11 Harrowhouse Read online

  Along with its regular protection duties, Security Section also performed another more extensive and complicated service, known only to those within the nucleus of The System itself. It functioned as a highly organized intelligence unit, employing, on an international scale, many of the tactics of contemporary espionage. It gathered and compiled in its computerized memory banks information on everyone in the world having anything to do with diamonds.

  Especially kept under constant or intermittent scrutiny were those dealers who were regularly invited to attend sights.

  Such as Chesser, even though he was far down the list.

  It was extremely important to The System to know as much as possible about these men, their professional behavior and financial limits, as well as their comings and goings, habits and weaknesses. The System used this knowledge to predetermine precisely what amount and quality of diamonds it should include in each man’s packet.

  When all the information gleaned by Security Section was pieced together, The System was presented with an incredibly accurate picture of the world market, allowing it to cut down or increase the flow of diamonds accordingly.

  Security Section did not operate out of number 11. With its massive electronic equipment and computers it occupied a separate building just across the way on Harrowhouse.

  Thus, Coglin had come over for the conference with Meecham. The two men seldom faced one another as they did now.

  “We haven’t been on him,” said Coglin.

  “Apparently,” said Meecham.

  “Hell, there was no reason to be. He’s small stuff. Always has been.”

  “Well, he’s gotten into something big. While we weren’t looking.” Meecham was chastizing, but with restraint.

  Coglin resented taking any blame. He didn’t have to. He’d been an inspector with the Yard, a good one, until The System offered him much more. Right from the start he’d seen the potential. Now, after fifteen years, Coglin was a living memory bank of everyone’s activities, particularly their transgressions. An international string of informants, as well as his personally chosen staff, nourished the strength of his position. There were those high in The System who looked down on Coglin. They disliked him for his obscure background and lack of polish; however, they feared what he knew and what he might know. He was, so to speak, the J. Edgar Hoover of diamonds.

  Coglin was a chunky, short man in his fifties, half Irish from his mother’s side. The other half was probably also Irish, but even his mother wasn’t sure. He had close-set, small eyes, a flat face, with a nose that must have been hit hard a number of times. One of Coglin’s advantages was that he was more intelligent than he appeared.

  Now he told Meecham, “We were never asked for more than a routine on him.”

  Meecham acknowledged this with a nod. He was glancing through a dossier. “Anything in here?” he asked.

  “Only thing a bit off was back in sixty-six.”

  “What about that?”

  “He has the money still tucked away in Geneva. Hasn’t touched a penny.”

  “What’s your opinion?” Meecham closed the dossier.

  “Could be the girl. She’s rich enough to buy herself a treat. Maybe that’s all there is to it.”

  “I doubt that. By the way, what does she look like?”

  “There’s a snap of her in there,” said Coglin. He leaned across, opened the dossier, and located the photograph for Meecham, who studied it for a full minute but made no comment.

  “Well,” Meecham concluded, “what we don’t know we can find out, can’t we?”

  “You want him put under special?”

  “Just to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Remember that next time the board meets on budgets,” said Coglin, and got up to go. As an afterthought, he mentioned Barry Whiteman.

  “What about him?”

  “He was supposed to go back to New York day before yesterday but he changed his mind.”

  “He’s still in London?”

  “Paris now.”

  “Why?”

  “Not for the culture, I’ll tell you. He took his own along with him. Tall, mean-looking bird.”

  Meecham, pretending indifference, busied himself with the daily report of production from Namaqualand, as Coglin, suppressing a smile, turned and went out.

  “I’m sorry, the circuits to Antwerp are busy.”

  “Try again in a half hour.”

  Chesser was back in the Connaught suite. He felt good about the diamond. Now he was after a cutter. There were more than fifteen thousand cutters in Antwerp, but Chesser was going for the best. Wildenstein. Chesser would feel safe with Wildenstein, though he doubted he could get him. Second choice was Kornfeld, but he wouldn’t try for Kornfeld until Wildenstein was definitely out.

  Chesser hardly dared consider the possibility that neither of these famous cutters would take the job. He was glad he didn’t have to go through this every day. He doubted he could handle that, although people like Whiteman seemed to thrive on it. Perhaps, thought Chesser, one becomes habituated. The win big, lose big syndrome.

  He called down for some Scotch. He also called Sassoon’s for Maren. He was told she wasn’t there, hadn’t been, although she’d had an appointment. That worried him because it was unlike Maren to not do what she intended.

  Chesser could only stay there and wait. The Scotch came but it didn’t help. He tried reading yesterday’s newspaper.

  Shortly after five the phone rang. Ready with his call to Antwerp. Wildenstein was on the line.

  Chesser introduced himself as best he could long distance, and was about to get into the propostion when Maren came in. She completely disregarded the fact he was on the phone, went right to him and kissed him on the mouth, a long kiss that left Wildenstein believing he’d been cut off. Wildenstein kept repeating hello’s with increasing irritation.

  Finally Chesser was free enough to talk again.

  Wildenstein asked him what he wanted.

  “I have a diamond I’d like you to finish for me.”

  “One moment, please. I’ll see.”

  Chesser heard Wildenstein lay down the phone. He pictured the renowned cutter. Once, in Antwerp, Wildenstein had been pointed out to him. A scholarly looking man with a black beard. A Hasidic Jew in a long, black coat and black hat.

  Wildenstein came back on the line. “Maybe in August,” he said.

  “I need it done now.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “I promised delivery in a month.”

  “August is all right.”

  “It’s a two-hundred-carat stone. First quality.”

  Wildenstein hesitated, and Chesser felt encouraged.

  “You bring it and I’ll look at it for August,” said Wildenstein.

  Chesser decided. He had to risk insulting Wildenstein with an offer that would be buying him. “I’ll pay a hundred thousand for the job,” said Chesser.

  “A hundred thousand what?”

  “Dollars.”

  “That is too much.”

  “It’s worth that much to me.”

  “You come to Antwerp.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “I need to see the stone.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. How late will you be at your workrooms?”

  “I will be here,” promised Wildenstein.

  “Thanks. It means a lot to me.”

  “We’ll see. We’ll see when you come.” Wildenstein said good-bye and clicked off so quickly Chesser didn’t have a chance for another word.

  It sounded as though he had Wildenstein. For a hundred thousand. Chesser believed it was worth it. Wildenstein would appreciate the stone. Chesser figured to clear seven hundred thousand dollars on the deal. The amount made him feel greedy, but he soon got over that when he realized that, actually, everyone was making out well. The System was getting seven hundred thousand for a stone that some black mine worker had dug out of the ground for mere pennies.
Wildenstein was getting a premium hundred thousand, probably as much or more than he’d make on any stone he’d ever cut. And Massey was getting a perfect gem for which he might have to pay as much as two million dollars retail. So Chesser’s profit was relatively justifiable. It equaled what he could make in seven years from The System’s routine packets. Unless, of course, his packets were increased in value. That was a possibility, he thought, now that this deal was on record.

  He went into the bedroom, thinking he’d tell Maren he was almost a millionaire.

  She told him, “Oh, God, I’m famished. I didn’t have lunch, just a cup of dreadful tea.”

  She’d just undressed, had everything off but her shoes, and that made her very good legs look even longer and better. She walked across to the dressing table for a pack of cigarettes. At least that was her excuse. She lighted two and, as usual, tossed him one, which sailed right by him. While he was picking it up off the rug, he thought he heard her say: “I talked to Jean Marc today.”

  “Huh?”

  “I had a nice long talk with Jean Marc.”

  “Sure, you just ran into him on the street.”

  “In a way. I happened to see a card on one of those notice boards outside a tobacco shop. I was guided to it.”

  “By the Chinaman or the Indian?”

  “One or the other.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “Anyway, the card was put there by a medium. Her name is Mildred. She’s a dwarf.”

  “A small medium,” said Chesser.

  Maren was too serious to smile. “Instead of Sassoon’s I went to Mildred for a reading. She was incredible. She got right through to Jean Marc.”

  “Want to go out for a sandwich someplace, and then maybe to a film?”

  “Jean Marc’s very happy. He really likes it on the other side.”

  “Yeah. Everybody’s dying to get there.”

  She disregarded his cynicism. “He said to say hello to you.”

  “I’ve got to go to Antwerp tomorrow,” he told her, still trying to divert her. “You want to go with me or straight on to Chantilly? I can meet you in Chantilly, if you’d rather.”

  “One thing Jean Marc said really surprised me. He said we ought to get married. Imagine that.”

  Chesser imagined and thought Jean Marc ought to try getting that message through to his vulture lawyers, who were hovering around ready to get their beaks into the money. Or if Jean Marc was in such an altruistic mood, why didn’t he simply dematerialize the original and all existing copies of his stupid will?

  “Maybe we should,” said Maren thoughtfully.

  “Get married?”

  “Meet in Chantilly. How long will you be in Antwerp?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” she said. “You don’t believe in Mildred, do you?”

  “Sure. Why not?” he said, rather than argue.

  “She doesn’t even charge for a reading.”

  “Really?”

  “If she charged she’d lose her power. That’s what happens when mediums commercialize. Their power gets taken away.”

  “Who takes it?”

  “The great cosmic force,” she said, not as sure as she sounded. “You should see the depressing place where Mildred has to live. I felt so sorry for her. I gave her fifty pounds.”

  “She sacrificed fifty pounds worth of power.”

  “It was a gift. She’s allowed to take gifts.”

  Keeping her eyes on his, Maren fell back onto the bed, her elbows supporting her, her legs still over the side.

  Allowed to take gifts, thought Chesser. There was her intersection, made more prominent by her position, her fine nutmeg-colored floss offered up.

  Afterward, he also gave her the locket.

  CHAPTER 7

  WATTS DELIVERED the diamond as promised.

  He brought it in a small manila envelope in his jacket pocket, which was as safe a way as a bonded messenger in an armored truck, for no one would have thought this very ordinary-looking man could possibly be carrying anything worth seven hundred thousand dollars. He hadn’t even taken a taxi; he’d come via the underground.

  Chesser removed the diamond from its tissue wrapping and examined it, more to appreciate than verify it. He’d already given Watts a certified check.

  “Mazel and broche,” said Watts.

  That was Hebrew for luck and blessings, the traditional phrase used throughout the diamond business by Jews and non-Jews alike. To seal a deal. Once spoken, the phrase officially bound a man to his word, and although it was not necessary for this transaction, Watts said it to convey his feelings. He got up to leave.

  Chesser urged him to stay for a brandy, or whatever he preferred.

  “I have to be getting back,” said Watts.

  “To hell with them,” said Chesser. He poured the brandy, assuming Watts would stay. “Soda or water?”

  “Soda, thank you,” Watts said, and sat again.

  The two men were alone in the suite. Maren had gone shopping. Chesser suspected she’d end up at Mildred’s for another conversation with Jean Marc.

  “How long have you been with The System?” asked Chesser, to start on common ground.

  The question didn’t warrant the charge of expression that came to Watts’s eyes. “Twenty-eight years.”

  “Always here in London?”

  “Five years in Johannesburg. Have you ever been to South Africa?”

  “No.”

  “I began in Johannesburg.”

  Chesser thought Watts seemed depressed. Or it could have been bitterness. Perhaps the man felt used.

  “Does Meecham know which stone I bought?” asked Chesser.

  “Yes. He inquired yesterday afternoon, after you left.”

  “And?”

  “He wasn’t very happy about it. Gave me a lacing, actually. Said he’d rather someone such as Whiteman got that one.”

  Chesser was delighted to hear that. He’d gotten to Meecham, after all. But at Watts’s expense. “I appreciate your help yesterday,” said Chesser. “I’d like to show that somehow.”

  “No need, sir.”

  Watts used his empty glass to ask permission to help himself to more brandy.

  “Really,” Chesser told him, “I’m grateful for what you did.”

  “I was glad to do it,” Watts said. Definitely bitter this time. He was immediately self-conscious that it had come out so obviously in that tone.

  “Why?”

  Watts covered. “No particular reason, sir. I merely hoped you’d choose that stone.”

  Chesser nodded, but he saw through that half truth. He was intrigued. He speculated that perhaps Watts resented where The System had him after twenty-eight years’ service. Certainly The System must consider Watts a valuable employee, but maybe Watts had higher ambitions. Chesser had some of that same resentment, although, of course, Watts’s situation was different. Watts was staff. And loyal, too. At least until yesterday’s minor act of dissension.

  Chesser noticed Watts was downing the brandy too fast to be enjoying it. It was vintage very superior old pale and deserved more respect. Not that it mattered, really. Watts could pour the whole damn bottle in his shoe for all Chesser cared. It occurred to Chesser that he could at least share some of his feelings with Watts.

  “I’ve never much liked the way The System does things,” he said.

  Watts nodded politely, but didn’t comment.

  “My last packet, for example,” said Chesser with a short, derisive laugh.

  “They’re not always as fair as they could be,” said Watts. He looked down, as though The System was there at his feet. “Granted, they’ve got to have regulations, but there’s something to being human as well.”

  Chesser agreed. He remained silent, to encourage Watts to talk.

  “Take this friend of mine,” said Watts. “Been with The System just short of thirty years. January last the doctors at St. George told him he had cancer. Terminal. Nothing to be done
about it. Scheduled to die before the year is up.”

  Watts stopped. Evidently that was all. Chesser didn’t see how it was pertinent to The System. He put the question.

  Watts was reluctant to explain, but he wanted to more than not. “The System has a thirty-year death or retirement benefit for all employees. My friend will die about a year short of the required thirty, but The System won’t make an exception. My friend’s family needs looking after, and there’s not enough insurance. The wife’s not well and there’s also a daughter depending on him.”

  “He explained all that to The System?”

  “Yes, of course. They were sympathetic but also said their thirty-year rule meant a full thirty years.”

  “The bastards.”

  Watts agreed with a thoughtful nod. “It required consideration by the board of directors, who decided to make an exception in this case, a generous compromise is what they called it.”

  “That was white of them.”

  “Twenty per cent is what they allowed. Perhaps adequate by their lights, but it doesn’t seem right, does it? All those years for only twenty per cent of the benefits he was counting on. But I suppose big business must be run to form.”

  Chesser reviewed the words he’d just heard, how they’d been said, and was convinced the friend with terminal cancer was Watts. Kindly, Chesser changed the subject. He picked up the diamond. He said, “Wildenstein is going to cut it.”

  “That’s marvelous, sir.” Watts seemed genuinely pleased.

  “He’ll probably do an oval. That’s what you suggested, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Watts modestly.

  “I’d like you to see it after it’s been cut.”

  “I’d enjoy that, sir.”

  “Tell you what. Leave me your home phone number. I’ll call you when it’s finished.”

  “When will that be, sir?”

  Chesser was glad he didn’t have to say next year.

  Before nightfall, Chesser was at Wildenstein’s workshop on Hoplandstraat in Antwerp. Maren preferred to wait in the limousine, more interested in reading a book entitled Life Before Life and After Death, which was a gift from Mildred. Chesser had said he’d be with Wildenstein a half hour, or an hour at most, and suggested Maren might use the time to see some of the city. She’d never been in Antwerp, but she’d already seen enough of it on the way in from the airport. She thought it looked bored stiff with itself. It seemed drab and unhappy. Maren was unaware that less than a hundred feet from where she sat, just around the corner, was the house and studio where the great master Peter Paul Rubens had answered his call to the colors. And Van Dyck, as well, for some time, in that very same house. Maren calculated that Chesser, knowing she was just waiting in the car, would take care of his diamond business more quickly.