Eye of the God (22 page)

Abby parked outside the employee entrance and scanned her card to enter the National Museum of Natural History. The distance between her office and the Hope Diamond was a well-worn path that she could travel in her sleep. She drew a few curious looks from the night staff as her heels clipped along the marble floor, but they dismissed her quickly when she flashed her security badge.

Abby stepped onto the diamond's platform and peered into the display case. “You and I have a sordid history,” she said, her voice low but accusing. “I'm ready for this to be over.”

There were two lines of silver print on the black business card. The first said
Munson Financial.
The second was an international number starting with the country code 33 for Saint-Tropez, France. Isaac Weld sat in his car, spying through the windshield at Alex's apartment while he rolled the card between his fingers. It only took a moment for him to reach a decision. He dialed the number from his cell phone.

“
Munson Financier ce qui est votre langue préférée
?” the receptionist answered.

“English,” Isaac said, stating his preferred language.

“Very well. Hold please.” She switched to perfect, unaccented English.

Isaac waited in silence until the line clicked over. “Munson Financial. Sebastian speaking.”

“Sebastian, my name is Isaac Weld, and I find myself in need of unique financial assistance.”

“Mr. Weld, if you have my number you know that I specialize in such matters. Yet it is a matter of protocol for me to ask how you were referred.”

“That may prove to be an issue. I'm not in the habit of giving out the names of my friends or enemies.”

“I see. Then I must insist on at least knowing the nature of your needs before we continue.”

Isaac closed his eyes and settled into the darkness of his car, hidden behind smoky black windows. “My business partner and I have a large sum of money in an offshore account. I've been reasonably satisfied with the services we've received. But now I'm in need of more, shall we say,
discretion,
than they are capable of providing. I wish to
transfer the full amount elsewhere without going through regular channels.”

“Understood. Please know that we can accommodate your request, but first I must know two things.”

“And what would they be?”

“First, let's deal with the transaction itself. How large a sum are we talking about?”

“Nine figures.”

“Very good. We never deal with less than eight.”

“And the second?”

There was a short pause on the other line. “I must be clear up front that our fee is five percent of the total transfer.”

“I see,” Isaac said, his jaw clenching involuntarily. “I find that obscene.”

“As do all my clients. And I remain unapologetic. What I can do for you is untraceable and highly illegal. I don't negotiate my pricing, and if you have issues, as many do, you are welcome to destroy the card in your hand and attempt to find someone else who can help. I can assure you that such help does not exist, and I will not take your call if you ring my offices again.”

“It would seem that I find myself in a bit of predicament then.”

“I prefer to think of it as a partnership,” Sebastian said, his voice level, almost pleasant.

Isaac tapped his fingers on the armrest, doing a mental calculation of what this endeavor would cost. “Very well. We have an agreement.”

“Wonderful. Now, why don't you give me the name of your current banking institution, as well as your account number, and I can get the process started.”

Isaac rattled off the information from memory. He heard a gentle tapping in the background, and he could not help but cringe as his most vital, personal information was stored on a computer somewhere along the French Riviera.

“Very good, Mr. Weld. I have verified your account information, as well as your balance. Many of my clients request new documents such as passport, credit cards, and birth certificate. Will you be needing those as well?”

“Yes.”

“I will have them shipped to you within the next two days. Is there an address you prefer?”

“The one on my account will suffice.”

“And when might I expect to hear from you again?”

“I anticipate our next point of contact to be on Sunday.”

“Excellent. Is there anything else I can assist you with, Mr. Weld?”

Isaac lifted his eyes to the darkened windows of Alex's apartment. “Yes,” he said. “There is one other matter that requires your unique skills.”

Daniel shifted the main screen in the security terminus to the video feed coming from the Hope Diamond. His intent was to cross-check the intruder's image against surveillance footage from the Hope display. He never got the chance.

Abby Mitchell stood before the Hope Diamond, speaking to it as though it were an animate object capable of response. He could not hear her words, but he could see the angst on her face. She circled the display case, her arm outstretched and fingers brushing the glass. Her gaze did
not leave the diamond as she vented her emotions, which seemed stark and raw.

He leaned forward to watch Abby press her forehead against the glass. She closed her eyes, palms flat on the display case, and mouthed silent words. Daniel was captivated by the pain and obsession that coursed over her face. Before he knew it, his hands were flying across the console, freezing a still shot of her face to a smaller screen. A moment later Abby turned and left the Harry Winston Gallery.

I wonder
, he thought, eyes locked on the surveillance feed. He tapped his fingers on the console, thinking. Then the chief security officer for the museum picked up the phone and dialed the number of an old friend.

It only rang twice. “State Department, Wayne Edward.”

“Hey, it's Daniel Wallace. I didn't think you'd be at the office.”

“What're you doing, man? I haven't heard from you in at least a year.”

“Still at the Smithsonian.”

Wayne laughed. “Bored out of your gourd, I'm sure.”

“You might be surprised. Things get interesting around here. I actually need to call in a favor you owe me.”

Wayne hesitated, and Daniel knew his mind coursed over the recorded call and the dozens of security procedures that might be at risk.

“Don't worry,” Daniel said. “I just need you to run two people through Identix and check a length of surveillance tape for matches.”

“Seems easy enough.” Wayne sounded relieved. “But don't you have access to Identix?”

“Not here. And I'm kind of in a hurry.”

“Okay, can you give me about thirty minutes?”

“Sure. I'll email the package.”

“I'll give you a call when I've got something.”

Daniel hung up the phone and emailed the still shots of both Abby and the intruder to Wayne Edward at the State Department. He also included a six-month stretch of surveillance feed. And then he waited.

16

VERSAILLES, FRANCE, JANUARY 24, 1789

A
SODDEN RAIN FELL, UNUSUALLY WARM FOR A WINTER'S DAY. THE CLOUDS
gathered in great angry heaps, crackling with lightning. Sharp pieces of hail pummeled the ground, bouncing on the hard-packed earth and biting into the ankles of those unfortunate enough to be caught outside the palace. A small group of peasants shielded their eyes and cursed the temperamental weather. Had it been the brightest and warmest of days, they would still have been in a dark, foul mood. But the heavy rain turned their hearts to murder. Cold, wet, and hungry, the crowd of horse carts, rickety wagons, and poorly shod commoners approached the gates of the Versailles Palace. They could not know that three stories above stood the king of France, observing them in stony silence.

King Louis XVI leaned against his bedroom window, watching the crowd of peasants and fingering an ornate brooch that hung from his neck on a scarlet ribbon. Upon his coronation he inherited the
Toison d'or
, along with an induction into the knighthood that the brooch symbolized. Hundreds of the crown jewels were amassed in the making
of the five-inch pendant, often referred to as The Golden Fleece, not the least of which was a great blue diamond known as the French Blue.

The queen consort, Marie Antoinette, sprawled lazily on a divan, twirling a loose ringlet of hair. Her skin, caked in white powder, and her blood-red painted lips, gave her the appearance of a corpse dressed for burial. She wore a deep burgundy dress of Dupioni silk, edged with black velvet at the hem and sleeves. The neckline of her gown plunged halfway down her breasts, revealing a greatly exaggerated depth of cleavage. Her waist was cinched to a rib-crushing narrowness, and her eight-foot train draped the floor. On her well-coifed hair sat an elaborate hat of matching silk and velvet, combined with three plumes of white feathers.

The immense heat radiating from the fireplace caused the king's cheeks to flush, and his clammy forehead soaked the black tendrils of wig that dangled above his eyes. His green swallow-tail coat hung to the backs of his knees, swaying like the limp plume of a tired peacock. He stood with arms crossed, scowling at the miserable crowd of commoners who trailed by in meager protest.

“It looks like a barnyard out there,” he growled.

“I beg your pardon
Milord
?” asked the king's secretary, Bertrand Laurent. Sitting behind a heavy wooden desk, feather in hand, and inkwell before him, Laurent pursed his lips and waited for Louis to begin a dictation that would most certainly change, not just his own life, but the very future of France. The secretary was ready to begin transcribing for the king when the king's attention was diverted by the protestors.

“Them,” Louis said, pointing angrily at the window. “Disgraceful.”

A cramp, slow and burning, moved up Laurent's raised forearm, and he exhaled in silent irritation. After several moments, he dared to interrupt the thoughts of his king, “
Milord
, you were about to say?”

Louis turned narrowed eyes upon his secretary . “Is my hesitation irritating you, Monsieur Laurent?”

“Not at all, Your Majesty.”

Louis took a step toward the desk, hands neatly folded behind his back. “Perhaps you feel as though I should rush through a dictation that may very well send this country into civil war. Is that it?”

“No, no!” Laurent shook his head adamantly.

No longer bored, Marie Antoinette turned a calculating gaze toward the two men, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

A series of capillaries, red and spidery, pressed against the skin of King Louis's forehead as his temper rose. “Maybe you don't believe my words should be careful and well chosen. Maybe I should spit this order out, as though writing to an acquaintance.
Maybe
the king of France should have no concern that his words will be recorded on the pages of history and that he will be held accountable for every single one of them. Is
that
what you're trying to tell me?”

Spittle sprayed from the king's mouth, and it covered the secretary's face. Laurent blinked. Louis stood but a foot or two away and towered over the seated scribe.

“That is not at all what I meant,
Milord
.”

Louis leaned in until his nose almost touched the secretary's. “Pray tell then, Monsieur Laurent, what exactly did you mean?”

“Nothing,
Milord
.”

“Then why don't your keep your meaningless comments to yourself? I have at my disposal the Privy Council should I need advice. You are but a secretary, and a poor one at that,” Louis whispered.

Laurent nodded feverishly and turned back to the desk. His now shaking hand still remained raised, ready to begin writing at a moment's notice.

Louis returned to the window and played with his brooch once again. He slowly passed his thumb over the surface of the blue stone. As he stroked the diamond, he turned to his wife. “Is this truly necessary M'Lady?” he asked, wagging his wrist at Laurent.

Marie looked at her husband and tilted her head to the side. “This?”

“Convening the Estates General. Raising the taxes?”

She rose slowly from the divan, smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress. “Of course,” she purred. “It is an unfortunate duty of the king, but a duty nonetheless.”