The sheer exclusivity and luxury of it all were really unparalleled. I wished Thomas were there. He would have loved this. I wanted to call him up and tell him everything, tell him about the last twenty-four hours and Alma Naxos’s offer to do whatever she could to help. But that was missing the point, wasn’t it? I was trying to stay out of Thomas’s sights, not share my adventures with him.
As it was, I was running a risk by going into the heart of Zurich. Zurich was where Thomas was by now, unless he’d gone to St. Moritz after all in the hopes of spotting me there. But I’d assessed the downside and decided there was little chance of our running into each other. First of all, he wasn’t looking for me in Zurich or expecting to see me, so I held the element of surprise in my hand. Plus, I’d changed my appearance completely. And finally, I didn’t have any choice—that was where my connections were.
I got up and helped myself to more coffee, a brioche, butter and orange marmalade, and then I just looked out the windows and enjoyed the incredible spectacle of the snow-covered Alps passing below.
N I N E T E E N
The driver’s eyes looked at mine in the rearview mirror. “Where may I take you, madam?”
The car was identical to the Naxos Mercedes sedan in Paris.
“The Baur au Lac, please. I’m meeting friends for brunch.”
“Very well.” He pulled out of the unmarked hangar at Zurich International Airport and drove swiftly into the center of the city. I got out at the front door of the hotel, passed quickly through the main lobby—my eyes were constantly on the lookout for Thomas, but thankfully, I didn’t see him—and out the side door into the frigid morning wind that came off the frozen lake.
I’d spent a great deal of time in Zurich and knew exactly where I was going. I crossed the bridge and stayed along the bank of the canal until I reached the nondescript antiquarian bookstore marked by a chipped black sign with gold letters. A bell tinkled when I opened the door and an old man looked up from a desk heaped with books and papers in a dark corner.
“Madame?” He squinted over the tops of his smudged glasses. Between him and the piles of ancient manuscripts, the smell of unwashed body, mold and mildew was staggering.
I reluctantly closed the door behind me. “I collect letters of Madame de Pompadour and I understand you might have some new arrivals.”
The old man studied me. “Oh?”
“I’m interested in one in particular—a note she sent to Choiseul.”
“She sent numerous notes to Choiseul. Sometimes ten a day.”
“You’re right.” I laughed. “This one calls for Voltaire’s head.”
“Ah. Good.” He stood up from the desk and, after giving his creaky old bones a moment to accustom themselves to the shock of being erect, shuffled past me and locked the front door. It was painful to watch. “Follow me.”
He creaked through brocade curtains that I wouldn’t touch without rubber gloves, and down stone steps into a cellar that could only exist in an ancient city. It smelled disgusting. He cranked an ancient wall switch and a hanging bulb cast dim, watery light over old filing cabinets, more endless stacks of manuscripts and—half-concealed by a door hanging from broken hinges—a toilet I’d commit suicide before I’d use. He moved a stack of boxes aside with surprising strength and revealed a modern steel door. He placed his index fingers on an electronic scanner and the door rolled back automatically.
I stepped in and the door immediately sealed shut behind me with a hiss.
This was EKM Elektronika—the secret Mecca of the most advanced electronic espionage gadgets and gizmos on earth, most of them considered illegal in most civilized countries. Its existence was known only to select international government agencies who purchased and used the contraband gadgets in spite of the ban against them, and to certain individuals, such as I, who could afford them. It could be compared to a decorator’s showroom, with its exclusive Open to the Trade sign on the door. But this was a much more expensive, selective, elusive consortium, hidden in the murky demimonde of acceptability, with price tags to match.
The halogen lights in the showroom were intense and focused. They blazed off long, gleaming stainless-steel counters and walls of glass-fronted displays. A man in a work apron approached. He had thick black hair and thick black-rimmed glasses. Although we’d done business with each other for years, I didn’t know his name and he didn’t know mine. We were both professionals and I trusted him implicitly.
“Yes, madam. How may I help you today?” His English had only the faintest accent.
Thirty minutes and many, many thousands of U.S. dollars later I had assembled items that provided for every contingency I could imagine. It was an enormous lode of goods but since I was going to a place with no easy access to the outside world, I needed to cover all the bases. Even for me, who always made sure to have the latest technology on hand, this was a significant purchase. He was happy to ship all my purchases but one, a huge handgun, able to stop an elephant, according to him. It made my purse heavy on my shoulder, and my whole right arm still tingled from the shooting lesson he’d given me in their soundproof target range.
Other than the shotgun I had for trap and skeet shooting, I’d never possessed a gun for my own protection, but again, there would be no second chance to provision this caper and I’d hate to end up in a situation where I needed to defend myself and not have the capability. My prey was successful and stealthy, and having the weapon made me feel more secure. It certainly packed a wallop.
My next stop was the shop that manufactured the most perfect synthetic stones in the world, undetectable from the real thing. I gave the owner the specifics of what I needed—dozens of diamonds and emeralds, along with a few other touches.
He nodded. “This is no problem, madam. When do you need them?”
“Forty-eight hours,” I answered.
“Oh, ha-ha.” He smiled.
“I’m serious.”
“There will be a significant rush charge. We will have to stop all our current production just to accommodate this order. Our factory is swamped right now.”
“I don’t care how much it costs.”
“That’s a good thing. For you, we will do it.”
I’d been a good customer over the years and I had sufficient cash on hand to pay not only for the stones but also for the rush charge, which precisely doubled the price.
I checked my watch—I’d been gone for almost two hours, not an unreasonable amount of time for a nice brunch with a good friend, but the fact was, I hadn’t actually eaten and, even if it added half an hour or so, it was almost lunchtime and I couldn’t be in Zurich, and within a block of Kronenhalle, and not run in for a quick bite. I sat at the long, busy bar, surrounded by their stunning collection of Picassos, Modiglianis, Klees, and Cassatts, and ordered my favorite Swiss lunch: rösti—perfectly sautéed, crispy, buttery grated potatoes—veal sausages, and a glass of pilsner, and prepared for a delicious experience. About halfway through my meal, I looked up and saw Thomas and another man, presumably David Perkins because he was, as Thomas had said, tall and thin with sandy hair and blue eyes. The bite of rösti and sausage turned into a lump of rock in my mouth. I turned quickly back to my book and swallowed and kept my eyes on them in the back mirror of the bar.
Thomas looked tense. David looked jumpy. He stood a step or two away, obviously familiar with and respectful of his boss’s temperament. The hostess greeted them and after an abrupt word or two from Thomas, led them to a table near the front. He sat facing the door.
I paid my check and put on my dark glasses and looked at myself in the mirror. There was no way he would recognize me. I walked past their table. I even looked at him and he glanced briefly at me. Seconds later I was on the street, trying not to laugh. It was exhilarating. I had hit my stride and for the life of me couldn’t remember why I gotten out of the business.
We took off from Zurich and flew to Sion—one of the few airports in the interior of Switzerland that has a run
way long enough to accommodate small jet aircraft—and taxied into another private hangar where a Naxos helicopter waited to fly me to Mont-St.-Anges.
A light snow fell from broken clouds.
T W E N T Y
I am not a prideful person. I’m far too assiduous for pride. Pride leads people to believe their own publicity which perpetuates immaturity and leads to mistakes. However, I have always taken a certain amount of comfort in and reassurance from my sangfroid. I’ve always known I could rescue myself, no matter the circumstances.
One of the benefits of getting older is that you know what works for you and what doesn’t, and as time passes you become less and less reluctant simply to stop doing things again, to scissor them out of your life permanently. For example, I’ve never liked sweetbreads of any sort and now I wouldn’t even consider putting a bite of them in my mouth. No. Sweetbreads are over. Forever. Thank God. Same with bad wine, white panties, white bras, or diets. No. They’re simply not worth it. I also know myself very, very well, particularly when it comes to plying my trade. There is no funny business about it, no seat-of-my-pants attitude. I know the ropes. I am the consummate professional.
I’m equally assiduous in regard to controlling my environment. What I mean by that is that I have never put myself in any sort of physical jeopardy, whether it’s in terms of getting physically apprehended with hot goods in my possession, or in actual physical danger, as in falling off a window ledge, skydiving, going to Africa, ballooning, or shooting the rapids. I don’t place myself in a situation from which I cannot extricate myself smoothly.
I am the queen of exit strategies. I’ve never moved forward with a plan or a heist if I haven’t already provided myself with at least two or three reliable escape routes or backup identities. But, of course, that’s one of the benefits of being a jewel thief, as opposed to an art thief or car thief or thief of stocks and bonds—I can dispose of my goods in the flash of an eye. They can drop down a sewer, hide beneath a cushion, or fly out a car window. In some instances, they can even be swallowed. They can be taken apart, the metals crushed or melted down and the stones smashed or recut in seconds, rendering them virtually unidentifiable and untraceable. Hot gems and stolen jewelry aren’t cumbersome and there’s no incriminating paper trail.
And while I’m on the subject of my personality traits, when it comes to physicality? Physical, athletic exertion has also never been a part of my life. I’m simply not interested. I’ve never been in what’s considered “shape.” I do have a number of cashmere warm-up suits—the pale, pale pink and the especially yummy taupe ones are my favorites—that I like to put on around the house or when I go for a walk, with matching anoraks in case it rains, but frankly, if the skies look the least bit threatening, I generally stay in. And, let me see, I did learn to play tennis in Portofino from that charming young pro, Guilberto. He really was absolutely precious. But that was the most exercise I’ve ever gotten.
I have virtually no interest in athletics, with the exception of sporting clays, which I do enjoy and which take a good eye, a steady hand, and a calm, sure finger on the trigger, or, in other words, sangfroid. Thomas and I constructed a trap and skeet range on the farm and spend hours shooting. I think we enjoy it the same way other people enjoy playing golf. I’m an excellent shot, if I do say so myself.
I’ve never skied, or played any kind of team sport such as volleyball or badminton, and so forth. In fact, the whole concept of a team is foreign to me and I cannot think of a single time in my life when it would have been in my best interest to depend on another person, much less a bevy of them. Like sweetbreads, exercise is simply not my field.
Occasionally I watch horse racing on television.
I treasure my marriage to Thomas as he treasures his relationship to me because we are like dessert to each other. We don’t require each other’s presence or expertise to survive, or even flourish. We require each other for fun and pleasure. My “partnership” with Alma is one I control completely. I can stop at any time because the fact is, I don’t need to be doing this. Any of it.
I’ve made it a point to avoid extremes in all areas of my life.
In short, I am a woman who is in control, bolstered by skill, experience, prowess, and nerves of steel, even in situations of extreme duress.
All of this became mere braggadocio when the helicopter lifted off, hovered for a moment as though gathering its skirts together, and then charged, bolting forward—jet engines screaming like bats out of hell—dead center at a massive, craggy, snowy solid rock wall. I almost lost control of myself. I have never been so frightened in my life. I wanted to scream but my throat was paralyzed. I was sure I was going to die, from either the impact or the heart attack I would suffer just prior to the impact. Forcing myself to remain calm and even appear blasé as the ice-encrusted granite cliff approached at five thousand miles an hour, to act as though I were totally accustomed to crashing and dying, was one of the biggest challenges I’ve ever confronted. In fact, when we were only inches from slamming into it and I was just about to put my hands over my face and burst into tears, we suddenly went straight up, pivoted, and headed toward another one. I became completely disoriented and couldn’t trust my eyes or my senses. It was terrifying—for the first time I began to question if I’d made a mistake all these years not having faith in anybody but myself. I looked at the rock wall and wondered what would become of me. Would Thomas have to trudge up these mountains in a blizzard and make a grisly identification? Oh, Lord. What a mess. This speeding, stopping, rising, falling, turning, churning went on for only about half an hour, but it seemed like forever. I looked at the pilots—what a gruesome way to make a living. Poor things. It was absolutely horrible, and the unpredictability of our motion kept my stomach in my throat the whole time, right up there next to my heart and my rösti.
The landing was as hair-raising as the flight—a shuddering, rocking, noisy descent onto an elevated platform. But the issue was, I didn’t know the platform was there. I could see terra firma way down below and when the pilot shut the engines off thirty feet above the ground, I assumed that was it. The end. We’d just drop like a rock and smash ourselves to smithereens onto the charming, snow-packed cobblestones. I closed my eyes. Seconds later when I opened them and saw people walking toward me, I admit, I did burst into tears. I wanted to tear off my seat belt, jump out the cabin door, and throw myself into their arms. No wonder Mr. Naxos said how blessed they were—anybody who did this on a regular basis and survived to tell the tale was leading a charmed life.
I’d go by train when I left.
“Welcome to Mont-St.-Anges, Princess Margaret,” said a well-tanned fellow in a loden green ski parka with dark red piping. He had white teeth, an Austrian accent, and a jaunty loden hat with a deer-tail brush tucked in the braided hatband. His gold name badge said Jurgen. He took my hand and helped me down the steps to the ground, which I saw was a wide cement platform that banked into a hillside. A long hangar ran the length of it, and I could see a number of helicopters inside with a variety of markings.
I couldn’t control the slight tremor in my hands and knew my face was as white as a sheet. I smiled at him as best I could. “Thank you. I’m so relieved to be here. I’m embarrassed to say I’m not a very comfortable flier.”
The fact is, now that I was out in the air, if the terror hadn’t already given me the shakes, the cold would. Even in my fur coat, it was absolutely freezing. This was without question the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I wanted to leave, to go home, or back to Paris or Portofino, back to some sort of civilization, but then I looked at the now-dormant helicopter, lurking there like a giant sneering torture chamber, and said to myself, Never again in my life no matter how long I live, will I ever get back on one of those things. I could feel my gall rise, prickling up my neck into my hair. I could feel myself growing angry and belligerent, which would accomplish nothing. I drew in a large breath and let it out slowly, a little at a time, in an attempt to get my h
eart rate to slow down.
“It is a bit of a hair-raiser, isn’t it?” Jurgen smiled. “We’ll take good care of you—get you a good hot mug of gluhwein to make you forget.” He put a protective, sure hold on my elbow and guided me down a wide staircase to a gaily painted horse-drawn sleigh. A similarly dressed man sat in the driver’s seat and he tipped his hat. Once Jurgen got me settled, he opened a wooden box the size of a large storage freezer at the foot of the stairs and pulled out three faux fur lap robes, which he tucked around me. They were heated!
“Better?” His eyes looked into mine with concern.
“Much.” I could feel the color beginning to return to my face.
“Now, this will set you right.” He handed me an earthenware mug with green trim, filled with hot, steaming, spiced wine. The scent of apples, cloves, and cinnamon curled up and filled my head with their warm, homey fragrance.
“Thank you,” I said. But he had no idea of the extent of my gratitude. I’d been cold and frightened and way out of my element, and now this gracious young man was knocking himself out to make me feel warm and safe and welcome. Finally—I’m embarrassed to say even a little bit grudgingly—I raised my eyes and looked around at where I was and what I was doing, and saw the magnificent snowy valley and sharp classic peaks, the massive gray horse stamping its foot and shooting steam from its nostrils. I heard the sound of the sleigh bells and the hollow echo of the wind. I noticed the healthy, vigorous men and their obvious relish of what they did. It was surreal, as though I were in a movie, or a dream.
My life in England had been so closed. Filled with privilege to be sure, but save for that one weekend in Cap d’Antibes with Sir Cranmer thirty-odd years ago, my domain had never extended beyond the borders of my own secure, totally controllable little world of London, Provence, Paris, and an occasional trip to visit my vaults in Zurich and Geneva. I marveled at the steps that had brought me to this place and time, and, now that I was on the ground, I could feel my legs coming back, my confidence restoring itself.
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