Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

“Are you saying I don't do my part?”

  “Oh, you do it,” Alex said, turning to Isaac for the first time. “You do it well.”

  “Then what is your problem?”

  “You're so far removed from what's happening on the ground that you don't realize how complicated it gets down there.”

  “Complicated?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The only complication I see is that you fell in love and almost ruined months of planning.”

  Alex winced at the truth; he had fallen in love with Abby, and now he was leaving. Looking out the window, Alex tamped down his emotions and watched the ground slip away. Soon the jet lifted into the sky, and as they approached cruising altitude, his thoughts turned to the brunette who remained on the ground far below.

  Abby boarded the Boeing 747 at Dulles International Airport two hours later. The flight was less than half full. She moved through first class, holding nothing but her iPhone and a small carry-on.

  “Ma'am,” the flight attendant called after her.

  Abby turned, her eyes bloodshot. “Yes?”

  “You passed your seat. You're in B4.”

  “But that's first class.”

  “So is your ticket,” the attendant said with a wink. “May I take your bag and get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” Abby rubbed her tired, swollen eyes and settled into the seat. Wisps of hair escaped her pony-tail, and she still wore DeDe's diamond earrings. “I just need sleep.”

  “A Tylenol PM perhaps?”

  “That would be great.”

  “I'll be right back.”

  Abby punched seven buttons on her cell phone and waited for Dow's voice. “Thank you,” she said when he answered.

  “It was the least I could do.”

  “It means a lot.”

  “You mean a lot to us,” he said. “You deserve first class.”

  Dr. Abigail Mitchell could no longer compose herself. She muttered an unintelligible good-bye, buried her face in the headrest, and wept.

  When the flight attendant returned, she laid the Tylenol on the seat beside Abby, along with a flight pillow and blanket. Abby slept before the plane left U.S. airspace.

  Although not a well-known tourist destination, Hotel Le Bristol was one of the most luxurious hotels in Paris. It sat in the middle of Paris's art and shopping district, across from the River Seine. Alex Weld and his brother met with the Broker in the Panoramic Suite several times a year and exchanged stolen goods for garish amounts of money.

  Alex stood at the hotel window and observed the whitewashed building and manicured lawns below.

  Isaac's mood lightened up during the flight. By the time they landed in Paris, he was so drunk that he staggered to the cab and then passed out. When they arrived at the hotel, Alex managed to wake up his brother and guide him to the suite. Isaac flopped on the bed and immediately began to snore. Yet try as he might, sleep eluded Alex.

  It was not the jet lag that kept him awake all night, but a single thought of Abby, curled up on her couch, hair in a ponytail, wearing those hideous blue-and-orange toe socks. Try as he might, he could not erase her memory.

  Once the sun rose above the skyline, Isaac emerged from the bedroom, showered, dressed, and ready for their meeting later. Room service delivered fruit, pastries, yogurt, and espresso, a traditional Parisian breakfast, and the brothers ate in silence.

  Isaac drained his coffee cup and leveled a frigid stare at his brother. “I've been thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “We've had this little arrangement going for what, nine years now?”

  “Ten.” Alex felt the tension between the two of them.

  Isaac pointed a half-eaten piece of pastry at Alex. “I think it's time to dissolve our partnership. You're holding me back.”

  “I'm holding you back?”

  “Yes. I'd prefer to work alone.”

  Alex's harsh laugh filled the room, but there was no mirth on his face. “Well, I'd prefer not to work at all.”

  “That can be arranged,” Isaac said. Suddenly, he pulled a handgun from the holster behind his back. A silencer was screwed onto the end.

  Alex jumped to his feet and backed away. “Whoa! What is this?”

  “This,” Isaac said, leveling the gun at Alex's head, “is a corporate takeover.”

  Alex opened his mouth to respond, but Isaac pulled the trigger before he could speak. The gun popped quietly, and a wisp of black smoke curled from the barrel. Alex fell to the carpet, blood pooling beneath his head.

  25

  PARIS, FRANCE, JANUARY 21, 1793,

  THE DAWN DELIVERED A BLEAK AND DREARY DAY, SODDEN WITH RAIN and temperamental winds. More than 1,200 horsemen and hundreds of French citizens crowded the Place de Louis XV to carry out King Louis's execution. In the center of the plaza stood a scaffold holding the guillotine, and only there could a clearing be found. The people had come to see their king beheaded, but they did not want to be sprayed with his blood.

  From a distance the heavy beat of a drum signaled the approach of the king's carriage. It was escorted by a contingent of horsemen, and a group of drummers announced his doom. They pulled into the plaza with all the drama and anticipation due such an event.

  The doors to his carriage swung open, and out stepped the king of France, dressed in robes and possessed of the haughty expression for which he was so famous. Three guards immediately surrounded him and would have undressed him for the ritual beheading, but he gave them such a scowl that they backed away. King Louis XVI removed his own robes, undid his necktie, and opened his shirt, maintaining the dignity of nobility.

  No longer taken off guard, the soldiers attempted to seize his hands but were rebuked sternly. “What are you attempting?” he asked.

  “To bind you,” replied a guard, feeling more and more uneasy.

  “To bind me!” he shrieked, his voice breaking with anger. “No! I shall never consent to that. Do what you have been ordered, but you shall never bind me.”

  Louis took the arm of a priest as he made his way toward the scaffold. For the briefest moment, he appeared to lose his nerve, but once he reached the steps, he climbed them boldly to stand before the blade.

  Such a fierce glare crossed the king's face that the drums fell silent. A hush settled over the crowd.

  His words were laced with defiant anger as he announced, “I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge. I pardon those who have occasioned my death. And I pray to God that the blood you are going to shed may never be visited on France.”

  He would have continued with his speech were it not for a national guardsman on horseback who ordered the continuance of the drums. They roared to life again, pounding the death knell. With them roared to life the voices of those in the crowd who encouraged the executioners.

  “Off with his head!”

  “Death to the king!

  “Justice for the people!”

  It was but a fleeting moment, and the king knelt before the guillotine. Only a blink of an eye later the axe fell upon him. A young guard, not more than eighteen years of age, seized the severed head by the hair and lifted it for the crowd to see. A macabre silence fell upon the witnesses, as though they realized for the first time that their king was dead.

  Then a lone voice in the crowd bellowed, “Vive la République!”

  One after another, the people took up the chant.

  “Vive la République!”

  “Vive la République!”

  Within moments, it became the battle cry of a people deposing their monarch. The plaza reverberated with the sound of their protest, and then spontaneously, everyone tossed their hats into the air, darkening the sky and the ground on which laid the newly beheaded king of France.

  26

  WITH A BLANK EXPRESSION ON HIS FACE, ISAAC WELD STOOD OVER HIS brother's body, tilting his head to the side. He picked the discarded bullet shell from the floor and unscrewed the silencer. His eyes lingered on Alex'
s face for a moment as he tried to beckon memories from childhood. Nothing surfaced in Isaac's mind, and he turned away with a shrug.

  Isaac picked up the Hope Diamond from his nightstand, hung the black velvet bag around his neck, and slipped it beneath his shirt. He felt emboldened by its weight. Checking his wristwatch, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Isaac waited patiently until a voice answered on the other end.

  “Munson Financial, Sebastian speaking.”

  “This is Isaac Weld.”

  “I expected your call an hour ago, Mr. Weld.”

  “Yes, well, I was dealing with an unfortunate obstacle.”

  “Has this obstacle been removed?”

  He glanced at the pool of blood that spread out in a circle on the floor. “It has. I'm ready to make the transfer that we spoke about previously.”

  “I can do that now if you like.”

  “Please do.”

  “The fee that we discussed will apply.”

  “That's fine.”

  “And you want to transfer the entire balance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Eight hundred and twenty million dollars is being transferred from your Swiss bank account to an offshore account in the British Virgin Islands as agreed. It should only take a few moments.”

  “And this will be untraceable?”

  “Yes, as I stated earlier.”

  “What about the other issue we discussed?”

  “I have taken care of the details, and it is no longer a joint account.”

  “I don't foresee that being a problem, but I must cover all my bases.”

  “Of course, sir. All of my clients are careful men such as yourself. As a last precaution I need you to reconfirm your current account number.”

  Isaac rattled off a twenty-one digit bank account number beginning with CHkk, Switzerland's international banking code.

  “Number confirmed. It will take about thirty seconds to transfer the full balance to your new account number—”

  “I would prefer,” Isaac interrupted, “that you not say it aloud.”

  “Of course. Please wait. I will let you know when the transfer is complete.”

  Isaac stood before the picture window in the Hotel Le Bristol. The previously arranged rendezvous with the Broker was no longer of interest to him. Now that Alex was out of the way, things were going to be different.

  “Transfer complete, Mr. Weld.”

  “And the account will be active immediately?”

  “Yes. You received the package I sent to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have your cards?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you and I have no further need of each other. Unless you need my services in the future we will not be speaking again, Mr. Weld.”

  “I prefer it that way.”

  “It's been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Isaac flipped his phone shut, stuffed a small duffel bag with a few personal belongings, and left the room. Their suite was booked for three days, and he would be in another country by the time Alex's body was discovered. Isaac left his brother behind without a backward glance. Had he bothered to take the time, he would have been in for a great surprise.

  Abby slept better on the flight to Paris than she had for a month at home. Perhaps it was the luxuries of first class, or the Tylenol PM she requested.

  It was late morning by the time she found herself wandering the streets of Paris's shopping district, slightly bewildered and feeling the effects of jet lag. Despite six hours of solid sleep, her body insisted it was the middle of the night.

  Abby stopped before Notre Dame Cathedral, known as the heart of Paris. Distances to anywhere in the city were measured from the cathedral, it being “point zero” for all French roads. It was a massive, ornate building, French Gothic in style, but not as gaudy as many scattered throughout Europe. What held her attention were the ornate stained-glass windows, so reminiscent of the chapel across the street from her apartment.

  Abby sat on a stone bench in the courtyard and dialed an international number on her iPhone. She counted the number of rings on the other end. Just as the message clicked on, it occurred to her that she had not really sorted through just what she wanted to say.

  “Leave a message. I might get back to you.” The familiar, yet brisk sound of her father's voice was just as startling to her on the answering machine as it was in real life.

  “Dad, it's me,” she said, realizing she'd been silent for several seconds after the beep. “I need your help. Please call my cell as soon as you can. This is important.”

  Her hope of actually connecting with him on the phone was slim, but she had to try. Things would be more difficult now. Abby took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. Once again her eyes drifted toward the old church.

  For a moment she was tempted to enter and offer a prayer for help. The task before her seemed impossible. Yet even as she looked with longing at the ancient place of worship, she could not urge her feet to move in that direction.

  Abby tugged at her ear and studied her iPhone for a moment. Then she hailed a cab.

  “I just want to get one thing straight,” the Broker said, struggling to maintain a level tone on his cell. He sat in an open-air café, enjoying a light breakfast while Wülf stood a short distance away. His cheeks were flushed, and he gripped the phone tightly in his left hand. “You're changing the plan?”

  “Yes,” replied the voice of Isaac Weld on the other line.

  “That won't happen.”

  “If you want your diamond it will.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Weld?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That is a dangerous proposition.”

  “If you want your diamond you will meet me at the rendezvous point in ten minutes.”

  Isaac hung up. The Broker shifted in his chair and looked at Wülf. “When this is over, I want him dead. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Abby craned her neck and took in a charming hotel snuggled on the Rue Du Faubourg Saint-Honore. Each of the many windows was fitted with a wrought-iron flower box, now devoid of foliage. The glass front doors were trimmed in brass and welcomed guests into the elegant lobby.

  Abby fingered her iPhone and pushed her way through the double doors, feeling at once underdressed. Reproductions of classic French paintings hung on the walls, and busts of French kings sat in niches, bathed in display lighting. Along the walls display cases featured Henry Winston and Pierre Cartier jewelry.

  Abby would never have seen her father had he not stopped in the middle of the lobby to check a missed call on his cell phone. She flinched. Could it really be her father? Unmistakably. He was tall, his black hair tinged with gray at the temples. He wore a trim three-piece suit and a scowl. Abby could not remember the last time she had seen her father smile.

  The Broker was not at all pleased to hear the message on his voice mail. Just as he hung up the phone, he lifted his eyes and saw her. Abby stood just inside the entrance of Hotel Le Bristol, watching him nervously.

  “Dad!” she called out, her face at once hopeful and hesitant.

  Douglas Mitchell, the man known to many as the Broker, could not control the look of fear that spread across his face.

  27

  ALEX ROLLED ONTO HIS STOMACH, FEELING AS THOUGH A PITCHFORK HAD impaled the side of his head. While Isaac had made his call, Alex had played dead, struggling to stay conscious, so that he could control his breathing. If Isaac had known Alex lived, his brother would have unloaded another round into him, albeit as badly aimed as the first.

  “He always was a lousy shot,” Alex groaned, rising onto his hands and knees.

  A swath of fire burned above his left ear, but he dared not touch it for fear of what he would find. Once on his hands and knees, Alex rocked back and forth gently, like a child learning to crawl. The bathroom was only fifteen feet away, but it may as well have been in Montana. />
  Alex crawled forward slowly, blood running down his cheek and dripping from his nose. Even on all fours he was dizzy, and spots swam before his eyes. Only when his hand met the cool marble of the bathroom floor did he lift his head. He sat back on his heels, grabbed the edge of the sink, and pulled himself into a standing position.

  The bullet had ripped open a gash three inches long and nearly an inch wide above his left ear. Thankfully, it missed his temple by a hair's breadth. Alex ran his fingers over the wound, pressing gently as he looked for further damage. He took a trembling breath and teetered against the sink.

  That was close.

  What came next would not be fun, but it was necessary. Wincing, he pinched the skin together to close the gap. Blood oozed through his fingers and ran down the back of his hand. He stumbled to the minibar and grabbed a travel-size bottle of vodka. Back in the bathroom, Alex grabbed the sewing kit set out with the shampoo and hand lotion. It would be a quick fix that wouldn't last for long, but he didn't have time to find a doctor.

  The black thread in the sewing kit could hardly be compared to medical sutures, but he had no choice. It took several attempts to thread the needle with shaky fingers, but he finally slipped the flimsy thread through the eye. Alex took a deep breath and dumped the bottle of vodka over his wound. He tucked his chin against his chest and held onto the sink until his knuckles turned white; the pain seared his skin like a branding iron. Tears dripped from his eyes and splattered into the bloody sink.

  Alex took a deep breath, raised the needle, and stitched up the wound. He did it more by touch than sight, knowing full well that he was making a mess of things, but his main concern at the moment was to stop the bleeding. It took him ten minutes. His handiwork wasn't pretty, but it was effective.

  He dared a quick glance at the clock, noting that Isaac had been gone for thirty minutes. He had to hurry. Peeling off his bloody clothes, he tossed them on the floor. He climbed into the shower and rinsed the blood from his head as carefully as possible so as not to damage his makeshift sutures.