The old monk’s answers were less than satisfying.
“He says the glass covers were actually installed over the coffins in the late 1940s,” Simon said. “Each lid was sealed with wax, and none of the seals were broken until recently.”
For a moment, Kate relived her terror when the coffin lid slipped from its resting place and shattered on the Catacombs’ stone floor. She’d never actually seen the wax, but it might explain why she’d lost her grip.
Blake spoke to the monk, and the old man began thumbing backwards through an oversize guest registry on the counter.
“Julio 30!” he abruptly cried. Blake relayed the man’s chatter in sound bites—“lid shattered… broken glass… only break-in in fifty years”—but the additional words were needless. Kate instantly understood; he was describing the night she’d reclaimed the Romanov Stone.
Two hours later, they sipped aperitifs on Kate’s hotel balcony. Kate watched distant lights sparkle on the Denier River and realized she’d been standing in the same spot little more than a month ago. But there was an important difference: That night she’d believed the stone would soon be in her possession.
She still resented Simon’s insinuations about her mental health. He couldn’t escape responsibility for a serious professional lapse, but he seemed to have concluded that endlessly beating up on Imre was a no-win strategy. She sensed, on his part, a slight move toward accommodation.
“Maybe he can help us,” Simon proffered, referring to Novyck without using his name.
Kate nodded, sipping the cool, slightly acidic drink.
“Imre obviously wields power within the walls of Lefortovo,” she said. “If the real stone wound up in some criminal underground in Russia or the Ukraine, who would have a better chance of tracing it?”
Stepping closer to the balcony’s edge, Kate looked over the city. She could see the less than pristine district where she’d spent the night after finding the Romanov stone. Memories of that evening drifted back to her. She saw herself walking down the inn’s narrow corridor, carrying a bathrobe and a towel. She’d desperately needed to get out of her sweaty clothes and out of that tiny, dingy room. At one point, she’d taken a shower. Could she have left the stone unattended, even briefly?
“Who am I kidding?” she said aloud. “Maybe I lost it. Maybe they switched it while I was in the toilet.” By now, the damn stone could be anywhere.
“Well, we know Krasky didn’t switch it,” Blake said. “Otherwise, why would he have followed us all the way to Massachussetts? To steal a fake?”
Kate shrugged. Someone at Lefortovo other than Imre might have substituted the fake stone. But how and who? It could have happened at the inn where she spent her last night in Kiev. But she’d slept with the gem under the covers. Perhaps the woman who sat beside her on the plane swapped it while she was sleeping. Or the customs inspector when he asked her to remove the stone and necklace. Unlikely on both counts, but who knew? One person increasingly seemed a less likely suspect if, indeed, he had ever been one at all: Simon Blake. She’d lashed out at him in anger after Professor Bertram’s proclamation that the alexandrite wasn’t genuine. But Blake had too much to lose—and had already risked a great deal—to benefit from a forgery.
Dropping her chin in her hands, Kate emitted a weary sigh. She wore a thin short-sleeved blouse. The cool, humid air chaffed her skin into goose bumps.
“It’s all about the chain of custody,” Kate said finally. She dropped into a metal chair. “And we’ve got some very weak links.”
Blake chewed his lip. “Right. The best course is to take this a day at a time. It could easily have been someone other than Imre Novyck.” He stepped behind her, and his large hand fell protectively on her shoulder.
“But I can’t take it a day at a time—there are only 10 days left.”
“All we can do is what we can do,” Blake replied. His hands began a gentle massaging motion. “Even if Novyck can’t locate the stone himself, he may know who can.”
Blake moved down her arms, kneading her biceps. His fingers seemed to pluck each tendon individually, like chords on a cello. Kate’s head lolled back, and she looked at him through half-closed, unfocused eyes.
Still standing behind Kate, Blake leaned forward and outlined her forearms with his palms, which came to rest in her hands.
Careful! A warning voice grated in her head. You’ve been down this path before.
“I’m just so damned tired,” Kate said aloud.
Blake peered at her, but did not reply. His hands resumed their work.
Kate grew limp as she gave in to Simon’s strength. Under her blouse, her breasts swayed in cadence to the movement of his hands.
Abruptly, Blake halted the massage and stepped around the chair. He traced his left forefinger along the side of her neck.
“You know what Mae West said,” he joked. “Give a man a free hand and he’ll run it all over you.
“Kate,” he said, making a quick turn to seriousness, “I’m beginning to realize that, since we met, everything I’ve done—and not done—has driven us apart. It’s not what I want, and I’m sorry.”
The sincerity of his apology—coupled with her utter relaxation—seemed to rupture an inner dam. Kate moved imperceptibly closer to him, her lips parting as if to speak.
“Listen,” she said finally. She took a deep breath. “There are some things I should tell you. About the trouble I got into in college.”
“Not now,” he said smiling. “Whatever happened, it was a long time ago. I care about the beautiful grown woman here beside me. Tell me when we’re old and gray.”
He knelt and kissed her, slipping his hand around her waist and pulling her toward him.
“No,” she said weakly. But Blake’s fingers twisted a button and moved inside her blouse. She hooked her right arm around his neck and crushed his lips to hers.
You can’t let this happen again!
Kate gently pushed him away. But their fingers remained tangled and she squeezed his hand tightly before letting go.
Chapter 38
Vulcan Krasky’s Brighton Beach buddies caught up with Hector Molina as he crossed Fifth Avenue into Central Park.
An hour later, they were alone in Molina’s St. Pierre Hotel room, the smaller man gagged and bound by duct tape to a silk-cushioned Chippendale chair.
Krasky quickly got to the point.
“Pretty little man,” he said, “you may have made a fool of me once, but you are not the only one with friends in Colombia. Perhaps it would have been wise to be less famous. Your reputation, as they say, preceded you.”
Molina fastened terrified eyes on the case Krasky had been carrying when he broke in. It lay, ominous and unopened, on the bed.
As Molina looked on mutely, Krasky methodically tore apart the room, ripping out drawers, spilling the contents of the Latin’s luggage across the floor, upending mattresses and cushions.
After fifteen futile minutes, the big man collapsed beside his prey.
Sweating profusely, Krasky swabbed a sleeve across his dripping brow. “You will tell me where it is,” he grunted. Krasky rose and walked to the other side of the bed. Popping the case’s latches, he raised the lid and studied its contents.
After giving Molina a long look, Krasky walked slowly into the bathroom. Minutes later, he reappeared carrying one of the hotel’s large white terry cloth towels—dripping wet—and an ice bucket filled with water. Pulling the gag—a wadded embroidered handkerchief—from Molina’s mouth, he wound the towel around the man’s head.
Molina could barely breathe.
Krasky loosened the towel, and it fell around the Latin’s shoulders.
“Didn’t you understand the certification report?” Molina said, choking out the words. “The stone I took from you was a synthetic. But the real stone must exist. Blake and the woman woul
d not have taken the fake for testing unless they thought it was real. So there is only one place the genuine alexandrite can be—still somewhere in Russia or the Ukraine, probably still in possession of whoever made the switch.”
Krasky grunted skeptically. “They could have already sold it.”
“Not likely, not a stone of that significance and value. It would be too hot. There isn’t a fence in the world who would touch it yet. Believe me. I know them all.” Molina knew this was a lie, but he hoped Krasky would buy it.
“Look, the point is we should be working together. I know a way we can both win.”
Krasky moved back toward the suitcase. Molina took a deep breath, for the first time spotting a way out of this. The Slav pulled on a single heavily weighted black glove. Such devices were the mafiya executioner’s coup de grace, used to pound the recipient’s insides. The victim suffered massive internal bleeding and, often, an agonizing death.
Instead, however, Krasky appeared to change his mind. He pulled off the glove, turned back to Molina, and picked up the half-full ice bucket.
“Suppose everything you say is true, pretty little one,” he said, sneering. “For what does Vulcan Krasky need you?”
“You need me because I am the best thief in the world. I stole the stone from you and you didn’t even know it, right?”
Krasky backhanded Molina across the face. “Don’t remind me!” The blow left Molina with a bleeding nose.
The violent act seemed to calm the Ukrainian. He knew his own career and life might also be in jeopardy—not from his captive, certainly not from Blake and the Gavrill woman, but from Boris Lada. Yet if the stone Molina took was a fake, and the real gem was still in Russia, why hadn’t his capos known that beforehand? Why had they sent him on a wild goose chase? Or, a darker possibility: One of his own men in Kiev had stolen the alexandrite and was setting him up.
Sensing the other man’s hesitation, Molina moved in.
“Imagine what a team we’d make,” he said, “with my stealth and your strength. And, of course, courage.”
Krasky faced him again, but this time he was listening.
“Think of this,” Molina went on. “If a real stone exists, there’s never been anything like it. It’s worth millions. Tens of millions. It could set us both up for life—if we so choose.”
“Pretty talk from the pretty man.”
Molina lowered his voice, trying to sound confident. “No, this is real talk,” he said. “I have a buyer, on the black market. He will pay $40 million in U.S. dollars on delivery.”
Krasky looked at him. Molina could sense the other man teetering.
“Why should I trust you?”
When Krasky uttered the question, Molina knew he’d won. Even before the big man finished pulling off the duct tape, they’d agreed to the rough outlines of a deal: Krasky would stall his bosses, and they’d steal the stone back for themselves. A 50-50 split.
“What of the girl and her jeweler boyfriend?” Krasky asked.
“My people followed them to the JFK airport,” Molina replied, “they were heading to Moscow.” Standing at the bathroom sink, he moistened one corner of his St. Pierre bathrobe and gently daubed the blood at his nose. The swelling looked less serious than he’d expected.
“Ummmmm. So they will be on—how do you say—my turf,” Krasky said. “We can let them lead us to the stone. I like this plan already.”
Rubbing his throbbing nose, Molina shot Krasky a reflected glance in the mirror. “I’ll call my travel agent and book the tickets on my card,” he said. “Consider it an investment in our collective future.”
Chapter 39
Their cab smelled stuffy, but Kate didn’t notice. She sat close to Simon Blake, her head brushing his shoulder, her body crooked into the long gully of his arm stretching across the back seat. Still in the glow of their last evening in Kiev, she felt closer to him than since they’d met.
Blake gazed out at Moscow’s drab tapestry of gray concrete, soot-stained masonry and black business suits. He glanced down at Kate. Afternoon sun glossed the top of her hair. With her boyish cut, ebony strands parted around her ears, making her seem waifish and innocent.
But Blake’s mood was anything but protective. His mind spun in spirals over the mess he was in, mostly the implications of deceiving Massad. He knew that, despite their past relationship, Massad would give no quarter when it came to getting his money back. Unless they could retrieve the stone, Blake faced ruin.
Kate stirred, turning to look up at him. “When you meet him, you’ll see,” she said, completing a lengthy verbal dissertation of which Blake hadn’t heard a single word. He correctly surmised she was discussing Imre Novyck.
“He really was helpful,” she said.
Blake grunted. Her blithe optimism abraded his nerves.
“There’s something almost charismatic about him,” Kate went on. “It’s as if he has a special energy.”
Blake looked away, rolling his eyes. “Ummm, right.”
Kate pulled back and frowned.
“I thought we were finally on the same page about Imre,” she said, suddenly unsmiling. “I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve uttered.”
Blake bristled and turned back to her. “I’ve tried to stay open-minded,” he said. “But how can you be so sure about him? I say if he is useful, fine. But I don’t have to be in love with him.” He paused, then dug in the knife. “The way you rhapsodize about Imre Novyck, somebody might think you are.”
Kate eyes flared. “Is that what you think?”
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Really? Just how did you mean it?”
Blake reached for her, pulling her toward him. “Look, this is stupid,” he said. “I’m tired and I misspoke. I’m sorry.”
Glancing in the mirror, the cab driver shook his head and slid the divider closed.
Kate turned her face to the side, put both hands on Blake’s chest and pushed.
“You’re not sorry,” she said, sliding further away. “And I don’t see how we’re ever going to work together. One minute we seem to be in sync, growing close even. Then the next you’re full of suspicion again. Meanwhile, you and your friend have pegged me as some kind of psycho. And now you sound jealous of Imre. You’re pathetic.”
“Am I?” Blake asked, his voice rising. “Do you realize the jam I’m in? My ‘friend,’ as you call him, will demand that loan the instant he learns the truth. Don’t you realize what this could do to my business, to my reputation?”
“Oh, stop playing to the back row,” Kate sneered.
With Blake’s face less than three feet away, Kate could see droplets of sweat in the stubble on his upper lip. He looked exhausted and desperate. “It was your idea to go to Massad in the first place.”
“Why do we keep covering the same ground?” Blake asked. Their relataionship seemed so volatile, soaring to fuzzy pink highs, then just as quickly, crashing to darkly desperate lows. “Where would you have gotten $500,000 if I hadn’t contacted Massad? And why is it always me who screwed everything up? What about your record? After all, I’m not the one who found a fake stone.”
Blake peered at her: the beguiling waif had disappeared. Kate’s lipstick smeared into one corner of her mouth, the tip of her nose blushed like a small rose, and her cheeks were blotched.
“And thanks,” he added, “for acknowledging the help I’ve tried to give you.” Where, Blake wondered, was the cuddly kitten with whom he’d entered the cab?
Now, scrunched into the crevice of the seat, the feline hissed like a snake. “Well, thank you very much, Mister Blake, but I’m not going to need your ‘help’ anymore. I’ll be handling the rest of this project on my own.”
The cab drew up in front of their hotel and she exited, slamming the door behind her. Blake stalked up the stairs in silence.
>
He approached the desk. “You have reservations for Mr. Simon Blake and Miss Kate Gavrill?”
Kate stood several feet away, staring in the opposite direction.
“Yes, sir. Regrettably, we have only two single rooms left, and they are on separate floors.”
“That arrangement couldn’t be better,” Blake said.
He disappeared, trailed by the lobby’s only visible bellman.
Fuming, Kate stood alone, still holding her bags. The bellman returned and, without offering to relieve her of her suitcases, led the way to the seventh floor. Her room offered a view of the building next door, a mere two feet from her window.
Kate flopped on the bed. Switching off the lamp, she glared at the ceiling, picturing Blake four floors below. Thank God she wasn’t in the same room—let alone the same bed—with that man.
Kate rolled onto her side. What had she ever seen in him?
Chapter 40
on the large television screen, the young woman on the diving board drew a deep breath, bounced twice, then took four evenly spaced steps before hurdling straight up, bringing her knees to her waist and unfolding in a vertical line. Her body twisted downward through a series of tight spirals, breaking the water with barely a ripple.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the off-screen sports reporter said, “you have just seen a perfect dive. If Kate Gavrill can repeat that performance next month in Barcelona, she just might come home with Olympic Gold.”
In the rear of the room, Imre Novyck, wearing black slacks and a matching turtleneck sweater, rose, pressed “Stop” on the TV remote, and flicked on a light switch.
Released the day before, Novyck had been met at Lefortovo by a conveyance most of the prison’s inhabitants had only seen in magazines—a newly delivered green Maserati sedan with cream-colored leather interior. In less than twelve minutes, the big car had whisked him to his Moscow home.
As plain as a police barracks on the outside, the three-story stone and mortar structure was spacious and luxurious within. The elegantly appointed rooms and central courtyard garden testified to its owner’s success in Russia’s leading growth industry—crime.
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