I said nothing and waited until he was through. "It's for real?"
"Oh, yes, Michael. It is very much 'for real.'" He paused, then handed the stone back to me. "Do you know how much that is worth?"
I grinned at him. "That's what I'm here to find out."
"Something is funny?"
"How much the stone is worth is not the question you wanted to ask me, David."
"Now you are a mind reader?"
"Sure. When a guy like you has no expression just when he's gone into slow motion? Sure."
"So what is it I am supposed to ask?"
I grinned again and waited.
He squirmed because I wasn't playing his game. "Okay, Michael, I will ask—where did you get it?"
"I found it, which is the truth, but that's not what you want to know, is it? There's another overriding question, right?"
"How can you do this to me?"
"That's not the question."
And then he put me right where I wanted to be in this ball game.
"Where are the rest of them?"
I raised a hand in a gentle "stop" gesture. "Right now, David, I really don't know. But what you have in your head is what I have to know."
The excitement in his voice was the gentlest quiver that few would pick up on; he was under control again—almost. "Michael, do you think you can find them?"
I shrugged. "Maybe. I'm guessing this little gem has a history."
"It ... may have."
"David, don't hedge with me. We're not bargaining yet."
He shrugged. "With one stone, how can I be sure?"
My eyes narrowed and, through a slit of a smile, I asked, "How did you know there were more?"
He took a deep breath and sighed loudly. "I am too old to be doing this. Such excitement I do not need."
"Bullshit. You thrive on excitement."
"But I could be wrong."
"Come on, David. I'm here because I trust your opinion as much as I trust you."
He rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward, propping his chin on his fist. He tapped on the tabletop. "Put the stone there."
I set it in front of him.
"It looks like an ordinary pebble, yes?"
"Sort of."
"Do you notice on the surface anything peculiar?"
"No. I'm not a jeweler."
"It is like an erosion," he said. "But ... what has such hardness as to wear down a diamond?"
"Another diamond."
"Very good." He rolled the stone over gently. "Such an erosion as this ... no scratches, no chipping ... what does it tell you?" He watched me carefully again.
But when I could only shrug, he said, "I could say it is likely that this precious pebble was carried in a pouch with many other stones for a very long time. Continuous rubbing together, over a period of years, would make the surface like so. They are not like that when they come from the earth."
"David, you're looking at one stone and building a history out of it. Where is this going?"
He was good at long pauses. When he had finished thumbing through his thoughts like a Rolodex in his mind, he said, "Michael, you are my friend. You I can trust. When I look at this gemstone, I get a feeling only a true lover of fine jewels can possibly get. It is almost ... mystical."
When he spoke, there was a dreamlike quality about the words. Even his tone of voice changed, giving them a hollow ring.
"There is a story of a jewel cutter named Basil, a most mysterious man who came to Germany from Russia when the Communists took over the country. It was Basil himself to whom the tsar went for his jewelry. There have been tales of the fabulous stones Basil produced for the Tsar, rubies, emeralds, diamonds, fantastic baubles few outside the royal family ever got to see. After the revolution, these cut stones all disappeared, probably broken up and sold to make more revolution."
"But Basil himself managed to escape..."
"Yes. When the Communists killed the tsar, they searched for Basil, but never found him. Many thought he was dead, but every so often wonderfully cut stones would surface with the remarkable beauty that bore the mark of Basil himself. He became a legend in all of Europe. Whispers had him operating out of Germany, but even there he remained a man of mystery."
"If Basil fled to Germany, how could the quality of his stones remain so high?"
"It is believed he brought a quantity with him from Mother Russia, though it's possible he found some new source. Always of top quality, they were."
"Why didn't he get into the open market?"
For a second, David came out of his reverie. "And show himself?"
I nodded.
"Michael, he was a Jew. Let us say that, on his person, he carried the last of his treasured uncut stones. The Communists would declare them stolen from the state, thieves and mercenaries worldwide would make of him a target. Death could come from any side. Imagine, in a simple leather pouch, Basil carrying a multi-million-dollar value that in this day would be doubled and tripled a dozen times over."
"So he took his time."
"Yes, he was very clever, this Basil. He never showed himself, fashioning his works of art only if he needed the money. But he was a presence, a living legend, Basil and his pouch of huge stones. Just before Hitler came to power, he cut his last known diamond, a ninety-six-carat masterpiece that now graces an oil sheik's collection."
"Do we know if Basil survived the Holocaust?"
"Michael, we do not. We know the Nazis searched for him. Oh, yes, how they searched. But they were dealing with a person who had spent a lifetime in subterfuge, and was an expert at hiding and escaping or whatever was necessary to stay alive ... and he and his pouch of fabulous uncut stones never surfaced." His eyes burned into mine. "Until now, Michael."
"You seem pretty damn sure of what you're saying, David."
He nodded sagely.
"Why are you sure?"
His fingers turned the stone until I was looking at the window carved into its surface. David held the loupe out to me. I put it to my eye and drew the stone up to it. I could see, but I couldn't put it together.
I handed the loupe back, shrugged, and he said, "There are facets that are the trademark of Basil."
"Why isn't it eroded too?"
David smiled. "That is a ... shall I say, concave cut? This you understand?"
"The surfaces of the other stones couldn't touch it?"
"That is right."
"Why cut the window at all?"
"Basil never displayed a finished work. It was ordered, paid for, then delivered. Now—what layman knows from an uncut stone? Not many. To show them what is this pebblelike thing, from which will emerge an art object of untold beauty and value, he would open up a small part of it. And even doing that he left his trademark. Yes, the mark of Basil—it was always there."
"You've seen it before?"
"No. Only fine drawings made by a master craftsman who had indeed known Basil. He was no legend, Michael—he was a man. Remarkable men do walk this earth from time to time. I would say, with no intention of embarrassing you, that you are such a man."
"I can cut a throat, David, but not a diamond."
"You are indeed a diamond in the rough, Michael." He shifted in his chair. "Twenty years ago, I was fortunate to be able to study two of Basil's early pieces. Remarkable. There is nothing done like that today."
"You think Basil's dead?"
"Wouldn't he have to be?" the old man asked. "Who lives that long? Even men who become legends die. This is something you might keep in mind, Michael, the next time a burst of recklessness comes upon you."
I put the stone back in my pocket. "Thanks, David. This is helpful."
"It is unless I have just been making all of this up. Just an old windbag trying to impress his young friend."