a translator, turning to Kate to relay what he was saying. While Blake stood inside the monk’s tiny office, the cramped space forced Kate to linger in the doorway, just out of earshot. Directly across a small courtyard was the entrance to the caves.