Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

“I can see it on your face.”

  “See what?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  Abby shook her head. “I don't follow DeDe, what are you saying?”

  The older woman offered the charming smile that Abby had grown to love, the corners of her eyes crinkling like paper, and led her to the small living room. Dede's curly salt-and-pepper hair was swept back into a French twist, and she wore a black knit dress, silhouetting a figure much slimmer than one would expect for her age.

  “Let me guess. The journalist?” DeDe asked. “Is it the same man from the interview?”

  Abby nodded. “Alex Weld.”

  Dow sorted newspapers at his usual spot by the window. At this announcement he rose and joined them in the living room, deeply interested in the conversation.

  “So it's official then?” Dow asked.

  Abby chewed on her bottom lip. “Well,” she finally answered. “I don't know if you would call it dating. We haven't exactly known each other very long. But we have been spending time together.”

  “Romantic time?” DeDe tried to hide the glimmer of a smile.

  “Yes,” Abby laughed. “I would definitely call it romantic.”

  “Good,” Dow and DeDe said in unison.

  “Good?” she asked.

  “Yes, good,” DeDe said, breaking into a full smile.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Dow clapped his hands, startling both women. “Now, do tell how things are going with that little event you're in charge of?”

  “That's actually why I'm here.” Abby turned to DeDe with an imploring look. “I was hoping I could borrow your diamond stud earrings.”

  DeDe raised her eyebrows. “My earrings?”

  “I know Dow gave them to you, and I wouldn't normally ask for something like that, but I'd like to wear them Saturday night.”

  “Is it really that soon?” Dow asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I'm running out of time to get everything ready.”

  DeDe offered her a gentle pat on the back. “Oh, I've no doubt you'll get it all done.”

  “That's just it. I think the plan may change.”

  Dow's blue eyes narrowed. “What do you mean the plan may change?”

  Abby shook her head. “There is no way the Smithsonian will go for it.”

  “Go for what?”

  Abby tried to find a way to explain Alex's suggestion. While scrubbing floors the night before she had written the idea off as ridiculous, but after a night of fitful dreams, she woke this morning with second thoughts. She always cleaned when she had a lot on her mind, which was a trait she was particularly grateful for. Her mother had sat and stared out the window when thinking, and as a result, little or nothing had ever been done around their home. Angela Mitchell's mental illness had rendered her nearly catatonic by the time Abby was seven, and Abby had to leave her mother and go live with her father.

  Although she no longer lived in a pigsty, she had in many ways lost both parents. Instead of caring for her himself, her father had sent her off to one boarding school after another, spending only the required school breaks with her. Even then, she was attended to mostly by servants and nannies. Some would have considered her life privileged and pampered. To Abby it was an aching lesson in loneliness. When it came time for college, her father wanted her to attend Cambridge. She chose Boston College, both to spite him and to be near the memory of her mother. What little relationship she maintained with her father through the years fractured after she graduated, despite the fact that she chose Cambridge for her doctoral work. Neither of them had made much of an attempt to restore it since. With the exception of a rare bribe given in place of affection, Abby had little contact with him. Yet, even though she tried to ignore it, there was a latent desire to know her father.

  “Abby?” Dow asked, looking at her quizzically.

  “Yes? What?”

  “You just zoned out on us there. What were you going to say?”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I was trying to figure out how to explain it without giving you a stroke, and I wandered off on another train of thought.”

  “Just spit it out, dear,” DeDe said.

  Abby took a deep breath. “I want to wear the Hope Diamond during my speech at the Smithsonian.”

  Stunned silence.

  “I know. It's crazy. It makes no sense. And there's no chance Dr. Trent will let me do it.” She looked at their incredulous expressions. “You don't have to say it. I know it's insane. But just think about it for a moment. This is the Hope Diamond. It hasn't been worn by a single human being since Michelle Pfeiffer modeled it for an article in Life magazine in 1995. And this event is a big deal. Hundreds of people are coming to celebrate its anniversary. And—”

  There was a twinkle deep within DeDe's black eyes. “I think it's brilliant.”

  “You what?”

  “I think it would accomplish the very thing you want.”

  “But they will never let you do it,” Dow said.

  “Never.” Abby shook her head.

  “But it would be brilliant,” he added.

  Abby gauged her next comment carefully. “It wasn't my idea.”

  Dow's eyes narrowed. “It wasn't?”

  “Alex suggested it.”

  “That's interesting.”

  “He thinks it would create an aura of jealousy in the women attending. You know, me wearing something they couldn't buy with all their money. He seems to think they would write bigger checks in an effort to outdo each other.”

  “Well, first off, you wouldn't need to wear the Hope Diamond to make those women jealous. But he is right about the rest. It would have that very effect.”

  “But, once again, it will never happen. There is no way they will let me take that diamond out of the case.”

  “You don't know that,” Dow said with a shrug.

  “I'm pretty sure.”

  DeDe grinned maliciously and slid next to Abby on the couch. She rested her hand on Abby's arm. “My dear,” she said. “These are men we are talking about.”

  “Yes, exactly. Hardheaded, stubborn, arrogant men.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What?”

  “There is no surer way to get what you want with a group of men than to pit one ego against another.”

  “Ego is something they have in great supply. But I still don't see a way to convince Dr. Trent and Daniel Wallace to let me wear the Hope Diamond. It's simply absurd.”

  “But my dear, you don't have to convince them of any such thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  DeDe shrugged. “You just need to let them think it's their idea.”

  Dow laughed. “Do you see why I married this woman? She's ruthless.”

  “I didn't realize that was a character trait you admired in a woman.”

  “Always.”

  Abby turned back to DeDe. “Pray tell, how might I convince those men that it is their idea?”

  DeDe draped an arm over Abby's shoulder and led her to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a strategic planning session.

  14

  THE CURSOR ON ABBY'S LAPTOP BECKONED. THE CLOCK INCHED TOWARD six o'clock, and she stared at the stack of papers on her desk: release forms, security procedures, invitation lists. They all needed attention hours ago. Yet her thoughts returned to the unfinished speech on her computer screen.

  “I don't have time for this,” she murmured, trying to squelch the sudden burst of inspiration. “I need to get this paperwork done.” But try as she might, Abby could not stifle the train of thought. She shoved the papers to the corner of her desk and pulled her laptop forward.

  She reread her last entry, allowing her mind to orient to its point in the story.

  The diamond, now referred to simply as the French Blue, was placed in King Louis XIV's Cabinet of Curiosities sometime between 1669 and 1673. Apparently, the king was unconcerned with the illicit history surrounding his favored trinket and went about his business w
ith little thought to the supposed curse. The diamond was soon recut by the court jeweler, Sieur Pitau, and reduced to just over half its former size. Weighing in at just over 67 carats, it was worn by the king either as a brooch or as a necklace suspended on a pale blue ribbon.

  The reign of Louis XIV was marked by a single venture—the building of Versailles. In so doing he acquired the nickname of the Sun King for his belief that, as king, he bathed the common man in his glory. Yet this glory did not come without a price to those same commoners, as the funding for the world-renowned palace fell solely on their shoulders. It was an era of exorbitant taxation and the emergence of divine kingship.

  As a monarch, Louis's obsession with jewels grew along with the scope of his elaborate lifestyle. He commissioned an entire room on the south side of Versailles solely for the exhibition of the crown jewels, which he put to regular, personal use. Visiting nobles were often lent the jewels during their stay, and Louis delighted in such ambassadors partaking in the abundance of his generosity. Yet there was one diamond that was never worn by friend or mistress. That sole jewel, deep blue in color, was preserved as the king's favorite adornment, and it was only on occasion that it graced his own person.

  Abby followed the story on the screen, mouthing the words as she read them. Then she placed her fingertips on the keyboard and added the thoughts that were bubbling in her mind.

  After 72 years of rule, King Louis XIV died. Although it certainly would have brought him satisfaction, the great monarch was unable to take his precious jewel with him into eternity. Instead, it passed to his great-grandson, a five-year-old boy who became King Louis XV. As is often the case during times of peace and great prosperity, those who find themselves with an abundance of time and wealth tend to squander both.

  At a mere thirty years of age, King Louis XV was knighted into the Order of the Golden Fleece, a social status with little more significance than a gentlemen's club. Yet to the king, a man obsessed with status and titles, it was an honor that he believed should be recognized by all who laid eyes on him. So it was with no small amount of pomp that he commissioned the design of an elaborate brooch, containing no small number of stunning jewels, the centerpiece of which became the infamous French Blue. Once completed, the Golden Fleece was valued at almost 1.3 million livres, or the equivalent of 7.3 million dollars in today's currency.

  Louis XV's reign was marked by self-absorption that left his nation in financial ruin. Lacking the moral fortitude necessary to lead well and endure sacrifice, he died just as he lived—a weakling. King Louis XV succumbed to smallpox in the palace built by his great-grandfather. Bourbon tradition insisted that the ruler's heart be cut out and placed in a special coffer. Yet this king was the first monarch not to have that “honor” bestowed on him. Instead, those preparing the body poured alcohol into his coffin and soaked his body in quicklime. He was given an uneventful late-night burial. It was attended by a single courtier.

  Abby typed quickly, her thoughts racing ahead of her fingers. Although she never stopped writing, she often closed her eyes, seeing the picture in her mind. It was a fluid moment, the kind writers strive for in their storytelling, where thought and motion blend without effort. She smiled.

  Though many who believe the Hope Diamond to be cursed would look at the lives of both Louis XIV and Louis XV and believe them to have led somewhat pleasant, uneventful lives, it can be noted that they possessed a jewel that robbed them of the ability to truly enjoy their lives. It makes one wonder if there is no greater curse to endure that that of a never-ending discontentment. Yet, the saga of the Hope Diamond does not disappoint those who wait for it to strike its victims with cruelty. And a student of the jewel does not have to wait long to see two of the greatest monarchs in history meet a grisly fate at the cold and uncaring whim of the Hope Diamond. For next in line to the throne of France was a man born with the name Louis Auguste. History knows him as King Louis XVI, and his wife bears the renowned and unfortunate name of Marie Antoinette.

  Abby settled back in her chair, satisfied with her words and the abundance of text that preceded them. Even as she told this story, she understood the part she played in it.

  The indoor climbing wall at Chimborazo was the first of its kind in Washington, D.C., and as far as Isaac Weld was concerned, the best. Frequented mainly by serious climbers it was free of the usual distractions: youth groups blaring obnoxious Christian music, corporations on team-building events, and amorous couples on the ever pressing third date who would rather be in the darkness somewhere groping one another.

  He walked into the upscale training facility in his usual climbing gear: cargo shorts, baseball cap, white tee shirt, and running shoes. Isaac paid the fee at the front desk, but was followed to the four-story wall in the back by an eager attendant wearing a name tag that read Wyatt.

  “Hey, sir,” he called after Isaac. “Excuse me.”

  Isaac turned, in no mood to chat with a post-pubescent college student. “Yes?”

  “If you're heading to the back wall you gotta pass the belay test,” he said apologetically. “Sorry, man, but it's the rules.”

  Isaac cast a glance at the towering façade, pockmarked by neon-colored foot- and handholds. It swept upward, bulging irregularities in its surface, and was one of the better attempts to imitate a natural surface. “Let's get it over with then.”

  Wyatt led him to the back and collected a series of harnesses, carabiners, ropes, and rappelling gear. By the time the young man finished and turned around, Isaac had vanished. “Hey, man, I thought you wanted to climb,” he shouted through the empty room, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

  “I do,” Isaac responded from twenty feet above, dangling like a spider by his fingertips from a three-inch handhold. He swung his legs forward, planting his toes in a small crack, and pushed himself higher, quad muscles straining against his skin.

  The young man watched with gaping mouth as Isaac traversed the man-made cliff, swinging lithely from one outcropping to the next with no ropes or rappelling gear. Once he ascended the forty-foot precipice, Isaac maneuvered back and forth across its face, testing his strength against the various handholds and chimney climbs. Finally satisfied with his ability to best the wall, he shimmied down the surface and stood before the stunned attendant.

  “You said something about a belay test?”

  Wyatt held the ropes in his hand, watching a single bead of sweat roll down Isaac's temple, his breath barely accelerated. “Man, I've never seen anything like that. How long you been climbing?”

  Instead of answering, Isaac turned his back and sprang five feet into the air, latching onto the surface of the wall like a spider monkey. Then he climbed the course again, this time with his eyes closed.

  Douglas Mitchell maintained his penthouse in Bethesda, Maryland, even though he rarely stayed there. The physical address came in handy, as did the two-story, three-thousand-square-foot apartment with valet service, sauna, and private rooftop pool. Although he originally paid millions for it and enjoyed an obscene rate of appreciation on the property, it was empty except for a bed, a fully stocked liquor cabinet, and a laptop. The walls were devoid of pictures—even of his only daughter.

  Tall and clean shaven, Mitchell was unfamiliar with the phrase “business casual.” He dressed in a tailored three-piece suit every day and expected those who worked for him to do the same. He removed his jacket, laid it carefully on the bed, and grabbed his laptop. A series of hollow footsteps followed him across the parquet wood floors as he made his way to the spiral staircase and up to the second level.

  The French doors leading to his rooftop terrace were unlocked, and he pushed through them, refreshed by the chill of an early evening. A teak patio set rested near the pool, and Douglas Mitchell slid into one of the chairs and opened his computer. It hummed for a moment, warming up, and then he checked his email. There were several messages waiting, but he only opened the one from his daughter.

  He read the trepidation be
hind her sparse words. She requested breakfast. Short. Noncommittal. An easy escape. Just like Abby.

  Ripples danced across the swimming pool, but he did not see them. For the first time in weeks, he thought about his daughter.

  Dow stood before the large, industrial window that was once part of a steel manufacturing warehouse and watched the sun set on another day. The building now housed his second home, and he and DeDe relished their time spent in the loft apartment. Low, indirect lighting fell in pools across the floor, blurring the lines between light and darkness.

  “It's been a slow day,” he said over his shoulder, feeling his wife's presence.

  “I thought your assistant was going to transfer your calls here?”

  “She did. There just weren't many of them.”

  DeDe joined him at the window, placing her hand in the small of his back and resting her head against his shoulder. “I hate this part.”

  He nodded. “The calm before the storm.”

  She slid in front of him and looped her hands around his neck. “Have you ever wondered why we chose this career? I mean, really, normal people don't do this.”

  “The thrill of the chase, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps. But we're getting old. The travel takes its toll you know.”

  “What else are we going to do? Retire to the French Riviera?”

  DeDe snorted distastefully. “Gracious no. I just wonder if we'll ever truly be satisfied with what we've accomplished.”

  “Proud yes. Satisfied no. There is always more to be done.”

  In a city of 5.3 million people, it only made sense that Alex would see the same style car on more than one occasion. Yet it wasn't the silver BMW that bothered Alex, it was the driver. He had seen Wülf many times over the years while working for the Broker, and Alex wasn't such a fool as to believe he and Isaac went unsupervised in their work. But he didn't like the increased level of scrutiny that came with this heist. It was all well and good in the early days when he and Isaac were up against a slew of other professionals vying for the job. But they no longer had anything to prove. The other guys were winnowed out or ended up in prison. Hundreds of thefts later, he and Isaac were the only big players left in the game. And that was just the way they liked it, cherry-picking the best jobs from an endless pool of opportunity. Let the little guys fight for the table scraps; Alex Weld wanted to enjoy the feast. But he didn't like being shadowed in the process.