Thief of Always

by Kim Baldwin

  The three-and-a-half-star tourist hotel was comfortable but not posh. Its eighteenth-century exterior blended in well with its surroundings, the façade the same arcaded sandstone as nearly all the buildings on the quiet, cobbled street. Recent renovations had thoroughly updated the interior. Their room was spacious and bright, the furniture was modern, and they had a view of the Aare River.

  They’d barely closed the door when Allegro’s cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID, although she knew who it was. It was twenty-thirty—eight thirty p.m.—and Montgomery Pierce, Chief Administrator of the Elite Operatives Organization, was always prompt. She flipped the phone open, greeted him with, “Mission completed,” and listened to a few instructions before closing the cell and stripping off her clothes. She was naked by the time she reached the threshold to the bathroom.

  Before she could make it inside, Nighthawk turned from where he’d been staring out the window and queried, “Are you going to share further orders or make me guess? Can we head back?”

  Allegro pivoted to face him, enjoying the blush that spread rapidly over his cheeks. “Well, let’s see, I have about ten hours to get showered, dressed, and laid. So, yeah, we have to head back. We’ve been booked on an oh-seven-hundred flight tomorrow and Monty wants us in his office by twenty-two-hundred sharp for a debriefing.” She snapped her fingers as if a sudden realization had hit her. “Hey, what do you know? Someone finally wants to de-brief you, pal. Goes to show you, there’s always hope.”

  After a quick shower, she pondered what to wear for her date. Her options were limited, considering she’d packed only the bare essentials for the job, and besides, whatever she chose would be irrelevant. Her clothes would be on the floor ten minutes after her arrival at the woman’s house. She threw on her last pair of clean jeans and a short-sleeved black turtleneck. No need to bundle up since the car would be warm in no time and she would soon be in her date’s bed, or on the couch, floor, counter, or whatever. She checked herself in the mirror one last time and grabbed her brown leather jacket and the keys to the rental Camaro.

  She made the necessary cell phone call as she took the stairs down to the street. “Hey, beautiful. It’s Mishael.”

  “Bon soir. You’re not going to cancel, are you?” The female voice on the other end was heavily accented. “I have been looking forward to getting you naked since I laid my eyes on you two days ago.”

  Allegro smiled as she propped the cell phone between her shoulder and ear and unlocked the car. “How could I possibly cancel on such a beautiful woman? I’m calling because I’m running late.”

  “Just for that, I’m going to expect you to make tonight worth my wait.”

  “I think I can manage that…and more.” She left the garage and guided the Camaro toward the highway.

  “Do you really think you can make it up to me, Mishael?”

  “As a matter of fact, I know I can make it up to you,” Allegro promised before disconnecting. She turned the music up full blast and pressed harder on the accelerator. This was what she loved the most—speed, loud music, and more speed, until the world made sense. The music was so loud she didn’t hear her cell phone, but she felt the vibration on her lap and checked the caller ID. “Perfect,” she muttered as she flipped open the phone. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do tonight. “Allegro 020508.”

  The instructions were brief, the change of plan nothing unusual. She and Nighthawk were expected in Venice ASAP and would receive further instructions upon arrival. That should have been the end of it, but Allegro was never one to adhere strictly to protocol.

  As she turned the car around, she replied, “Sure, no problem. I mean, who doesn’t want to turn down a sex-filled evening with a beautiful woman?”

  Chapter Two

  Amsterdam

  One Week Earlier

  A small gold plaque engraved HANS HOFMAN, ADVOCATE was the only indication of commerce within the seventeenth-century brick mansion on the prestigious Prinsengracht, at Amsterdam’s city center. Icy rain and high winds had driven most people from their bicycles, so the trams were packed, but Hans Hofman had no transportation concerns. The law office was one floor below his spacious apartment.

  His appointment this morning was with Countess Kristine Marie-Louise van der Jagt, and for the occasion he’d taken exceptional care in his appearance. Not to impress her, for he knew Kris did not expect anyone to make a fuss over her title. It meant little to her, being hereditary not earned. She had no desire to exploit a noble rank bestowed upon an ancestor in appreciation of his wealth. Hans had selected his best navy suit and favorite tie solely because of his fondness and respect for the young woman, whom he considered his niece.

  Having arrived early for their meeting, he sat at his desk to wait for her, absently caressing a brown, leather-bound diary as he stared down at the diamond beside it. He hadn’t remembered the gem was so large, and such a brilliant blue. But then he’d seen it only once, very briefly, more than sixty years earlier when he was just a youth of twenty-one, working as an aide for Kris’s father, Jan van der Jagt. When they’d last spoken of the diamond, Jan had lied to him, claiming the stone had been broken up and sold decades ago. Hans wondered why he’d kept it hidden away all these years, since he seemed so desperate for money. The brown leather diary might provide an answer, but so far, Hans could not bring himself to read it. He’d been more than Jan’s wartime aide and, later, his attorney. They’d been the closest of friends for most of their lives, and he wasn’t anxious to learn new unpleasantries about the man. The one guilty secret he’d kept since the war years haunted him enough.

  Kris was due any moment, so Hans rose from his chair and locked the diary in his filing cabinet with the rest of the family’s records. Though he was well aware that father and daughter had not been close, he suspected Kris might be curious about the journal if she learned of its existence. Jan had left instructions that she was not to see it.

  Settling his friend’s estate was proving to be anything but routine. Hans had known of Jan’s safe deposit box, of course. That was fairly standard. Many of his clients gave him authority to access their bank vaults in the event of their deaths. But he’d expected to find nothing more than the usual will and papers, along with perhaps some family heirlooms or jewelry. Instead, he’d found Jan’s instructions and details of a hidden safe at Jan’s estate in Haarlem. The blue diamond and the diary were there. It seemed Kris knew nothing about the gem or the vault.

  When he heard a car pull up outside, he peered out the window. Kris was getting out of a taxi, so he hurried to the door to admit her. After the prerequisite pleasantries, he handed her the diamond and briefed her on what he’d learned of its possible significance.

  Kris held the stone up to the light, awed by its size and brilliance. A dark, steely blue of exquisite clarity, the gem was Mazarin cut and weighed in at 15.8 carats. “So we know it’s of high quality, very old, and possibly a match for one of the rarest, most famous diamonds in the world?”

  “Apparently so,” Hans confirmed. Their exchange in Dutch was familiar, without the formality of language reserved for mere acquaintances.

  “So many questions,” she mused aloud. “Jesus, it has to be worth a fortune. How did my father come to have it?”

  “Your father is the only one who might have told you that, I’m afraid.”

  Kris’s otherwise ordinary if privileged existence had been shattered by a whirlwind month of changes. Her father’s unexpected death from a heart attack had left her feeling disoriented. Although they were never close, he was a constant in her life. And when she returned to the Netherlands for the funeral, she was shocked to learn that he’d left an estate millions of euros in debt, with her as executrix to deal with it. Not only must she find a way to pay the massive stack of bills, she also had to come up with the funds to pay for her mother to remain in a private psychiatric institution.

  Hans Hofman had advised the immediate sale of the two family residences,
the estate in Haarlem where she’d grown up and the villa in Venice that had been her home since she’d turned eighteen. She loved living there and hated the idea of leaving. Selling it would not be difficult; homes in Venice’s San Marco neighborhood were highly sought after and she’d kept the place in good condition. But she’d received yet another shock with her first look at the Haarlem mansion. She hadn’t visited in more than three years, and to save money her father had let the staff go and refused even routine repairs and maintenance. The place suffered badly from neglect and would need a lot of work before it could be put on the market.

  None of these problems came close to surprising her the way the diamond did. The gem seemed the obvious solution to her monetary problems. She was astonished that her father hadn’t sold it so he could live more comfortably, and that he’d kept its existence from his family. Placing the diamond back on its velvet cloth on the attorney’s desk, she said, “So this was in a vault my father never mentioned and you are quite convinced it’s this Blue Star. How can we verify that?”

  “I took the gem to a friend of mine to have it privately appraised,” Hans said. “He worked for one of the big diamond concerns here until he retired. It’s such a unique piece that he recognized the similarity to the Blue Star quickly, but of course that didn’t make sense, so he consulted an expert in Arabic antiquities, Professor Bayat at the Allard Pierson Archeological Museum of the University of Amsterdam. Bayat is checking into it and will get back to us as soon as he learns anything. This may take some time.”

  “But how is it possible that there are two of them?”

  “It’s not,” Hans replied. “If this is the real Blue Star, then the centerpiece of the Persian crown in Kabul must be a replica. A fake.”

  “That’s unbelievable. It’s been on public display for decades. Seen by thousands of people. How can the Afghans not know theirs is a fake?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Hans smoothed his tie. “I hoped you might be able to sell it discreetly, or have it recut and sold as smaller pieces. But my friend refused to consider that because of its possible significance. Any reputable cutter will likely say the same. Perhaps that’s why your father hung on to it.”

  “How in the world did Father come to have it?” she asked again. “I can’t believe he never told you.” Hans had served with her father in a Dutch squadron of the British Royal Air Force and the two men had remained close friends. She doubted they had many secrets from each other, especially one as significant as this.

  “He didn’t tell you, either, it seems,” Hans remarked.

  “Strange, considering he never missed an opportunity to flaunt his achievements,” Kris murmured.

  That he hadn’t shared this with her directly was no surprise, since he rarely communicated with her at all. As a child, she’d tried to get him to spend time with her, but her attempts inevitably ended the same way. Her mother would try to convince him to do just that, and they would argue until Wilhelmina van der Jagt fled to her room in tears, leaving Kris’s father, alone and drunk, in his study. The few times they’d spent together as a family were either in Haarlem during the holidays, surrounded by relatives and pretentious friends, or in Venice, throwing parties to impress associates and locals. Although the geographic location and guests varied, the topic of conversation was consistent: her father’s wartime heroics. The fact that he’d never bragged about the diamond when he had an audience was out of character, as he was never shy about showing off.

  “I don’t think he wanted anyone to know how he obtained it,” Hans said.

  Kris was too intent on the stone to respond to his carefully worded evasion. “Well, we can’t do anything with it until this professor decides whether it’s the real thing. And if it is?”

  “Provenance is the issue. As far as I know, there are no papers or bill of sale to indicate your father had clear title to the diamond.”

  “So, if it’s the genuine Blue Star, the Afghans will want it returned?”

  Hans nodded. “Its history as a Persian relic dates back hundreds of years and the crown would be much less viable as a tourist attraction if everyone knew the center stone was a fake.”

  “So if we have the real thing, it won’t yield a cent for the estate. Wonderful.” Kris glanced at her watch. “I should probably head to the airport soon. My return flight to Venice leaves in a couple of hours. Do you have those papers you wanted me to sign?”

  “Yes, right here.” Hans set a folder of legal documents before her, and she quickly dispensed with the business that had necessitated this brief visit to her home country.

  “I’m going ahead with the Carnival party on Friday.” She got her coat and readied to leave. “The invitations had already gone out and it was too late to cancel. I just hope everyone is out of the villa by the next morning, because the movers are set to arrive at ten. Once they’ve finished I’ll head back to Haarlem the same day. Could you see that there is Internet service at the house? I’m in the middle of a couple of jobs.”

  “I don’t think it’s been disconnected since your father’s death, but I’ll make sure. What do you wish me to do with the diamond?” Hans asked.

  “Well, I don’t have the time to arrange a safe deposit box before I leave and since I’ll be returning directly to Haarlem, it would be more convenient to have it there in case the professor needs to see it again.”

  “The vault is certainly well hidden,” Hans assured her. “The diamond’s been safe there all these years.”

  “For now, it will do. Could I prevail upon you to put it back there while I’m in Venice?”

  “Certainly, I’ll drive up tonight. Here’s the combination.” He wrote some figures down and handed these to her along with another sheet of paper, explaining, “A list of the repairs needed at the estate.”

  Kris scanned the document. “This is worse than I expected.” The appraiser had outlined a litany of renovations necessary, including a new roof, electrical and plumbing work, flooring, exterior and interior painting, and landscaping. “I have some savings, but not enough for such extensive work. And even if the Venice property sells quickly, it will take some time to close and get the funds from it.”

  “Let me see about hiring someone for you,” Hans offered. “I know a handyman who does this kind of thing for cash. That could save you on taxes. He works for a plumber friend of mine.”

  Kris kissed him good-bye in the Dutch way, three times, left cheek, right, then left again. “Bless you, Uncle. That would be a big help. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  Chapter Three

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  Like most traditional Afghan men, Culture Minister Qadir had eschewed the recent—and in his view, obscene—habit of some to adopt a surname, either for dealing with the West or for easier recognition. He had no need of either. He was a devout Muslim. He loathed the democracies that sought influence in his part of the world and did everything in his considerable power to support the Holy War aimed at bringing down the infidels. Qadir wore the traditional turban and chapan, a loose robe embroidered with colorful silk thread. As he stroked his long, graying beard, he considered the gift Allah had presented to him.

  “You are correct, Professor Bayat,” he informed the man speaking to him from Amsterdam. “This is a matter of extreme delicacy and utmost importance. You are quite sure?”

  “Yes, the jeweler who contacted me to authenticate the gem recognized it, and after examining it myself, I believe it to be genuine. Of course I have not confirmed that since it still needs to be officially authenticated by our government.”

  “The Setarehe Abi Rang,” Qadir said softly. A lengthy silence followed. Neither man attempted the extended pleasantries normally expected of associates who hadn’t spoken in months. “And how was this matter left?”

  “The diamond belongs to a Dutch countess. I expressed my doubts about its authenticity and provenance and told the jeweler I would investigate and get back to him.”

 
“You have acted wisely by calling me,” Qadir said. “The severity of this matter, I am sure, has not escaped you. There cannot be two Setarehe Abi Rangs. and since we have the real one here in our country this other stone must be a copy made from a genuine diamond. The discovery could cast doubt and cause great turmoil.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Professor Bayat said with dismay. “What is your advice, Minister?”

  “Do you know how this woman acquired the diamond and who else’s hands it may have passed through?”

  “No. I have not talked to the family in person.”

  “Very well. When you do, you must urge her to keep this very quiet until we have decided how to deal with the situation. Now, I need the name of this countess.”

  As he took down the information, he wiped a mist of perspiration from his brow. The Setarehe Abi Rang had surfaced at last. And a loyal patriot had paved the way for its swift return. It was his duty to seize the chance to eliminate the only threat to his government’s long deception. But Qadir couldn’t do this alone. He sent for two men he trusted implicitly: Yusuf, Deputy Minister of Arts, and Azizi, a loyal soldier in the Afghan National Army who had proven his discretion and versatility on a number of prior occasions.

  Yusuf was one of the few who knew that the centerpiece of the Persian crown was only a replica, since his duties included overseeing the exhibition of the Afghan national jewels. He would find out if any inquiries had been made in Kabul about the authenticity of the gem on display. Meanwhile, Azizi would be dispatched to recover the real diamond from Countess Kristine Marie-Louise van der Jagt. The woman, of course, would have to vanish, also.