Swann studied Laurel for a long time. Gradually his expression of dark intensity gave way to a kind of bleak gray melancholy.
“I need a few minutes alone,” he said. “I—uh, I have to make a phone call. After that I’ll take the egg and go. Then you forget about it. All of it. Got that?”
“The package never came. I never opened it. You never were here.”
For a moment he stared at her, surprised by her succinct summary of what he wanted from her. Then he blinked, grinned, and the happy-go-lucky pirate of a father was back.
“You stick to that and everyone will be okay,” he said approvingly.
“Are you in danger?” she asked bluntly.
“Run along upstairs. When you come back down in ten minutes, I’ll be gone.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
Sure, Laurel thought. That’s why you’re in this mess.
“I’ll leave you my pager number,” he said.
He went to the dry-marker board where her next three projects were listed in different colors, with the phone numbers of various gem suppliers across the United States written in red down one side. Swann added an 800 number and beeper code to the red list.
“Don’t call just to say hello,” he said as he wrote.
“Have I ever?”
“I’ve never given you the chance before.”
Swann turned around. Laurel was standing close to him, her face lined with tension.
“Keep your answering machine on, baby,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I’ll be in touch. And if you go anywhere, take your work valise with you. Valuable stuff always comes in handy.”
“Dad, what—”
“Go upstairs,” he interrupted, but his voice was gentle. “Everything is fine. You’re out of it now, back to the world of cozy little moral choices.”
He turned his daughter by the shoulders and pointed her toward the stairs.
Reluctantly she took a few steps, trying hard to find words that might make a difference. No words came except the words that had never made a difference in the past.
When Swann heard the upstairs door close softly, he waited a moment longer, listening. Then he moved like a ghost up the stairway. He stood very close to the door, listening with senses honed by years of living on the edge.
No sound of breath. No impatient shuffling of feet. No rub of cloth against the door.
Laurel had done just what he had asked.
You’re paranoid, Swann told himself. Good thing, too. Damn few paranoids die with a knife in their back.
Whistling softly under his breath, he began pulling tools out of Laurel’s satchel until he found what he wanted. Still whistling, he bent over the egg.
Ten minutes later Jamie Swann kept his promise and disappeared.
12
Los Angeles
Monday afternoon
At just past four, a Cadillac limousine cruised down Hill Street past the winos and dope dealers in Pershing Square. As the city unrolled on either side, Damon Hudson stared through the limo’s darkened windows. It had been years since he’d been to the downtown Los Angeles jewelry district. A lot had changed.
None of it good.
The jewelry district had once been a dark, quiet corner in the Anglo enclave called “downtown.” Jews and Armenians and Syrians, all of them dealers in gold or precious stones, had rented small stalls in buildings owned by the Chandlers and the Shermans, the Strubs and the Gerkens. Now those same Middle Easterners owned the buildings and rented stalls to Vietnamese, Mexicans, and Filipinos.
Some people felt downtown Los Angeles had blossomed. Others felt it had metastasized. Hudson’s vote was for the cancer simile. Financial and political power had spun off in all directions—to Century City, to the San Fernando Valley, to Orange County. In the rush to suburbia, the jewelry district had been left behind.
Without fanfare, the jewelry district had grown until it overwhelmed the heart of the old downtown. Twelve square blocks had been transformed into a vivid, vital, and sometimes shady crossroads of the Pacific Rim jewelry trade. The district was a microcosm of the new Los Angeles, a polyglot, postmodern melting pot. Hudson didn’t like any part of it.
The black limousine slid around a pair of double-parked Brink’s armored trucks in front of the 550 South Hill Street Building. The structure was a perfect example of the district’s change, a Tower of Babel built from gem, gold, and diamond profits. Inside the building, Israeli, Dutch, and Indian diamond cutters rubbed shoulders with Japanese pearl dealers, sapphire and ruby brokers from Southeast Asia, and gold merchants from South Africa and the Middle East.
Ordinarily Hudson would have avoided the shouting and shouldering of the jewelry district. There was something wrong about a man of his stature frequenting such an obviously greedy place. He’d long since outgrown the kind of shameless hustling that went on behind the district’s guarded high-rises.
But right now, he didn’t have much choice about mingling with the brash new kids on the block. He needed to walk in cold on Armand Davinian. Dead cold. No warning and no chance to hide. It was the only way Hudson could hope to get an unguarded response from his former associate and onetime friend.
The limousine pulled to the curb in front of 609 South Hill, one of the older buildings in the area. Without waiting for the driver to serve him, Hudson pushed open the door, slid out, and stalked across the sidewalk. The elevator in the lobby was old. It was crowded with people and languages he didn’t understand.
Hudson took the stairs, quickly climbing up three flights. At the top he was a bit out of breath. He paused to let his racing heart slow down. Davinian was old and weak, but he was dangerously shrewd. Hudson would need every ounce of mental advantage he could summon, including the psychological edge that came from superior health.
The third-floor hallway stretching in front of Hudson was dark to the point of being secretive. Small suites opened on either side. Each suite presented a large glass display window to the world. Each suite was guarded by a thick glass door whose lock operated only from inside the room.
That, at least, hadn’t changed. The people who locked themselves into their gold and gem rooms had a keen understanding of human greed.
Hudson walked swiftly down the hall, not stopping until he was in front of a door discreetly labeled DAVINIAN AND SONS, DIAMONDS AND METALS TO THE TRADE. A bigger sign in one corner of the dark, virtually empty display window warned: NOT OPEN TO THE PUBLIC.
Leaning forward, Hudson stared through the glass door into the gloomy shop. Most of the display area was dark. In the back room a frail bald man sat hunched like a vulture over a workbench.
Hudson tried the door. As he expected, it was locked. He rattled the knob sharply instead of knocking.
The old man looked up. In the pitiless white light of a work lamp, his face looked cadaverous. He wore conventional steel-rimmed glasses with extra magnifying lenses mounted on pivoting stalks. Owllike, he blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the changed focal distance.
Slowly his glance came to rest on Hudson’s face. For a long moment, the old man simply stared like he didn’t believe what he was seeing.
Hudson rattled the door again and kept on rattling, demanding entry.
Finally the birdlike man touched a button on the wall beside the workbench.
A buzzer sounded. Suddenly the knob turned beneath Hudson’s hand. The door opened with a distinct squeal of metal on metal.
Before Davinian could change his mind, Hudson was inside. Without a glance at the astonishing array of gemstones, he crossed the display area. All he cared about was the old man who was watching him from the work area.
Behind Hudson the door locked audibly, isolating the two men from the rest of the world. A display counter joined by a locked gate prevented Hudson from getting into the work area where Davinian waited.
“Armand, what kind of madness have your people commi
tted now?” Hudson demanded.
Davinian blinked and said nothing.
“Has all of Russia gone crazy, or are just a few of its less intelligent members stirring the pot?” Hudson continued angrily.
Slowly Davinian straightened, left his workbench, and walked to the display case that was holding Hudson at bay. He stood across the case from Hudson, watching carefully, a man expecting some kind of trick.
“You should not talk to me of craziness,” Davinian said in a reedy voice. “You are the one who came here during working hours for the whole world to see. Why, for the sake of God? Our business is finished. We agreed never to meet.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever have to see your face again. Then your big black dove landed on my shoulder yesterday, and I changed my mind. We need to talk. Now.”
Davinian cocked his head. It was the gesture of an old man whose hearing had begun to fail.
“Black dove?” Davinian asked softly. “Who or what are you talking about?”
“Six feet of female. Dark. A journalist with a well-oiled snatch.”
“I don’t know any—”
“The hell you don’t,” Hudson cut in. “The knowledge behind the kind of questions she asked could only come from one source. You.”
“I say again that I do not know this person.”
“Bullshit. Only a handful of people in the world know enough to ask questions about parcels of diamonds that were sold at auction in Antwerp in 1937.”
Davinian’s eyes widened in shock.
“Or questions about French Impressionist paintings in my own collection,” Hudson added savagely. “She knew about other paintings too, the ones that were sold at auction from the late 1930s on into the sixties.”
“On my soul I do not—”
Hudson kept on talking. “She even asked questions about Fabergé pieces that began appearing in the West in the fifties.”
Davinian leaned heavily against the counter.
“There are only a few people who know me well enough to know how embarrassing the answers to those questions would be,” Hudson said. “Only one of those people is here in Los Angeles—Armand Davinian. Ready to talk now?”
With hands that showed the involuntary tremors of age, Davinian took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Why did you betray me?” Hudson asked. “Did you think I was too old to beat a spy like you until you begged for mercy?”
Automatically Davinian began polishing his glasses with the end of his dark blue necktie. The silk of the tie was frayed, showing it had been used like this for a long time.
“I am a jeweler,” Davinian said firmly. “I was born in Soviet Armenia. I have maintained some contacts there. I have done business with you from time to time. I am not a spy.”
“Bullshit. You’re an unregistered agent of a foreign government. You acted on behalf of the Soviet Union. We both know where the diamonds came from, and the paintings, and all the rest of the stuff you sold through me.”
“You were well paid.”
Hudson’s open hand slammed onto the display counter. The glass rattled.
“And we both know the money from every sale went right back to your bosses in the KGB,” Hudson said. “Now tell me again that you aren’t a spy.”
Davinian spread his own gnarled hands on the glass as if to hold it in place.
“Calm yourself,” the Armenian said in his dry, whispery voice. “Unlike you, I have had no contact with Moscow in some time. My associates are no longer in positions of power. Much has changed.”
“Changed?” Hudson smiled sardonically. “Things never change. Not in any way that matters. There are always more pigs than there are places at the trough. So you figured to feed from my trough instead of fighting for a place at Russia’s.”
Davinian shook his head, silently repeating his innocence.
“How much?” Hudson demanded. “How much will it cost to buy you off?”
“Think past your anger. I cannot be the source of your troubles. If the past is revealed I have as much to lose as you.”
The papery whisper of the other man’s voice finally penetrated Hudson’s rage, revealing the fear beneath. He’d spent a lifetime making certain that he was immune to poverty, snobbery, and bad health. For years he’d felt invulnerable.
But no longer.
Abruptly Hudson turned away, not wanting Davinian’s shrewd eyes to see the fear.
A buzzer sounded. The latch on the gate popped open. A frail hand touched Hudson’s arm.
“Come in the back with me,” Davinian said. “Sit down, have some tea, and then tell me precisely what occurred. We will find a way past this difficulty, just as we did with other difficulties in the past.”
For a moment Hudson remained stiff. Then he cursed and turned around.
Davinian was there, waiting, watching Hudson with dark eyes that even time hadn’t managed to cloud.
“All right,” Hudson said. “Christ, what a mess.”
While Davinian brewed and poured tea, Hudson talked. Without appearing to, Davinian listened with the silent intensity of the assassin he once had been. While he listened, he sipped the potent tea. The more Davinian heard, the more he understood Hudson’s fear.
Claire Toth was dangerously well informed.
“The bitch must have been reading my mail—our mail—for years,” Hudson said. “You should have seen her rubbing against my prick and sticking her tongue in my ear while she described every deal you and I ever did.”
“All of them?”
“Everything from the diamonds to the Old Masters.”
“Diamonds are common and anonymous,” Davinian said.
“Some of them weren’t.”
“She knew of those too?”
“Yes. The Romanov blues and those pinkish ones that Harry Winston bought.”
“Truly?” Davinian sighed. “That is not good.”
“It gets worse. She recited a list of paintings that was accurate and detailed. She knew it all. She even knew how we divided the profits, and how I invested mine.”
“Ah. Now you must know I was not involved.”
“What?” Hudson asked.
“I never bothered myself with the details of your business, just as you never intruded into my life.”
After a moment, Hudson nodded reluctantly. “But what about those Russian pals of yours? They don’t trust anyone. Not even me.”
Davinian almost smiled at the irritation in the other man’s voice.
“Despite all the friendship I’ve shown the Soviet Union over the past five decades,” Hudson said, “all the trade embargoes I’ve fought, all the right-wing American lunatics I’ve antagonized, the Russians never once confided in me. And now this—Christ. I deserve better than this from those peasant bastards.”
Davinian shook his head. “You would have made a fine actor. One would think you did not know that betrayal is the first rule among men.”
“But I had a vision. All my life I’ve worked toward world peace and cooperation. I cultivated warm relations with every Soviet leader from Stalin to Gorbachev. I’ll even make my peace with this idiot Yeltsin, if I must.”
The sound Davinian made could have meant anything.
“Everything I’ve done was in the name of breaking down the barriers between peoples,” Hudson said earnestly.
“And in the name of profit.”
“They used me!”
“Just as you used them.”
“But—”
“Please,” Davinian interrupted, “do not play the naive international philanthropist with me. It is unbecoming. You were a friend of the Soviets because it profited you.”
“No. I believed.”
“Then you were a fool. I do not think you are now or have ever been a fool, Damon Hudson.”
For a moment the two men looked at one another in silence.
Although they were about the same age, Davinian had always been envious of Hudson’s strength and
aggressive virility. Now Davinian was seeing Hudson in a different light. Hudson’s body was amazingly sound, but his mind seemed to have gone soft. Davinian wondered if it was a side effect of the sexual booster shots Hudson was taking in secret.
At least Hudson thought the process was a secret.
And it was, from most people. But not from Davinian. The very places Hudson frequented in Eastern Europe—business trips, if anyone asked—were the places where Davinian had old friends.
Abruptly he understood why Hudson was so panicked at the thought of being betrayed by the Russians. Hudson was afraid of losing the source of his unnatural virility.
Even as Davinian mentally noted and filed that fact for future use, he set about soothing the other man’s fears.
“I think you are giving this female more credit than she deserves,” Davinian said softly. “Others have written about your international business efforts in the past and nothing has come of it.”
Hudson dismissed the words with an impatient wave of his hand. “I spend millions on public relations men to make sure that nothing comes of muckraking articles.”
“Your money has been well spent.”
“Only because most journalists are lazy. Not one of them ever dug as deep into my personal history as Claire Toth did.”
“Interesting,” murmured Davinian.
“If she knows so much about me, she most assuredly knows about you as well. Have you thought of that?”
Davinian nodded. “Yes. It is an unhappy circumstance. A very unhappy one.”
For more than thirty years, Davinian had been part of a large and carefully concealed network of political operatives. He was a technician, not an ideologue, but he had plied his craft exclusively on behalf of Moscow.
His primary task had been to act as a liaison with Hudson, but Davinian had undertaken other jobs as well. He monitored certain individuals in the Los Angeles Soviet émigré community, passing along information gleaned by a small but efficient network of operatives in Southern California’s defense and aerospace industries.
He had also arranged the disappearance of troublemakers.
Although Hudson knew nothing of these other activities, the man was shrewd enough to guess that Davinian had secrets that were better off not revealed.
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