• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 1952 0

ago, they had traded their gifts in celebration of the prince’s purchase of certain lands in the state of Rajasthan. The prince had discovered that the lands contained valuable deposits of tungsten, an element used to harden steel, and had realized their value to a newly mechanized world. But after the revolution the Russians had claimed ownership of the mines, saying they had the legal documents signed by Prince Misha Ivanoff making them over to the new Soviet Republic. They stated that in any case, as all property was now owned by the state, the mines rightfully belonged to Russia. The authenticity of the documents was questioned at the time, but as no member of the Ivanoff family had ever come forward to dispute their claim, nothing had ever been done about it. Though the mines were valuable, they had never seemed of great importance to the rest of the world. However, they had recently been found to contain vast quantities of certain strategic elements essential to modern industry—especially defense. Or war. And now the entire world was prepared to dispute Russia’s ownership.

Cal knew that the Russians desperately needed an Ivanoff signature on the title deeds as indisputable proof of their claim. If they found the “Lady” first, they would get that signature. And they would again become the world’s most intimidating power.

He sipped the champagne that had been meant to cheer him up—and maybe bluff the Russians into believing he was celebrating the purchase of the emerald—thinking about the events of the last few weeks. He had asked for and been given carte blanche to conduct his own investigation into the search for the mysterious owner of the Ivanoff jewel. He had requested no CIA heavies, no elaborate FBI investigations … he had wanted this one for himself. He realized its importance and knew it would boost him up the political ladder. Besides, he was already on to a lead. “It’s a simple enough matter,” he had told them easily at the meeting. “All I have to do is find these top gem cutters. They will know who the owner is.”

It had started out like a game. First he had gone to Amsterdam, where he had met Peter van Stalte, the doyen of gem cutters and an honest man. Van Stalte had said the emerald had not been seen in that city and that he personally would not have liked the job. “Too risky,” he’d said, frowning and pulling on his short pointed beard. “The surest hand in Amsterdam could not have guaranteed success.”

In Jerusalem the Israelis had told him that not only had they not seen the emerald, but they too would never have attempted to cut it. They said there was only one man who could have attempted such a cut with any chance of success: Gerome Abyss. But Abyss had disappeared from Paris and the gem-cutting world years ago after a series of disasters involving large and expensive diamonds. Lifting a cupped hand to his mouth, Stein had said, “Scotch whisky, that’s what ruined Gerome Abyss. Rumor had it he went to Hong Kong, or was it Singapore? Or maybe Bangkok?”

Cal had followed Interpol information that Abyss had last been seen in Bangkok, one of the major gem centers of the Far East, but his search had ground to a halt in a seedy back street in Patpong. He had found himself staring at a stained business card tacked to a peeling door. There was no answer to his ring, and the people at the Therapeutic Sex Clinic on the first floor had told him Abyss had not been seen in weeks. It had taken two days of inquiring from bar to bar along the malodorous network of neighboring streets to find the owner of the building, and when he finally encountered him, he wished he hadn’t.

They met in the man’s office in back of a glitzy neon “massage parlor” and bar. Disco music was blaring from enormous speakers as half-naked Thai girls gyrated lethargically on a small stage while the bored customers lewdly assessed their merits. When Cal inquired for the owner, two muscular guards emerged suddenly from the shadows and, without a word, grabbed his arms. They hurried him along a corridor at the back of the bar, past “massage