Hot Siberian (42 page)

“For the lot? How many carats in the lot?”

“Each piece is a carat.”

“Exactly?”

“Yes.”

“Not a point or two less?”

“Precisely a carat.”

The open briefke was on the table between them. Their words were like a substance passing over it. Loodsen louped the diamonds again. “Nice make,” he said, commenting on how well they were cut. He jiggled the briefke ever so slightly. The diamonds danced a bit in the crease of a fold. “These all you got, six?”

“Why do you ask?”

“To be honest, I cannot afford to buy this nice. It hurts to admit, but that is the way things are for me at the moment.” Loodsen did a sigh with a little wail of self-pity in it. “However,” he went on, “I know somebody who could afford. Do you have others? You would have to have more than merely six.”

“Who is this somebody?”

“How many more do you have?”

“I didn't say I had more.”

“I hope you do. You are a pleasant young fellow. I wish you riches.”

“Thanks.”

“My brother-in-law, my only sister's husband, is an important broker. I do not care for him, but once in a while I use him to do myself a favor.” Loodsen folded up the briefke and extended it between his fingers. “How many of these do you have?”

“A few.”

“What does that mean? Another six, another ten, what?”

“Let's just say
more
.”

“On you?”

“No.”

“Where you can quickly put your hands on them?”

“What difference does it make?”

“My brother-in-law will ridicule me if I take you to him and all you have is a few. He thinks he is such a big shit.”

“I don't think I would like your brother-in-law.”

“Money is money.”

Loodsen was right about that, Nikolai thought. He wondered where Vivian was at that moment. He pictured her with a jawful of bitter chocolate.

“You ever dream?” Loodsen asked out of context.

“Sometimes.”

“Would that I never did. I get enough of diamonds during the day without having them in my sleep. The dream I have almost every night is not about a diamond so big I cannot get it into my pocket. It is about nice polite stones such as these. That is why I mention it. In my dream I own a few. I feel good that they are mine. Then I blink or something and I look again and the few have become twice as many and so it goes until I have a handful. I am so excited I wake up and all I really have is a handful of
putz
, which, with me,” he admitted wryly, “is not much.”

Nikolai wasn't genuinely amused. Something told him to look to tomorrow. He could try a different tack tomorrow, randomly choose a few brokers out of the directory and make appointments with them. They took advantage when they sensed you were aching to sell. He'd tried to avoid that. No matter; he'd be tough and get his price. Today hadn't been a total waste. He'd gotten a feel of Antwerp. In that regard Loodsen had been a bit of a help. He studied Loodsen again. The man was totally oblivious to being such a mess. Couldn't he see the hairs growing out of his ears, that spot under one of his chins where he'd missed the last three or four times he'd shaved? He was pathetic, a grub in a field of plenty.

“If you do a deal with my brother-in-law,” Loodsen said, “I can middle. Nothing from you, just from him. That is why I want to know how much of these nice goods you have. The bigger the deal the more I stand to make, but if I do not know what the deal is I will not know what my cut is and my brother-in-law will be able to lie to me.”

Nikolai didn't doubt that. He tried to imagine the looks of Loodsen's sister. If there was a family resemblance, how had she gotten someone to marry her? Maybe she had compensating talents. As Vivian often said, in some way everyone is blessed.

At that moment two dealers paused to confer nearby. Very well dressed, evidently successful. They stood so close to each other the brims of their black homburgs brushed. There was an air of conspiracy about them as they alternately turned ear to mouth to keep their words out of everyone's range. Nikolai observed them and thought they were probably pincering someone into selling too low or buying too high. As they turned to continue on their way, Loodsen greeted them by name. They looked right at Loodsen, but through him, didn't say a word.

A sudden empathic pang dissolved all of Nikolai's other intentions. “What's your brother-in-law's name?” he asked.

Ten minutes later Nikolai was around the block on Schupstraat with Loodsen wheezing and waddling beside him. They entered number 106, a well-maintained pre-both-wars building, and went up in a cage-type elevator to the fourth floor. Loodsen's brother-in-law's office was directly across the hall from the elevator. There was his name, DAVID NAGEL, lettered in black-outlined gold on the upper panel of the solid, highly varnished door. Nikolai and Loodsen went into a small entry, actually a cubicle about six by six. Most places of business in the diamond trade have this sort of first-line-of-security arrangement: a double entrance with two doors electrically interdependent, so that the exterior door giving to the cubicle has to be closed before the interior door can be opened. Loodsen and Nikolai stood in the cubicle. The receptionist peered out at them through a small partition of double-paned bulletproof glass. “It's me, Jacob,” Loodsen said. The receptionist looked at Loodsen dubiously, but then the bolting mechanism of the inner door clicked and Loodsen went in, followed by Nikolai with hat in hand.

“Mr. Nagel is on the telephone,” the receptionist informed them, as though anything was far more important than what they were there for. “And he has another call waiting,” she added. She was a mature woman, severe in appearance, with dark hair pulled straight back to the point of pain from a hard, angular face. She was also noticeably pregnant.

Nikolai studied her briefly and wondered if it was possible that when she came into this life she'd been allocated just a certain small amount of pleasantness and squandered it as a child. Perhaps during an acute and rare attack of motherly instinct she'd given in to artificial insemination. He wondered what the person was like who had most recently kissed her. During the wait, he remained standing. He skimmed through a couple of the trade journals that were there on the table and was reading lies about what a high yield of sizable gem rough the System was getting out of Australia when the receptionist said: “Go in.”

Nagel was behind his desk in a contemporary black leather chair too formidable for him. He was a small, slight man of fifty or so. A gray man. Not only was his hair gray but also his suit and tie and shirt. There was even a grayish cast to his complexion. The only colorful things about him were the light blue of his eyes and the pink of his tongue, the tip of which flicked out every so often as though to sneak a taste of the situation.

Loodsen made introductions. He had telephoned to let Nagel know he was bringing Nikolai by. Nagel gestured Nikolai into a chair and offered a cigar from a sleek silver Bulgari box. Evidently he expected Nikolai to refuse, was merely showing off the box, because he almost closed the lid on Nikolai's fingers. Nikolai chose a cigar and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. The dry crinkling of its tobacco-leaf wrapper told how stale it was. Without comment, Nikolai dropped the cigar back into the box, and Nagel, squirming a bit, returned the box to its exact place on his desk. Nikolai sat back as Nagel sat forward to get to business.

“I understand you have goods I might be interested in,” Nagel said.

Nikolai would let the six diamonds speak for themselves. He placed the briefke containing them on the desk. Nagel opened it. His facial expression didn't change a twitch. He silently bare-eyed the diamonds for a while. Using a pair of black tweezers, he turned one over and picked it up by its girdle. His handling was swift and sure. It was something he'd done countless times. He examined that diamond with a loupe, then another, until he'd had a close look at all six. He betrayed more than mild interest. For an even closer look he swiveled his chair around to a binocular microscope. Magnified sixty-three times, the diamonds could hardly hide any secrets. Last, he weighed each diamond on a Mettler Electronic Scale, sensitive to a hundredth of a carat. The scale's green numbered readout indicated each was precisely one carat.

While Nagel was thus occupied, Nikolai glanced at Loodsen, who was edgy, like a starved man about to be assured of his next fifty meals. Loodsen made an optimistic mouth and worked his eyebrows a bit. Nikolai looked past him to the wall, where a large print was hung: one of Klimt's gaunt mistresses up to her throat in geometrics. From her, his eyes wandered to the near corner of Nagel's desk and a chunk of kimberlite rock that contained a poor diamond of about eight carats in matrix. How ironic, he thought, that everything so emotionally crucial to him should now hinge on something as unfeeling as diamonds. He straightened his leg, causing his hat to fall from his knee. He bent over to retrieve it just as Nagel swiveled around and said: “Letikahane.” Nikolai thought Nagel was speaking Hawaiian.

“No,” Loodsen said. “They are river whites.”

“I know Botswanan material when I see it,” Nagel said. “These are out of the new mine at Letikahane.”

“They are
rivers
, extra extras,” Loodsen insisted.

“To you every fine diamond is a river.”

“They never saw Botswana.”

“Go sell cubic zirconium to the tourists. You don't know shit about diamonds.”

“You stink.”

“I'm asking you to leave. We have business to conduct here.”

Loodsen didn't budge.

“This is my office,” Nagel said curtly. “Here you show respect.”

Loodsen hunched his shoulders, made fists in his jacket pockets, and turned to Nikolai. “Do not let him tell you your goods are not rivers.”

Nagel took a long breath through his nostrils to cool his tone. “For your information,” he told Loodsen, “goods like these now coming out of Letikahane are on the average of finer quality than the best rivers ever were. So you see,” he said to Nikolai, “I am not trying to depreciate your goods. In fact, if anything I have just placed myself at a negotiating disadvantage, which should indicate how straightforward I am.”

A sarcastic grunt from Loodsen.

To give the impression that he was taking Nagel's words to heart, Nikolai waited a long moment before asking: “How much a carat for my goods?”

“That would depend on the size of the lot. From what I gather, you have many more than just these six.”

“Anyway, more.”

“Are we talking about fifty more, a hundred, or what? I must know to make a price.”

“One-carat D-flawless rounds have a set price.”

“Yes, but …”

“I realize the price varies somewhat day to day. What's it at now?”

“As of this afternoon, the going price was in the sixteen-to-eighteen-thousand range, depending on how good the make.”

“And these?”

“Beautifully made, top price.”

“Eighteen thousand a carat. That's in dollars?”

“We normally quote and deal in dollars.”

“The dollar hasn't been at its best lately.”

“If you'd rather we can convert to some other currency. French francs or pounds.”

“I guess dollars are all right.”

“So, how many one-carat stones are we talking about?”

“Let's start with a hundred.”

“I sense, Mr. Borodin, that you feel the need to be clever with me, so to save us both that sort of energy I'll come right to the point. I have a client, a principal, an American who is disenchanted with Wall Street. He wants to make a sizable investment in diamonds.”

“What would be sizable?”

“I have discretion to commit to a hundred million.”

Nikolai tried to appear unfazed. He denied that his shirt collar suddenly felt a size too tight. There wasn't really something in his throat that wouldn't let a swallow go all the way down. He could have looked Nagel square in the eyes if he'd wanted to. He nonchalantly fussed with his hat, thankful now that he had it for a diverting prop. He took his time, shaped the brim and redimpled the crown, while he thought what a piece of cake this was turning out to be, a fortune falling right into his pocket. “All right, then,” he said, as though conceding, “let's make it a thousand carats.”

Nagel was pleased. “All of this investment-quality,” he stipulated.

“Exactly. You won't be able to tell one piece from another.”

“I'll pay sixteen thousand a carat.”

“You just told me they were worth eighteen.”

“In such a quantity I expect a discount.”

Nikolai had intended to sell the diamonds five hundred carats at a time, if he could. He reasoned that in those amounts he'd be able to get the highest possible price while causing the least stir on the market. Moving five hundred carats here, five hundred there would hardly cause more than a ripple. However, the circumstances Nagel was presenting were too convenient not to take advantage of: a private buyer, someone who would salt away the stones in order to enjoy their appreciated value five or ten years from now. Nikolai doubted he could find a better fit. “I want eighteen,” he said.

“But you'll take seventeen.”

“Seventeen five.”

“Seventeen five is fair,” Loodsen chimed in.

Nagel shot Loodsen a lethal glance, then told Nikolai unequivocally: “Seventeen is my offer.”

Nikolai believed Nagel would charge his client eighteen. That and then commission. “Done,” Nikolai said.

“Done,” Nagel agreed. “How do you want to receive payment?”

“A wire transfer to my bank in Geneva.”

“Which is?” Nagel had pen ready.

“Zwensen and Company, two-eighteen rue de Rive, twelve-eleven Geneva,” Nikolai replied, as though he'd been long familiar with that name and address, instead of having known it only since yesterday. He and Vivian had flown to Geneva for the sole purpose of setting up an account to receive their anticipated millions. Archer had suggested this particular private bank, and a phone call by him had smoothed the way. The director of the bank, Herr Heilig, had personally looked after them, advised on how best to do a transaction of this sort, and opened an account with the deposit of a mere fifty Swiss francs rather than the normally required ten thousand minimum.