The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [87]
“Tell me,” Michael said quickly, “has Anna ever mentioned the name Arnhaldt?”
“You mean the German steel tycoon?” She thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe she did once. She mentioned that when she was packing Missie’s things, she had come across a picture of Baron Arnhaldt clipped from a magazine. I remember she said she thought it was odd, but she didn’t ask Missie about him. She said if Missie hadn’t mentioned anything then, it either wasn’t important or she didn’t want to tell her.”
“We believe,” Ahmet said quietly, “that Ferdie Arnhaldt bought the emerald. Arnhaldt is a megalomaniac, like his father and grandfather before him. He is the armaments king and he knows if he can get his hands on those mines, he will control both the world’s defense systems and its armaments supplies. He can hold the world to ransom. He bought the emerald because he hoped it would lead him to the ‘Lady.’ To Anna.”
“But we knew nothing about the billions and important mines,” Leyla cried despairingly. “We never imagined Missie’s old stories could really be true. We thought that the past was the past and it was all over and done with.”
“And so it probably would have been if it were not for those mines,” Michael said abruptly. “One more thing, Leyla. Does Anna know where the original ownership deeds to the mines are? Because they are the one thing in the world everyone wants to lay their hands on.”
Her dazzling blue eyes widened in horror. “Oh, Grandfather Kazahn Pasha,” she whispered, “now I remember. They were in the valise with the jewels. It was just an old document, brown with age and crumbling at the edges. We thought it worthless but Anna kept it because it had the prince’s signature and the Ivanoff seal. She said she would carry it with her in case she ever had to prove her identity at the bank. But she didn’t know about the mines and the billions. Oh, Kazahn Pasha.” She wailed. “That document is in Annas handbag.”
Moscow
Major-General Boris Solovsky stared at the copy of the decoded message lying on his desk. It was from Valentin addressed to Sergei, and the message was brief. Valentin had found no positive evidence yet as to who had bought the emerald, but it was definitely not the Americans. He was following up several other leads. Meanwhile would Boris please call off his heavies because as a senior diplomat he was not used to such harassment. And besides, they were so clumsy and obvious, they stuck out like a sore thumb. He would report back in a few days.
Boris banged his fist angrily on his desk. Valentin was just like his father: arrogant, clever, and too good-looking.
He sat back in his chair, his shaved head gleaming under the lamp and his fleshy, brooding face set in a venomous mask. His jaw was tense with anger, deepening the lines from nose to mouth, and his jutting forehead seemed to lower itself over his small, sharp eyes.
He had always hated his foster brother. Right from the beginning, he had known Sergei was different: He had looked different, he had acted different, he had talked different—when he spoke at all, that is. That bastard Sergei had even smelled different.
When his father had first brought the boy home, he had told them that he was an orphan of the revolution, that his name was Sergei, and that he would now be their son. He remembered how his mother’s pale-blue eyes had widened in sympathy as she had stared at the dirty, exhausted little boy. She had flung her arms impetuously around him, hugging him to her ample bosom, murmuring soft words of comfort. The first spark of bitter jealousy had flared in Boris’s heart that day, and in the following years it had