The image cut back to the reporter standing in front of the Tower of London. He said, “The flip side to all of this is the huge, renewed pubic curiosity about the diamond. The Tower of London was forced to restrict entrance after three p.m. today to accommodate record crowds. Seems that everyone, tourists here in London, and British citizens, are queuing up to get a close look at the fabled Koh-i-Noor…if it’s the actual diamond. Dylan Anderson, BBC, London.”
Dave smiled and stirred his cocktail. “The prime minister has a great poker face.”
O’Brien crossed his arms. “Meaning you think he knows more than he’s saying.”
“Indeed. An old British friend of mine, an intel analyst, called me. Someone is blackmailing Prime Minister Hannes. The blackmailer, a man who says he has the Civil War document and the diamond to back it up, threatens to release both. That means history books with reference to the Civil War will be rewritten or amended. The Royal Family gets dragged into a 160-year-old mess, and India demands the return of a diamond they say England stole.”
Nick made a long whistle. “No wonder the prime minister looks constipated.”
Dave smiled. “Sean, my old colleague asked me if you do work-for-hire.”
“Did you volunteer me?”
“Never. Certainly not without speaking to you first.”
“I’m sure the UK has agents to deal with this situation. They’re probably already here.”
“Yes, but they haven’t sent multiple agents, only one man. And he’s on the trail — a trail that could lead him to you, only because your association with the widow of the man who found the booty.”
O’Brien nodded. “My only link is because Laura Jordan and her husband found and bought the painting in that Deland antique store.”
Nick ran his fingers through his thick hair and said, “Yeah, man, but that little antique store might as well be a freakin’ Pandora’s box ‘cause look at what’s happening. And now some blackmailer is about to lay the cards on the table, and one of those cards is the queen.”
Dave said, “Nick, that information stays between the three of us. It’s confidential.”
“Already forgot it.” He grinned and sipped a beer.
O’Brien said nothing.
Dave pushed further back in the couch. “Of course Duncan Hannes is going to deny, make light of, and downplay any British association with the Confederate States of America, even long after the Civil War. The war was, and still is, undeniably the worst wound in American history. Less than a century earlier, we fought to leave the reins of the British monarchy, and later we can’t even agree on how we’ll govern our young nation so an internal war erupts, the result left us with a broken nation and almost 700,000 dead. More killed than in all U.S. wars combined.”
Nick tossed a piece of feta cheese to Max and said, “Too much blood spilled. Sean, you’re my blood brother for life ‘cause you saved my life pullin’ those bikers off me. It’s my obligation to you and God to raise the caution flag on the track when I spot evil in your rearview mirror, brother. This has all the DNA of something really dark. A horrible Civil War. A secret contract. A diamond in the roughest of the rough. And that damn painting. It’s not too late to tell your client ‘thanks but no thanks.’ I bet the diamond pulled out of the river is just a fake and all this will amount to nothing.”
O’Brien stood from the canvas director’s chair in the salon and stepped to the open doors leading to the cockpit. He watched a white pelican straddle the top of a dock piling and preen its feathers. He turned back to Dave and Nick. “What if it’s real? What if the diamond is authentic and the one in the crown today is the fake? Unless the diamond was tested, no one would know.”
Nick grinned. “We’d know if a gemologist had tested the one outta the river, ‘cause if that’s the real deal, what does that make the one locked up the in the Tower of London? Makes it an imposter, that’s what.” Nick took a long pull from an icy bottle of Corona.
Dave lean forward, surfing through the channels on TV, and said, “It was common practice, when transporting diamonds of that value years ago, to use a replica — a decoy — that would be packaged and delivered under armed guard in a route generally made public. At the same time, the genuine stone would often be sent through the postal service, believe it or not. Nick, you’re correct in your premise — is the diamond currently housed in the Crown Jewels in fact a real diamond — the Koh-i-Noor, or was there some confusion and the one in the Tower of London was the counterfeit while the actual diamond was shipped to the Confederate States of America?”
Nick grinned and shook his head. “You can bet a year’s worth of afternoon tea that the Brits won’t be in a hurry to do a scratch ‘n sniff on the rock in the Crown Jewels.”
A cross-breeze blew across the marina, the wind bringing the smell of rain into Gibraltar. The curtain on the starboard side puffed, lightning cracked beyond the lighthouse somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. Within seconds, rain pelted the marina, large drops slapping the thick fiberglass exterior of Dave’s boat. He looked at O’Brien and asked, “What’s wrong, Sean? You leave all the windows on Jupiter open?”
“No, it’s what Joe Billie found when we located the spot near the river where the photo of the woman was taken.”
Nick stood from the bar. “Oh, boy. You said the coins, a Minié ball, and a crushed stogie was there. Rain won’t help.”
O’Brien stared out the transom door at the storm. He watched rain attack the marina, boats rocking in place, bow and stern lines stretched, a burst of lightning splintering white veins across the dark purple sky. He turned back to Dave and Nick, blew air out of his cheeks and said, “Two extremes do the most damage to latent DNA and fingerprints — water and very dry conditions. Tonight it’s a hard rain, and if the sheriff’s office hasn’t bagged that evidence, what’s left of that cigar will probably be washed into the St. Johns. And we can add that to the river’s list of secrets.”
FORTY-ONE
Among covert intelligence circles, it’s known by only two letters: IB. The full title is Intelligence Bureau, the oldest state-run spy agency in the world. In a secure office, deep in the heart of the agency located in New Delhi, India, the field director for external operations, Hira Goda, pushed back in his chair, touched the tips of his boney fingers together, and stared impassively across his desk at the woman.
Goda, pushing fifty, seldom blinked, dark half circles under eyes that absorbed light like coal. He said, “You were handpicked for the operation. You’ve seen the briefs, viewed the video of the diamond found in the river. However, to fully understand the importance of this assignment is to know the soul of India. The Koh-i-Noor has been gone too long. She must be returned home.”
Malina Kade tilted her head, emerald green eyes probing, oval face flawless, amber skin smooth, full lips sensuous. She wore no make-up. Brown hair pulled back. “She? Why apply a gender reference to a diamond?”
Goda propped his elbows on the chair’s armrests and looked across his interlaced fingers. “Because of its history with India.”
“I read the briefs, and I am aware of the diamond’s legacy in India. There was no mention of gender associated with the diamond?”
“It is believed the Koh-i-Noor is not meant to be owned by a man. In its seven-hundred-year past, those men who have claimed it — those who have tried to possess it — have met untimely and often gruesome deaths. It is not the case when the diamond was kept by a woman.”