Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [13]
Prince came up with a foolproof plan to smuggle blood diamonds into America. Cheese.
He bought a small factory in Marseille where an exquisite Gruyère Fontu was made. When a shipment of blood diamonds arrived from Angola or Sierra Leone, they were cut, dressed, and molded into carefully marked wheels of the heavenly fromage.
The cheese was exported to New York, where Zelvas and his crew extracted the stones and sold them to diamond merchants on West 47th Street who cared more about the black-market low prices than the fact that they came from the hands of murderous African warlords.
The plan worked well until Zelvas got greedy. By the time Chukov realized that Zelvas was taking a few stones from every shipment, the man had amassed a fortune.
Now Zelvas was dead, and the diamonds he stole were missing.
Chukov’s job was to find them. He downed a third shot of vodka and dialed Nathaniel’s number.
“This better be good news, Vadim,” Nathaniel said.
“It is,” Chukov lied. “Rice and Benzetti are closing in on the diamonds. You should have them back in a few days.”
“Rice and Benzetti?” Nathaniel screamed. “You’re counting on a couple of crooked cops to bring home a fortune in diamonds?”
“No, no, I’ve got a dozen other men looking,” Chukov said, wheezing. He paused to suck on his bronchodilator. “And I’ve hired the Ghost to track down whoever stole the diamonds and get rid of him. The Ghost is a legend, Nathaniel. He’s the best.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Vadim. Because if you don’t come up with the diamonds fast, I’ll be hiring the Ghost to get rid of you.”
He slammed the phone down.
Chukov picked up the vodka bottle and took a few quick swigs. Then he inhaled another lungful of albuterol from the little canister.
Bastard, he thought. I’ve created a monster.
Chapter 15
THE BRIGHTON BEACH section of Brooklyn is so heavily populated with Russians that its nickname is Little Odessa.
Nathaniel Prince, born and raised in Moscow, refused to live there. His logic: Brighton Beach was a hotbed of crime. And while he wasn’t intimidated by the street violence, he didn’t want to live where the NYPD had beefed up its manpower.
Instead, he chose Park Slope, a much tonier part of the borough. His neighbors were artists, writers, musicians, and actors. Prince liked that. With all those famous people to gawk at, nobody bothered to look at him. So, for four million dollars, he bought a luxurious hundred-year-old town house and total anonymity.
The master bedroom filled the entire third floor. With its high ceilings, parquet floors, and wood-burning fireplace, it was Nathaniel’s haven from the world.
He shared it with Natalia. She stepped out of the bathroom in a crimson silk robe that stopped midthigh. The belt was cinched tight, accentuating her narrow waist and her full, generous breasts.
She smiled at Nathaniel. “Who were you yelling at?” she said.
“Chukov.”
“What did poor Vadim do now?”
“Millions of dollars in missing diamonds,” Nathaniel said. “Walter Zelvas has screwed us from the grave, and it’s all Chukov’s fault.”
“Not all of it,” Natalia said. “I accept some of the blame.”
“You? What did you do wrong?” Nathaniel said.
“I thought I had Zelvas under control. He wanted to run off with me,” she said. “I never thought he’d leave me and run off with the diamonds.”
She unscrewed the top of a jar of Crème de la Mer. Nathaniel had no idea what was in it, but he had seen the credit-card receipts. Twelve hundred dollars for the tiny pink-and-white jar.
Natalia undid her belt, opened her robe, and began rubbing the outrageously expensive moisturizer into her long, firm, perfectly sculpted legs.
Only ten minutes before, Nathaniel had been between those legs, deep inside her, his face buried between her breasts, his tongue tantalizing her nipples, his brain intoxicated with her perfume. His orgasm, as it always did with Natalia, had left him blissfully happy and totally spent.
But as he watched Natalia slide her hands from her calf