Eye of the God

by Ariel Allison

  Dizzy, he dried off and pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. He willed himself to remain conscious. To combat the nausea Alex forced himself to eat the rest of his breakfast. Then he chased down a few Tylenol with a glass of orange juice.

  A linen table napkin folded into a rectangle made a fine bandage; he pressed it against the wound and covered his head with a baseball cap in case it started bleeding again.

  If he had heard Isaac's money transfer orders correctly, he was operating on borrowed time and an empty bank account. Maybe, just maybe, he could intercept his brother before it was too late.

  Abby could not remember the last time she had seen her father face-to-face. She also could not remember him ever looking less pleased to see her.

  “Dad?” It was more of a question than a title.

  “What are you doing here?” He finished the distance between them and took hold of her elbow, ushering her into a small seating area off the lobby.

  “You said in your email that you would be in Paris.” He grimaced, but she continued. “I need your help. Something's happened.”

  Alex Weld kept a firm grip on the handrail in the elevator as he descended to the first floor of Hotel Le Bristol. A deep, searing pain burned his skull, and his arms and legs argued against what he asked them to do. Cold beads of sweat formed an oil slick on his forehead, soaking through the baseball cap.

  The narrow hallway joined the hotel lobby through an elaborate art gallery. It was the perfect place to watch for Isaac and the Broker.

  His body, weak from blood loss, lagged several steps behind his mind, sharply alert from pain. He saw Abby and the Broker long before he could get his legs to stop moving toward them. He was not sure whether it was luck or accident that prevented either of them from seeing him, but he used the opportunity to step behind a large, square column, less than ten feet away. They spoke in strained whispers, emotion filling the air.

  Although they bantered back and forth for several moments, Alex heard only a single word: Dad. It took a few seconds for it to register.

  Seeing Abby in this place startled him. Alex leaned his head against the cool stone, putting the pieces together. The Broker had used them both.

  Douglas Mitchell hurried Abby to an open table tucked in the corner and pulled her into one of the plush chairs. He tossed an occasional glance over his shoulder.

  His voice was neither kind nor gentle. “Why are you here?”

  Abby recoiled from his tone. “Someone stole the Hope Diamond.”

  “How?”

  “I don't know how. I was wearing it while I gave my speech, and then the lights went out and someone snatched it from around my neck.”

  Anger washed over his face, but he said nothing.

  Abby dropped her eyes. “I'm losing my job over this.”

  “You think?”

  “I thought you might be able to help.” She stood up, suddenly desperate to escape his presence. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

  Douglas Mitchell grabbed her arm and pulled her back to the table. “I just don't know what you want me to do about it, Abby.”

  “I want you to help me.”

  “How would you suggest I do that?”

  “You know people.”

  He did not respond, but watched Abby through narrowed eyes, waiting for her to continue.

  “Nothing happens in the art world that you don't know about.”

  “I wouldn't exactly classify the Hope Diamond as art,” he said.

  “It's close enough, and you know it. You can find out what happened.”

  “I don't know that I want to get tangled up in this mess.”

  “Would you just get out of your self-preservation mode for one second and look at me. I'm your daughter, for God's sake, and I have never asked you for anything. Never. I need you on this one, Dad.”

  After a long silence, he conceded. “Okay. I'll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” she said, relief overwhelming her.

  “But I can't do anything about it right now. You caught me right in the middle of something.”

  Her voice wavered. “What can be more important than … this?” Abby had almost said me.

  “I wasn't expecting you.”

  “Obviously, Dad. We're not exactly close.”

  He ground his teeth and looked at his watch. “Look, I need to make a call. Wait here.”

  “How long?”

  “Just wait.”

  She didn't want to oblige him but had no other option. “All right.”

  He waved toward a waiter. “Can I get a bottle of Pinot Noir for the lady?”

  Without another word, Douglas Mitchell walked away, just as the waiter returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses.

  His mind spinning, the Broker punched in a number on his cell phone. In less than five minutes a carefully woven plan had disintegrated.

  “Wülf!” he barked, as soon as his driver answered. “There has been a change of plans. I need you to pick me up. We're leaving immediately.”

  “Ja,” Wülf replied.

  The waiter poured Abby a glass of wine, and she reached for it with a trembling hand. After murmuring her thanks, he left to attend another table. She sat in the chair, lips pressed into a thin line, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. When someone dropped into the chair beside her, Abby jumped. It was a moment before she recognized the ashen face of Alex Weld. The hurtful emotions stirred up by seeing her father again soon melted into shock. The wine glass slipped from her fingers and tumbled through the air, splashing deep red wine over both their feet before it hit the tile floor and shattered.

  “Daddy wasn't much help in getting the diamond back, was he?” Alex said, his words rash and laced with anger.

  Her mouth dropped open. “What are you doing here?”

  “Let's just say I'm on a business trip.”

  The Alex Weld she knew was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp man who stared at her with unnerving blue eyes.

  The truth settled in layers. “You took it?”

  “Guilty as charged. Now, where is your father?”

  Abby recoiled, her heart trying to catch up with her head. “What does my father have to do with this?”

  “You tell me.” Alex reached for her arm, but she jerked it away. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Listen, Abby, I'm not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice taking on an apologetic tone.

  She shook her head and blinked back tears. “You already have.”

  “I need your help.”

  A strange, cold laugh filled the air. Abby barely recognized it as her own. “Haven't I helped you enough?”

  “Your father hired me to steal the diamond. I have to find out where he's going.”

  Abby leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She regarded him with disdain.

  “I'm telling the truth.”

  “Alex, I'm beginning to wonder if you have ever told me the truth.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out an antique gold ring of woven vines and set it gently on the table.

  Abby's eyes grew large and she gasped.

  “Pretty ring don't you think?”

  “That's mine!”

  “I know.” A sad smile washed over his face as he spun the ring around his middle finger.

  She looked back and forth from him to the ring. “You?”

  He nodded. “Who gave you that ring, Abby?”

  “My father.”

  “Your father, huh? Let me guess. Last October?”

  “Yes, it was a birthday present, but how—”

  “Where do you think he got it?”

  “I don't know. Bought it?”

  “Sort of. You could say he bought it from me, and I stole it from a little old lady in Ireland who wore it every year on St. Patrick's Day. Poor old bat probably doesn't even know it's missing.”

  “How could you?”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  Abby stood and lunged at
him across the table, pounding her fists on his chest. “You're a thief and a liar!”

  The other patrons in the gallery turned to stare at the scene, whispering among themselves about unrestrained and rude Americans.

  Alex pulled her gently into the chair next to him. “The inscription says, 'Alligator Food' doesn't it?”

  “You could have read that after you stole it from me.”

  “And the box? It came inside a pewter box with red velvet lining. What about that? You didn't have it with you in Rio.”

  Tears slipped unhindered down her cheeks. “How could you know about that?”

  “Because I'm telling the truth.”

  The black Mercedes, carrying Douglas Mitchell, pulled around to the entrance of Hotel Le Bristol.

  He leaned forward, addressing Wülf. “Don't do anything until I give the command. I'll let you know when I want him taken out.”

  Wülf nodded and parked as a lone figure stepped from behind a manicured topiary.

  “Get in,” the Broker demanded, rolling down the window.

  Isaac settled into the dark gray leather seat. He avoided the fierce glance Wülf gave him in the rearview mirror.

  “What do you think you're doing?” Douglas Mitchell asked.

  Isaac grinned. “Let's just say I've gone into business for myself.”

  “What do you mean? Where is Alex?”

  “My brother is dead.”

  Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “What exactly are you up to, Mr. Weld?”

  “I am eliminating all the obstacles in my path, including partners and middle men like yourself, Mr. Mitchell.” The Broker's eyes widened. “Oh yes, I know exactly who you are. As a matter of fact, I know everything about you.”

  “I would be very careful if I were you.”

  Isaac pulled the gun from his coat pocket and set it on his leg. “I'm tired of doing your dirty work and watching you make ten times more than I do for these little trinkets. Your services are no longer needed.”

  Douglas Mitchell began to shake, not from fear, but rage. “Then what am I doing here?” he growled between clenched teeth.

  “You will take me to the rendezvous point so I can auction off our little diamond to the Collectors.”

  “No chance.”

  Isaac pressed the gun into the Broker's temple and tilted his head to one side, watching him seethe. Wülf observed the interaction but did nothing to intervene.

  “What do I get out of it?” Mitchell asked, eyes darting between Isaac's expressionless face and the lethal weapon in his hand.

  “You get to live.”

  28

  HOTEL LE BRISTOL, PARIS, FRANCE, SEPTEMBER, 1910

  EVALYN WALSH MCLEAN STOOD ON THE BALCONY OUTSIDE HER SUITE at the Hotel le Bristol, overlooking the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. The narrow street, home to virtually every major boutique in Paris, began as a road extending from the Louvre and snaked its way through the high-end fashion district. Although somewhat cramped, it was nonetheless considered one of the most exclusive streets in the world. Mrs. McLean would not have considered staying anywhere else while in Paris.

  From her balcony looking over the hotel gardens, she had breathtaking views of both the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Her long, elegant fingers gently wrapped around the wrought-iron balcony rail. The air was mild, temperate this late in September, and a faint breeze wafted scents of jasmine and gardenia from the garden below.

  A few tendrils of her dark hair, which was curled and pinned high on her head, hung stylishly to the nape of her neck and brushed the three strands of pearls. She wore a light-blue silk gown, sashed at her narrow waist, and white lace-up boots. Tall and confident, she overlooked the city, a smile playing at the corners of her deep red lips.

  It was in moments like this that Evalyn allowed herself to remember that she had been born the daughter of a poor Irish miner, living in squalor in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Then, in the most improbable, but often dreamed of, stroke of luck, she landed in her present life of luxury. Miners don't often strike the mother lode, but when they do, it changes their lives and that of their children forever. Evalyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath, drinking in the scent of what wealth could buy.

  “Darling, he's here,” her husband, Ned, called. Stretched out on a chaise longue, a cigar dangled precariously from the corner of his mouth. “The butler is bringing him up.”

  She turned, resting lightly against the railing, but she was in no hurry to make her appearance. Evalyn studied their room with an appreciative eye. It was the best hotel suite money could buy: elaborate woodwork, red toile curtains that draped the windows and puddled on the floor; matching bed linens; lush white wall-to-wall carpet, and a private bath of white carrara marble. Just then the butler rapped on the door.

  “Entrez,” Ned called, rising from the chaise.

  Édourd swung open the paneled doors leading to the McLean suite and stepped aside as he ushered in their guest. “Monsieur Pierre Cartier,” he said with a slight bow.

  Evalyn observed Cartier with muted interest. He was a demure sort of man, self-possessed, and uninterested in making a statement of wealth with his physical appearance. Although well-dressed and of pleasant demeanor, he could have passed as any French businessman, as opposed to the most notable jewel merchant in the world. On that day he wore a modest three-piece suit of light gray wool, covered by a charcoal overcoat and black bowler hat. His wide smile showed large teeth, giving him an unfortunate resemblance to a horse. It was the small box he carried, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax that was of particular interest to Evalyn. Cartier held the package out before him, giving its entrance to the suite more priority than his own.

  Ned crossed the room, shaking Cartier's hand firmly, while Evalyn swept in from the balcony, her dress lightly trailing the floor. “Pierre,” she cooed. “So wonderful to see you again!”

  He took her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers. “Madame McLean. Always a pleasure.”

  Evalyn beamed, never shy about receiving attention from the opposite sex. “Please do come in.”

  Pierre Cartier followed Evalyn and Ned into the suite, and they settled themselves in the living area.

  “I trust that you are enjoying your vacation in France?” Cartier said.

  “Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Just yesterday we drove the most marvelous yellow Fiat coupe from Vichy. We had the top down the entire way. It was just glorious!”

  “Vichy was it? Gambling I take it?” Pierre asked, a mischievous light in his eyes.

  “My wife's favorite pastime,” Ned jibed, offering Cartier a fine Cuban cigar.

  “And a profitable one at that, darling,” she said. “I added seventy thousand dollars to the coffers.”

  “No doubt money that will be spent before Monsieur Cartier leaves us today.”

  Evalyn turned her gaze to the parcel in Cartier's lap. “Do tell me what you have brought me today, Pierre. You know I am a great fan of yours, given that marvelous gem you sold us on our honeymoon.”

  “Ah, yes,” Cartier said. “The Star of the East. Ninety-four carats, pure white, and in the shape of a tear drop, if I remember correctly.”

  “You astound me, Pierre. Such a mind for gems!” Evalyn exclaimed. “But, please, don't keep me waiting any longer. I simply can't stand it.”

  Ned rolled his eyes as he clipped the end of his cigar.

  Pierre looked at Evalyn, a mysterious smirk on his face. “Tell me, Mrs. McLean, do you know anything of the Turkish Revolution?”

  “Something of it. We were in Constantinople for part of our honeymoon, and we stayed with Sultan Abdul Hamid. Why he had the most glorious emerald and diamond studded porcelain cups!”

  “Indeed. It was during your honeymoon that we first met.”

  “A most fortunate event in my life,” she grinned.

  “You told me then that you had seen a jewel in the harem, a great blue stone that rested against the throat of the sultan's favorite.”<
br />
  She thought for a moment, trying to recall those days spent with the sultan. They were, by this point, lost in a haze of alcohol and frequent heroin use. After a moment or two, she said, “It seems to me that I did see that stone.”

  “The woman who had that jewel from the sultan's hand was stabbed to death,” Pierre said, leaning forward, his gaze locked on Evalyn.

  She sat up stiffly in her chair. “Is that so?”

  Cartier proceeded to tell her of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier and his journey to India, and she took special interest when he recounted the grisly deaths of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. Evalyn hung on every word and was not aware that Pierre Cartier bent the facts slightly to suit his purpose. The main players and general time frame of his story were all correct.

  “Do continue,” she said. “This is most fascinating.”

  “The stone disappeared after the Revolution. Simply put, Mrs. McLean, it was stolen,” he said, a finger running lightly over the yet unopened package in his lap.

  Evalyn glanced eagerly back and forth from Cartier to the brown paper box.

  “It is my understanding,” Cartier said. “That Tavernier had stolen the gem from a Hindu, perhaps a Hindu god. A most unfortunate decision, indeed, since Tavernier was later torn to pieces and eaten by wild dogs during a trip to Russia.”

  “Why, Monsieur Cartier, you make it sound as though all the violence of the French Revolution was just a repercussion of that Hindu idol's wrath.”

  “I am simply relaying the story of what I am about to offer you.”

  “And yet you do it in a most entertaining way.”

  Ned remained silent. He had long since learned that when Evalyn put her mind to something, there was little use in arguing. Eventually, she would get her way.

  “It was some time later that the diamond appeared in London in the possession of the Hope family,” Cartier said. “Lord Francis Hope's fortune as well as his marriage dissolved. The diamond was sold to Selim Habib and the Turkish sultan.”

  “I must see the thing!” Evalyn implored, nearly bursting from her ottoman.

  With great flourish, Cartier unwrapped his package, breaking the wax seals and artfully unfolding the brown paper wrapping. Inside lay a black jeweler's box. He turned it to face Evalyn and flipped open the lid, revealing the stunning blue diamond.