eye of the god
eye of the god
Copyright © 2009 by Ariel Allison Lawhon
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-0068-2
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in
any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form
or by any means digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording,
or otherwise without written permission from the publisher, except for
brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the
creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead
is purely coincidental.
Ariel Allison Lawhon is represented by The Nashville Agency,
P.O. Box 110909, Nashville, TN 37222.
www.nashvilleagency.com
Cover design by Anderson Design Group, Nashville, TN
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allison, Ariel.
Eye of the god / Ariel Allison.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-0068-2 (binding: pbk./trade pbk., adhesive perfect : alk. paper)
1. Brothers--Fiction. 2. Hope diamond--Fiction. 3. Jewel thieves--
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.L447E94 2009
813'.6--dc22
2009014619
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 14 13 12 11 10 09
For my little sister, Abby.
You make a great namesake.
I began writing my first book at the age of five. And while it is true that I got distracted drawing the cover and never finished, the inclination to put words on paper has stayed with me ever since. Yet this is not a journey I have traveled alone. Many people have come alongside to make this dream a reality. Thanking everyone who had a part in bringing this book to life is an undertaking as big as writing it. I will try to do them justice.
To my editors Barbara Scott and Jenny Youngman at Abingdon Press, your enthusiasm for eye of the god has put more wind in my sails than you will ever know. You made a journey typically filled with nail-biting and self-doubt feel like a long conversation between old friends. I am grateful for every suggestion, every challenge, and every moment spent poring over this manuscript.
It is rare to have a true friend in this business, much less a champion. Yet my agent, Jonathan Clements, is such a person. I thought he would laugh at me when I first approached him about representation. Seven years later, he still takes my calls. A gal couldn't ask for a better agent.
To my husband, Ashley. My love, every bit of it, is yours. You are still the best thing that has ever happened to me. Thank you for dreaming with me. Thank you for believing in me. And thank you for changing diapers, cooking noodles, and doing laundry while I wrote. You put many men to shame.
To London, Parker, Marshall, and Colby … Mommy loves you the most (no matter what Daddy says). Thank you for succumbing to bribery so I could finish this manuscript. I knew those chocolate-covered raisins would come in handy.
Melanie Randolph and Leah Walker were kind enough to read the manuscript and point out its many errors. After such an undertaking I am amazed that they still want to be my friends.
I am greatly indebted to John Farkas and his brilliant, quirky mind. Without his suggestions, this book wouldn't be half as interesting.
I send a million thanks to Richard Kurin, author of Hope Diamond: The Legendary History of a Cursed Gem. His research gave life to people I first met in eighth-grade history texts. His book was a great source of historical information and fact. I could have never compiled that amount of research on my own. I would be remiss for not tipping my hat and applauding him for such an extraordinary work.
I have, whenever possible, done my best to quote actual conversations and do justice to historic events. Nonetheless, I am bound to have gotten them wrong somewhere, and I expect a flurry of angry letters from studious historians telling me where I have gone astray. I will apologize in advance and humbly acknowledge I am not an expert on anything. I simply enjoy stringing words together and telling the kind of story that I would like to read. I hope it is as fun for you to read as it was for me to write.
Dear Reader,
It has been said that all of history is, in fact, God's story, and that we are just supporting actors. When viewed through that lens, the tale of the Hope Diamond takes on new meaning. But what if the story is much deeper, more intriguing and significant than simply a diamond owned by some of the world's most notorious figures? What if the mystery of the Hope Diamond is relevant to us, our culture, and our faith? That would make a story indeed.
In the spring of 1995 I stumbled across an article in Life Magazine about the curse of the Hope Diamond. Like fire on gasoline, an idea for a novel exploded in my mind. During the fourteen years that I spent researching and writing, I realized that one of my greatest dilemmas would be taming some of history's most unruly characters. You will recognize many of those who came into contact with the Hope Diamond: Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Caroline of Brunswick, May Yohe, Pierre Cartier, Charles Lindbergh, Harry Winston, and Jackie Kennedy, just to name a few. But try as I might, I could not make room for all of them in this novel. Yet their stories deserve to be told. So beginning October, 2009, I will make them available in short story form on Amazon.com.
At the back of this book I have included a series of discussion questions for small groups and book clubs. I would be honored to talk with your group about this novel via speaker phone. You can set up a time to chat by visiting my website, www.arielallison.com, and sending me an email. I look forward to meeting you.
I would like to say that I wrote the majority of this novel while sitting in an Irish pub, or on the beach in Normandy, or while hiking the Alaskan wilderness. I'm afraid not. I have four boys, ages five and under; and although I have traveled much of the world, my days of adventure and unhindered travel are on hiatus. Since having children I have learned that spare moments are the gold dust of time. An hour here and an hour there don't seem like much, but added up over weeks and months and years they accumulate into a precious commodity. So I wrote this novel during my spare moments: early mornings, late nights, and long weekends. I did my best, often after drinking ungodly amounts of coffee, to tell a tale of suspense with a historical twist.
I am delighted that you hold this book in your hands and that it is no longer just a figment of my imagination but a living, breathing story of its own. When all is said and done, and the dust has finally settled over the last great adventure of the Hope Diamond, you will see that no god chiseled from stone can direct the fates of men, nor can it change the course of history and God's story.
It is an honor to share this story with you,
Ariel Allison
CONTENTS
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
38
Epilogue
Prologue
GOLCONDA, INDIA, 1653
JEAN-BAPTISTE TAVERNIER WINCED AS THE SOLDIER CHOPPED OFF THE man's hand. The thief shrieked and dropped to the ground, clutching the bloodied stump to his chest.
Tavernier turned aside with a grimace and ordered the litter bearers beneath him to move faster. Four slaves, dark from the sun, jostled between the crowded stalls of Golconda's hectic bazaar and away from the public spectacle. The agonized screams faded as they pressed farther into the crowd.
Dense heat settled over the marketplace, and Tavernier wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Pungent smells assaulted his senses: sweat and urine, spiced curry and sweet chutney, burning incense and rotting vegetables. His litter bumped and rocked through the hustle and bustle of shoppers and merchants haggling over prices. Red and gold bridal wear and precious gold glittered in the stalls. Elephants carried the elite through the narrow streets while dirty children chased each other with sticks.
Tavernier looked across the sea of dark-skinned faces toward an embroidered tent in the midst of the bazaar guarded by two soldiers wearing the white turban and golden sash of the sultan's army. At his approach the guards stepped aside and pulled back the elaborate flaps.
Tavernier glanced at the heavy wooden chest near his feet and stepped from the litter. “Guard that with your life,” he ordered the soldiers as he entered the tent.
Large, colorful cushions and intricately woven Oriental rugs covered the dirt floor. Mir Jumla, Golconda's prime minister, lounged on an orange and peacock-blue silk pillow. The heavy brow, black eyes, and prominent nose of the Persian-born general contradicted his Oriental adornment.
Mir stood and greeted Tavernier in the traditional Indian way, with palms together, hands raised in front of his face, and head bowed. “Vanakkam,” he said.
Tavernier lowered his head and returned the greeting.
Mir motioned for him to sit, and they settled onto the cushions.
“Good to see you, Prime Minister,” Tavernier said.
Mir grinned, “Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. Punctual as always.”
“You said it was important?”
Around Mir's neck hung a buckskin pouch, which he untied and placed in Tavernier's hand, “I could lose my head for this.”
“Come, come Mir, we both know the sultan would much prefer to chop off your hands and leave you to beg for food like a common slave.”
“My hands it will be then if the sultan ever learns that escaped his grasp.”
Tavernier opened the pouch and emptied the contents into his hand. His eyes widened and the corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin. In his palm rested the largest blue diamond he had ever seen. He turned it over, running his fingers along the irregular surface.
“This is a great deal more than ten carats. It was my understanding that any diamond over ten carats found in the Kollur mines went directly to the sultan.”
Mir Jumla nodded and pushed back into the cushions. In one hand he fingered a gold coin with his long fingers. “That is the edict. But I never said this stone came from the mines.”
“Since when did you start dealing in stolen gems?”
Mir Jumla thrust out his lower jaw. “You don't want it then?”
“Of course I do. I am just curious why a man so loyal to the sultan is selling diamonds right out from under his nose.”
“Loyalty, like most things, has a price.” Mir grinned.
Tavernier smiled. “Indeed.” He held up the diamond, letting the light filter through. “Net et d'un beau violet,” he whispered in his native French.
Mir tilted his head to one side.
Tavernier repeated in Indian, “A clear and beautiful violet.”
“Yes. It is flawless.”
Tavernier balanced the stone in his hand for a moment. “One hundred carats, or close to it, I would wager.”
“One hundred twelve.”
“Excellent. And the price?”
“Two-hundred twenty-thousand livres.”
“A little steep.”
“We both know you will not find another such diamond for sale in Golconda. They all sit in the sultan's treasury.”
“Fair enough.” Tavernier shrugged. “But you still have not told me how you came by this stone.”
Mir hesitated a moment as he studied the coin in his hand. “I would not give that much concern. The last person to own this was made of stone and sat in a Hindu temple on the banks of the Godavari River. A slave named Raj, starving and half-mad, brought it to me three weeks ago, claiming he had chiseled it from the forehead of an idol named Rama Sita.” Mir cast a sideways glance at Tavernier. “Cursed, Raj said. The idol cursed the diamond and all who would come to own it.”
“And where is this Raj now?”
“In the bazaar. I believe my soldiers just relieved him of a hand.”
“That was your doing?”
“I paid him a fair price for the stone three weeks ago, but he came back this morning for more. When I refused, he tried to steal this.” Mir held up the coin.
Tavernier laughed. “A convenient story, my friend.”
“You don't believe me?”
“Weaving a tale of theft and vengeance is an old jeweler's trick to induce interest in the buyer. One I have used myself, as a matter of fact.”
Mir gave a curt nod. “May it be on your head. I am glad to sell it and be done.”
“At such a price, I am sure you are. But as far as my head goes, I intend for it to stay in place.”
“The curse does not bother you?”
“I don't believe in curses, Mir. Besides, we both know they increase the value of trinkets such as this.”
“Then we have only the matter of payment to attend.”
Tavernier rose and fetched his treasure chest from the litter. Returning, he set it on the rug before Mir and opened the lock with a small golden key. When he pulled back the lid, hundreds of gold coins spilled onto the carpet before them. Tavernier counted the purchase price before the prime minister, who eyed the gold with hunger. Only a few dozen coins remained in the chest when he was done.
Tavernier slid the great blue diamond back inside the buckskin pouch and tied it around his neck. “Should you stumble across the other eye you will, of course, let me know?”
“Of course,” said Mir with great satisfaction. “And thank you once again for your business.”
The men gave each other a polite nod, and Tavernier stepped from the tent. Within seconds his litter disappeared amidst the writhing mass of vendors, peasants, and hanging goods.
1
CARNIVAL, RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL—PRESENT DAY
ABBY MITCHELL STARED THROUGH THE WINDOW AT THE FEVERISH DISPLAY of dancing outside. She placed her palm on the warm plaster wall of the Chacara do Ceu Museum and felt the pounding Samba music pulse against her fingers. She observed the frenzied celebration from within the safety of the museum's main gallery. An old mansion, turned resting place for some of the world's most renowned art, the museum was a pleasant combination of low ceilings, cream-colored walls, and quiet elegance.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Good morning , Director Heaton.”
“It's not all that good, Dr. Mitchell. We have a bit of an issue.” His voice was raspy, the ravages of age and cigarettes.
She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What's going on?”
“The Collectors. They've taken two Van Goghs.”
Abby closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the window. “Where?”
“Amsterdam.”
“How?”
“We're not exactly sure. Investigators are baffled. The paintings just disappeared in the middle of the night.”
“Prints?”
“None.”
“Of course not. In ten years they've never left a print. Or a clue for that matter.”
; “Abby,” his voice prodded on the other line. “You know what this means.”
She nodded, staring at her reflection in the window. “They can't get their hands on the Dali. And we know they want it.”
“You know what you have to do.”
A weak smile spread across her face. “Let's just hope I can.”
“Call me when you're done,” he said, and then hung up the phone.
A handful of tourists wandered the gallery, trying to study the timeless wonders on its plaster walls, but distracted by Carnival just a few feet away.
Lost in her thoughts, Abby paid no attention to the approaching footsteps until she felt a polite tap on her shoulder. She turned to find a woman, in her late fifties, wearing a white linen suit and a gracious smile.
“Dr. Mitchell, I presume?” she said with a distinct Brazilian accent.
Abby held out her hand. “Indeed. And you must be Director Santos?”
“Please, call me Ana.” Though aging quite gracefully, it was obvious Ana Santos had been a sight to behold in her prime.
“Sorry to keep you,” she smiled. “With all the tourists in town, I have been running behind all week. But things should calm down now that Carnival is almost underway.”
“No trouble at all. I've been enjoying your remarkable collection.”
Ana stretched out an arm and motioned Abby to follow. They turned their backs to the window and made their way through the gallery toward a series of priceless surrealist paintings. One in particular caught Abby's attention, and she leaned forward, appreciation evident on her face.
“Now, Dr. Mitchell, you said there was an urgent matter we needed to discuss. I assume more than Carnival brings you to Brazil?”
“I'm afraid so.” She ran a finger over the nameplate which read Two Balconies, Salvador Dali.
Ana beamed. “Fantastic, isn't it?”
Abby nodded.
“Two Balconies is the only Salvador Dali painting on display in Latin America. It is one of the Chacara do Ceu's most prized exhibits.”
Eye of the God Page 1