Hatton Garden, the diamond district.
All the store windows were dark and protected by latticed steel gates stretched and locked in place across their fronts. There wasn’t another car in sight, and no one along the sidewalk.
They cruised the area and then repeated that route with the window down on Maren’s side. She had the satchel of diamonds on her lap, the ones Chesser had taken from the gravel pit. He drove slowly and told her when to begin.
She shoved her hand into the satchel and came up with as many diamonds as she could hold. She flung them out onto the rainy street, laughing, finding it exhilarating. Chesser shouted encouragement as she threw handful after handful to the gutters and sidewalks of that diamond-obsessed district.
Altogether, she tossed away more than twenty-two thousand carats. Worth approximately twenty-five million dollars.
CHAPTER 21
AT SEVEN fifteen that morning, Sterling Griffin didn’t believe his eyes.
He was on his way to work on a ten-carat gold mount for a cheap topaz ring he’d promised he’d have ready first thing that day. Alone on the street, just walking along with his right hand in his trouser pocket privately comforting. Sterling stepped on one. He stopped, turned and looked down at it, pushed at it some with the toe of his shoe. Although he knew what it appeared to be, he didn’t pick it up right away, because it was an impossibility. Sterling was a disbeliever by profession. He had his own jewelry business, specializing in anything. That is, he paid monthly for a small booth with six feet of enclosed counter space at the Wilcox Diamond Arcade. Safe privileges included. Not that Sterling required much protection. Currently his stock consisted of:
3 tourmaline rings
1 diamond chip stickpin
2 tortoise-shell pill boxes
4 turquoise-and-silver odd pieces
1 silver cigar clipper
1 tray of assorted cheap earrings
1 Queen Victoria souvenir fob
1 Spiro Agnew wristwatch
Some gold bits and pieces worth their weight.
At one time Sterling featured antique jewelry but now his only vintage possesion was a dream. Of having his own store spotlighted to the advantage of abundant first quality gems. Each of the men who rented space in the Wilcox Diamond Arcade had that same dream. When business was slow as usual, they would talk about it.
Now, Sterling bent down to the sidewalk and picked up whatever it was. No harm in looking. He held it in the palm of his hand and squinted at it, dubious. He shrugged and dug into his jacket pocket for his loupe, which he twisted into the socket of his eye. It couldn’t be. Not a diamond. Not about five carats, just there on the sidewalk begging to be found. Sterling gazed around, sadly, expecting fate to reveal what sort of a joke this was. But he was alone on the street.
Sterling made a tight fist around the stone and shoved it into his pocket. He wanted to run, but then his eyes caught upon another diamond on the sidewalk and another in the gutter. He pounced on them. And another. It occurred to Sterling that perhaps he hadn’t really gotten out of bed that morning, that maybe he was still there, dead there, and what he was now experiencing was the promised land. He bit his lower lip sharply and felt reassuring pain. His throat was suddenly dry and his legs drained. He got down and crawled along the gutter, finding diamonds and hoping his heart held out.
Similar experiences occurred throughout the Hatton Garden area that morning. Those who came early to work scooped up the most, but everyone who could distinguish an uncut diamond from pigeon droppings got in on the melee. By ten what they had was a full-scale riot. The streets of the diamond district became a battleground for those fighting over the diamonds that had miraculously come from somewhere and belonged to no one.
By eleven the streets had been picked clean and the panic seemed to be over. But then someone got the inspiration to investigate a sewer drain, pried off a heavy iron grate, and found a considerable cache imbedded there in city grime. That caused a reprise of the struggle at every corner. After that the district retreated to lick its wounds and count its blessings. Until noon, when bargaining began and sellers were surprised to discover that what a carat had been worth yesterday was not what a carat was worth today. Too many of those who’d found stones were eager to turn them into cash. They were willing to undersell. Prices on the London market dropped as though racing to reach rock bottom. They would stabilize in due time, of course, unless there just happened to be another catastrophe.
That possibility was not overlooked by the British press, which reacted characteristically to the event, its members delighting in the opportunity to stretch their imaginations and demonstrate they are all Lewis Carrolls at heart. If, for example, a phosphorescent flying sea serpent a half mile long is sighted off the Irish coast by a dipsomaniac, a good British reporter can and often will do eight credulous, straight-faced columns on it. It’s excellent for circulation.
Understandably, the mysterious Hatton Garden diamond rush provided welcome journalistic fodder. It had all the necessary fantastic ingredients to warrant special editions and loud shouts of extra from the news vendors sandwiched between their hand-printed headline boards.
Each of London’s twelve daily newspapers expressed its version of the incident. One took the position that the phenomenon was an act of ecological vengeance by Mother Earth. Another offered the possibility it was a test conducted by creatures from outer space, who created the episode to study our avaricious behavior.
DIAMONDS RAIN DOWN!!
was one headline above insinuations that what had occurred was a miracle because, apparently, the precious stones had fallen from the atmosphere along with the preceding night’s rain. Perhaps the diamonds were miraculously solidified raindrops, that paper implied. What it failed to mention, however, was why the miraculous rain had fallen only in Hatton Garden and only on the streets. There was also a lengthy opposing interview with the Archbishop of Canterbury on the subject of miracles in general, including some of those performed by Our Savior, for instance.
Sir Harold Appensteig, board chairman for The Consolidated Selling System, contributed: “We are accustomed to unusual occurrences.” And Reginald Meecham, president, was even less responsive. “No comment,” was his brisk reply to every question from reporters, who were of the opinion that Meecham appeared worried. Some suggested that Meecham was concerned with the General Electric Corporation’s recent announcement that it had successfully reproduced genuine flawless diamonds by artificial means, ready-faceted stones of any size. Although G.E.’s process was still experimental and too costly to be widely feasible, it demanded consideration as a future threat to the marketing of natural diamonds.
The Evening Bulletin went all out for the human interest angle. It featured a large, front-page photograph of one Sterling Griffin grinning above his double-cupped hands, which contained his new-found fortune. Obviously, Mr. Griffin had gotten into the thick of it, for he had two swollen black eyes and was missing one and a half teeth.
The colorful news of raining diamonds caused some reactions outside Britain.
In Paris the skies were promisingly overcast. Many were inspired to close shop early and be out praying in the streets with skirts, hats, and the like held up ready to catch. However, not a drop nor a carat descended. French commerce suffered, as did French pride when the storm clouds drifted in a northeasterly direction, perchance to unload riches upon already prosperous Germany.
The monarch of a minor European principality took a good, hard look at his crown jewels and seriously considered selling them and using the money to construct several resort hotels. His loyal subjects might appreciate his foresight, but he would have unhappy pouting from his nice blonde American wife, who had learned to adore her authentic crown.
In Beverly Hills, an aging right-wing scion opened his secret floor safe and removed a small, flag-wrapped package of first-quality gems. He’d been accumulating them for years, but now he had the feeling that unless he died very soon he
’d chosen the wrong way to beat the inheritance tax.
Owners of famous diamonds were apprehensive. Such as a superstar married couple. Superstar husband, two years previous, had literally exhibited his love to the entire world by purchasing for superstar wife a perfect seventy-carat pear-shaped diamond. Reportedly for two million cash. The brilliant stone was often photographed in its resting place within the ample cleavage of superstar wife. It became emblematic overnight, that jewel. It was her diamond, the diamond, and the public queued up to get a glance when it was placed on display in Mr. Roussel’s, the famous gem dealer’s window. The believers believed. But there were those in the diamond world who were skeptical. They didn’t say anything, because, what the hell, it was all good for business.
The top men, but only the top men, at Mr. Roussel’s knew the truth. In 1968 the diamond changed owners for seven hundred thousand dollars. Only two years later, when it was put up for auction, Roussel’s outbid everyone and paid a million and a half for it. Immediately superstar husband bought the diamond from Roussel’s, who, it was assumed, made a profit. The inside truth was: Roussel’s and the superstars made an agreement in advance. Roussel’s purchased the diamond for as much as it could. The firm actually had several representatives bidding against one another in order to hike up the price. That was part of it. In turn, superstar husband didn’t really acquire the diamond from Roussel’s. He only said he did—told the world he’d bought it for his super-loving woman. As a result, both Roussel’s and superstars received more publicity than would be given to the wife of the President of the United States if she had her hair styled Afro. The flashing stone demanding attention between superstar wife’s attention-getting breasts was only a good copy. No matter. People saw what they wanted to see. For Roussel’s it was, of course, an excellent investment. Not only in publicity received. The value of this diamond could no longer be appraised on an intrinsic basis. It was now a famous diamond, and the desire to possess it now far surpassed its intrinsic market worth. Some day soon, according to the agreement, superstar wife, in an acute fit of ennui, would publicly announce that Roussel’s had bought the diamond back. And Roussel’s would swiftly sell it to the highest bidder, who couldn’t afford not to own the diamond, her diamond.
Understandably, the press now wanted to know superstar couple’s reaction to the rain of diamonds, and for that purpose a special press conference was held aboard their yacht moored on the Thames.
Superstar wife appropriately wore a sheer, white, silk jersey jumpsuit decorated with the celebrated seventy carats. She sprawled on soft cushions on the afterdeck and answered reporters’ questions with ease, while superstar husband was nearby, exposing his chest hair, gulping Scotch.
How did she feel about the Hatton Garden incident?
“I think it shows what greedy shits people really are,” she replied, as Nikons clicked and Aireflexes turned. “I mean, how ridiculous, the way those people fought and maimed one another over something so superficial.”
What if much more of the same happened and the value of diamonds were really affected? How would she feel then?
“Wouldn’t make any goddamn difference to me,” she replied, looking away. She unconsciously fingered the seventy-carat stone. “Everyone believes the reason I love my diamond is because it’s worth two million. But they’re mistaken. I only treasure it because of the thought with which it was given, the love it represents. It’s a matter of values. My values. Ours. Nothing could ever destroy that. Besides,” she laughed and displayed the pretty pink pillow of her tongue, “what’s a couple of million?”
At that moment superstar husband got up abruptly and, without a word, went below deck. Superstar wife brought the seventy-carat object up to her mouth and, without apparent intention, played it casually upon and between her lips. She impatiently answered two more questions and then excused herself graciously to also go below.
She walked forward down the yacht’s mahogany-lined passageway to the master cabin, where superstar husband lay nude on a slant board, his eyes closed. “Fucking creeps,” she complained as she took off the diamond. “Have somebody go up and tell them to split.”
Superstar husband did a sit-up on the slant board, lowered half way and held, until he was red-faced and straining.
“C’mon,” she said, as she dropped the seventy carats on superstar husband’s own sizable and precious jewels, “roll us a joint. I think I feel like balling.”
Chesser watched for the BBC television early-morning news.
He anticipated the pleasure of observing the object lesson he’d administered to the almighty cartel. However, as he watched his satisfaction gave way to the terrifying consequence that he’d brought on himself in his eagerness to antagonize The System. Massey. Surely now Massey had to know he’d been deceived. Surely Chesser would be the target of the billionaire’s vindictive wrath. Massey had probably already dispatched some of his forces, large Hickey, for example. And others.
Chesser cautiously looked out one of the front windows to see a man in black standing across the street. Just standing there. A glum, sallow-faced character, definitely evil and dangerous, was Chesser’s appraisal. Perhaps it was already too late. Well, at least they would make a run for it.
He found Maren downstairs in the main reception room. She appeared ready to go out, probably to Mildred’s. No time for that. Chesser began explaining the circumstances.
Maren interrupted, calmly told him, “Siv and Britta are already gone. I gave them a year’s vacation with pay.”
“Let’s not bother to pack.”
“Everything’s packed.”
“How did you know?”
She parried that with, “The car’s all serviced. All I have left to do is call Mildred. I’ve been trying to reach her since ten but her line’s been busy. I hate to leave without at least saying good-bye to Mildred.” She went to the nearest phone and started to dial. Chesser grabbed the phone from her, slammed it down, and pulled her away from it.
They went quickly through to the garage. Maren insisted on driving. “In case we have to lose someone,” she said.
She backed the car out fast, nearly to the opposite curb, where the sallow man in black was standing. He was faced away, acting preoccupied with the sky.
Chesser wondered why Maren hesitated. “Let’s go,” he said.
Maren called to the man, who turned, blinked, and pointed to himself quizzically.
“Come here,” ordered Maren.
“Pardon,” said the man, approaching.
“Ça va?” inquired Maren.
“Ça va,” the man nodded.
“Nous allons,” said Maren brightly.
“Pourquoi?”
Maren told him in French that she and Chesser were on their way to be married.
That last word was magic. It excited the man so much he seemed about to jump out of his clothes. “Vraiment?”
“Really,” smiled Maren, and then changed and added defiantly, “but you’re going to have to prove it!” She had the engine doing about five thousand rpm’s, so she just let the clutch out all at once and the car shot away, leaving that spy of the French lawyers with his mind in a knot.
She headed out of London, going southeast, disregarding speed limits. Chesser glanced back frequently, but when they were out of the city proper and there was only clear road ahead and behind, he relaxed enough to ask where she was going.
“The Fokker-28 is meeting us at Biggin Hill,” she said, meaning her private jet and a small airport about fifteen miles out. “I called early this morning to arrange it.”
That suited Chesser. But he got to thinking. “First I want to go to Hindhead,” he told her. “To the gravel pit.”
“For what?”
“No reason why we should go off empty handed.”
“It’s the same whether we do or not.”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
She sighed. “All right, if it means that much to you.” She downshifted sharp
ly and turned right to change their route. “Stupid diamonds,” she muttered.
“I want at least a satchelful,” said Chesser. “Then know what I’m going to do?” He’d just decided.
“Be a millionaire again,” said Maren, exaggerating her indifference.
That reminded him he’d blown fifteen million by double-crossing Massey and was now running away from a possible fifty, settling for a couple. Considerably better than nothing, he decided. Much better than dead. “I’m going to call The System and tell them where the diamonds are.”
“You’re not!”
“It might get them off our tails.”
“No.”
“At least then we’ll only have Massey to contend with. Which is more than enough.”
“It won’t be half as much fun,” she protested.
“Okay, which do you want, Massey or The System?”
“Both.”
She acted victimized, then angry, then petulant.
Chesser remained firm, and in a while she began humming—her signal that she’d accepted his decision.
That made it definite. He’d call The System. He disliked letting Meecham off so easy, but got some gratification in the suffering he’d surely caused Meecham the past week. And one day, Chesser fantasized, he’d confront Meecham with the whole inside story, with special emphasis on the fact that the inventory had been returned and the entire diamond industry preserved only as a result of his, Chesser’s, benevolence.
Actually, Chesser was relieved by the mere idea of the diamonds being back where they belonged. He already felt twenty million carats less responsible.
He asked Maren, “Why didn’t you try to stop me from throwing those diamonds all over the street?”
“It was good for your anger,” she replied.
“And better for your pleasure. You enjoy the prospect of being chased, whereas I don’t find it at all amusing. As a matter of fact, I’m scared shitless and I don’t mind admitting it.”
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