The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [78]
“You are late,” he said with a snarl into the receiver. He paused and then said, “I beg your pardon, I was expecting someone else.” He picked up a pen and doodled impatiently on his desk pad, sketching the Ivanoff tiara and the gem lying in front of him.
“American television? Now, why would American television want to interview me? General interest, you say? Mm … a series of profiles of great men in industry? And to whom am I talking?” He dropped the pen and a guarded tone crept into his voice. “Well, Miss Reese, I’m not sure I can spare the time…. I see, well, why don’t you call me again tomorrow. Yes, at my office.”
He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. Genie Reese was the young American who had covered the sale for that American television network in Geneva. Could it be mere coincidence that she was calling him now? Or had she found out he had bought the emerald? If so, how? Surely not through Markheim? He was still puzzling over Genie Reese when the phone shrilled again.
It was the call he was waiting for, from his mole within the Swiss banking system. “Yes?” he said crisply. He listened for a while then he said very quietly, “I see. You were late,” he added sharply. “Do not let it happen again.”
After putting down the phone, he sat in his big leather chair, thinking. He had the answer to the mystery the world was puzzling over, but somehow it wasn’t the answer he had expected. His contact had just told him that the seller of the emerald was the Kazahn Freighter Line, registered in Istanbul.
All the way in the taxi Genie asked herself why she was doing this. Was it to help her country—and to further her own ambitions? Or was it also because of Valentin Solovsky’s beautiful gray eyes? Either way she was committed: Ferdie Arnhaldt was expecting her, and she could already see the crenellated gray roofs of the Haus Arnhaldt over the tops of the trees.
The house came into view suddenly at the end of a long straight gravel drive, looming behind a series of parterres, the clipped box hedges enclosing more gravel in stiff geometric patterns. The only human factor in the whole design was the ornate marble fountain stuck dead center of the carriage circle. Water sprayed from a dozen fanciful dolphins with Neptune astride the largest fish, his trident aloft as if he were about to go spear-fishing. The wind was blowing coldly from the east, sending the fountain spray over her as the cab driver held open the door. He threw her an admiring glance as she told him to wait, and Genie felt glad because at least it meant she looked good. She needed all the confidence she could muster for this meeting.
Before she even had time to ring the bell, a butler in pinstripe trousers and white jacket flung open the door, showed her into a formal anteroom, and asked her to wait. The square room was almost as tall as it was wide, and the walls were covered with drawings and photographs of the Arnhaldt factories from their beginnings in a tiny smelting plant near Essen to the massive engineering plants of today. The thick carpet was a dark plum red and there were matching brocade curtains at the gothic windows. Genie perched on the edge of one of the heavy carved oak chairs ranged around the walls, thinking it was like the waiting room of a Park Avenue dentist with not even a mirror for visitors to check their hair before being summoned into “the presence.” She felt glad she was wearing the conservative beige Armani suit. With her blond hair pulled back she looked professional enough to discuss big business and just the teeniest bit glamorous. She shrugged: Hadn’t Cal said she should use all she had got to further her career? Still, she was quaking a bit inside when the butler returned after a long wait and said the baron was ready to see her now.
She followed him up a wide flight of ancient oak stairs past several huge portraits of dead