Blood Stones (17 page)

But Ivan was too clever for that. He knew his Arabs. They were born into the market-place like Ivan's Jewish forebears. They loved to bargain more than to sell or to buy. It was the European mistress who was fed the bait. All Ivan had to do was wait, patiently, impassively, for the lady to work on her besotted prince. There were other targets, and Ivan kept them in view. A retired movie actress married to a Brazilian millionaire; one of the great chainstore moguls who had a new young wife who liked presents – in the six months they had been married she had collected a yacht, one of Ivan's $300,000 16-carat diamonds as an engagement ring, and a house in Jamaica. There was also a little-known Italian motor-car manufacturer, who had been a regular customer since he moved to Paris. His wife had an unrivalled collection of fancy diamonds which Ivan had personally built up for her. She never wore them; Ivan had stayed in Milan one year and been furious to find that they kept his beautiful stones in a specially built display case in a steel safe. They took them out to look at and to show to favoured visitors.

The Italians had been brought into Ivan's circle of exclusive private clients by his son-in-law, Prince Eugene Titulescu. Fifteen generations of Romanian aristocrats had produced the beautifully mannered, impeccably dressed tout, who lived in style and moved among the rich and famous by courtesy of the father-in-law who paid him. He was stupid, but not vicious, and he made the best use of his only two assets: his charm and his great name. He was also operating in the most socially conscious community in the world. The Parisian hostesses considered the prince a great asset, and he was particularly successful in introducing the top class of rich client to Karakov because he never attempted to sell them anything.

He liked women very much, but it was a sexless admiration; he hadn't been very happy with his first wife, whom he had married when both were very young. She was a turbulent, passionate creature, whom he had never satisfied; they had no children. She died in a car crash and he had felt both guilty and relieved. The Great War had made inroads into the Titulescu fortune and economic necessity had eaten into their lands, but the prince's family had managed to live in very much their old style: hunting and shooting and spending part of the year in Bucharest. The prince had fought in the last war, and seen some action on the Russian front; the experience had been enough to give him a profound distaste for all forms of physical discomfort and danger.

He had been one of the first to escape when the Russians established their puppet government, and he had taken a few jewels and one small painting, rolled up and hidden in his suitcase, and made his way to France, where he had friends. The jewels brought a good price, and he sold his small Vermeer at Sotheby's in London. He had then sufficient capital to buy a decent apartment and contact his friends. These friends were his introduction to Ivan Karakov. Ivan had seen his possibilities at once, but it was Laura who approached the prince after a three-month campaign in which he was wined and dined and invited to the Karakovs.' Normandy château for the weekend. Ivan was a little in awe of him to begin with; he wore an eyeglass on a black ribbon and his manner was so very aristocratic, but once he began drawing his cheque, Ivan felt better. The prince, on the other hand, had been delighted. He had waited hopefully during those three months when nothing else had been found for him to do, worrying that his money was dwindling away and wishing that he had the courage to ask the Karakovs for a job.

He had been working for them for two years when he met their second daughter, Natasha, who had just come back from Mexico after divorcing an international sponger with a German title. The prince had been very charming to her because it was not in his nature to be anything else to a woman, and it came as a genuine surprise when she asked him to marry her. The reversal of the roles took him so much off guard that he couldn't think of a suitable excuse to say no; his mind was made up for him in a short interview with Ivan, who indicated that he was a very lucky guy, so long as he didn't expect to live off Natasha's money or get any special privileges. He had liked his wife in a passive way; she found him kind and restful after her experience with the baron, who had been greedy, unfaithful and blacked her eye when she complained. She was very happy with her prince and very fond of him. They had even gladdened her parents by producing a grandson.

Titulescu was surprised and delighted. Also relieved that now he was sure of not being discarded like the baron.

The postwar world was a difficult place for a gentleman to make a living. Most people wouldn't employ you, in spite of your title, unless you had something to offer like degrees or specialist knowledge, and all the prince knew was how to live in style. He knew about food and he was an expert on wines. When Laura wanted to dine an important client she often consulted him as if he were a kind of butler, and he advised her tactfully on what to serve with what. She never treated him differently, even when he became her son-in-law. He bore the Karakovs no resentment for the little humiliations they inflicted on him; he understood that they felt it was necessary to assert themselves by reminding him he was on their payroll, and he forgave them. He even managed to ignore it when Ivan called one of his suggestions ‘a load of crap' during a meeting in his private office. The prince had shed his pride long ago; if he was proud of anything it was of how well he had survived the loss of his estates and money, when so many of his old friends were bankrupt or dead. If he could initiate the sale of the Romanov Diamonds – the name made him wince – his personal commission would be enormous.

That morning, Karakov's secretary had buzzed through, asking if he could see Mr Hastings from Diamond Enterprises, who was on a visit to Paris.

‘No,' Ivan barked back. ‘Tell him I'm tied up in a meeting. Tell him to call again. Next week maybe.' He flicked the switch down. ‘Who does the bum think he is?' He said it aloud. ‘Who does Heyderman think he is, sending some office boy out here to see me? He wants anything out of me, he can make the trip himself. Or send Harris … God-damned office boy.'

Ivan had hated Heyderman on sight, and Julius hadn't troubled to be charming. He was irritated with Karakov for making all this trouble, complaining about the quality of his diamonds. He was especially irritated to find Ernst Richter in the office to back up Ivan. He was brusque with both of them, and he completely ignored the prince, who happened to be there. He had made Ivan a lot of promises in a high-handed way and gone back and given instructions to give the Karakov organization a couple of really bad parcels next time they bought anything and then one good one at a 5 per cent increase. He had imagined that would teach him. But it hadn't. It might well have succeeded, because Karakov was no fool and he had made enough compromises in his life to make one more, however much it stuck in his craw. But along came Mirkovitch with the Archangel mine as a proposition that changed everything. The Russian's proposition suddenly gave Ivan Karakov a hand to play in the power game with Diamond Enterprises. A potentially winning hand.

Mirkovitch was a quiet man, around thirty-three. He had a straight deal to put forward, and Ivan was just in the right mood to listen to it. He'd had a report from Ernst Richter on the last Antwerp sale and it was so bad he hadn't bought anything. Ivan got the message and he was seething.

The Russians had a top-class mine which was coming into full production. He backed his statement with samples. Karakov had examined the rough stones himself and passed them to his head valuer. ‘These are good stuff.' The valuer took the loupe out of his eye. ‘Very good. High quality.'

Two were over 80 carats in weight and very clean. Karakov said nothing. Good, but he sensed that there was more to come.

‘We have cut some of the fancies,' Mirkovitch announced. ‘Our facilities are not as expert as yours, but these were cut and polished in Smolensk …'

‘My home town,' Ivan muttered.

‘And these at Irkutsk. Blue stones, some green, not quite clean, cinnamon, deep colour – and these.' He had produced them in a box, not much bigger than a cigarette packet.

Suddenly crimson fire blazed up at Ivan. The valuer gasped out loud. Ivan turned and told him to leave them. He wouldn't even let the expert handle these. Later, he'd have a warning word with him about mentioning what he'd seen.

He'd taken them out one by one, examined them with his own loupe, held them to the light, caressed them between his thumb and forefinger. And then he had looked at Mirkovitch. ‘You're mining these?'

‘Yes,' the Russian said calmly. ‘In large quantities. Some are very big in the rough. Too big for us to cut without the risk of damage. These are just a sample.'

Ivan thought he was going to have a heart attack. His chest felt banded in steel, he couldn't control his pulse or his breathing. He said to Laura afterwards that it was the most exciting moment of his whole life. After a long pause, ‘It would be best if I come out to Moscow and negotiate direct. But first I would like to visit the mine.'

When they shook hands, Ivan told his wife, his own was trembling. Mirkovitch had looked at him and smiled. ‘I am sure we will work out a deal that will benefit us both.'

Ivan remembered it well and sneered. Waste time on some messenger boy from Diamond Enterprises? With what he had in his safe and the deal with Moscow that would be ratified and signed in the next three months, Diamond Enterprises could stuff themselves.

Dick Kruger had gone over the plans of Arthur Harris's new yacht, looked at the specifications, admired the design, and said all the expected things, knowing that Arthur only wanted his own enthusiasm confirmed. He knew that what Dick didn't know about racing yachts would have filled a blockbuster-sized book.

He sensed that Dick was restless; being a shrewd judge he guessed that it was Ruth's absence in Paris that was making him so edgy. And, of course, his wife Christa didn't help. She wasn't unfriendly to Kruger. On the contrary, she was charming to him; it enabled her to be nasty to Arthur by contrast. She interrupted his explanation of his new toy's potential by coming in and saying in a pained voice, ‘Now, darling, haven't you bored poor Dick for long enough?' Then, turning to Dick with a radiant smile, she said, ‘Arthur's such an enthusiast, he thinks everyone else is as obsessed about winning as he is. The trouble is, we haven't had all that many successes, have we? We haven't
actually
won a major class for the last four years … but Arthur'll go on trying, won't you? Now, it's time for a drink before dinner. Dick, we've got some old friends coming – Sonia and Ralph Mathews. Nothing to do with yachts, I promise you …'

Dick Kruger knew the form. He had stayed with the Harrises before, and spent the whole visit squirming on Arthur's behalf. Last time, he had Valerie with him, and Arthur's loutish son had joined his mother in baiting him. Looking at that boy, Kruger thanked God that Valerie hadn't been able to have children. Not that he'd have allowed any son to grow up like Martin Harris. Valerie hadn't been sympathetic. He remembered how her attitude had grated on him. ‘Why does he put up with it? He doesn't have to stay with her … Some men like being humiliated. I think he gets turned on by the way she treats him …' Dick had lost his temper with her. He was loyal to the bone to Arthur, who had always supported and promoted him. The wife was an unmitigated bitch, and he was just too nice to cope with her and the son … The sexual innuendo made him furious. Valerie was almost siding with Christa Harris. But then she would. She was always harping on how she valued her female friends and the special intimacy women shared. As if men were some kind of enemy. He felt her attitude was some kind of reproach to him, but he couldn't see that he deserved it. Ruth had never shown any interest in other women. She didn't go to lunch parties, or spend time shopping in little groups with girl friends. She was bored by feminine interests and pursuits.

She boasted about it. ‘I like what's going on in the real world,' she said to him. ‘Our world. Where the action is.'

It had given him a deep sense of companionship. During that weekend, he thought about her with mixed jealousy and loneliness. The Mathews, Christa's much-hyped friends, turned out to be a stuffy English county couple of stupefying dullness, who made him feel very South African. There was a large lunch party on Sunday where he felt equally bored and ill at ease. They were part of the Solent set, as he described them sourly to himself. They talked to each other about mutual friends in high-pitched voices, and once Dick exchanged a miserable glance with Arthur who seemed to understand. When the party started to break up, Dick found Arthur beside him. He was rehearsing his goodbye speech to Christa, his excuse for leaving immediately already worked out. Arthur touched him lightly on the arm. ‘I want you to stay on, Dick. I want to discuss something with you. When everyone's gone, we'll go into my study.'

It was a very masculine room, with a handsome oil of Arthur's winning yacht,
Diamond Lady
, over the fireplace, photographs and trophies everywhere.

‘Sit down, Dick,' Arthur said. ‘I'm very grateful to you for coming this weekend. I'm sure you were going to pop over to Paris?'

Dick didn't like to admit that Ruth had dissuaded him. He shrugged slightly, and said, ‘No problem. I've had a great time.' Arthur's rather sad smile acknowledged the lie. He opened a box of Monte Christo cigars. Kruger took one.

‘Christa hates the smell, so I only smoke them in here,' he explained. ‘I've had a confidential fax from Reece,' he said quietly. ‘I've got it here. I'd like you to read it, Dick. No-one else has had sight of it. Tell me what you think.'

Kruger read it through, then reread it. He looked up at Arthur Harris. ‘Christ,' he muttered. ‘Where did Reece get hold of this?'