by LYDIA STORM
“It’s just a rock,” he whispered, gently running his finger alongside the gem, grazing her warm skin.
She gazed at him with eyes sparkling as bright as the jewel around her neck, a smile of pure delight spread across her face. “That’s what you say.”
****
“For someone who hates publicity, you sure signed up for a lot of it,” John observed as they entered the Beaux-Arts Rotunda.
Veronica showed off a bright smile for the cameras and waiting crowd. “It’s for a good cause.”
Overlooking the grand hall were three stories of balconies graced with several massive Doric columns. The effect was similar to walking into a splendid marble amphitheater. The room was decorated all in white with fragrant, ivory Boule de Neige roses and the shimmer of tiny flames burning in crystal votives which made the hall sparkle and glow.
John’s eyes immediately went to the security in their snappy tuxedos placed strategically around the room. In all his years at the FBI, he’d never seen so many men at one event. They sure weren’t taking any chances.
“I hope you don’t mind being caught on film,” Veronica said, her eyes dancing.
He laughed. “My mother won’t believe it’s me. She’ll accuse me of doctoring the photos and get angry when I insist they’re real.” His amusement faded as Nicholas Bezuhov glided up to them, as smooth as a ballerina, and, taking Veronica’s hand in his, lightly kissed the tips of her fingers.
“What do you think, Nicholas?” she asked, gesturing toward the magnificent, blue diamond at her breast.
“I think you are very brave to face the curse,” he observed in his thick Russian accent.
“Or maybe very stupid,” she said.
“In any case very, very beautiful…as always,” he replied.
The orchestra, which was tucked discreetly away in an alcove of the rotunda, kicked in with a swanky version of Moonlight Becomes You.
Nicholas bowed formally. “May I have the pleasure of a dance?”
Veronica glanced at John.
“With your permission, of course,” said the Russian, just a hint of mockery in his voice.
“Veronica’s a big girl and can make her own decisions. That’s how we like to do things here in the good old U.S. of A.,” John snapped.
“It’ll be just one dance,” assured Veronica, laying a placating hand on his forearm.
John nodded.
“We won’t be long,” said the White Russian, with the hint of a smirk. “Why don’t you get yourself a drink? They have some good strong Russian vodka behind the bar, or maybe for you, a…how do you call it? A Shirley Temple.” With that, he swept Veronica dramatically into his arms and waltzed her onto the floor.
John just stood there burning up as he watched the White Russian dancing with his girl. His girl? With a shake of his head, he opened his eyes to find her once again on the dance floor. They were obviously enjoying each other’s company, talking and laughing. Veronica seemed at ease with Nicholas. She let her hair down and chattered, teasing him like a country cousin at a barbeque. John wondered how Jessica would feel about it if she walked in now and found her Nicholas with his arms around the most beautiful woman in the room.
John’s attention was diverted when he caught sight of Quinn leaning up against the massive pedestal supporting the African elephant which was the centerpiece of the rotunda. Quinn was stuffed into an ill-fitting tuxedo and stood snapping orders into his headphone. He was trying to look subtle, but John could see him sweating clear across the room. He made his way through the black-tie crowd to his old partner’s side.
“Tell them there is no fucking way,” Quinn was saying in a low, strained voice into his mouthpiece. “I don’t give a shit what the French ambassador’s wife thinks about it.”
Noticing John by his side, Quinn just rolled his eyes and shook his head to communicate his level of frustration with the person on the other end of the line. “Look, this is something we needed to be informed about at least a month ago!”
He paused as he listened and then shook his head. “I’ll be right there,” he barked. An irate Quinn turned to John. “Guess who Cartier has brought in at the last minute as their surprise entertainment?”
“Jerry Lewis.”
Quinn didn’t laugh. “No, just a little troupe called the Ballet de l’Aire.”
John couldn’t help himself as he burst out laughing. When he recovered, he said, “Do you want to take a guess who Veronica is dancing with right now? The same Veronica who is, in fact, wearing the Hope Diamond?”
Quinn snapped his head around and, scanning the floor, got an eyeful of the White Russian dipping Veronica as she smiled up at him. Quinn turned on John furiously. “Are you fucking crazy letting her dance with him?”
“Oh, I don’t let Veronica do anything. She just does it.”
“Look, I’d love to chat and all, but I’ve got to go parlez with the fucking French ambassador, his wife, and the President of freakin’ Cartier,” said Quinn. “You don’t take your eyes off that damned diamond around her neck!” He pointed a stubby finger in Veronica’s direction.
Before John could answer, Quinn was heading into the crowd, shaking his head and mumbling, “The Ballet de l’Aire my ass.”
John watched the crowd on the dance floor. It was a regular who’s who of the Washington political scene, but to his surprise, there were many foreigners present as well. Some of the men wore tuxedos and a few even wore turbans while their women were draped in piles of glittering bangles and necklaces encrusted with rare gemstones. All around him, he picked up conversions in Russian, Italian, and Urdu. All of the world’s most famously wealthy and powerful families were present. Apparently it didn’t matter what nationality you were, who you called God, or what side of the War on Terror you happened to be on. Everyone at this little library benefit spoke the international language—money.
With a musical flourish, the band finished their song. Veronica slipped out of the White Russian’s arms and headed in John’s direction. He liked watching her as she came toward him through the crowd, back straight, chin high, hips swaying confidently. With her pale glowing skin and graceful silk gown, she stood out next to the conservatively black clad matrons. Her youthful vitality was like a beacon in a dark ugly sea.
“Is it my turn now?” he asked, as she reached his side. She smiled and he was dazzled by the pure joy on her face.
“Let’s just dance and dance all night!” she exclaimed.
“You’re enjoying yourself then,” he commented, as she wound her arm through his and dragged him onto the floor.
Unconsciously, she reached up and touched the diamond around her throat. “Yes.”
He took her in his arms and the warmth of having her so close hit him like a wave. He pulled her more firmly against him and they swayed to the romantic music. “You see, if I have you close like this and I never let you go, no one can steal the diamond,” he whispered into her dark hair.
She pulled back a bit with a wicked grin and replied, “But we want the Ghost to try.”
“Veronica, as you know too well, when the Ghost tries, he usually succeeds.”
“Not tonight,” she said with a determined look in her eyes before snuggling into his shoulder again, her perfume encircling them like a magic spell blocking out the rest of the world. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the bewitchment.
They danced one song after another until an impeccably dressed, short, balding man took the mic and announced, “Mesdames and messieurs, as one of the sponsors of this evening’s ball, we at Cartier would like to present for your entertainment, the pride of the Ballet de l’Aire, Marguerite Gateaux!”
The lights dimmed as a white beam shot up to the tightrope strung between the third floor balconies. The astonished applause of the audience below broke out as the flamboyant acrobat cart-wheeled across the cable and posed theatrically like a vintage pinup shimmering in her red sequined leotard, a black eye mask standing out against her
white skin and crimson lips.
Evidently Quinn had lost his argument with the French ambassador. John placed a protective hand around Veronica’s neck, the clasp of the Hope Diamond secure beneath his palm.
Maggie proceeded to perform her intricately choreographed number, pirouetting and leaping across the slender cable as easily as a child scampering around a playground. As John watched the crowd, the delight of the spellbound audience was almost as entertaining as the act itself. She put on quite a show with her death-defying leaps and saucy wicked grin, her red hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail as she spun across the thin cable. It was easy to see why she’d never had a problem making her way over the most exclusive rooftops in Europe.
What is it about jewel thieves? John watched as she performed a final, impossible-looking spring in the air, flipped and hung by nothing more than the dainty curve of her ankle, smiling and waving down at the nail-biting audience. They were certainly a breed apart from all other criminals. Flamboyant and arrogant, there wasn’t a one who didn’t have a flair for the theatrical. John had to marvel as he thought about each of them individually—Maggie showing off at the Diamond Ball only one night after robbing Senator Hayes’ wife blind, the White Russian with his calling card and family crest, the Granny and her magician’s slight of hand, and Zagen, far more dangerous than the rest. He knew each of them; only the Ghost was impossible to define. Maybe that was why the Ghost had never been caught.
John’s eyes darted around the room as the audience broke into wild applause for Maggie. She stood above them, eighty feet in the air, no doubt already singling out her next victim. Her saucy grin froze on her face and for a moment, time seemed to stand still, as the wire snapped beneath her feet.
Chapter Fourteen
The audience watched in horror as the acrobat plummeted toward the marble floor. Veronica gripped John’s arm as they watched a blur of red sequins and flaming hair tumbling through the air.
At the last moment, the wire tightened and caught on the sequins of her costume. With the lightning fast reflexes of the cat she was named for, Maggie stretched out her hands to grasp the broken cable just before hitting the ground where her weight would surely have torn the wire from her leotard. Catching the lifeline just in time, she swung across the room landing miraculously safe on one of the first tier balconies.
The sigh of relief was like a wave rising up from the audience, as ladies collapsed against their husbands and the men swore out loud, forgetting their surroundings.
“I don’t think that was part of her act,” said Veronica, her nails still digging into John’s arm.
“It wasn’t. Someone cut the wire.” John scanned the third tier of the rotunda for signs of whoever might have tried to murder the famous acrobat.
Veronica relaxed her grip as she watched Maggie, ever the showgirl, jump onto the rail of the balcony to take her bow. “Why would someone do that?”
“That’s Maggie the Cat up there,” John informed her over the audience’s wild applause. “She’s one of the most prolific jewel thieves in operation. Maybe someone here tonight doesn’t want to compete with her.”
“You mean…another jewel thief?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” said John. “Someone wants what’s around your neck badly enough to kill for it, Veronica.”
Veronica raised her hand protectively to the blue fire laying cool against her throat. “I’m not afraid.”
He glared at her. “Well, maybe you should be.”
“I’ll be fine,” she reassured him and turned her eyes back up to Marguerite Gateaux.
John followed her gaze. He had to hand it to Maggie, she was still pale as death, but the French cat burglar once again sported a broad smile as she blew a kiss to the audience and then disappeared behind the gauze drapes.
He shook his head. “Eight lives to go.”
Veronica smiled, but John noticed she looked a bit pale herself.
When the crowd’s applause finally died down, the lights came up on the red carpet, which ran through the center of the room. It was Lillian Spencer’s turn to hit the mic. She stood in the spotlight smiling her best First Lady smile.
“Well, that was quite a performance, wasn’t it?” she asked.
The audience laughed, letting out the tension.
“My goodness, I can see why the Ballet de l’Aire has such a magnificent reputation!”
More laughter. Lillian Spencer had covered up the catastrophe as easily as her husband covered up the corporate scandals and botched military operations his administration was involved in. Everyone knew what had really happened, but they’d play along anyway and pretend Maggie’s fall had been part of the act, because that was the accepted protocol.
The First Lady smiled warmly. “I want to welcome all of you and thank you for coming tonight. As you know, literacy is a cause near and dear to my heart. For all of us in this room it is the most basic of skills. We take for granted that we can pick up a book or newspaper and read the words printed there, but I’m afraid that for some children in the United States, those same words are as meaningless as a page full of hieroglyphics. I am committed to changing this!”
A ripple of polite applause went through the crowd. The First Lady paused, looking around the room as if judging the response. “Tonight we have pledged our support, and more importantly, our desperately needed dollars to build the new Donald Spencer Library in Anacostia. Because of your generosity, a child will be able to come after school and pick up one of so many reading choices. A new and magical world will open up to them.” Lillian Spencer smiled beneficently at the crowd as once more they broke into applause.
“Meanwhile they’re cutting hours and programs at all the other libraries around the country. Why doesn’t anyone mention that?” whispered John to Veronica, but she just put her finger to her lips and turned her eyes back on Lillian Spencer.
“And now,” said the First Lady, when the hoopla had died down, “I would like to introduce Kay Hopkins, one of the directors of the Smithsonian. Kay has graciously donated her time, this space, and some of the world’s most breathtaking jewels to make this a night to remember!”
As Kay stepped forward, Veronica leaned in and whispered to John, “I have to get in place now.”
He clutched her arm for a moment. “Be careful. I’m sure Maggie’s still on the loose somewhere in this building along with God knows who else.”
“Don’t worry,” she said with a smile. “What could happen to me while I’m on the runway with a wall of photographers snapping pictures?”
“Don’t get cocky,” he said, annoyed. “Remember what happened to Katherine Park.”
“Don’t worry, John, no one’s going to get this diamond away from me.”
John pointed to a place near the end of the red carpet. “I’m going to be standing right there if you need me.”
“I’ll be fine.” She turned to walk away, but then she stepped back and lightly kissed his lips, sending a spark of electricity through every nerve in his body. “But thank you,” she whispered and took off into the crowd.
The band swung into a jazzy version of “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend” as the show began. Gisela, the smoldering beauty who had amused Cynthia Spencer so much by her allotment of jewels, was the first one down the runway. The massive Hooker Emerald was pinned squarely between her two jutting breasts, flashing green in the runway lights. The press went at it like a bunch of piranhas attacking a side of beef while Kay recited the history of the famous emerald that had once been the belt buckle of a Turkish sultan.
Jessica came next, dripping in her family pearls, which were rumored to have once belonged to the infamous Lucretia Borgia. She looked as stuck up and cold as ever, not even cracking a smile when the storm of flashbulbs went off as she stopped to pose at the end of the runway.
One dolled-up rich girl after another had her turn on the catwalk, each sporting bigger and better rocks than the celebutante before her. The c
rowd went wild for them. John couldn’t tell if they were applauding for the individual young ladies or the extraordinary jewels they wore.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Kay, as Lillian Spencer stepped onto the red carpet in a shimmering pair of massive baroque diamond earrings, “few objects in the Smithsonian collection conjure up more dramatic images than do these earrings. They were given to Marie Antoinette by Louis XVI and are said to have been torn from her ears as she tried to flee during the French Revolution.”
The crowd really went crazy as Lillian Spencer, wearing her ill-starred gems, slowly made her way down the red carpet. She had her moment in front of the cameras, and as she turned to walk back down the runway, Kay introduced Cynthia and her imperial jewels.
John had seen a lot of ridiculous things in his life, like the thief in Palm Beach who left his cell phone at the scene of the crime, but the sight of Cynthia Spencer toddling down the runway looking like an overstuffed sausage encased in pink satin, shrinking under the glare of the public gaze with Josephine Bonaparte’s crown slipping to one side of her head took the cake.
Miraculously, the crowd didn’t seem to notice and gave her the same enthusiastic applause they gave her mother. John almost felt sorry for Cynthia as she tripped on the hem of her gown during her runway return.
“And now,” gushed Kay, unable to keep the excitement from her voice, “for the first time in the museum’s history, we have allowed our most prized possession to be worn at a public event. Our model is the lovely Miss Veronica Rossmore. I’m sure you’ve all guessed that the famous treasure I’m talking about is none other than the Hope Diamond!”
The crowd went silent in anticipation as they looked down the empty red carpet. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see the diamond that bore the most infamous curse of any jewel in history. John felt himself tense up as the seconds ticked by and Veronica did not appear. Almost starting to panic, he was about to push his way through the crowd and find her when Veronica stepped into the spotlight.