Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [56]
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.