Sparkles Page 10

  Joachim powered on the laptop. He opened his CD case and picked out a record marked Patsy Cline Sings Puccini Favorites. He flipped the CD upside down and put it in the player. After closing the tray, the disc immediately began searching the hard drive for anomalies. Joachim watched the dark green screen as columns and rows of encrypted letters raced by. A moment later a telltale red asterisk appeared. The hard drive had been removed, and then replaced. Joachim smiled. Just as he was about to send Jan a coded message that he’d made contact with Armande, there was a knock at the door. Joachim closed the computer case. The young man who’d tailed Joachim since he’d arrived in Kazakhstan stood holding out his SVR identification card. “Sir,” he said, “would you please come with me?”

  A LIGHT mist, leftover from the cold night, swirled around the tarmac. British Airways flight 719 taxied onto the runway. The big engines revved. The brakes were released. The plane soared upward, and Joachim Nussbaum watched Kazakhstan fall away from view. The SVR, the equivalent of the American CIA, had kept him in relative comfort for two weeks while he was interviewed. Believing Joachim to be a devout Muslim, they even let him keep his holy book for prayer. The discussions, when they finally began, were with the SVR’s regional head, a man named Fomenko. The questioning had lasted off and on for an additional two weeks, and often centered on why a Muslim would seek out a priest. The priest, Joachim had said, was well known as someone who knew the mountains along the Iranian border, and he’d given directions to Dolatska. Fomenko was thorough. He had to be. His masters demanded it. His life depended on it. Fomenko questioned Joachim relentlessly, and fortunately for them both, Joachim answered convincingly.

  He checked the date on his wristwatch and reset the time. He thought, Weeks in the field, thousands of dollars spent… and a dead man returns to the land of the living. I wonder why the Frenchman is so important to Jan? Doesn’t matter. I did my job. Jan will be pleased when I tell him in person.

  Chapter 31

  Philadelphia

  Jan’s Townhouse Study

  STARS GLITTERED across the clear night sky. Jan and Daniel sat quietly digesting their late dinner.

  “Nightcap?” Jan said, reaching for a decanter of tawny port.

  “Trying to get rid of me?” Daniel said.

  Jan ignored him. “I got a message from Nussbaum a few weeks ago.”

  “I haven’t seen Joachim in quite a while. What’s he up to?”

  Jan stifled a yawn. “He did some work for me. Nothing came of it, unless you consider someone ending up dead nothing.”

  “Anyone I know, or should know?”

  “No. It’s just… I dunno, I’m rambling… sorry.”

  “Okay, I get the message. I’m going.”

  Daniel rose, heading for the door.

  “Daniel, wait,” Jan said. “Take a look at this.”

  Jan handed Daniel a typed replica of the napkin puzzle he’d found at the Broadway Diner. “What do you make of it?”

  “What is it?”

  “I found it at the Broad Street Diner.”

  “Looks like a kid’s scribble,” Daniel said.

  “One of the scribbles, as you call it, looks to me like a formula for a chemical reaction… actually it appears to be a thermal reaction, but chemistry is my bag, not physics.”

  “And who do I look like, Enrico Fermi?” Daniel said, joking.

  “Well, you’re the official Mundus code breaker. Do your best with it, okay? I’m off to Paris tomorrow. E-mail me if you figure this out. It might be important.”

  Daniel folded the paper and put into his shirt pocket. “Considering where you found it, I wouldn’t think so, but you’re the boss.”

  Chapter 32

  A Cougar in Cougar’s Clothing

  AS DANIEL picked his way over the slippery cobbles past Charlotte De Vere’s house, his haphazard progress was being watched. With the keen eyes of a night predator and the lust of a she-wolf in heat, Kat Manlove watched from her bedroom window as Daniel walked the short distance from Jan’s home. Month after rolling month, she had watched Daniel Jelski—divorced Daniel Jelski, therefore available Daniel Jelski.

  Kat’s house, quaintly called Lovage Lodge, stood opposite Charlotte De Vere’s and offered a bird’s-eye view of the narrow tree-lined street. Burning with unrestrained resentment toward anyone who blocked her heart’s desire, Kat turned away from the window. She glanced at her reflection in the bureau mirror. Her waist was slim. Her skin and muscle tone, with careful salon conservation, remained relatively youthful. Only her bottle-colored black hair betrayed her as a woman pushing the wrong end of her forties. She looked down at her breasts. The soft flesh was squeezed and pushed up and out in her bra like a Wagnerian soprano. Why, she wondered, did Daniel prefer Charlotte?

  Chapter 33

  Paris, France

  ONLY THE mantel clock counting the passing minutes disturbed the quiet in Jan’s apartment on the Il Saint-Louis.

  Outside, cars dashed across the Pont de Sully. Amal was in his bedroom. It was midafternoon—time for prayer.

  Jan’s cook, plump as an apple dumpling, was in the kitchen preparing small sandwiches of tongue and watercress when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Jan said as he passed the kitchen.

  As he headed toward the door, Jan mulled over the last text message he’d gotten from Joachim. Armande Bonnet was dead. Jan arrived at the door just as the bell rang once more. Outside, a tall man with short gray hair waited. He wore a beige cashmere overcoat over a dark brown suit. His shoes gleamed from a recent polishing. Jan opened the door. The man removed his brown fedora hat and handed it to Jan.

  “My name is Claude Bonnet. Tell Monsieur Phillips that I am here, as he requested.”

  Jan put the hat on nearby table.

  “Monsieur Bonnet, I am Jan Phillips.”

  Bonnet, who stood a full head taller than Jan, looked down at him and said, “I expected someone older.”

  “Most people do,” Jan replied as he guided Bonnet into the living room. Jan stood silent as Claude took in the room.

  “Monsieur Phillips, this must be one of the most beautiful rooms in all of France. The view alone makes it special.”

  No stranger to money, and what it can buy, Claude Bonnet stared in obvious appreciation at the buff-colored walls that were set off with carved moldings of cream and gold. A Turkish rug in shimmering reds and blues lay across the floor. On this sat a low table made of tiger maple. A row of Louis XVI side chairs was lined up under the windows overlooking the Seine. The afternoon sunlight glinted off gold-stamped leather-bound books shelved in uneven ranks along the far wall. The slight aroma of fresh lavender, out of season this time of year, scented the air.

  “It is lovely. However, I can’t take credit for it. This home was given to me as an inheritance. But monsieur, I didn’t ask you here to discuss décor.”

  “When I received your note, you mentioned the father abbot of Saint Sebastian Monastery. That got my attention. Frankly, it’s why I’m here.”

  Jan pulled one of the side chairs away from the wall. “Claude, may I call you Claude? Please, sit down.”

  The banker sat. He waited for Jan to draw up a chair for himself.

  “Jacques asked me to look into your son’s disappearance.”

  “Wait! Jacques told me he would ask his contacts at the Vatican Curia to find Armande. What have you to do with this?”

  “Claude,” Jan said, “first, the Vatican, as influential as it is, cannot do the work of Interpol. Nor should it. Second, Jacques told you he would try. He didn’t expressly say the Vatican. He turned to me because I have, shall we say, certain capabilities at my disposal…. You must brace yourself for bad news.”

  “Tell me, then, do they have him? Is he alive?”

  “I’m sorry. My man reports that Armande, your son, was killed at the hands of al-Qaida.”

  Bonnet tried to suppress tears that welled up in his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. “Perh
aps your man made a mistake. That is possible, isn’t it?”

  Jan looked into the man’s sad eyes. “My man is ex-Mossad. You know their reputation, Claude. They don’t make mistakes. If they are unsure, they say nothing. If they mislead, it’s for a good reason. I have no cause to doubt him. I wish I could say I did.”

  Claude stood and began pacing the room.

  Jan waited, lost in his own thoughts: thoughts of Colin, in the hands of Louis Carew and the murderous terrorist known only as Ben. This could have been my son.

  Bonnet stopped and said, “I haven’t wept since his mother died. That was many years ago. How did he die? I mean he wasn’t… they didn’t….”

  Jan looked at the stricken man and lied. “No. His death was swift, and as merciful as any death is at the hands of murderers.”

  “Where is he? I mean his body. I want—”

  Jan interrupted. “We don’t know. He could be anywhere in those mountains… I’m so sorry.”

  Bonnet sagged back into his chair and began to weep once again.

  Jan waited for the man to calm down before speaking. “May I ask you some questions?”

  “If I know the answers, yes.”

  “There is some suspicion that Armande was working for La Sécurité Extérieure—perhaps freelance.” Jan looked Claude in the eye. “Was your son with the French Sécurité? And if so, why was he in Kazakhstan looking for a Russian grave?”

  “La Sécurité? You, a stranger, are asking me if my son was a spy? What am I to say to that?”

  “Monsieur, you asked for answers. I have given them to you as best I can and with the information I have. Now I would like some answers in return. So, was your son working for the Sécurité, or not?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter now who knows about Armande. The answer, Monsieur Phillips, is yes. The trip to Kazakhstan was to visit the grave of his great-grandfather. It had nothing to do with anything else.”

  “Do you know what he expected to find in Iran?”

  “So, you know about the Iran mission?” Bonnet shrugged as if to throw off his pain. His eyes hardened into something akin to rage. “I begged him to leave the spying to the professionals…. Do you know what he did? He laughed. He said there was more danger crossing a Paris street than in the mountains in Iran—foolish, foolish boy.”

  Jan nodded a knowing yes.

  Claude shook his head. “But to answer your question as to what he was looking for in Iran, I have to say that there have been large influxes of diamonds through Europe. Huge sums of money are moving through the banks, mine included, presumably from diamond sales. No one could pin down how the stones were getting into Europe, or where, or why they were sold. Armande decided to go to the most likely source that would benefit from so much cash. He figured al-Qaida in the East was the logical place to look.”

  Jan’s mind whirled with one word—Diamonds!

  Jan faced the obvious conclusion that the gem thefts in Philadelphia and the influx of stones into the open market could not be coincidental.

  “How did you come to know about Armande’s spy work?” Jan asked as calmly as he could.

  “Some people from the Sécurité came to see me. It appeared that some of the money from diamond sales came through my bank. They asked me lots of questions about gemstones. Of course, I couldn’t tell them anything. I was worried about it. I called Armande and told him about the police inquiries. That’s when Armande told me he sometimes worked for La Sécurité. I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know he was with them. I had no idea that we, the bank I mean, were laundering money… and yet. You understand! I had to know! Now Armande is gone. I have another son, a stepson actually. My wife’s first husband died. I adopted the boy. I haven’t seen him in years. I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  Jan rose and put his hand on Claude’s shoulder. “This isn’t over, but I warn you not to tell anyone what you know. Your life may very well depend on discretion.”

  Bonnet looked up at Jan. The arrogant man who had arrived a mere hour before was now humbled and broken. He stood, retrieved his hat from the hall table, and then turned toward Jan.

  “Will you do me one last service?” Bonnet said.

  “If I’m able. What do you want?”

  “Please, I beg of you, if you discover where he is, will you tell me?”

  Jan’s mind instantly reeled back to the Iceland glacier known as Mürderkill and his own son caught in the very kind of net that had snared Bonnet’s son. The difference was Colin Phillips was a naïve teen, whereas Armande Bonnet was a spy in a foreign land. Yet the pain of father to father transcended these differences. Jan slowly nodded. “Of course,” Jan replied, knowing that the chances were slim that Armande Bonnet’s grave would ever be found.

  Chapter 34

  Philadelphia

  Rittenhouse Square

  “THIS IS from Spencer and Hillier. They’ve withdrawn their suit against that robbed courier,” Marsha said as she handed the letter to Jan. “Why did they send it here?”

  Jan gave the note a quick glance before handing it back. “I sent Daniel to represent the defendant. I guess Jack Spencer thought better of a costly court battle. File it in my personal folder.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anything else?”

  Marsha ran a finger down her daily log. “You’ve got a meeting here with a Mr. Stephen Roman. That’s at 10:00 a.m. Then you’re free for the afternoon.”

  The thought of being alone with Stephen brought a latent tingle to Jan’s loins.

  “Thanks, Marsha. That’s all for now.”

  Once Marsha had left, Jan let his mind wander into fantasyland—a realm he rarely visited. He pictured himself with Stephen. Jan, pale-skinned and blond, and Stephen, olive-skinned with auburn hair, stood naked, their lips wet with kisses, their cocks running with precum. Jan wondered if Stephen Romanov could be someone he could love. Certainly he was handsome, with smooth skin, piercing dark eyes, and hair straight out of a Botticelli painting. But the man, what about the man? Perhaps today would give Jan an answer.

  Jan rubbed his growing erection and moaned softly. He opened his eyes. On his desk, Michael’s photograph sat in reproach. “What are you looking at?” Jan mocked gently. He got up and moved to the sofa. He checked his watch. Five more minutes….

  “WHAT A view!” Stephen said, as he and Jan stood looking out over Rittenhouse Square. “This is one of Philly’s oldest squares, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Jan said. “The story is, Thomas Jefferson and George Washington stood right where we are now—kind of humbling, isn’t it?”

  “American tradition isn’t in my background. I’m French, actually, but I do understand what you mean.”

  “Really? I don’t detect an accent.”

  “I was sent to Canada when I was very young. I return to Europe when there is a family gathering.”

  A silver disk lying on a side table caught Stephen’s eye. Etched in the shiny metal was the Templar symbol of two knights riding one horse surrounded by the motto: Non Nobis Domine  Non Nobis  Sed Nomine Tuo Da Gloriam. Stephen knew the motto well and quickly translated it in his head. Not to us oh Lord  Not to us  But to Thy name give glory. Stephen’s mind reeled. My God, he’s a Templar!

  JAN WENT to a mahogany sideboard and poured a cup of coffee from a brass samovar. “Coffee?” he said, offering the cup to Stephen.

  “Hmm? Oh, no thanks. I’m trying to cut down on caffeine.”

  Returning to Stephen, Jan stood for a moment, simply enjoying being so close to the man.

  “Stephen,” Jan said, “Larry Sinclair told me something about your name, and this diamond that was stolen. Maybe I can help.”

  “Larry did all but threaten me if I didn’t come here. But I’m not sure you can do anything about the diamond. It’s gone. As for my name, it’s Romanov. My father was Prince Demetri Romanov. My mother was Princess Josephine of Denmark. Father was killed in a skiing accident when I was just three.
A minor princess with a small child wasn’t very welcome in the cash-strapped Danish court. They were kind to us, of course, but we could hardly stay forever… and so mother looked around for a rich husband—at least that is what I was told.”

  “It couldn’t have been easy for her,” Jan said, hoping to sound understanding.

  Stephen sighed. “I suppose so…. In the end she met a rich man, and he adopted me. It was the price for having a trophy wife. The bargain also included him using his influence in getting some of the Romanov fortune for me. It turned out there was quite a lot. I was five when my mother died in childbirth. My half brother stayed in France, while I was packed off to Canada. That’s why I don’t have much of a French accent. And that, in a nutshell, is the story of my life.”

  “Why did you come to Philadelphia?” Jan asked.

  Stephen cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Jan, you’re asking a lot of questions. I think I have a right to know why.”

  “Fair enough, after all you haven’t known me all that long. The truth is I like you, and I’d like to help you… and I confess you’ve been on my mind ever since we first met.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you too. I guess I shouldn’t say that. All the books say we shouldn’t admit it.”

  “Baloney,” Jan said. “I believe in saying what’s on my mind, unless it’s unkind.”

  Stephen smiled. “I’m glad. I mean I’m glad I’ve been on your mind. But you want to ask me more questions… so shoot.”