I’m very grateful for the Emperor’s affection and feel honored that he ordered a rose to be etched on the face of the seal to make the name permanent. It’s quite a shock to me that the Emperor called the seal the Empress Seal in the interview. According to the Gazette, the Emperor went on to say that he hoped the relationship between China and the West will be just like the pairing of the two seals, strong and harmonious, like the union of the Emperor and Empress.
Except I’m not the Empress. I wish the Emperor hadn’t said that in public. It surely will stir more hatred and resentment from his enemies inside and outside the palace. I pray to Jesus that the reform will be successful, peaceful, no bloodshed, no lives lost. And that the faces of the seals, a fleur-de-lis and a rose, are the faces for peace and love, rather than justification for aggression and hatred . . .
It seemed to Gerel that Meigui didn’t know the potential monetary value of the rock. Or maybe she knew but would never part with it because it was the only thing she had to keep the memory of her parents and the symbol of her love for God close. But did the sacred stone protect Meigui and her parents? If God intended it to, He certainly had an ironic way of showing it. Both Meigui and Jacques Bernard died gruesome deaths. And Sarnai, putting aside the hardship and adversaries she’d faced in life, was most likely ostracized by her own people and may have died a lonely death. All for what? Because they loved God? Gerel thought about her own mother and the little church near the town market. Every Sunday during their summer stays at the villa, mother and daughter had joined the town congregation in praying to the Lord. But what had become of her mother?
Gerel came to the last entry in Meigui’s diary. It was written more than two months after the previous one.
The reform has failed, it only lasted less than one hundred days. Many of the Emperor’s supporters were either killed or are in jail. I haven’t seen the Emperor for more than a month now. The Empress Dowager has won, she’s the one who is holding the stamp seal to keep the country in the darkness of ignorance. I know they’ll come for me, it’s just a matter of time . . .
That was the end. Meigui must have died shortly after that. Gerel closed the folder and stared into the fire for a long time. What had been random dots were now shifting into a connected line. On the evening she had cocktails with Blackwell in Beijing, he’d revealed a secret about the Empress Seal that he said had been well guarded by the Blackwell family for over a century. “Why are you telling me?” she’d asked pleasantly, feeling the glow of the two mai tais inside her. Maybe she was in a good mood after fruitful days of ancestor searching with Jane and Blackwell took that as a sign that she was finally warming up to his advances.
“Well, because I like you very much, my princess.” Blackwell leaned in to put his hand on her shoulder. He was slurring, his breath hot and smelling of gin.
Gerel flexed her shoulder, Blackwell’s hand slid off, skirting her breast before he straightened himself in the chair. “The bloody Chinese may think they’ve got their treasure back, but that thing now lying in the Palace Museum is worth nothing,” Blackwell went on, a wicked smile on his face like a kid who’d gotten away with doing something he shouldn’t have.
“What thing? You mean the Empress Seal?”
“The Empress Seal, the Princess Seal, who cares how they call it. What they have is an empty shell, it has no soul,” he said, pallid blue eyes now glassy.
She was confused, that not-a-care-in-the-world mai tai feeling was wearing off already.
“You know the face of the seal, the stone with the rose engraving? The Blackwell family still has the original one.”
“You switched the stone with the one on the replica I made for you?”
“Oh no, don’t worry. Your replica is sitting intact in my house in London. The original one was switched before I was even born.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s rather simple. The Empress Seal was brought back to Britain by my great-grandfather in the early nineteenth century. You see, my great-grandfather was quite famous in his day, the chief correspondent of a major newspaper in London. He did a favor for the Empress Dowager and she gave him the seal as a gift.”
“Your great-grandfather met the Empress Dowager?”
“Yes, he’s the only foreign reporter ever allowed access to the Forbidden City to interview her and the Emperor.” Blackwell threw her a proud look, his eyes unfocused.
“So what favor did he do for the dowager mother?
“Don’t know the details but he helped her keep order during a time when many in the palace, including her own son the Emperor, were trying to overthrow her.”
“Was it your great-grandfather who switched the stone?”
“He had the seal appraised as soon as he got back from Beijing. As he’d expected, it was made from pure gold and gemstones like sapphires and emeralds. But the jeweler couldn’t tell what exactly the stone was, the stone that was used to make the rose-patterned face. They’d thought it was a raw garnet or ruby. Finally, after the face of the seal was examined thoroughly by a group of London’s best gemologists, they concluded it was a raw red diamond. It’s almost forty carats, but appeared to be rather dull because it was unprocessed. Substantial cutting and polishing would be required to achieve clarity and brilliance, though its sized would be greatly reduced. Great-grandfather decided to keep the face as is. He had the face replicated, using a garnet, and locked the red diamond face in a safe. It’s been a family heirloom for generations. And I am not about to give it away because the damned Chinese are on a hunting spree for their so-called cultural treasures. But with all the bad publicity out there painting the Blackwell family as a group of thieves, keeping the bloody face could only spell trouble for me down the road. I think I should let someone else be the keeper of this relic. I’ve got some bids already. Some oil oligarch in the Middle East is willing to pay quite a handsome amount for it.” Blackwell slurred his story, his secret.
The face of the Empress Seal was a precious stone given to your mother by a French priest who died before their daughter, Meigui, was born. Gerel heard Mama at the Stone Wall Village speaking to her.
“May I see it? The face?” she asked, holding her breath.
Blackwell seemed to be surprised by her request, his eyes raked her face down to her breasts. “Very well, but you need to act fast. I’m flying back to London tomorrow, then going on to New York a day later. I’m scheduled to meet a potential buyer there and it’s possible the diamond will be out of my hands after that.”
Gerel pasted a smile on her face. “I’ll stop in New York, just give me a date and time that suits you.”
Things now made sense, Mama’s story at the Stone Wall Village, her cocktail-laced conversation with Blackwell in Beijing, Sarnai’s and Meigui’s lives in the diary. The British reporter who’d interviewed the Emperor had to be the western devil who snuck into Meigui’s bedroom on that fateful night. It was the favor he’d done for the dowager mother, to set Meigui up so the Emperor would willingly order her death. In return, the reporter must have enjoyed exclusive access to the Qing imperial court. The Empress Seal was just icing on the cake, a trinket the dowager mother was going to get rid of anyway.
But Gerel had to give credit to all the Blackwells, from I to III. They kept the stone not just for its artistic value, they might have also appreciated it as a piece of history, though she didn’t know which version of history they’d chosen to believe. But the stone turned out to be a curse to Blackwell IV. He might have died because of it.
Yet fate had tempted her, putting her in the right place at the right time. The face of the seal, the red diamond, had fallen into her possession. What would she do now? I’m a thief, no, I’m an heir by blood. But not in the eyes of law. Detective Ryan’s questioning face popped into her head, his piercing blue eyes stabbing at her conscience.
Gerel drew in a deep breath. She should go to bed, forget about everything and get a good night’s sleep. Dawn would come fo
r sure and with it, clear thinking, hopefully. She rose, dimmed all the lights downstairs and pattered upstairs in her weary wool-socked feet. At the top of the landing leading to the main bedroom, she switched on the hallway light. Her steps slowed to a halt. Just go to bed, it’ll still be there tomorrow. Yet there was a magnetic ribbon reeling her toward the opposite side of the narrow hallway where built-in linen shelves sat in a recessed alcove. The second shelf from the top leveled with her face. She pushed aside neatly stacked bath towels and reached all the way into the shelf until her hand felt the cold chalky wall. Her fingers touched a small latch, she lifted it and a small square of the wall popped open. She fumbled inside for the silky fabric of a pouch. She curled her fingers around it and retracted her arm.
A squeak came from the other end of the hallway. Gerel stiffened. She was not unfamiliar with the creaking and popping noises of the ancient villa in the middle of the night. But the noise she’d just heard was different, it was like someone just stepped on a loose floorboard, held still, then lifted the foot up again. She thrust the pouch into the pocket of her cardigan and turned toward her bedroom.
*
Ryan stumbled as fast as he could toward the oceanfront. Once he’d passed the well-lit town the field became dark, and the rain had made the pathways slippery. Now his mind was racing faster than his legs. He hadn’t brought a gun, he didn’t think he would need it. Gerel and the Normandy beach couldn’t pose any physical danger to him and he wouldn’t have to contend with the hassle of multinational gun laws. Damn, damn, damn, I should’ve brought it. Poof, he stepped into something soft and gooey, the smell was pungent. Damn it again, a pile of fresh horse manure. He realized he was traversing along a horse farm and those magnificent animals he’d seen in the sunlight didn’t seem to be so lovable after all.
Maybe he was overreacting, Walters could be anywhere in the world hobnobbing with those high society people he was so fond of. Increasingly, the Blackwell case was turning out like a murder in an Agatha Christie story: a bunch of rich and famous people with a killer among them. Ryan couldn’t link Walters directly to Blackwell’s murder, but it was Walters’s star-fucking quality that made Ryan uneasy. Wesley Walters could kill for something like the Empress Seal, a hodgepodge of cold stone and metal yet with enough monetary value to fund several NYPD units’ worth of annual crime-fighting effort. It was ridiculous, beyond his comprehension, but he understood it was all about money. Then there was Simone, the damaged woman with an unfulfilled dream of becoming a supermodel, struggling to scrimp together enough money to survive. Could she really be the killer? Why would she kill Blackwell? A rich guy like that could be her only hope. Simone certainly couldn’t answer that question anymore. Could Gerel be the one who had killed Blackwell, after all? She’d admitted that Blackwell wanted to help her with her career. Maybe he’d retracted his promise and she killed him out of anger? Ryan found it hard to believe. More and more, Ryan was sure he wasn’t over-stretching his imagination. Walters was in the center of the whole puzzle. He’s the kind who would protect his access to money and wealth at all cost. Access that he’d gained after years of oiling his way into the circles of the likes of William Blackwell. Right now, Wesley Walters could be dangerous.
*
Gerel tiptoed toward her bedroom, there was nothing she could grab as a weapon to protect herself. Her legs were wobbling, her blood pounding in her ears. She reached the doorway, her trembling fingers fumbled on the wall for the light switch above the headboard of the bed. The ancient wrought iron ceiling chandelier came on and soft, warm light flushed the room.
“Hello, Gerel, it’s been a while,” a voice greeted her, memorably regal and cultured. Her eyes darted across the room. Wesley Walters sat cross-legged in the Antoinette accent chair next to the French doors to the balcony. On the make-up vanity, between the accent chair and the foot of the bed, sat a full glass of red wine. Gerel recognized it as one of the wine glasses she kept on the shelf in the kitchen, and no doubt the wine came from the bottle she’d opened the previous night. It meant he’d been all over her house looking for the red diamond, but couldn’t find it. They both knew what was at stake. Intuitively, she thrust her hand into her pocket—the delicate pouch snug in her balled-up fist, she could feel the eclipsed curve, hard, solid.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” She struggled to appear calm, but her voice was tinged with spasms of fear.
“Not even a hello to an old friend?” Walters uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his nostrils quivering slightly as if smelling her fear.
Every fiber in her screamed for her to turn around and flee the house. You can’t outrun him, and he can easily overpower you, said a voice in her head. Stay calm and think.
“A friend doesn’t intrude on his friend’s house in the middle of the night,” Gerel said. She steadied her voice, moving a few steps closer to the French doors, glancing at its beveled latch handle. She was sure she had locked the door before she left for her trip in the morning. But the latch handle didn’t fully drop, it was now askew, like the hour hand pointing at five on a clock instead of six as it did when it was secured. Another thing in this old house that needed to be fixed. At least she knew how Walters had gotten in. He must have climbed up the tree on the side of the balcony.
“Still better than a friend who stole from her friend,” Walters sneered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pretend you’re clueless and head to the balcony.
“I think you know exactly what I mean.” Walters rose and stepped closer to the make-up vanity. “Look, Gerel,” he relaxed his tone. “I know you’re an ambitious woman, a talented artist, but also practical. I have no doubt you’ll get somewhere one day. I know William was very fond of you, but you only cozied up to him because of his wealth and fame. I can imagine how his untimely death was a huge disappointment to you. But believe it or not, you and I are quite alike. If you hand over what I came here for, I promise you’ll be rewarded handsomely, enough to set up your own shop. You’ll be the Coco Chanel of jewelry design, what do you say?”
“Didn’t you cozy up to William for the same reason?” Gerel said defiantly, but she couldn’t help admitting there was some truth to what Walters said. She’d been a hypocrite herself. Move straight ahead, closer to the balcony.
“If it makes you feel better, I admit, we are both cut from the same hypocritical cloth. Now you have the choice of giving me what you stole from William and I’ll let you drink this for being a good girl, and I promise you’ll never see me again.” Walters glanced sideways at the wine glass on the table next to him. “Or I’ll be forced to do what I don’t like to do.”
Gerel followed Walters’s eyes and peered at the dark purple liquid. He’s right. If I drink that, I will not see the sun rise ever again. He’ll have to kill me first. “What’s that, poison?” Gerel straightened her back, inching closer to Walters, closer to the French doors, praying he wouldn’t notice the shake under her hiking pants.
“Stop playing games, tell me where it is.” Walters’s voice was now a desperate low growl, like that of a wild animal caught in a trap. He yanked off the necktie that had been hanging loose around his neck and lurched toward her. Gerel knew she’d better move fast if she wanted to get to the balcony before he got to her. She swerved to the right and sprang toward the double doors, arms thrown out straight ahead, just as the full weight of Walters crashed down onto her from behind. Her palms smashed onto the door. It flew open, her body jettisoned out onto the balcony. Before she could steady herself, something coiled around her neck, it tightened like a python squeezing its prey. Her legs kicked, her arms flung out, white light flashed around her, she gasped for air but her lungs weren’t working, they were full of icy water. The white light flashed again, followed by the familiar sound of ocean waves lapping against the cliff under the balcony. The cord around her neck loosened enough for her to gag and retch. “One last chance, give me what you stole from William or you can apologize
to him on the other side,” a ghostly voice whispered in her ear.
“Let me go and I’ll show you where it is,” she croaked. Her vision came back, focused enough to see they were still on the balcony, inches away from the weather-beaten wood railing.
“Tell me where and walk slowly,” Walters rumbled without further loosening the chokehold, one of his hands now gripping tightly around her waist.
Gerel remained still, slowly she slipped her hand into the pocket that held the pouch. She pulled it out and held it up so Walters could see it from behind. “It’s here, inside this pouch. See the WJB initial?”
Silence. He’s not buying it, I’m going to die.
“All right, now, lower your arm slowly and drop the pouch.”
A rush of relief ran though her chest, releasing the breath she’d been holding. “Here it is, you bastard.” She muttered the words as loud as her throat allowed her. She flung out her arm as she released the pouch over the railing.
“No!” Walters screamed. His hands reflexively slackened their grip. Gerel ducked to the side as Walters reached over the railing in vain, trying to catch the pouch that had already disappeared into the darkness below. His body smashed onto the guardrail. It cracked under Walters’s hands as he grabbed onto it to save himself from falling off the balcony. Snap—pop—snap—pop, one side of the broken guard rail swung out, tearing away one baluster after another until it creaked to a stop at a forty-five-degree angle. From the jagged end of the broken rail dangled Wesley Walters’s form, formidable just a moment ago, but now pitifully insignificant. He yelled for help.
The Face of the Seal Page 25