“One and a half,” countered Gruber. “Dollars. And that is final.”
“That’s robbery.”
Gruber set the watch on the tray and pushed it toward Blatt. “If you say so.”
The Russian shot from his chair, taking Bianca by the hand. “I’ll be back in an hour. Have a cashier’s check ready.”
Outside, Blatt spent a moment taking deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. He felt as if he’d been physically violated, raped even. At any other time he would have snatched his watch off the tray and stormed out of the building.
One million five.
The nerve.
Should anyone discover he’d accepted forty cents on the dollar, his reputation would be in shreds. In Moscow, in his salad days, he might have shot the man then and there. At least he could trust Gruber to keep quiet on the matter. Or could he?
Blatt dined with Bianca at the Kronenhalle, allowing himself an extra glass of Dole and a helping of the restaurant’s excellent chocolate mousse to salve his wounds. By the time they left, he’d almost convinced himself that he wasn’t being taken advantage of.
He returned an hour later.
Gruber was waiting in the showroom. Two men sat in the corner, both young, steel-eyed, pistols bulging beneath their jackets.
“What’s this, then?” asked Blatt.
“There is a problem,” said Gruber.
“At the bank?”
“With your watch. It is a counterfeit.”
Blatt regarded Gruber with bewilderment. His men had stolen the watch from the most reputable jeweler in Golders Green, who had been selling it on behalf of a client. There was no question but that it was authentic. “Impossible,” he blurted. “I got it from…” He closed his mouth.
Gruber brought out the baize tray and Blatt observed that the watch had been disassembled. “The case is platinum,” said the Swiss. “That I will grant you, but it was not manufactured by Patek Philippe.”
“By who, then?”
Gruber wedged a loupe in his eye and read the markings from the interior of the case. “The Ming Fung Watch Company, Hong Kong.” He handed Blatt the loupe and the case.
“Holy hell,” said Blatt.
“Quite good, granted, but hardly Swiss.”
Blatt replaced the case on the tray. “I don’t understand.”
“All of it is fake. The dial, the hands, the clasp, the movement. Fake. Fake. Fake.”
“But…”
Gruber offered a weak shrug as consolation. “Boris, you’ve been had.”
Blatt left the building. An idea had come into his mind, and with every step he grew more convinced of it. At some point during the four weeks he’d been in possession of the watch, someone had stolen it and replaced it with a counterfeit.
Blatt’s bewilderment hardened to anger.
He would find the thief.
And he would punish him.
Chapter 29
Simon took a cab back to his hotel. He undressed and put on a robe, then ordered a light dinner from room service, including an order of fresh sardines and toast. He had an idea he might be drinking more than he’d like later in the evening, and the fish and bread was a proven measure to lessen the effects of alcohol. Waiting for the meal to arrive, he reviewed the notes from Delacroix’s phone. Once again, he was astounded as to the security man’s access to the prince’s most private data. The next step involved using that data—national identity number, credit card numbers, and more—to gain access to the prince’s email and phone records.
Dinner arrived punctually. He ate quickly, putting aside the sardines for later. Afterward, he rested for an hour, dozing fitfully. He woke at nine and showered. Toweling dry, he regarded himself in the mirror. The scar on his hip from the policeman’s bullet had hardened to a weal the size of a bottle cap. The bullet that had struck his shoulder had done more damage, shattering the clavicle and tearing the deltoid muscles, requiring two bouts on the operating table.
The result was an eight-inch incision that after all the years had gone white as bone. He had other scars, but these were from prison: a few puncture wounds in the abdomen, a nasty zigzag on his ribs courtesy of a serrated shank, and a patch on his thigh where he’d been scalded by boiling water. All these he viewed with bemusement. The other guy had gotten worse on every occasion.
Which brought him to the unsightly memento on his scalp.
He leaned closer to the mirror, running a finger along the jagged mark. Until a few years ago, his hairline had covered it entirely. But Father Time owed him no favors, nor did he expect any. He’d cheated death once too often. The scar on his forehead was a reminder that each day was a gift.
He closed his eyes, remembering the day long ago. He saw himself coming out of the shower, naked, unarmed, and wholly unawares. “Ledoux,” shouted someone behind him. He turned and stepped into the blow, delivered with an enemy’s worst intentions. The weapon was an iron bar fashioned from the leg of a prison cot, its leading edge sharpened like a hatchet. There had been no pain—not then, at least. There had been only a sickening crunch that exploded in the space between his ears and the leering face of the man who wanted him dead. He would forget neither as long as he lived.
Simon opened his eyes.
He still owed the other guy for that one.
Weak people avenge. Strong people forgive. Intelligent people ignore.
Another of the monsignor’s gems.
The jury was still out as to which of these Simon was.
Life in a box.
The cell measured ten paces by six.
Concrete walls that bled with damp.
A steel cot. No mattress. No blanket.
A hole in the floor.
A spigot.
A weak incandescent bulb protected by a sturdy cage that burned all day and all night.
Two meals a day.
Breakfast: bread, coffee. Dinner: boiled potato, egg, and, once a week, a square of dark chocolate.
No books.
No music.
No television.
No clocks.
Each day an endless journey to the boundary of his sanity.
Who betrayed you?
Every Sunday he was taken from his cell, escorted up the long stairway and into a small yard, confined on all sides by a twenty-foot-high wall. He knew it was Sunday because of the church bells. On the other side of the wall, cars drove past, mothers walked with their children, groups of men shouted on their way to the football match. Life went on.
Summer ended.
Fall.
The brief Marseille winter.
Spring.
A year passed.
Who betrayed you?
Another Sunday.
Finally, one hour outside. Sun on his face. The smell of grass. Of exhaust. Of the world in which he’d once lived.
A man was standing in the yard. A prisoner. Pale as chalk. Wild hair going gray, falling past his shoulders. Once a strong man. Broad beamed. Rangy. A face carved from stone. A man who refused to yield his dignity.
“My name is Paul.”
“Simon.”
They looked at each other and Simon could see by his expression that they shared a wretched condition.
“How are you, my son?” said Paul.
“Better now,” said Simon. And for a reason he did not know, nor could later explain, he approached the old man and hugged him, holding him close until his muscles weakened and he could hold him no longer. “Better,” Simon repeated.
“Me, too,” said Paul. “I thank you.”
The men walked to a corner of the yard, as far from the guard as they could get.
“How long?” asked Paul.
“A year,” said Simon. “I think. What month is it?”
“September.” Paul smiled. “I think.”
“And you? How long?”
Paul didn’t answer. He merely shook his head. Too long.
The guard appeared and ordered Paul inside. “Listen for me,” he said as he was led away.
That afternoon, as Simon lay on his cot, hands behind his head, staring at a monstrous centipede that had emerged from a crack in the ceiling, asking himself if he were hungry enough to eat it, he heard a tap, tap, tap coming from the wall. It was a new sound, divorced from the pinging of the generator and the buzzing of the light bulb and the stomping of the guards’ feet as they walked up and down the stairs.