by Kim Baldwin
“Good timing. I was about to contact you,” he said. “We have an ID on the prints you sent us.”
“Let me guess. They belong to the same Gunter Schmidt I’m following around Amsterdam.” She smiled inwardly at the snort of exasperation that preceded the EOO Chief’s reply.
“They do. Schmidt’s a known member of a violent neo-Nazi group Interpol is tracking, called the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“What’s his problem with van der Jagt?”
“Unknown. The group is led by Erhard Baader and we were able to identify several other members.” He reeled off a list of names.
“Back up. You mentioned a Wolff.”
“Manfred Wolff,” Pierce repeated.
“Yes, I need you to check what his connection is to a deceased Geert Wolff.”
“Give me more.”
“Geert Wolff was a Gestapo officer during World War Two. He tried to buy van der Jagt’s silence in exchange for the Blue Star in order to avoid trial and execution.”
She heard a shuffling of papers in the background, and Pierce’s voice as he ordered someone to work up a history on Wolff. Then he came back on the line. “You found all this in that diary Hofman’s holding on to?”
“Something tells me the Afghans aren’t the only ones after the diamond,” Allegro said. “Schmidt’s keeping a close eye on Rocky. A really close eye.”
“Do you think he’s a threat?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m not about to risk it.”
“Good. Until we’re ready to shut this down, you need her.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I…need her.” As she said the words, a twitch of something personal behind the sentiment nagged at her, and out of nowhere, the memory of their kiss blossomed in her mind. She shoved the thought aside. “I need to know Schmidt’s game.”
“We’ll run a check, see if he’s registered at a local hotel,” Pierce said.
She thanked him and signed off, bothered by the possibility that there could be a personal agenda at work. The two calls on Schmidt’s cell had come from a “Manfred,” probably Wolff. Was the last a coincidence or was the caller connected to Geert Wolff, the Gestapo officer? If so, and if he knew what Jan van der Jagt had done, he must bear a grudge. Yet he hadn’t hunted van der Jagt down in all the interceding years. Why?
Allegro stared out into the dead quiet of four a.m. It was far too cold for anyone to be out. February temperatures in Amsterdam routinely dipped below freezing, and the bitter gusts of wind blowing in from the North Sea were powerful enough to knock bicyclists over. If Gunter Schmidt had returned to Haarlem by now, he was probably tucked up warmly in his hotel bed. She started the car and drove through the dead streets of the city, working through various scenarios. By the time she reached the highway, she was sure there had to be a family connection and that Wolff would have come looking for the diamond sooner if he’d known where it was.
Perhaps he didn’t know van der Jagt’s name or had assumed the diamond was sold long ago. Or perhaps personal vengeance wasn’t important to him. Why get interested now? There was only one reason. He had discovered that the van der Jagt family still had the stone. How? That was the most puzzling and unsettling question. The diamond had only recently resurfaced. Who else knew?
Allegro picked up her cell and called Monty Pierce again. “If Wolff knows Rocky has the diamond and Schmidt is his errand boy, he had to find out somehow. Who are our contacts and which one talked to him?”
Pierce promptly confirmed her suspicions. “Manfred is Geert Wolff’s son. As to the leak, we haven’t nailed that down yet. It’s a short list of possibilities. The lawyer, the jeweler who examined the stone, and the professor he consulted. I suppose the mole in Afghanistan could have made the connection indirectly, and there are a few people at MIS we’re checking.”
So Wolff had sent his Aryan goon after Kris in order to reclaim the diamond taken from his father more than six decades earlier. He certainly had cause to pursue Kris. Aside from his interest in the gem, he obviously shared his father’s Nazi sympathies and would be seeking vengeance for Jan van der Jagt’s betrayal. Allegro was tempted to confront him at once to remove the immediate threat to her mission and to Kris. But she had to do so in a way that didn’t alert Wolff, who possibly had other violent confederates waiting in the wings to call upon if needed.
Americans, Afghans, and now Germans. The international race for the Setarehe Abi Rang was clearly escalating. And at whatever cost, she intended to be first across the finish line.
*
Kabul, Afghanistan
“Che khabari baraje mandarid?” What news do you have for me? Afghan Culture Minister Qadir asked as soon as he admitted Yusuf into his office. The efforts to recover the Setarehe Abi Rang from the Dutch countess had become his singular obsession since the phone call from Professor Rafi Bayat, more than a week earlier.
“I checked with my staff again at the museum,” the Deputy Arts Minister replied in Farsi. Yusuf’s face reflected the complex ethnicities that had influenced Afghanistan’s rich history—the angular nose and chiseled jaw of a Greek, the slight tilt of Asian eyes, and the dark hair, skin, and characteristic turban of a native Pashtun. “No one has expressed any unusual interest in the crown, and they will report any future inquiries to me immediately. Of course I took all precautions to ensure the utmost discretion about this whole affair, as you instructed.”
“I knew I could depend on you. That will be all, Yusuf.”
Qadir’s telephone rang as the man departed. It was Azizi, the loyal soldier he’d chosen to retrieve the diamond. He had wanted to send the man at once, but it had taken several frustrating days to make the proper arrangements. Now the Americans were no doubt involved, interfering in the matters of others while ignoring bigger problems on their own shores.
“I am at the airport. My flight to Amsterdam leaves in forty minutes,” Azizi informed the minister. “Everything is in place at the other end. I will report in as soon as I have something further.”
Qadir stroked his beard, already envisioning the myriad of Allah’s works that al-Qaeda would accomplish with the proceeds from the gem. And he would no longer have to wonder and worry about the repercussions to his country if the truth be known that the centerpiece of the crown was a fake. His thoughts slid to the need to ensure that the professor never divulge what he knew. “Very good, Azizi. I’ll have another task for you, when you complete your primary objective.”
“I am honored to provide whatever services I am called upon to do,” Azizi replied.
“May Allah strengthen your hands.” Qadir disconnected and dialed Rafi Bayat. “Have you talked to the family yet?” he asked after greeting the professor politely.
“Salam, Agha.” Hello, sir. The professor’s tone was respectful, as was befitting when addressing a man of great importance.
Qadir leaned back in his chair, reassured that the academic knew his place. He had only a moment’s regret that the loyal professor who had made all this possible would also have to be silenced. But Qadir had long ago reconciled himself to doing whatever needed to be done to advance the greater cause of the righteous, the khilafat. For now, however, Bayat was his one connection with the countess. It would not do to lose him prematurely.
“I spoke to the woman’s attorney,” Bayat continued, “and urged discretion in this matter. He was understanding and promised to speak to the countess.”
“Well done. And did you learn anything about where this replica diamond is being kept?” Qadir asked.
“Not yet, unfortunately. But he gave me information that enabled me to trace its origins back through two families.” Bayat paused, interrupted by another voice in the background, a man, speaking English. “One moment, sir.”
Qadir sat up straight. So the professor had ignored his instructions to leave the inquiries to the Afghan government. This wouldn’t do at all. A couple of minutes passed before Bayat returned to the line.
“Please forgive me, Qadir. I j
ust arrived at the university. That was one of my students. As I was saying, the countess’s father acquired the diamond from a Gestapo lieutenant during the Second World War. I spoke to the man’s son. He told me this diamond originally came from a Jew named Moszek Levin. He’s dead and I’m trying to trace any descendents.”
“You are to keep me, and only me, apprised of every new find,” Qadir instructed. “This is a very sensitive matter, one which I regard seriously. The less men involved, the better for our country, especially at times like this.”
“Of course, Agha. My country and its reputation are my priority.”
*
Soon after Qadir dismissed him from his office, Deputy Arts Minister Yusuf hurried to one of the phone booths recently installed in the Afghan capital. Placing his periodic calls to Washington DC always made him nervous. He didn’t identify himself. He’d been passing information to MIS Deputy Director Cliff Norton long enough that the U.S. intelligence officer knew his voice. He was never asked to reveal his identity, but Yusuf suspected Norton knew who he was.
“Time is running short,” he said. “The terrorists have already begun to put their plan into motion, and will act very soon against the West.”
“How soon? Where?” Norton asked. “Can’t you be more specific?”
“You have a matter of days only,” Yusuf replied. “I will give you the targets, the timetable, everything you need to stop this, as soon as I have the diamond. If you do not return the stone, tens of thousands, maybe millions, will die.”
He heard the major’s sharp intake of breath.
“Our emissary will arrive soon in Amsterdam,” Yusaf said. “He has instructions to take all necessary steps to recover the diamond.”
“We’re doing our best,” Norton said. “But if we can’t get to the diamond within your time frame, you can’t possibly let so many innocent people die by withholding this information.”
“The deaths of innocents is always very sad. Your country had to endure such a nightmare not too long ago. Unfortunately, such nightmares are ongoing in my country.”
“You sound very flippant. I was under the impression that you were among the noble men trying to stop al-Qaeda and those who dishonor the Qur’an by using it to justify the killing of innocent people.”
“I am,” Yusuf said. “And I hope to make a difference by giving you the information you need.”
“But you’re willing to make that difference only if the price is right.”
“Do not insult me, Major. The money I have asked for in the past was not for personal gain. It was in fact used to feed our people and restore our war-torn country. But this time, money cannot buy what is at stake. Our honor. The Setarehe Abi Rang must be returned to the crown before the world discovers that we have been perpetuating this deception.”
“It sounds like your motivations have less to do with noble religious reasons and more to do with misplaced patriotism,” Norton said. “Is the honor of your country worth millions of lives?”
“You cannot give a value to honor. Do you not send countless young men to war in the name of honor and patriotism?”
There was a long silence on the line. “We do,” Norton admitted, “but our goal is justice and not to save our government from humiliation.”
“I would rather not get into the topic of justice with you,” Yusuf said. “I have seen too many innocent people killed by American bombings.”
“We do what is necessary to ensure peace.”
“As I am sure you will this time. Get me the stone, Major. The clock is ticking. And in exchange, you will get your peace.”
*
Allard Pierson Archeological Museum, University of Amsterdam
Tuesday, February 12
Rafi felt energized as he gazed around his cluttered office. He opened his browser and checked his e-mail as he did every morning before his classes, bypassing the usual student requests and academic inquiries. He’d arrived at work much sooner than usual, hoping for several hours of tranquility before his colleagues and students began making their demands. Finally, he saw what he’d been anxiously awaiting, a reply from the grandson of Moszek Levin. Upon his return from Berlin, Rafi had spent hours researching the Jew and had discovered a Web page Levin’s grandson had created as a tribute to his ancestor. Rafi had used a link to send an e-mail and had been on tenterhooks ever since. The Web site was in English, evidently so it could be viewed internationally, and he took it as a good sign that they could communicate without difficulty.
He closed the door and returned to his desk. Taking out a fresh yellow pad and sharpened pencil, he read the brief e-mail and dialed the number the grandson provided. He doodled on the pad while he waited for the connection to go through. By the time a woman answered, he’d absently sketched a fairly good representation of the Setarehe Abi Rang. exactly to scale.
“May I speak to Pawel Levin, please?” he asked in English.
After a moment, a man came on the line. “This is Pawel. Who is speaking?”
“Mr. Levin, this is Professor Rafi Bayat at the University of Amsterdam. I sent you the e-mail about your grandfather?”
“Yes, Professor. How may I help you?” The man’s Czech accent was thick, and Rafi had a little trouble understanding him.
“I am researching the history of a diamond that was once in your grandfather’s possession. I was told it was taken from him by a German lieutenant during World War Two, right before your grandfather was sent to the concentration camp.”
“I know of this diamond,” Pawel Levin replied. “My father spoke of it when he told me stories about the war. He said it was our family’s most treasured heirloom, a magnificent blue stone passed down through several generations. He went to Auschwitz as well, but survived because he was very strong. They sent him to a work camp.”
Rafi had no interest in Levin’s story of the Holocaust, but he remained polite. “He was very fortunate to have survived. So many died during that horrible period.”
“He was forever scarred by the experience. They only had a week together at Auschwitz before my grandfather was taken to the gas chambers.”
“How horrible,” Rafi said solemnly. “It is a fine thing that you have done, this tribute to your grandfather for all the world to see.”
“Thank you. Because of the stories my father told, I’m very much interested in my family’s history. My brother and I have spent many hours tracing our genealogy.” Levin spoke a few words to whomever he was with, then returned to the line. “About this diamond. What is it you want to know?”
“Do you know how and where your family acquired the diamond?” Rafi asked.
“Oh, yes,” Levin replied. “My ancestors came from Persia, from an area that is now part of Iran. Our people were traders. For hundreds of years they carried silk and spices across the east. In Persia they dealt in carpets, of course. And antiquities. My family left Persia in 1839 when the government imposed forced conversions. Thousands of Jews emigrated to Afghanistan then.”
“That was during the First Anglo-Afghan war,” Rafi supplied. He was thoroughly familiar with the history of his homeland. How odd, he thought, to have this in common with a Czech Jew. “During that time, the British colonists placed Shah Shuja-ul-Mulk back on the Afghan throne but much of his wealth was gone, except for the royal jewels.”
“That is also what I have heard,” Levin said. “The story told to me was that Shah Shuja met my ancestor, and agreed to exchange the blue diamond for other goods that could be easily sold. My ancestor had to swear on his life that this bargain be kept forever secret. He and his family planned to leave Afghanistan immediately, but—”
“Shah Shuja was assassinated.” The story made complete sense, Rafi thought, fascinated. “So they did not need to flee.”
“They left about thirty years later, when the anti-Jewish laws were enacted. That’s how we ended up in Prague.”
“And your family kept the secret of the diamond through those years.”
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“Yes, the story was passed down. Fortunately my father survived or I would not have known anything about it.” Levin sighed. “My grandfather thought he could protect the family when the Nazis came. He had friends in the government so he didn’t leave when most of the Jews fled the country. But his profession made him even more of a target. He was a watchmaker, you see, so when the roundups began, they broke into the homes of the wealthy first, ransacking for valuables. My grandfather tried to hide the diamond on himself, but a Gestapo officer searched him and found it. He never knew the man’s name.”
“A fascinating story,” Rafi replied, more calmly than he felt. “Thank you so much for the information, Mr. Levin. It helps me a great deal.”
“What happened to the diamond, Professor?” Levin asked. “Do you know?”
“Unfortunately, that is a mystery,” Rafi lied. “It was one of several jewels from the royal collection that has been lost forever. I am doing research on them all, for an exhibit at my museum. Thank you again, sir.”
“Of course, Professor.”
Could it be so? Rafi asked himself as he hung up the phone. If Levin’s story was true, the gem Rafi had examined was almost certainly the real Setarehe Abi Rang. Yet Minister Qadir had immediately dismissed that possibility. And Qadir, in his esteemed position, would certainly be privy to the truth. Wouldn’t he?
Rafi considered calling the minister back immediately with the news, but he felt uneasy. He didn’t want to cause offense by implying Qadir was lying about the stone, or worse, deliver the bad news that the famous gem in Kabul was a fake and the real stone was not even the legitimate property of their nation. He had been relieved, back in Berlin, when he discovered that Manfred Wolff had no idea the diamond his father stole had any historic significance. It was merely a spoil of war. Wolff was unlikely to speak of the matter, but what of Countess Kristine? She had agreed to be discreet, but once the stone was authenticated would she remain silent?
