Abby lifted her chin and surveyed the audience carefully. “James Todd escorted the Hope Diamond, alone and unarmed, for one mile. He was greeted at the Smithsonian by a crowd of reporters, television cameras, Washington socialites, and top museum brass. Harry Winston was noticeably absent. With great relief Todd delivered the package into the hands of Leonard Carmichael at precisely 11:45 a.m.” Abby paused for a moment and glanced at the screen behind her. “The blue-collar postman knew he carried a legendary, cursed jewel, and that he risked his life just by laying hands on it.”
Alex Weld watched Dr. Mitchell give her presentation, mesmerized with the famous gem's history. An old thrill tingled his senses. He was eager to get back into the game after months of reconnaissance. Lifting a few paintings from a local museum in Rio was one thing; stealing the Hope Diamond from the Smithsonian was something else entirely. He sat fifteen rows away from Abby, remembering just why he'd chosen this career in the first place. Yet as he listened to the story, a deep sense of caution nagged at his mind. Something about her was familiar. Alex was a genius at remembering faces. It would come.
“The Hope Diamond is the most infamous jewel in the world, and even in 1954 many people in the United States knew about its bloody history. Things are no different today. It is the most viewed museum object in the world, boasting more visitors each year than the Mona Lisa.”
The picture on the screen behind Abby changed to a breathtaking blue diamond the size of a plum, surrounded by smaller white diamonds.
“Although we can't pinpoint the exact date the jewel was found, it is believed to have been dug from the Kollur Diamond Mine in India sometime in the early sixteen hundreds.”
Here the slide changed from the exquisitely cut blue jewel to a crude black-and-white drawing of an uncut, unpolished diamond of somewhat triangular shape.
“This illustration was drawn by the French jewel merchant Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. He acquired the stone in Golconda, India, in 1653. His memoirs were published in 1675, and although he goes into great detail about his voyages to India, he never indicates exactly how he purchased the diamond. This has led many to believe that he did not acquire the jewel by honest means.”
Abby swept a strand of loose brown hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. “Tavernier was a noted jewel merchant who made a fortune buying and selling precious stones in Asia. At the time, India was the only established source of diamonds in the world, and Tavernier spent the majority of his career creating a trade pipeline between the diamond mines of India and the courts of Europe. He traveled extensively, covering more than twenty thousand miles of terrain in thirty years. Both an entrepreneur and an aristocrat, Tavernier used his connections to develop a deep knowledge of customs, taxes, trade, and some might argue, bribery.”
For the most part Alex was more interested in the logistics involved in pulling off a heist than the value of the object he stole. Yet there was something intriguing about the history lesson offered by Dr. Mitchell. It was as though she knew the diamond, as though she loved it. Alex watched her continue the lecture. He noticed the expressions on her face and listened to the inflection in her voice. It was quite obvious that she was passionate about her subject, but even that hardly explained why she never once looked at her notes on the podium. It was obvious she knew every detail of this story by heart.
“In time the diamond passed from Tavernier into the hands of the French monarchy where it became known as the French Blue. Ultimately, it was inherited by Louis XVI. I think we all know how his chapter of history ended on the guillotine, along with his wife Marie Antoinette, during the French Revolution. It is in the middle of that uprising that things get interesting for the diamond and those who would later come to own it. Though many mysteries still surround the story of the Hope Diamond, the history we do know is just as fascinating, if not more so, than any myths that may be attached to the renowned jewel.”
Abby paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “But let's be honest, shall we? We are all interested in the darker parts of its history.” She smiled as the audience seemed to lean forward, collectively.
“According to legend, the diamond was originally stolen from the Hindu idol Rama Sita, which is said to have cursed the jewel so that all of its future owners would suffer tragedy. Indeed, its victims are infamous. King George IV, Napoleon, Caroline of Brunswick, May Yohe, Henry Hope, Evalyn Walsh McLean, Harry Winston, and Jackie Kennedy, are just a few of those who crossed paths with the diamond.
“Even our postman James Todd endured his share of tragedy. Just a year after delivering the Hope Diamond into the hands of Leonard Carmichael, Todd was crushed by a truck, lost his wife to a sudden heart attack, and watched his home burn to the ground. Some would argue those events were just a string of unfortunate coincidences in the life of an ordinary postman. But it is no wonder so many believe the diamond is cursed. That legendary curse is part of what makes it so valuable today. Currently on display right here at the Smithsonian, it would fetch as much as two hundred million dollars at auction.”
An appreciative gasp rippled through the audience.
“The Smithsonian will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the diamond's arrival next week with a huge extravaganza in its honor. Please join us as we continue the story of the Hope Diamond with a presentation you will never forget. I would be delighted to see each and every one of you there. Have a wonderful evening and feel free to visit the Hope on your way out.”
With that, Abby gave the audience a polite nod and stepped from the podium as they sat in stunned silence. She knew the power of story to draw people in, and she knew just when to stop. They wanted to hear more, and that was exactly what she intended. Abby would wager her next paycheck that every person present would be at the celebration next week.
It took a few seconds for the audience to realize she was finished. As she made her way toward the exit, they erupted in applause as if trying to draw her back to the stage. Abby slipped into the hallway and made her way down the gallery to pay respects to the diamond on her way out. It was a tradition she started many years earlier when working on her dissertation.
The Hope Diamond had its own display room inside the Janet Annenberg Hooker Hall of Geology, Gems and Minerals. The wing was large and sprawling, inset every few feet with glass displays filled with the world's most renowned geological formations. At the center of that wing, and the first room to the left, was the Harry Winston Gallery, which featured five attractions, all revolving around the Hope Diamond. In the middle of the room stood a raised marble platform, flanked on five sides by thick columns. Directly in the center sat a square pedestal of matching marble, topped by a glass display case. The Smithsonian's main attraction, a cursed blue diamond that had captured the imagination of king and commoner for thousands of years, nestled inside the glass case.
As part of the National Gem Collection, it was by far the most popular jewel on display. Because of the notoriety and immense value of the diamond, it sat on a rotating pedestal inside a three-inch thick bullet-proof glass cylinder. The renovations to the gems exhibit were completed in 1997, and along with them came state-of-the-art security and surveillance systems.
Abby stood before the display case, arms crossed in front of her, eyes locked on the deep blue stone that had given her so much grief lately.
“Focus,” her father had always told her. “Focus on what you want and nothing else. It will take you anywhere you want to go.” So she focused on the diamond and its history. She immersed herself in it. She studied and traveled and wrote, eventually establishing herself as the authority on the Hope Diamond. Her father's colleagues at the Smithsonian welcomed her with open arms, and it was here that she carved a niche for herself.
Abby took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. She pulled her hair from the tight knot at the nape of her neck and let it fall around her shoulders, her scalp aching from the tension.
She stood before the diamond.
It was their ritual. Silence. Speculation. Angst. They were in a battle of wills. The irony of fighting with an inanimate object was not lost on her. Abby often found it humorous. It seemed she had a history of giving herself to things that could not love her back.
“Dr. Mitchell?”
The voice shocked her out of her reverie and she spun around to find a man standing behind her with a sheepish look on his face.
“Yes,” she asked, flustered.
“My name is Alex Weld,” he said, offering his hand. “I'm a journalist with National Geographic.”
The smile he offered threatened to make Abby blush. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of his bright blue eyes and matched the ease of his smile. He was a few inches taller than she, with sandy brown hair and a solid build.
She took his hand. “Abigail Mitchell. Nice to meet you.”
“I was in the theater listening to your lecture. You left before I could get down there to introduce myself.”
“Sorry. It's been a long week.”
“Nothing serious I hope?”
“Oh, just getting ready for the celebration, that's all,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Well, I won't take much of your time. I was just wondering if I could set up an interview to talk about the Hope Diamond.” Alex nodded toward the display case where it sat glistening under the lights.
“An interview?”
“Yeah. I'm doing a piece on the diamond for National Geographic. It seems you're doing quite a job with your publicity efforts. Everyone is talking about the diamond, so we thought it would be a great idea to run a piece in our next issue.”
Uncertain, Abby paused for a moment. “Sure, that sounds great,” she finally said. “When did you want to set up something?”
Alex grinned. “Honestly, I was hoping to get some of your time today, but I didn't realize you were leaving work early.”
Abby glanced at her watch. “I'd love to, but I'm starving. I didn't eat lunch. Would sometime next week work?”
Alex gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment, but never broke eye contact with Abby. “I tell you what. I haven't eaten either. If your dinner is on National Geographic, would you give me an hour of your time so I can get started?”
Abby hesitated for a moment, but just then her stomach rumbled and she relented. “Why not. If you want to follow me, I know a great café several blocks away that serves a killer panini.”
“Consider it done. Lead the way.”
“Great,” Abby said, glancing one last time at the diamond. She turned and began walking toward the exit.
Alex followed Abby out of the Smithsonian parking lot and into the flow of traffic. The mental files in his mind began to fall into place. He remembered the hair, the ear, the neck. And he remembered the ring. Alex Weld knew where he had seen her. He scrambled for his phone.
Isaac sat in a dimly lit office with the shades drawn, a set of Smithsonian blueprints spread on the desk. He traced the pale blue lines with a fingertip, mentally working his way through the building.
A stack of black-and-white photographs sat on the corner of the desk. Among them were snapshots of Abby at work, at home, and in her car.
Newspaper clippings were pinned haphazardly to the wall behind him. The most recent was an article about the heist in Rio. Another proclaimed that two Van Gogh paintings had been stolen from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. A third described the theft of Edvard Munch's classic The Scream, known to many as the most frequently stolen piece of art in the world.
The phone rang. Isaac picked it up and asked, “Did you make contact?”
“Yes,” replied Alex. “But we have a problem.”
“What problem?”
“It seems we've met our mark before.”
Isaac snatched a picture from the pile and glared at Abby's face. “What do you mean?”
“In Rio. She was wearing the ring.”
“Where are you now?”
“Following her to a café. We're having dinner.”
“Get to the bottom of it,” Isaac hissed.
“I intend to.”
Isaac set the phone down and studied the picture.
Alex and Abby sat at a small bistro table on the sidewalk, sipping coffee and eating sandwiches. The smell of autumn leaves suggested that winter was not far off.
“What's the craziest thing that's ever happened to you on the job?” Alex asked, taking a sip of coffee.
Abby grunted and curled her upper lip. “You don't want to know.”
“Oh, come on, what can be so distressing about the life of a museum director?”
“Are you insinuating that my life is boring?” Abby grinned.
“Yes.” He chuckled.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
Abby shrugged. “How about a theft at gunpoint and the loss of four of the most valuable paintings in the world?”
“At the Smithsonian?”
Abby shook her head and finished the last bite of her sandwich. “No. In Rio de Janeiro. I was on a business trip and found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Sounds harrowing.”
“It was pretty bad.” Abby paused and then looked at Alex apologetically. “I'm sorry. You asked me for an interview and I've been babbling on about my problems. All that time I spend around boring inanimate objects must have left me hungry for human interaction.”
“Touché,” Alex said, offering a genuine laugh. He pulled a legal pad from the bag at his side and flipped back through the notes he had made during her lecture. “Sooo … take me back to the beginning. What happened to Tavernier once he got his hands on the diamond?”
“He held onto it for fifteen years. It's the only stone he kept for any length of time. He later sold it for the equivalent of $3.6 million dollars.”
Alex whistled. “Not a bad profit!”
“Perhaps, but I'm sure he soon came to wish he had never laid eyes on the thing.”
“How so?”
Abby turned a wistful gaze toward the park across the street. The tree limbs swayed in the gentle breeze. Loose strands of hair swirled across her cheek as she told Alex the story.
4
DECCAN PLATEAU, CENTRAL INDIA, 1655
HAUTES MONTAGNES QUI FONT UNE FORME DE CROISSANT, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier scratched into the pages of his journal as he looked at the great stone outcropping atop Medusala Mountain. Although he had heard many travelers refer to the mountain being shaped in the form of a cross, he disagreed.
It looks more like a crescent to me, he thought, digging through his bag for a pouch of dried fruit. But it could be the hunger talking.
The oxen cart jolted along the dirt road, narrowly avoiding ditches on either side. Tavernier perched atop the shaky wooden loft like a corpulent bird on a swaying branch. The guide he hired to take him to the Kollur mines walked beside the mangy beast, carrying a whip in one hand and a dirty water skin in the other.
“How much farther?” Tavernier asked, aching from the journey.
“Just over that rise,” the guide responded, cracking a whip upon the malnourished haunches of the old ox. What was meant as an effort to spur the beast into action resulted in nothing more than an aggravated grunt. The ox plowed ahead slowly, putting one arthritic hoof in front of another, same as before.
Tavernier sat up and craned his neck to see over the ridge, balancing his weight carefully to avoid falling off the cart.
Within a few moments, the wobbly ensemble of ox, cart, rider, and guide crested the ridge and beheld the largest excavation on the continent. A great plateau spread before them, swarming with tens of thousands of workers.
Europeans dug their mines into the sides of mountains and tunneled deep within, supporting their quarries with elaborate engineering and timber frames. The Indians preferred instead to dig their holes directly into the ground, leaving wide but relatively shallow pock marks throughout their mining areas. Most holes were abandon
ed after a few feet if no diamonds were discovered. Others plummeted fathoms into the rocky soil and were virtual beehives of activity.
Although Tavernier bought thousands of diamonds from the region during his career, he had never been to the source of their bounty until now. He watched the frenzied activity below with interest. It was not long, however, before their presence was noted, and they were approached by an officer wearing the white turban and golden sash of the sultan.
“You are trespassing,” he said, without taking note of name or rank.
“I am here on official business,” Tavernier retorted, lumbering off the cart with minor difficulty. “I am here to see Prime Minister Jumla.”
At his full height, the Frenchman stood over six feet tall, a great contrast to the short, slender officer. The excess of one hundred extra pounds made Tavernier seem even larger.
“Are you a friend?”
“A business associate.”
“I see,” the officer said with a slight nod. “Please come with me.”
Tavernier followed the officer through the midst of the camp where thirty thousand slaves—men, women, and children—hauled dirt from the pits and carried it away to be sifted for diamonds. On a small rise in the midst of the vast camp rose a large mound of earth, topped by an ornate wooden pergola. The sides of the structure were hung with tapestries, blocking its occupant from sight.
The soldier led Tavernier to the entrance, motioned for the guards to let him in, and then slipped away without a word.
As he parted the heavy curtains, Tavernier stopped short, clenching his jaw. Seated on the plush cushions was not Mir Jumla, but a man that Tavernier had grown to detest during his many travels to Golconda.
The old Brahmin sat cross-legged on a cushion, looking deceptively frail. The swath of red fabric wrapped around his waist was hiked up to the knees, pooling around his thin legs. A yellow sash hung over his bare chest, and his long, oily hair was tied back with a strip of leather. The beard that had once been thick and black was almost completely gray and came to a scraggly point a few inches beneath his chin.
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