Rocks Page 5

  “Being intimate?”

  “Yeah, being intimate.”

  “That’s because you’re not Sally, are you.”

  She blushed at this and her eyes dropped. Slowly, she shook her head. “Just as you’re not Mark.” She watched him again as it was his turn to shake his head.

  “I’m—” she started to speak but he raised a finger to his lips. His eyes had opened wider now, and there was a look that wasn’t unkind as he watched her.

  “I won’t see you again, will I?” she said.

  He shook his head. For a brief period, it looked as though she would cry but then she gave a forced smile, wiping a tear from her eye. “Well, thanks,” she said, compressing all the unspoken meanings she could into that mundane phrase. Picking up her handbag, she didn’t look back at him as she walked to the door and left the room.

  Chapter Four: Maarten

  When Maarten returned to Boeckman’s, the usually placid building was in a state of uproar.

  His own mind full of guilt at the plans he had been hatching with Karla, his thoughts immediately fearfully considered that something had happened to the Wallenstein. It was the receptionist, Femke, who put him right on that score.

  “He’s here!” she exclaimed as he came towards her, his briefcase held tightly in his hand.

  “Who’s here?”

  One of her companions, a not unpleasant-looking woman called Marien whose tart demeanour made her seem older than her years answered for the receptionist: “Only Boeckman’s biggest customer.”

  Maarten looked blankly at her. All he could think of was the Wallenstein, buried in a vault far away from prying eyes, and the fake replica in his suitcase.

  “Papa Dee!” Femke hissed. Then her eyes flickered away from him, looking towards the stairs where a flurry of activity was taking place. “Oh god!” she moaned. “He’s coming back to us!”

  “Ah, Maarten!” Turning to face the stairs, Maarten caught sight of one of the older partners in the firm, Pieter Boeckman. A sleek—even portly—man of middling height, the best thing that could be said about his looks was that his extra pounds had prevented the years from piling on too many wrinkles. His head was balding slightly and he gave the same, sharp squint Maarten had seen a thousand times before when he caught sight of the jeweller. He was a nasty man to get on the wrong side of, and Maarten usually spent most of his time avoiding anything to do with Pieter.

  In this instance, however, his attention was taken up entirely by the figure who walked immediately behind Pieter. Almost a head taller, the man was powerfully built—as far as Maarten could discern beneath the weight of gold jewellery and furs he wore. It looked as though a couple of mines had been emptied and a zoo slaughtered to prepare his attire, but despite his ire even Maarten had to admit that he looked impressive, with dark, flawless skin and a pair of jewelled shades covering his eyes. Behind him followed a troupe of flunkies and attendants.

  “He’s incredible, isn’t he,” Femke breathed. “Everything he does is from the heart.”

  “Oh, he’s very good at keeping it real,” Marien said scornfully, still speaking in Dutch, “for a man whose father was a diplomat.”

  Femke gave her a withering look but Maarten could no longer pay attention to them, terrified as he was by the approaching group. A rabbit faced by a redneck in an SUV would have felt less trepidation than he did at that moment.

  Before he could make a move, however, Pieter had crossed the space between them with surprising nimbleness and grabbed hold of his arm. “Maarten, Maarten,” he said with a convivial slickness that meant he wanted something, “how lucky we are to see you. I was just singing your praises to Mister Dee here.”

  “Papa, please.” The musician’s voice was rich and velvet, and though he was far from susceptible to this interloper’s charms even Maarten was slightly impressed by the sound when he spoke. “Ladies,” Papa Dee said, tipping an imaginary hat to the two women on the other side of the desk. Maarten was disgusted to see that even Marien giggled and blushed slightly at this.

  “Yes! I’m very busy!” Maarten said in a panic. “I should be going!”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” Pieter half-growled at him, replying in English for the benefit of his guest, his eyes becoming two tiny, hard sapphires. “I understand just how hard you’ve been working—how hard we’ve all been working!” This latter was said more loudly for the rap artist’s benefit. “But before you leave us for a well-earned vacation, perhaps you could explain to Mister—Papa—Dee what you’ve been doing for us.”

  “I’d love to hear it,” Papa Dee replied with an apparent sincerity that almost made Maarten feel ashamed of his antagonism. Almost, but not quite.

  “I should go,” Maarten repeated, in English this time. “I have some papers to complete, provenance documents and what have you.”

  “Not for the Wallenstein, I hope,” Papa Dee said with a chuckle. His flunkies laughed at this as though they had just overheard the funniest joke in the universe. Maarten shook his head, struck dumb as he clutched the briefcase to his chest.

  “Well, there’ll be plenty of time for that later. You can do it before you leave on your vacation,” Pieter told him, grabbing hold of his arm and half dragging him along. “Our guest is touring in Europe and wanted to look at his future acquisition before we set it according to his very, ah, precise instructions. Of course, normally such a thing would be out of the question, but in this instance…” He gave a patronising smile to Maarten who nodded as though he understood what was going on, all the time trying to keep a tight hold on his case.

  “I understand you’re the master craftsman who cut the diamond into its final shape,” Papa Dee said. Despite his fears, Maarten’s chest puffed up with pride.

  “Yes, well, the original stone was quite exceptional—over thirty carats in weight, from which I was able to extract a flawless, twenty-carat gem.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Papa Dee replied, with a smile that flashed white across his dark face.

  As they continued to walk through corridors deeper into the Boeckman’s building, Pieter stopped at a secure door. “I’m afraid the three of us will have to proceed from here alone,” he said. “And I’m very sorry, Mister Dee, but you’ll have to be searched before you enter.”

  “Sure,” the singer replied nonchalantly, murmuring something to the nearest of his flunkies, a young, black woman whose sharp expression indicated she was employed as much more than a pretty face. Maarten, however, felt his heart beating even more quickly, sweat beginning to form once more along his brow and his neck. If they searched his case, everything would be over before it even began.

  The security guard, however, seemed to be another fan of Papa Dee’s. She couldn’t help but smirk as she frisked the rap artist, who graciously submitted to her hands which seemed to rove across his body with more than usual alacrity. Indeed, she appeared to have no desire to diminish the pleasure that she had gained from touching Papa Dee by sullying her hands on Maarten, instead waving him through negligently.

  For the last few moments as they walked along the corridors to the vaults where the most precious elements of the Boeckman collection resided, Maarten’s senses seemed to go into a meltdown. He felt as though he were moving very slowly under water, with sounds muffled as though coming from a great distance. The harsh, artificial light hurt his eyes and he felt the threat of an oncoming migraine.

  “I don’t notice many security guards down here,” Papa Dee said, making polite conversation.

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about a thing,” Pieter answered him. “We have absolute state of the art protection here at Boeckman’s. Without the proper access code, across this entire set of rooms run sensors that will alert our security guards and the police to any intrusion—and of course, only myself and a couple of other, very trusted senior members of the company have knowledge of those codes. Don’t you worry, Papa Dee. Your Wallenstein diamond is quite safe with us.”

  “I�
��m glad to hear it,” the singer said with a smile. Maarten nodded absent-mindedly, wondering if he was in the early stages of a coronary attack. The sound of his own blood pumping in his ears almost deafened him to anything else.

  Pieter took a step ahead of them, stopping at a large, securely bolted door beside which stood a panel. Pressing a series of numbers, he then spoke slowly and clearly: “Pieter Boeckman.” There was the sound of a lock being released somewhere deep inside the door and Pieter pushed it open easily.

  “Nearly a tonne of reinforced steel,” he commented, “but with the right codes it opens as easily as a feather. The keys are biometrically reinforced. Not even Maarten here could gain access without my presence.”

  As he entered the small room, Papa Dee nodded. “Impressive. I’ve got a similar setup at my place in LA. You can never be too careful.”

  The room on the other side of that heavy door was a comfortable fit for three people, though several more would have soon started to feel the pinch. One wall was lined with steel lockers, opposite which was a table.

  “This is where we keep our most precious materials,” Pieter was explaining. “Boeckman’s is one of the oldest diamond merchants in Amsterdam, and we regularly deal with a wide range of stones of an exceptional quality.”

  As Pieter continued in this line with his typical marketing bullshit, Maarten crossed to the table, placing his briefcase on the surface. His hands were trembling violently as he glanced up towards the security camera that recorded everything in this room. Inside his skull, a troupe of dwarves were hammering hard on the bone and he felt as though every drop of moisture in his body had evaporated. Leaning across his case to obscure it from the camera, he clicked the lock open as quietly as possible.

  “Maarten!” Pieter’s voice made him jump and he span around.

  “Yes?” he tried to say, but his throat was completely dry. Both men were looking at him.

  “I had just been saying to our guest, perhaps you would like to do the honour of removing the Wallenstein for his inspection.”

  “O-of course,” Maarten managed to squeak in reply.

  As he moved between both men, Pieter began to enter another code into one of the smooth vaults before speaking into a panel. “And as you can see,” he continued his patter, “even in here we restrict access. Maarten wouldn’t be able to open this door even if he found a way into this room on his own. Isn’t that true?”

  Maarten nodded dumbly as Pieter stood to one side. It was very true. Indeed, it had been the one part of his and Karla’s plan that he had no idea how he was going to overcome. Aside from Pieter, only two other members of Boeckman’s could gain access and he had no idea how he would convince them to let him see the Wallenstein.

  But now his employer and the singer stood to one side, looking on expectantly as Maarten came forward. The door, three-inches of reinforced steel, slid open to reveal a small depression beyond in which rested a thin, black box. Maarten had to force himself to stop shaking as he reached in and retrieved that box.

  It seemed to take an age to walk the few steps back to the table, and with each step he thought he would drop the box. Placing it down nervously, he lifted back the lid and moved away as Pieter and Papa Dee crowded in.

  “Beautiful,” he heard the singer breathe. “It’s beautiful.”

  And indeed it was. The Wallenstein diamond was an almost square stone, nearly three centimetres across and its surface cut into a radiant-patterned surface that captured the harsh, artificial light and transformed it into something clean and perfect. Its depth, Maarten knew, was the ideal shape to reflect light, its crown and pavilion exquisitely formed to scatter rays with a brilliance that seemed unearthly.

  “Isn’t it remarkable?” said Pieter, placing a hand on Maarten’s shoulder, causing the smaller man to flinch slightly. “And we have Maarten here to thank for bringing out its true splendour.”

  “Man,” Papa Dee said reverently, “you are a genius.” He paused. “Can I touch it?”

  Both Pieter and Maarten froze. It was, obviously, out of the question, but Maarten had heard rumours of how much Papa Dee was willing to pay for the Wallenstein.

  “Of course,” Pieter replied, his voice strained. “But we should really get you some gloves.” He had turned away from Maarten who squeaked. “I have some.”

  Pieter glanced back at him venomously, but Papa Dee clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him over. “Good man,” he almost bellowed. Pieter smiled thinly.

  Reaching into briefcase, Maarten retrieved a pair of thin, cotton gloves which he passed to the singer. Pieter was talking to Papa Dee, explaining different facets of the Wallenstein, and neither of them paid attention to Maarten as he put on a pair of gloves himself before half-sliding up the lid of his case, his hands shaking as they closed around something as hard as diamond.

  He could barely focus as he turned to see Papa Dee standing there, holding the Wallenstein up in front of his face. “You know,” the singer said, “I’ve seen a lot of rocks in my time, but none of them compare to this.”

  “Of course,” Pieter cooed. “A man of such exquisite tastes would more readily recognise the value of this stone. Even if you used a microscope to view it, you would not find a single flaw in its structure. Normally, of course, we would work with the best-trained gold or silversmiths to set off any slight imperfections to their best advantage, but with the Wallenstein there is no such need.”

  “Even so,” Papa Dee replied with his deep, basso voice, “I want this baby set in the best gold you’ve got—no expense spared. I intend to wear this baby on tour—I got plenty of guards,” he added as Pieter’s face expressed horror. “Don’t you worry. When I get my hands on this rock, no one else is going to touch it without my say so.”

  “Yes, well,” Pieter said, failing to hide his disdain, “until that time, we at Boeckman’s must take full responsibility for it. Perhaps we should replace it in its vault.”

  He nodded curtly at Maarten, who stepped forward, one hand behind his back, the other—gloved fingers cupped—extended towards the rap artist. With a sigh, Papa Dee lowered his fist and dropped the diamond gently into Maarten’s palm.

  Turning away from the other two men, his heart hammering against his ribs, Maarten pulled both hands in front of him and placed one of them inside the box and the other in his case. He tried to stop himself shaking as he lifted the box and began to hurry back to the vault.

  “One moment,” Pieter said imperiously, placing one arm across Maarten’s chest. Without another word he lifted the lid of the box and, seeing the stone in its centre, nodded. As he closed the vault shut once more, Maarten scurried back to his case and quickly locked it it shut.

  “Hey, man,” said Papa Dee. “What’s up? You look as though you just seen a ghost.”

  Maarten could feel the sweat pouring from his forehead. “The… the Wallenstein…” he mumbled. “It always has that effect on me.” His mouth twisted into a rictus of a ghastly grin. “And being so close to you…” he added. “I’m a huge fan of your music.”

  “And I’m a huge fan of your work,” Papa Dee replied warmly. “Man, you are a genius!”

  “We all agree,” Pieter interjected, his tone thoroughly condescending. “And he will be handsomely rewarded—once he returns from that well-deserved vacation.”

  Smiling weakly, barely able to see, Maarten nodded, his whole body trembling. As Pieter led the way to the door, with a panic the nervous jeweller spun around and grabbed for his briefcase.

  “Documents!” he gasped. “Very important. Must complete them before—before going away.”

  As they walked the corridor back to the security guard, who giggled and blushed as Papa Dee complimented her, Maarten followed behind him and Pieter with a sickly grin on his face, briefcase clutched to his chest. He looked for all the world like the weirdest fanboy who had just received an autograph. Fortunately for him, as the singer’s flunkies rejoined them both Papa Dee and Pieter seemed to
lose all interest in him.

  He slithered out of sight, sweat making him clammy as he scurried out of the building. Sucking in the air as a man who had just been given freedom, he thought the hammering in his chest really was a sign that it was about to give up, and he dropped his car keys—twice—before he managed to fumble them into the lock.

  And then, when he fell into the seat, the suitcase beside him, it hit him.

  He’d done it.

  He’d done the impossible. Oh, he’d fantasised a hundred times about how he was going to charm his way past the guard, how he’d manage to find a way to bypass the lock… but he’d always been aware that was just so much bullshit. A feeling of exultation rose up inside him. When Karla knew, she’d be his forever!

  Almost immediately, that triumph turned to sickness. He’d done it. He’d only gone and stolen the Wallenstein, and now there was no way he could get it back inside. He started to panic, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. “Oh hemel! Oh hemel!” he began to repeat to himself again and again, rocking back and forth in his seat. He’d done it—crossed a line that would ruin him forever.

  His panic was redoubled when it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the stone in his briefcase wasn’t the Wallenstein at all. He’d fumbled blindly as the other two men talked, there had been no chance to check.

  Staring in horror at the black, leather case, his fingers inched towards it slowly. Equally slowly, he lifted it up.

  In the corner of the case lay a large, clear stone, casually thrown about in his rush to get to the car. It shone as brilliantly as he remembered, but that wasn’t enough.

  His fingers were trembling as he moved to the dash of his car, struggling in frustration with the latch and almost ripping off the cover as he opened it. The portable tester fell to the floor and he dropped it several more times before he managed to hold both it and the stone in his fingers. He pressed the button. For a second, a thought flashed across his mind. If this was just silicon carbide, then this dreadful mistake was over. The Wallenstein was still in its safe. He would just have to explain to Karla—a chance hadn’t presented itself. She would forgive him, he was sure of that.