I had diamonds to sell.
Chapter 66
I CHECKED OUT of the Bodburg Hotel at 6 a.m. and relocated to a quiet little bed-and-breakfast on Geldersekade in the heart of Amsterdam’s Chinatown. I had about eight hours to get ready for my face to face with Diederik de Smet.
But first I had to change my face.
Too many people were looking for Matthew Bannon.
The homeless-man disguise I used when I was stalking Zelvas was simple enough to do on my own, but this time I needed a total transformation that would stand up to close scrutiny.
I’ve used the services of a dozen different makeup artists around the world, and one of the best was right here in Amsterdam — a Cuban expatriate named Domingo Famosa.
Domingo had worked for Dirección de Inteligencia, the main intelligence agency of the Castro government. His job was to create special-effects makeup, sometimes for the DI agents, and sometimes for the face and body doubles who stepped in for Fidel when the assassination threat level on El Jefe was high.
I took a cab to Domingo’s studio on Waalsteeg.
He was in his late sixties and had a severe speech impediment that was reputed to have been caused by having his tongue seared with a red-hot poker. It’s not clear whether the punishment was at the hands of the enemy or his own people, but whoever did it made their point. In the six hours I spent in the makeup chair, Domingo never uttered a word.
He gelled my hair flat, glued on a bald cap, and covered my face with wet plaster bandages. Once it hardened into a mask he removed it from me, added Plasticine, and sculpted fifty years of lines and wrinkles into the face.
He made a second mold and filled it with hot gelatin, creating a flexible prosthetic that he applied to my face with surgical glue.
For the next hour he artfully applied makeup, giving me the uneven skin tone and the telltale age spots of an eighty-year-old man.
Finally, he added contact lenses to create old-man rings around my irises and topped off the look with a gray wig.
I looked in the mirror. Young Matthew Bannon was gone. I was staring at my grandfather.
“That’s frightening,” I said.
He nodded, then led me to a walk-in closet and pulled out a three-piece charcoal-gray suit.
“Prosperous, but conservative,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
He finished off my wardrobe with a white shirt, a conservative blue-and-gray-striped tie, and black-leather wingtips.
I got dressed and stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting my posture by dropping my shoulders and bending my head and upper back forward.
Domingo was behind me. I turned around. “I want to thank you, young fellow,” I said in my new gravelly voice. “You are a true artist and I am grateful for your services.”
He grinned.
I stood there for a beat and made little sucking noises through my teeth — my grandfather’s trademark. “So, Señor Famosa, what do you think?” I said.
The grin got wider. He raised his right hand, made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger, aimed it straight at me, and pulled the imaginary trigger.
I took it as a sign of approval. Still, it was unnerving coming from someone who had spent his career disguising guys to take a bullet for Castro.
Chapter 67
DIEDERIK DE SMET had been charming over the phone. “If the quality is good, and you’re selling at a reasonable price,” he said, “I’d be happy to buy your merchandise.”
From what I had heard about the Snake, I knew he’d be even happier to steal my merchandise. And he had the organization to do it.
De Smet set the meeting for 2 p.m. at the Café Karpershoek, the oldest bar in Amsterdam. It’s directly across from Centraal Station, so it’s usually crowded with tourists who are eager to drink down the Heineken and soak up the atmosphere.
It’s also a big draw for the locals, because the café has a hard-and-fast no-music policy, which makes it a perfect place for anyone interested in a pint, a snack, and a serious conversation.
I walked through the door at exactly 2 p.m. and took a red silk pocket square from my jacket and mopped my brow. A man at a corner table stood up. I recognized him immediately. His face had been on the front page of the papers many times, but his ass had never been in jail.
I walked over and shook his hand. “I’m Yitzchak Ziffer,” I said, adding an Eastern European Jewish accent to my aged voice.
“Diederik de Smet. A pleasure to meet you.”
“What a charming place,” I said, scanning the room. “The dark wood, the brass fixtures, the artwork…”
Two men at a far table and two more at the bar were watching my every move.
“What a rich history this establishment must have,” I continued.
“It was built in sixteen oh six,” he said.
“Ah, it’s good to find something that’s older than I am,” I said.
We laughed and sat down, and he poured two beers from a pitcher on the table.
“How come we’ve never done business before, Mr. Ziffer?” he said.
“I’m from New York,” I said. “I worked in the Diamond District. I retired fifteen years ago, but I’m helping a friend. He came into some lovely stones unexpectedly, and he doesn’t know anything about the art of negotiating.”
De Smet smiled. He was about forty-five and had a hawk nose, thin lips, perfect teeth, and enough gel in his thick black hair to wax a bowling alley.
“I heard something about a young man who recently came into quite a few lovely stones,” he said. “Can I see them?”
“These are but a small sample,” I said, handing him a velvet pouch that held about thirty diamonds.
He rolled them through his fingers, then put a jeweler’s loupe in his eye and studied about ten of them.
“Lovely, indeed,” he said. “Good color, slightly included. Where are the rest?”
I handed him photos I had taken before leaving New York. All the diamonds sat in a glass container on a scale.
“Very impressive,” de Smet said. “There are rumors circulating that these might have belonged to my competitor.”
“They belong to my client,” I said. “Would you rather I sell them to your competitor?”
“You couldn’t,” he said, his toothy grin turning into a sneer. “And if you tried, they would kill you. Word travels, Mr. Ziffer. The Russians are looking for some stolen diamonds.”
I stood up. “I came to Amsterdam looking for a buyer, Mr. de Smet. Obviously you’re not him.”
“Sit,” he said.
I didn’t. “I’ve wasted enough time as it is,” I said.
“Please,” he said. “Sit.”
I sat.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Ziffer,” he said, “but you know what they say — let the buyer beware.”
“Beware of what?” I said. “Have I given you reason not to trust me?”
“Mr. Ziffer, I wouldn’t trust you if you were my Dutch uncle. But if all your diamonds are as good as they look, I’ll take them off your hands for five million American dollars.”
“I’m an inadequate photographer, Mr. de Smet. These diamonds are better than they look, and they’re worth thirteen.”
He didn’t blink.
I sipped my beer. “But in the interest of a quick sale, I will accept ten.”
“Six,” he snapped back.
I shook my head. “My client won’t be happy with anything less than nine.”
“Your client will be happy if the Russians don’t find him and connect his balls to a car battery. Final offer — seven million dollars.”
“I’m at nine, you’re at seven,” I said. “Let’s meet at eight million.”