Rocks

by M. J. Lawless

  Realising that he’d closed his eyes, he slowly opened one and looked at the LED display on the thick, pen-like sensor. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t focus until he opened the second.

  One hundred percent diamond. Absolute, pure, crystal-clear diamond.

  Shit.

  For another age he seemed to sit there, and when someone walked past the car he thrust the Wallenstein back into the case and slammed it shut, waving weakly at the person who shouted out something to him.

  He’d done it. He had stolen the Wallenstein.

  Maarten had never felt more miserable in his entire life.

  Pulling out his phone, sweating even more profusely now, he called up Karla’s number.

  “Yes,” came her voice on the other end.

  “I did it,” he said, unable to stop his voice trembling.

  “Come over. Now,” was her terse reply—then she hung up.

  Maarten had only visited Karla’s apartments in the old part of Amsterdam twice before. She always preferred to go out, to visit the sights of the city, and Maarten had never plucked up the courage to suggest he stay the night. This time would be different, he was sure.

  He was wrong.

  When she saw the Wallenstein, Karla’s green eyes glittered with a light as beautiful and as terrible as that which sparkled in the depths of the diamond.

  “Let me hold it, please,” she said.

  Eagerly thrusting it into her hands, desperate to be rid of it, Maarten fell back into his seat. Like everything else to do with Karla Pietersen, the room in which he sat was rich and ornate but not ostentatious, indicating the comfortably wealthy tastes of the woman who owned it.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  That was what everyone said who saw the Wallenstein. Maarten had felt that way too about it once. As he had cut and shaped it, the twenty-carat rock had dominated his thoughts, become his obsession. Now part of him never wanted to see it ever again. It was Karla who was beautiful, not a piece of inert rock.

  Placing it reverently back in his briefcase, Karla picked up her phone. “We’ll have to act quickly,” she said. “The next part of our plan kicks in now.”

  Maarten was disappointed. Sensing this, Karla looked up. “What?” she asked sharply.

  “Can’t I stay? Just for one night?”

  This made her frown. God, even when her brow furrowed and her lips pursed that way she was beautiful. Maarten realised that he would do anything for her—absolutely anything. She was going to be his, forever. He just wished he didn’t feel so sick.

  “Not yet, Maarten,” she said slowly, as though counselling a child. “You need to board a flight, and leave for London. Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” he gasped, weakly. “Can’t I at least wait till the morning?”

  She shook her head. “No. If you’re right, then no-one at Boeckman’s will suspect a thing, but if someone decides to test the Wallenstein—”

  “They won’t.”

  “—to test it and discovers the stone in their possession is fake, you won’t have any chance to get away.”

  Sullenly he accepted the logic of this. “But you’ll come with me.”

  That made her laugh. “Oh, yes. Maarten Kropp, famous misanthrope and loner, suddenly leaving Amsterdam in the company of a young, beautiful woman. Someone will notice—you know that. We discussed this. You go tonight. The hotel’s booked, near Heathrow. Tomorrow night we’ll be together. A day—two at the most—and I can find someone to dispose of the Wallenstein.” Her voice was almost regretful as she said this. “Then we can go anywhere, anywhere you want. Just one more day, Maarten. One more day!”

  One more day, he repeated silently. That thought almost made him retch with excitement and fear. But then another thought crossed his mind, something suspicious that made him feel guilty even for thinking it.

  “Perhaps… perhaps…”

  She looked at him, her eyes hard, cool emeralds. “Yes?” she asked curtly.

  “Perhaps I should take… it with me.”

  She laughed, a harsher sound this time. “What? You think I’m going to disappear with the Wallenstein? Oh, yes, how sensible of me. One phone call from you and Interpol will be looking for Karla Pietersen.” She seemed to fume at the thought but then she raised her hands in the air. “Okay, if you don’t trust me, take it. Go on.” She lowered her arms once more and pushed the case towards Maarten. He cringed back in his seat as though a snake had threatened him.

  “I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “Forgive me.”

  She stared at him for a few moments, then her eyes softened. Reaching forward, she patted his hand gently, making his skin prickle at the warmth of her touch, his senses rising as he smelt her perfume.

  “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “I understand. You’d never get through customs.” She smiled warmly at this. “One look at you trembling and dithering and you’d be dragged to one side instantly. It’s better this way. Look, if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll be caught and you know nothing about it—absolutely nothing. I’m doing this for your sake, Maarten.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, lowering his head so he wouldn’t have to look at those deep, green eyes.

  “I understand,” she said, standing. “Let me put this somewhere safe. Then I’ll get you a drink and call a taxi. You have your passport, don’t you?”

  He nodded, dumb and miserable.

  As she walked away, he sat there for a couple of moments. Then his eyes caught sight of her phone lying on the table, next to where the briefcase had been moments before. He felt sick again, but he couldn’t resist leaning forward to pick it up. It was sleek, elegant—just like her. It was also unlocked: she’d forgotten to set that when she’d taken the Wallenstein away.

  Resisting the urge to look through her messages (knowing that he wouldn’t have time), instead Maarten quickly began to download something, his heart beating faster as the small app’s loading bar stretched across its icon. He was sick with love—and sick with fear—but Maarten Kropp wasn’t utterly stupid. He should trust Karla, and he hated that he didn’t, not completely. This would just be a little extra insurance, he told himself, hiding the icon and then placing the phone back down on the table. Just some extra insurance on Karla Pietersen and the Wallenstein diamond.

  Chapter Five: Hayden

  Hayden was in his safe house.

  The building itself was nondescript other than the fact it had, to all intents and purposes, been condemned by the authorities. Abandoned for several years, signs outside indicated in Dutch that no-one should enter. The few who tried—kids mainly—were surprised to find that beyond the rotten front door was another, steel-lined entrance that was impossible to get through.

  Because of its state and uncertain demolition, Hayden had been able to purchase it cheaply enough through a front, though making it suitable for his purposes had cost him a lot more. While most of the house remained decrepit and semi-derelict, at its centre he’d had a small living area refurbished and then he’d installed the kit he required himself so that no-one else would know what he was planning. That indeed had cost him another fortune. It was worth it, however, not least because it lay on the other end of a dense, urban knot of old houses that contained a maze of passages leading to Boeckman’s itself.

  He’d been gambling heavily, raking in as much as he could on the card tables, and had even done a couple of smaller jobs to get the cash he needed. In many respects, the theft of one diamond—however valuable in itself—was hardly worth this kind of uncertainty. Had he directed his efforts to the kind of more conventional circumstances for which his upbringing had prepared him, he would have even been considerably richer by now.

  But then Hayden thrived on uncertainty. Only napping after his earlier liaison, he was now alert and full of energy, buzzing with adrenaline as he prepared for the culmination of all his plans. This was when he was most alive.

  His control room, though slightly ma
keshift, would have impressed even the most casual observer. A bank of screens—cables trailing from them to the walls and various computers—dominated a bench. On each one he could see the output of a different security camera in Boeckman’s—here the lobby, there the corridor to the vaults, even the offices of the Boeckman partners themselves.

  Just now, Hayden was standing in front of the screens, naked and drying himself carefully with a towel as he watched the various cameras. Every inch of his body had been meticulously prepared so that he would leave as few traces of himself as possible, and even his clothes lay before him still in the dry cleaning bags he’d collected earlier that day. Staring at the screens, he achieved an almost Zen-like state of calm as he watched the guard before the vaults, the other in the lobby, a third patrolling the offices. He knew almost by heart their movements, as well as the fact that two more remained in the Boeckman control room, watching precisely the same scenes as he did.

  Dressing quickly and carefully, in dark but nondescript clothes, he crossed to one of the many computers humming beneath the bench and tapped a series of codes on the keyboard attached to it, his fingers hovering as he watched the screens once more. Judging each moment precisely, he hit a key once, twice, five more times. In each case almost seamlessly the scene switched to show one of the various loops he had been editing in recent days. Careful eyes might have noticed a transition or two, but they would have to watch for more than an hour to realise that the scenes from the security cameras were being repeated endlessly.

  Checking his watch, he estimated that he had a two hour window of opportunity, perhaps a little more, probably less. He’d timed himself getting to Boeckman’s, which took fifteen minutes. Ten more minutes to place his final little toy in place, and then fifteen minutes back. That would give him just over an hour to break into the safe and take the Wallenstein.

  Installing the few extra items he needed about his person, Hayden took a few deep breaths and looked at the screens which were linked to hidden cameras around his safe house. No one was around. It was time to go.

  Slipping through the steel door and into the street, he was dressed inconspicuously in dark jacket and trousers. Perhaps his hat, pulled firmly over his hair line almost to his eye brows, and his gloves might have attracted attention on such a warm night, but he doubted it. Certainly he looked a little intimidating, but not like a man intent on criminal activity.

  Jogging through the side streets, he saw almost no-one but for a couple kissing in a doorway whom he studiously ignored. He wanted to make a good pace to Boeckman’s, but he had no desire to tire himself. As such, when he arrived at the rear of the building he was invigorated and ready for anything, leaping up athletically and climbing the wall that separated Boeckman’s from the street easily. He looked at his watch. He’d covered the ground in thirteen minutes, fifty-four seconds. Only now that he was inside did he roll down his hat, pulling it into a mask that covered his face except for the holes through which he could see and breathe.

  He spied the window that would allow him access—a rear bathroom which he had carefully removed the bolt to on one of his previous visits, fixing a dummy that would break with the minimum of force. This was also one of the spots of the building that was not covered by Boeckman’s intricate security system.

  Before he even thought of entering, however, he would need to deal with that. He glanced up at the building nervously. This was the moment when it was more or less impossible to disguise what he was doing, and though the street lights were dim here there was enough illumination to see him once he started moving. There was no sight of anyone inside, although he could see a dim glow from the building’s interior. That should have been enough, but he couldn’t resist pulling out his mobile phone—a nameless brand that would be smashed up and disposed of once he’d finished here. The software on it was worth infinitely more than the hardware, and he connected to the cameras inside Boeckman’s, flicking through each of them in turn. His video loop was still running, showing complete tranquillity. That at least hadn’t been detected, but his paranoia had lost him the time he’d made getting there in the first place.

  Cursing under his breath, he scooted down low to a service cover and lifted it up. Here was where the mains and various wires entered the building, and an expert eye would have eventually noticed an odd socket buried among the cables. Again, this was part of Hayden’s preparation and he retrieved from his interior pocket a small device that fit the socket perfectly. Again, that instrument—a small, thick metal disc with a flashing LED procured from an acquaintance who had links to the Israeli secret service—had cost a small fortune, but Hayden breathed a little more easily once it was in place. Those alarms configured to connect to the police would now feed into Hayden’s box of tricks. Whatever happened inside, no-one else would know.

  The bathroom window was on the first floor, and Hayden scaled up a pipe that ran alongside the wall nearby. There was a reason he kept himself so fit other than the effect it had on women, and the physical effort made him feel exhilarated and alive. Crouching on the narrow ledge, he pulled a small jemmy for one pocket, sliding it beneath the wooden window and easing it open.

  Squeezing his large frame through the window—one thing he hadn’t been able to practice—proved slightly more awkward than he’d anticipated, and for a few dreadful moments he had visions of being caught in this compromising position. Soon, however, he slithered down onto the floor and pressed himself against the wall, catching back his breath. Glancing at his watch, he saw that putting his toy in place and entering the building had taken another fifteen minutes.

  Still he did not move, however, letting himself grow used to the darkness. Only when he was ready did he press one careful foot in front of the other, stealthily creeping past the cubicles and placing an ear to the door. He couldn’t hear anything behind.

  Holding his breath, he opened the door a crack. The corridor on the other side was dark and no sound could be heard at all. Hayden had memorised the entire layout of the building and knew that the route he desired lay to the corridor to the left, through a door, down a short service stairwell and then into the well-protected vaults of Boeckman’s.

  The service stairwell was alarmed from the outside but on this level it should not have been clean. He half ran down the stairs, moving as quickly as he could while remaining as silent as possible, then listened once more at the door way and watched the dim glow that shone around its edges. There was a chance now that the security guard on patrol would be passing this area, and for a second he froze in a kind of primeval panic until, swearing at himself very softly, he opened the door.

  The hallway beyond was clear. Perspiration beginning to form on his brow, and his breathing coming ever so slightly more quickly, Hayden loped to the end of the corridor. The lights were bright enough here to show everything on the camera that slowly circled overhead—had it not been so thoroughly compromised. He almost grinned and wanted to wave a hand at the blind lens, then his face became grim. Around the corner was the most dangerous part of the job.

  Counting to ten, ensuring that he was completely calm, Hayden trusted in part to blind luck that the guard would be sitting in the same place he always occupied, night after night. He reached into an inner pocket, pulling out a cloth pad with a heavy, chemical scent.

  Luck was with him. As he came rushing around the corner at full speed towards the grilled gate that protected the inner sanctum of Boeckman’s, the guard looked up at him with utter surprise, dropping the apple he had just been eating. Struggling to his feet and fumbling with the gun holster at his side, a magazine slid from the guard’s lap. He did not even have time to undo the flap on his holster before Hayden was on top of him, one hand slammed over his face as he crashed against him into the wall.

  The guard fought back, punching Hayden in his ribs, but he was too unprepared and Hayden too strong. Within a few seconds the chloroform began to take effect and Hayden held onto the man for a while longer, ensuring
that he was fully unconscious before letting him slide back onto the chair. Carefully he replaced the pad in his pocket, trying not to breathe in any of the fumes himself as he turned his attention to the panel before him.

  He had to take a few deep breaths again. He knew what should happen now, he knew what he’d programmed the security system to do, but if anything went wrong then this venture was over. He tried not to think about how frustrating it would be to get so close to the Wallenstein, clearing his mind and once again seeking that Zen-like calmness that would allow him to function so precisely.

  Boeckman’s security system required a code, a biometric reading and a voice print, but Hayden had found a bug, a useful piece of information from a Russian hacker that had cost him another tidy sum. With the right number, this system would also recognise a particular set of pre-recorded voices, and Hayden had made sure to enter his own voice on the system.

  Entering the number, he spoke briefly into a tiny grille above the panel. “Catch me if you can.” It had seemed funny when he entered it into the system, but now with an unconscious man lolling beside him Hayden wasn’t so sure this was the time for games.

  As such, his mind flooded with relief when he heard a click and the door opened a few millimetres. Unconsciously he glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes had passed since he had last looked at it. He had an hour left and, with any luck, all he needed now was fifteen minutes.

  Not that luck really counted now. Hayden’s preparations meant that the invisible infra-red detection beams were now neutralised and he sped to the final door that lay between him and the Wallenstein, entering the same code.

  When he entered the vault, which he had only seen once before, the harsh, artificial light blinded him, causing him to curse. Blinking, he lifted his hand over his head and stared for a moment at the eyeless camera sweeping back and forth. Inside his chest his heart was pounding. If any alarms had been set off, or if someone had noticed something odd about the video relay from the cameras around the building, then there was plenty of time for the security guards to come and investigate even if no-one outside would suspect a thing.