Blood Stones (18 page)

‘He has his sources,' was the answer. ‘I never ask what they are. Somebody's been bribed. Or blackmailed,' he added.

‘A suite of red diamonds,' Kruger read from the fax. ‘Over two hundred and twenty carats in weight. They must be bloody enormous!'

‘And of top colour and purity. Worth millions,' Arthur said in his quiet voice. ‘Karakov's selling them for the Russians, on commission. They'll be his show pieces for the rest of the goods. And, according to Reece, he's got a client in view. Abdullah Bin Saladin.'

‘Their target is his French girlfriend, the actress Madeline Luchaire!' Kruger said. ‘That's what it says. Just think of the impact, Arthur, think of the publicity … He'll be top of the heap. With a sale like that and the Russians supplying more of the same, he can stick two fingers at us and get away with it.'

Arthur puffed on his cigar. The study was sweet with the aromatic scent of the tobacco. ‘Julius wants this information passed to Hastings and Wasserman. He sent it direct to me because he didn't feel the Paris office was secure enough yet. That's the only reason, of course. Another week or so when Ruth had got everything properly set up, we wouldn't have known anything about this.'

Kruger waited. He wasn't sure where Arthur was leading; his expression was mild, as if he were just smoking a good cigar with an old colleague. Then suddenly, he saw the drift.

‘If Hastings gets this information,' he said, ‘it gives him a prime target – Madeline Luchaire. He'll know exactly how to strike at Karakov, by somehow stopping the sale of this jewellery. He's smart enough to figure out how to do it once he knows she's the client and the prince is the buyer …'

‘Yes,' Arthur agreed. ‘If he knows.' There was a silence then.
If
. Kruger tasted that little word.
If
. He cleared his throat.

‘How's Andrews doing in Moscow? Any further developments?'

‘He's having meetings with this man Borisov. He seems to have struck up some kind of rapport with him. So he says. They're driving a stiff bargain, as I told you, Dick. Very stiff. Very expensive and with long-term commitments that I'm finding … well, quite difficult. But I've told Ray to go ahead. Say yes in general and try to whittle the terms down in detail. He's a very able chap; I'm sure he'll get a deal together. But, of course, he needs time. Russians make a virtue out of dragging on negotiations. They know how it frustrates us. It can tempt us into blunders just to get a resolution. He does need time. I'm confident that he'll bring it off. Then our ambitious friend in Paris can do what he likes with this information. If Ray detaches the Russians from their agreement with Karakov, it won't matter.'

‘No,' Dick Kruger said, and smiled, ‘it won't. So you think we should sit on this for a while?'

‘I think it needs consideration,' Arthur said. ‘I don't feel there's any hurry to inform Hastings. He's only just arrived in Paris, he hasn't even met Karakov yet … After all, he should be given the chance to persuade him without resorting to interfering with a sale of this importance. Even if he found a way to do so … I think we should keep this under wraps for the time being … Julius has passed the initiative to us. Would you agree?'

Kruger's eyes gleamed. ‘I would. Ray Andrews deserves to bring it off. Why the hell should we hand that shit Hastings something on a plate?'

‘We have this information in reserve,' Arthur remarked, ‘if all else fails in Moscow. When are you going to Paris, Dick?'

‘On Friday night,' Kruger answered. ‘For the weekend. Private visit.'

‘Give my best to Ruth,' Arthur said. He rubbed out his stub of cigar. Dick Kruger stood up. They walked out of the house and to Kruger's car, and shook hands.

‘Thanks for a great weekend,' Dick said. ‘Say goodbye to Christa for me. I'll be sending her some flowers.'

She had gone off with some of the guests to look at a local art exhibition in aid of charity. Arthur knew she would come back with a picture destined for the attic. She was generous to good causes. He went back to his study and put Reece's fax in a drawer of his desk and locked it. He could trust Dick Kruger. Their interests were identical.

Elizabeth slept in late that morning. She and James had been out to dinner at the Tour d'Argent with some clients. They were already in demand, and her own background had opened the stuffier French circles to them. She found the parties and dinners an effort; typically, she had been educated to a simple standard in foreign languages and her French lapsed very quickly when the conversation got under way. Fortunately, most people they met spoke excellent English. She found the men flirtatious and inquisitive, and the women guarded because she was so attractive. It was all very smart and amusing and superficial, and eating out so much she was putting on weight.

She had just woken when the telephone rang. She levered herself up on the pillows. James had left hours earlier. He was always in his office by eight-thirty. And they had a dinner party planned for that evening … it was time she got up and stopped being dozy.

‘This is Jean Pierre Lasalle,' the voice said in her ear. ‘Madame Hastings?' The charming estate agent. She had been meaning to invite him round, but somehow she hadn't got round to doing it. James had long lists of people he wanted to entertain.

‘Oh yes … How nice to hear from you. How are you?'

‘Well, thank you. I thought I would call and ask how you are enjoying your apartment. Is everything all right?'

‘Perfect,' Elizabeth said. ‘I meant to call you, but it's been so hectic ever since we arrived. I'd no idea Parisians were so hospitable.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Lasalle said. ‘They don't have that reputation normally. I was wondering whether you might like to have lunch with me today, and see the exhibition of Impressionists at the Musée d'Orsay. I have tickets for the private view this afternoon. You are probably too busy …'

‘No I'm not,' she said. ‘It sounds a lovely idea. How sweet of you.'

‘I will come to the apartment at one o'clock. I've discovered a new restaurant. I hope you like fish.'

‘Love it,' she said. ‘One o'clock. See you then. Goodbye.'

She set the telephone down. What a nice surprise. James never had time to go to exhibitions or sightsee. Jean Pierre was a nice man, lunch and then the Musée d'Orsay would be something to look forward to. She had heard people talking about the brilliant transformation of a disused railway terminal into one of the finest exhibition centres in Europe. The French had such style and flair; they loved their city in a way that Londoners had forgotten. No Parisians would have dropped litter in the street.

Jean Pierre was very punctual. He walked into the salon and looked round. ‘You've made it charming,' he said. ‘Much less formal. Are you really happy here?'

Elizabeth smiled at him. ‘Yes, I am; I'd rather have been in the rue de la Perle, but then I've always had rather a womb complex. I'm glad you like what I've done. My husband is thrilled, it's just what he wanted. Would you like a drink before we go?'

‘No, I think we'd better not risk losing our table. I'm not the only person to discover this restaurant.'

They had a leisurely lunch; Elizabeth found herself relaxing completely, talking about her family and her home, about James and how important it was for him to meet Ivan Karakov. Jean Pierre was a very good listener. When they paid the bill and set off for the Musée d'Orsay, she realized she had monopolized the conversation. He had said nothing about himself. In the car she apologized.

‘I'm so sorry, what a bore I've been, talking about myself all the time. I'm afraid it's because you're so easy to talk to; I haven't made any friends here yet, just acquaintances.'

He turned to her and said simply, ‘I have been enchanted by it. You are a wonderful companion, Madame Hastings. I've been thinking, perhaps I can help with your husband's problem – meeting Ivan Karakov.'

‘Could you? That would be wonderful … How?'

‘After we've looked at the pictures,' he said gently. ‘When you look at Impressionists you can't think about anything else.'

Elizabeth lost track of time. Jean Pierre was knowledgeable and enthusiastic. Listening to him, she began to see the pictures in depth and significance. For the first time the vibrant colours of Van Gogh appealed to her more than the rain-washed colouring of Monet, because he had explained them in terms of the artist's insanity and pain.

When they came outside he took her arm lightly, guiding her across the street towards the car.

‘Now
I
must apologize. I do hope I haven't bored you … but that period of painting is my obsession. My wife had a Degas, an exquisite painting of two ballet dancers practising at the bar. It broke my heart when she took it with her. I minded much more about losing that picture than losing my wife.'

Elizabeth was surprised by the bitterness in the remark. ‘Did you really, or did you come to that conclusion afterwards?'

He looked at her, switched on the engine, and then said, ‘
Touché!
I minded very much about losing them both at the same time. That was a stupid remark, please don't judge me by it. I would hate you to think I was a cynic.'

Elizabeth said simply, ‘It didn't sound cynical, just as if you were still hurt. May I ask you something?' She saw him smile.

‘Isn't there someone else in my life? No. There have been women now and again, but no-one serious. Was that your question?'

‘Yes. Perhaps you should find someone. I'm sure it wouldn't be difficult.'

‘I'm flattered,' he said gently. ‘And I think perhaps you're right. I should put myself on the market. Like one of my own apartments. Divorcé, fifty-two years old, centrally situated, with château only eighty kilometres from Paris for weekends. Vacant possession.' He laughed. ‘You are sweet, Madame Hastings; you do not think it's funny and you can't hide your feelings. I'm only joking about making an advertisement for myself. But you're right. I think I should find a wonderful woman and settle down with her. Here we are, the palace at rue Constantine.'

He got out and opened the car door for her.

‘Thank you for lunch and a wonderful afternoon,' Elizabeth said. ‘I've enjoyed myself so much. And learned so much, too. I'll try and persuade James to come with me … He really ought to see it.'

Jean Pierre had taken her hand. He paused. ‘I said I could help him to meet Karakov. I didn't forget. I will invite them to dinner. I know his wife Laura; she was a friend of my wife's, and she didn't strike me off her list when we parted. I have rented flats to her friends, and if I ask her to dinner, she'll come and so will he. You and your husband will happen to be there.'

‘That would be wonderful,' Elizabeth said. ‘I'll tell James; he'll be so grateful.'

‘I will telephone you with the date,' he said. ‘Thank you for sharing the paintings with me. If you enjoy exhibitions, there are several in Paris you might like to see …'

‘I'd love to,' she said. ‘Any time. Just ask me.'

He kissed her hand. ‘Oh, I will,' he said.

7

Dimitri Borisov walked from his office to the restaurant. He liked walking; the sky was still light and the air balmy. He loved Moscow at that time of year, before the first bite of frost in the air. People were strolling along, girls and young men hand in hand, elderly people, the inevitable babushkas in their shawls and stout shoes, laden down with plastic bags,
en route
for home. A group of young soldiers, caps slightly rakish on the side of their cropped heads, laughed and ogled two girls across the broad street.

Life had settled into a routine. There was no major conflict, only sporadic outbreaks in the far regions of the old Soviet Empire. They burst like boils, were lanced, erupted briefly somewhere else. It would take more than a mere decade to stabilize the great Russian state. That was Borisov's dream. Stability, wealth, economic power. A return to world status. That was what he worked for, and that was why he was on his way to eat dinner with the representative of the arch capitalist, Diamond Enterprises. He had grown to respect Andrews and then, unwillingly, to trust him. Liking had followed. Dimitri Borisov was his father's son. He had an instinct for people. He sensed weakness and he recognized integrity. His father maintained he could distinguish the sweat smell when someone was lying. Dimitri claimed the same gift.

Negotiations were slow because Borisov dictated the pace. Time was not on Andrews' side; he believed, because Borisov had told him so, that the details of the agreement with Karakov were being finalized at a higher level. They were, in fact, on hold in his department. That very morning he had received a spate of cables from Karakov in Paris asking if there was any reason for the delay. The terms were agreed in broad outline. He wanted to expand the deal and fill in more of the financial details.

The restaurant was privately run, and only patronized by Muscovites. It was small and cramped, there were no concessions to Western style. Bare tables, a hot smoky atmosphere and the best Russian food in the city. And wines unobtainable anywhere else. The cellar had been stocked in the Eighties from the massive wine store taken from Livadia and hidden during the Great Patriotic War. The sweet wines and the oldest vintages, uncertain to have survived for close on seventy years, were shipped to the West for sale, where the tsar's insignia on the bottles attracted speculators.

Dimitri was shown to a table. It was the one he kept reserved. He took his current mistress there. She would have preferred to go to the Hotel Muscova; appearances impressed her more than food and drink. He was very fond of her, but she irritated him.

He had been briefly married to a social psychologist. Her job took her to the Institute of Social Studies at Kharkhov; his was in Moscow. They commuted for a year and then divorced. There were no children. He wasn't about to get married to anyone else.