When he asked to examine something, one of the guards would speak to the control room via radio to turn off whatever kind of alarm was around or on the particular display case itself. When the guard got the approval and gave the okay, his partner would examine the lock on the cabinet and consult a computerized list to find the appropriate key on a large ring. Once that lock had been released, Catherine would take a specific electronic card credential from a stack only she carried and pass the card over a hidden proximity reader. When the second electric locking mechanism had released she would open the case and Kirkland could get close enough or even remove an item to physically examine it.
Wearing fitted, lint-free linen gloves and using his own loupe, Kirkland carefully examined a number of pieces, all the while offering no expressions nor making any comments.
His inspection of some of the world’s most exotic and historically-significant treasures lasted less than fifteen minutes then he smiled warmly at Catherine after she closed a cabinet. They stepped back out of the way as the guard turned the mechanical key and said something into his microphone.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Kirkland said then turned to the guards. “Gentlemen, my compliments to your team,” he said as he shook hands with them. “Remarkable attention to detail.”
One of the men nodded slightly but smiled only briefly. “It’s what we do, Professor.”
“That’s all?” Catherine asked, unable to conceal a little bit of disappointment.
“More than I could have wished,” he answered honestly.
“And?”
He looked confused.
“Opinions, Professor?”
He flashed a sly smile and said quietly as they walked away from the guards toward the exhibit hall passage, “That will cost you dinner.” When she didn’t seem to be able to respond he added, “There’s a place on Long Island ... they lay claim to offering what they say is ‘Tex-Mex’ and I thought while I’m here ... I thought I’d find out if they’re telling the truth. It appears they are not ... not that they’re not telling the truth,” he began then realized he was starting to babble as he looked into the woman’s eyes. “I just haven’t found ... I’m not from around here.”
Several thoughts began swirling around in Catherine’s head but she forced herself to focus on the one that had more to do with professional curiosity than what Elanore had in mind for her. “Sure. But ... I’m driving and I’m buying.”
Kirkland looked visibly relieved that he didn’t have to try and explain further. “How could I refuse?”
The smile she saw threatened to extinguish all professional thoughts and Catherine thanked her genes for being able to blush almost invisibly. She had never let herself be truly swept off her feet and tried to ignore the physical sensations that were interfering with her concentration. “Give me a minute to get my things ... this late at night you’ll have to trust me.”
CHAPTER 3
Houston, Texas, Wednesday Night, May 21, 1997
Catherine returned from her office and they stepped out of the museum lobby into the now oppressive humidity of the evening. She pulled a paper ticket out of her tiny handbag as the valet trotted toward them then she looked at Kirkland. “It’s easy to get lost around here.”
“I know. I got a bit lost just getting here – twice,” he admitted honestly.
“With this rain it’s been dangerous in places ... especially west of town.”
The young valet approached them and asked, “Ticket, sir?”
Kirkland shook his head as he gestured down the street. “I parked in the ramp, thank you.”
Taking her ticket the valet turned to his key box and was soon dashing across the street and as Catherine waited to see if Kirkland would say anything more she tried to decide if she needed to ask something to fill in the pause.
He rescued her by turning and gazing into her eyes. Without making it a question he said, “You know the story behind Caesar’s Ruby.”
She looked into the intense but now color-distorted eyes in the yellow-orange artificial lights and confidently nodded. “It probably wasn’t a Caesar’s, it’s not Russian and it’s not a ruby ... and it was a gift to Catherine the Great from the King of Sweden.” When he nodded slightly she added, “I actually did my homework on the exhibits, Professor.”
“Ah, yes ... but, but ... the real story is, it was more bribe than gift,” he pointed out then began scanning the street. “And there is questionable ownership involved in the provenance.”
Not knowing what that might entail she started to ask, “There is—?”
“Because,” he resumed with an index finger raised for emphasis, “Gustavus the third went to St. Petersburg with it ... all the while thinking he was going to go home from his visit with a bride ... a beauty by all accounts by the name of Alexandrina, who just happened to be Catherine’s grand-daughter.”
“A cousin ... marrying his cousin’s granddaughter,” she said with a touch of dismay, unsure which was most disturbing, the age difference or the possible genetic issues the offspring would encounter later on.
“Yes ... and think of it – Gus goes to St. Petersburg, hands over what they both think is a ruby from the Roman Empire and they negotiate the terms for the girl.”
After a few seconds Catherine quipped sarcastically. “Ahh! How nice of them to work all that out for her.”
“All well and good ... so far. But then dear ol’ Gus actually reads the marriage agreement Catherine had drawn up. Much to his dismay, the document didn’t match up with what they had agreed on. Imagine that! His own dear cousin Catherine, who just happens to be one of the most clever people in the world, tried to trick him! Apparently Gus decided not to sign and leaves poor little Alexandrina in the lurch – and Catherine kept the pendant.”
She shook her head, keeping an eye out for her car then turned and grinned at him coyly. “Never underestimate a Catherine.”
With mock wariness Kirkland said, “I’ll keep that in mind.” After a moment he bent down closer to her and momentarily tipped his head sideways in the direction of the museum door. “This one is a replica.”
She tried not to look dismissive at the rather bold claim but the steady gaze she saw reflected more than just guesswork; there was an assurance in his eyes that implied far more than just theory.
Kirkland glanced around again to assure himself they were still alone before he went on. “The enamel is less than a hundred years old. Without a sample I can’t say for certain but my opinion is it’s a formulation made in Eastern Europe or Russia in the first part of the century, most likely by Fabergé.”
She didn’t really want to take issue with his assertion but asked skeptically, “Fabergé?”
“The gold appears to have been a product of this century as well.”
That’s not possible her professional mind told her. A frown of disappointment formed on her face as she considered the implications. From a curator’s standpoint the idea of having counterfeit pieces in an exhibit of the museum was more than just troubling. The political fallout was just one facet; being fooled was yet another and publicity of such a thing could only damage the reputation of the organization – as well as her own. “Any other pieces we’re showing appear to be counterfeits?”
He leaned in again and whispered, “The Le Tavernier stone in the brooch is almost too good.”
“So, you say the diamond ... the diamond is too good,” she said flatly.
“Almost too good,” he repeated. “Remarkable work, though.”
Before she could formulate another question her car approached and came to a stop at the curb.
As the valet accepted the tip and held her door, Kirkland spent a few seconds admiring her taste in sports cars then managed to squeeze his frame into the passenger side. “A 300ZX ... I hear this is the last year they’re making these.”
“This is three years old ... my brother bought it then needed the money for school ... I love it. You know something abo
ut cars?” she asked, half expecting him to tell her far more about her car than she really wanted to know.
“Only what I read.”
She was genuinely surprised he wasn’t going to explore the subject any further. “What do you drive?”
“Right now? A Suburban.”
She looked at him quickly with her eyes wide and almost giggled. “You rented a Suburban?”
He decided not to explain and gave her an almost hurt look. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Somehow I see you more as the Jaguar type.”
“Oh ... well, it seems to be the appropriate thing ... when in Rome and all ... and plenty of room,” he added gesturing with his hand at the top of his head at how little space there was between him and the car’s headliner.
“I hadn’t thought of that ... I’ll try to avoid major bumps,” she said with a sheepish grin as she pulled quickly into the nearly vacant street.
- # -
As the parking valet waited patiently for the last of the evening’s customers to finally decide to go home, he was surprised as two men dashed out of the museum door and ran to the curb where they stood watching the small sports car speed away. After a few seconds they looked at each other as if not knowing what to do, then one of them turned and jogged over to the valet stand.
“Ticket sir?” the valet asked somewhat nervously, wondering if he had just missed seeing some kind of incident.
The big man’s accent was obviously foreign and he had a scowl on his face that didn’t change much when he spoke. “Who was in the car?” he demanded.
“That car? Hell, I dunno,” the young man answered honestly. “I don’t work here – we just park cars.”
The second man, much smaller and dressed in a tuxedo was now beside the podium, glaring at him. “There was a woman and a man who just left—”
“They do sumthin’?”
“Did they leave together?” the man in the tuxedo asked intently.
“You cops?” the valet asked as if he might be able to help – although it was hard to imagine the man and woman he had seen were being looked for by the police.
“Security,” the smaller man said. “Did they leave together?”
Dutifully impressed with the apparent authority he was faced with the valet felt it was best for him and the company he worked for to cooperate. “They came out, she gave me a ticket, I got her car—”
“What about the man?”
“Uh uh, he didn’t have a ticket ... he said he parked in the ramp,” the young man said pointing down the street.
“They left together in that car?” the big one asked jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
“Uh huh, yea.”
The two men turned and strode quickly toward the door without saying anything more.
“What’d they do?” the valet called out. When neither of the men responded he said under his breath, “Rude sonsabitches.”
- # -
Despite the ramifications of what Kirkland had explained about the exhibits, Catherine Cruz decided to first try and redirect the conversation away from the disturbing idea that the Russians were engaged in a massive fraud. “Where are you staying?” she asked casually as she braked at a stop light.
“Near the airport,” Kirkland replied, then realizing she’d ask which of the two major airports that served the area he quickly added, “Hobby.” After a moment he asked, “Is this out of your way?”
“No, not a bit,” she offered quickly. “It’s not far at all.” When he didn’t seem to be ready to continue with small-talk she let her curiosity guide her questioning. “So if you don’t mind my asking, what does ‘almost too good’ mean when it comes to a blue diamond?”
Kirkland gazed at the woman next to him as she concentrated on driving and he consciously avoided sounding professorial. “Sometimes the finest things nature produces have tiny, interesting flaws that conspire to make them even more attractive.”
It took a moment or two for her to decipher the double meaning behind his statement and she resolutely ignored the compliment. “I can see how that makes them harder to duplicate,” she agreed.
“In most cases the counterfeiter isn’t even aware of them ... mainly because he rarely has first-person access to the original.”
“That makes sense,” she said.
“But even if they do, for the most part they simply can’t duplicate what nature was able to accomplish over tens of thousands or millions of years.”
“So, the blue diamond – this one – are you saying it’s not a real diamond?”
“Oh, it is indeed a real diamond,” he said nodding. “A remarkable one ... but therein we come to yet another quandary.” He held up an index finger slightly as he glanced around at the lighted windows of the Houston skyscrapers. “If, let’s just say if the Russian’s traditional story of the gem having been cut from Le Tavernier’s original stone is true, the one I just examined is not that gem.”
Illuminated briefly by the taillights of a car in front of them, Kirkland could see the look of uncertainty on her face and he reached into his pocket, removed the loupe he had used in the museum and flipped it open. “The Hope Diamond, at least what remains of the original source stone – the one Tavernier sold to Louis the Fourteenth – has a distinctive phosphorescence signature.” He pressed a tiny button on the loupe and waved it over the cuff of his shirt. “This has a miniature short-wave ultraviolet emitter.”
She took her eyes off the street for only a few seconds to see the narrow streak of light moving back and forth across the fabric. “Where do you find one of those?”
Ignoring the question about the custom-made device, Kirkland went on with his explanation of the giant stone. “Blue diamonds will glow after being exposed to ultraviolet radiation. Now ... the Hope Diamond glows red – quite red, in fact. The diamond here in the exhibit does as well, but not quite the same color. It’s at least three nanometers off in wavelength, perhaps more.”
“That will do color measurement too?”
He nodded and pointed the device at her shoulder and leaned closer to look in the loupe. “You’re wearing a five hundred and eighty-five nanometer gown,” he announced then noticed her subtle perfume for the first time.
She tried not to sound suspicious as she asked, “And you’ve examined the Hope Diamond? At the Smithsonian?”
He nodded as he leaned back and put the loupe away. “They sent it back to Winston’s in New York for some restoration work last year. I examined it before it was packed in Washington, when it was unpacked in New York, then before it was packed for the return and again after it was unpacked.” In the varying lighting he couldn’t tell if the look on her face was from professional understanding or concealed incredulity and added, “My client was the insurance carrier for the courier.”
He deliberately failed to mention the part where he and his associate had shadowed the courier personnel every inch of the trip and were prepared to intervene in ways the courier security personnel might not have been able or equipped to.
“So, if I have this right,” she began tentatively, “either the Russians have been lying all this time about their piece coming from the original ... the original Tavernier stone ... and to keep up appearances maybe, or,” she paused and gestured with one hand, “they’re lying about this one ... the one we’re showing, being the diamond that was originally in Empress what’s-her-name’s ring.”
“Maria Feodorovna,” he offered with a Russian accent that surprised her. “And you’re right.”
She turned to him as they came to a stop. “You speak Russian?”
“It’s useful in this line of work,” he offered simply.
She sighed and thought for several moments as she negotiated her way through a left-turn arrow. “Well ... the provenance of Russian jewelry wasn’t something I’ve studied until very recently,” she said in her defense. A sudden sense of dread came over her as she thought about how to explain this bizarre situation to her
boss. “Matt’s not going to believe this,” she offered gravely. “No one will.”
Kirkland responded flatly, “It would serve no useful purpose to tell anyone.”
To her the comment sounded like more than just a suggestion and his next statement was actually alarming.
“Given the stakes involved I would suggest we keep this to ourselves.”
After considering that carefully she finally asked, “You’re saying it should remain a secret?”
“It’s not something the Russians would be thrilled about anyone knowing.”
She instantly grasped his advice was sound; there had already been an international incident surrounding the exhibit and she also knew parts of the collection were actually backing the country’s currency – there was no telling what might happen if the secret were revealed. “Obviously,” she said then announced, “This is it,” and swung into a still-crowded parking lot.
As they exited the car she grinned at him quickly and noted reassuringly, “Don’t let the looks fool you. It’s old for a reason.”
Kirkland immediately concluded the wonderful smell of wood smoke, grilled meat and spices wafting across the parking was designed to make patrons hungry before they even got through the door. “They certainly know how to advertise,” he said after inhaling gently several times.
“That’s mesquite,” Catherine advised. “Fajitas ... they have them on Long Island?”
“So they say,” Kirkland offered uncertainly. “I suspect they’re nothing like this, though.”
In the deliberately ramshackle-chic restaurant they were both overdressed and got several odd looks, but over their dinner it soon became obvious to Kirkland that the longer he was around her the more captivated he was becoming; he had to remind himself more than once of the sheer implausibility of meeting someone like her under the circumstances. To say that she was pretty was an understatement but the equally alluring effect on him was coming from her mind. Despite what he realized was a prodigious I.Q., she was poised but not officious, quick to laugh and at times even self-deprecating, but what he was becoming immensely curious about and couldn’t bring himself to ask was why she was seemingly unattached?
Iron Dogs and Caesar's Ruby Page 5