London— Scotland Yard
Green and crimson fire escaped myriad facets of the diamond. It was cut in the asscher style—a stepped square cut with cropped corners—and each slight tilt of the jeweler’s tweezers released another scintillating wink of color. Even beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of a Scotland Yard interrogation room, the rock put on a show.
Measurement with a digital jeweler’s caliper verified that the diamond was a healthy ten carats. Study with the triplex loupe could not identify any remarkable flaws. Of course, a high-powered microscope was required to detect minute inclusions, but the diamond gave no clue that any were present.
If this was a D grade transparent stone… Such a rarity, a flawless diamond of such size, seemed impossible.
There must be a flaw. Nothing in this world was perfect.
Whistling in the corridor distracted Becca Whitmore from her thoughts. Symphony No. 8 in B minor? That one of the Scotland Yard inspectors would cruise down the hallway whistling Schubert made her smile.
Her mood lightened, she glanced over the chipped Formica table, expecting to spy the GIA report amid the few pieces of evidence. Such a report was issued by the Gemological Institute of America, and accompanied all stones.
“Miss Whitmore, I am told?”
Thoroughly startled by the male voice, Becca dropped the diamond. It clinked onto the table and then bounced onto the creased ultrawhite card she always used to lay out gemstones.
A whistle acknowledged her jumpiness. “Sorry,” the man said. “Will dropping it damage the thing?”
Tucking her wavy brown hair behind her ear, Becca let out a breath. “No.”
Why had she been so jumpy about dropping the gem? Likely because it was 8:00 a.m. in London, and she was still on New York time.
“Diamond is one of the hardest substances found in nature, Mr.…”
“Agent Dane.”
A slender, six-foot-tall advertisement for laid-back leaned in the doorway to the interrogation room, wearing a presumptuous smile and a pale blue turtleneck sweater. Tufted blond hair warred for some semblance of order, and lost. A hand cocked at his hip pushed back a black tailored suit coat to reveal sculpted pecs beneath a snug sweater. The Brits had a thing for close-to-body tailoring, as if they still clung to ’60s-era styles.
Swank, Becca thought.
Swank, who knew the Unfinished Symphony. Score one point for him on the impressive scale.
The man tugged out a leather badge wallet from inside his coat pocket and flashed it quickly. “Agent Aston Dane. MI-6.”
The wallet snapped shut as Becca stood and offered her hand. “Becca Whitmore.”
Grasping it with both of his, Agent Dane pumped twice. A simple band circled his right thumb. Silver? He was cool, relaxed. Ring on his thumb? He was open. She had a knack for judging people by the jewelry they wore. Men, most particularly, offered intriguing analyses merely for the subtleties their choices uncovered.
“Nice to meet you. Could I see that badge again?”
Still holding her hand, he winked. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
Becca tugged her hand from his grip, lifting her right eyebrow in mock challenge. “I don’t need a little slice of plastic to prove my credentials.”
“Oh? So who the bloody hell is Becca Whitmore?”
“I’m the gemologist.”
“Ah! Yes, the expert in gems imported from the good old U.S. of A. I was told an American was making the trek. From the JAG?”
He referred to the FBI’s Jewelry and Gem program, which only worked thefts in the United States. This case had begun in New York, but had quickly gone international with last evening’s theft in London. The CIA had been the group to contact Becca. She had worked with Zeek, her CIA contact, previously, investigating a conflict-diamond smuggling ring based in Africa. Obviously she’d made an impression.
The New York theft had involved a request for a specific ten-carat diamond—the very one sitting on the white card, Becca presumed. The New York gems dealer had told the thief she’d sold the stone, and then he’d shot her in the head.
The victim? One MaryEllen Sommerfield. Becca knew the woman from the occasional purchase or meeting at a gems convention. MaryEllen was still alive, with a bullet lodged in her frontal lobe like a ticking time bomb. Surprisingly, she remained coherent, and had been able to give a few details to the investigating officers. The suspect—male, tall and wearing a black face mask and clothing—had sounded foreign, but MaryEllen couldn’t place the accent.
She’d told the officers she’d sold one ten-carat stone to a London jeweler who had plans to create a necklace for a Transylvanian countess, and another to a Paris dealer. Had the thief been aware there were two stones? He hadn’t made such knowledge apparent to MaryEllen.
Zeek had been pleased to find Becca, a freelance agent, available to hop a flight to London. Her cover was more than a story; she actually was a gemologist. But she was much more.
Recruited into the Gotham Roses four years earlier at the age of twenty-two by Renee Dalton-Sinclair, Becca served as an agent in an undercover operation that concentrated on crimes committed by the rich and untouchable. Those “good ole boys” who lived above the law and could get by with nearly anything—yes, even murder—merely by flashing their cash or the incredible power of political connections. The Roses often partnered with the FBI or CIA, as well as local authorities, as inside operatives who could easily assume the disguise of the rich, young and unassuming.
On the surface, the Gotham Roses were a New York City women’s club made up of two hundred young socialites who focused on charity and giving back to the community. Hardly the sort criminals would expect to be hot on their trail. Less than two dozen of those exceptional young women had been recruited for the covert branch of the Roses.
Fate had placed Becca in the path of a fleeing purse snatcher four years earlier. Reacting to instincts she’d never known she possessed, she’d swung her Fendi bag, catching the thief in the face and laying him out flat. Renee Dalton-Sinclair had witnessed the scene from the back seat of her limo. Several days later—after a background check that included her famous family lineage and wealth, Becca now knew— Renee had invited her to join not just the Gotham Roses society club for women, but also the underground spy agency.
Becca’s expertise with gemstones put her at the top of the Gotham Rose list when stolen bling—as fellow Gotham Rose agent Vanessa Dawson would voice—was involved. Becca had recently assisted the JAG to bring down an organization of thieves who stole from traveling jewel sales reps. The thieves were all former law enforcement, with connections to police databases, and had easily tracked the salespeople from city to city merely by bringing up a DMV search. Then they’d sell the stolen jewels to wealthy, but bargain-minded, no-questions-asked clients that had included big-name senators and businessmen.
When invited to work for the agency, Becca’s main physical skills had been yoga and dance, thanks to her mother’s training as a professional dancer. Not that Becca’s obsessive attention to detail didn’t come in handy. Jimmy Valentine, the Roses’ sexy trainer, had run her through an intense course of physical training, espionage skills and weapons handling.
Thanks to a strict language teacher in boarding school, Becca’s fluency in Spanish, Russian, French and Italian frequently saw her working international cases.
Renee Dalton-Sinclair was a gorgeous and powerful woman married to Preston Sinclair, a noted businessman who had been incarcerated for embezzlement at his own family’s financial company. The rumor was that the scandal had been the motivating force behind Renee’s creating the Gotham Roses. Renee felt her husband had been framed by greedy family members, used as a scapegoat for their own financial misdealings.
Becca found it fascinating that Renee herself answered to a mysterious woman the Roses knew only as the Governess. Becca often wondered if she were CIA or FBI, or someone higher.
No matter, the Governess had made it clear she wanted intel on this gem case—and hard evidence. Suspicious unnamed sources suggested there was something different about these two diamonds. Something worth attempting murder.
Turning her attention back to the MI-6 agent, Becca said, “I’m not at liberty to discuss my orders.” The usual excuse. Scotland Yard knew the CIA had sent her here. “You said you’re with MI-6? Wasn’t it an MI-5 agent who showed me to this room?”
“Five jumped on the case, as usual—bloody stealing magpies—but as soon as we learned the connections to New York, Six took over.”
“Do I detect glee in your tone, Agent Dane?”
He smoothed his palm down the front of his thin blue sweater. Summoning the truth or concocting a lie? It was the kind of pause Becca was familiar with, and used herself, when needed. “Five is domestic. We’re international—the obvious match for this case.”
“I see.”
Yes, he was pleased. Rivalries between the two organizations were well known, even to civilians. Because of their international reach, MI-6 agents considered themselves superior.
“As well, MI-6 tends to jump in when organized crime is involved,” he explained.
“Oh? What makes you believe it’s organized crime?”
The agent stepped backward and slapped a hand over the wall next to a large picture window. The expanse of glass changed from an opaque white to reveal it was actually a two-way window.
“Exhibit A,” he offered, crossing his arms and ankles to pose beside the scene.
Inside the room sat a thin man in black sweats. Blood trickled down his stubble-darkened jaw. A vivid purple bruise marred the left side of his forehead. His hands were secured behind his back, his head hung forward and his shaved scalp revealed a scar that curved around his ear. At the door stood an armed guard, looking nearly asleep.
“Is that the thief?”
“You’d bloody better believe it. Picked him up as a lovely bonus prize along with the diamond. Sergei the Dog, a middle tier thief.”
“Middle tier?”
“Sure. You’ve got your scummy low-class blokes who do smash-and-grabs and tilt over little old ladies on street corners.” He ticked off his fingers as he explained. “You’ve got your upper tiers who do exquisitely planned heists. Gotta admire those types. And then there’s the middle, basically all the rest. They work in groups, or are hired by the big blokes who haven’t the time or motivation to delegate the upper tier heists.”
“I see.”
“Good on you, Miss Whitmore. I like a woman who picks up the ball without fumbling. There’s also a notation on Sergei’s record he’s snitched for the SVR. Er, that’s the—”
“I know what the SVR is.” Thanks to a run-in with them last year in Africa.
“Stupid Violent Russians.”
Becca compressed her lips and crossed her arms. “What is it about the Russians you don’t like, Agent Dane?”
“Besides the Cold War?” He shrugged. “It’s a joke. You know, humor?” He sighed and punched a fist into his opposite palm. “Okay, tough room. SVR, Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, Russian Federal Intelligence Service,” he said. “But isn’t that an oxymoron? Russian and intelligent?”
Despite her reservations, Becca had to smile at his audacity. Ah hell, she let out a chuckle.
“Whew. The room is finally starting to warm up.”
Agent Dane’s smile was easy and it piqued Becca’s attention. Yes, definitely an open man. Direct opposition to her need to keep things close to the vest.
“So, the CIA has flown you all the way to London for that pretty little rock?”
Nodding and exhaling a sigh, she said, “Don’t remind me of the flight.”
“Don’t like to fly in aeroplanes?”
“I fly well enough, it’s over water that makes me, um—” she tilted her palm up and down “—nervous.”
“Hydrophobic?”
“Yes.” And this was far too much information to reveal to a perfect stranger.
He gestured to the diamond. “A nice piece. Ten carats, I believe. Snatched from a gems dealer on Liverpool Street last night as he closed up shop. I don’t understand why the entire store was not ransacked. There were other gems of equal size, yet this bit of sparkle was the only thing taken.”
“Are you the arresting officer?”
“No, it was—”
“Scotland Yard, actually.” He winked again. “Five stepped in after the arrest.”
Smoothing a palm over her camel-colored Cynthia Rowley tweed slacks, Becca eyed the man. How she did admire a man in a turtleneck. The sweater matched his eyes, which were ice-blue, like translucent aquamarine. Yet the effect was warm, like bonfires in the evening in the Hamptons in fall.
“Um…” Snapping back to the here and now, Becca pulled her gaze from the flash of silver at Agent Dane’s hip—that ring. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish examining the diamond and determine what would make it worth chasing cross-country.”
“You don’t think the healthy chunk of dosh would do it?”
Dosh? The Brits were difficult at times to decipher. Ah—money, cash.
“Yes, but to murder someone who didn’t even have the stone?”
“Attempted murder. The jeweler survived,” he said accusingly.
Becca flashed him a condemning look.
Dane shrugged. Typical agent, unconcerned for the emotional aspects of a case.
“It is curious nothing else was stolen,” she agreed. “There was no sign of a forced break-in at the New York store. The dealer said the thief specifically asked for this stone. As if he knew she had it. And yet she had only purchased it three days earlier.”
“Headquarters is running through the victim’s sales receipts as we speak. If we can discover who sold the diamond—or diamonds, as is the case—perhaps that will give us a clue who’s after them and why.”
“The CIA is currently tracking stone number two somewhere in Paris.”
“So is Six. Sounds as if the two of us will be working together, Miss Whitmore. It’ll be a boon to have a dab hand at my side. I couldn’t tell a diamond from one of those synthetic bits—what do you call them?”
“Cubic zirconia?”
“That’s the ticket.”
“You planning to interrogate the suspect?”
“Most definitely,” he said. “But first, I’m waiting on a report regarding his SVR connections. Don’t let me interrupt you further, Miss Whitmore. Do have a look. I’m eager to watch a gemologist in action.”
Tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her left ear, Becca drew in a deep, cleansing breath. She didn’t care to be watched. And she wasn’t keen on working with a partner. They got in the way, and liked to chat and get to know you.
But in order to gain access to his information source, she’d smile and play nice. If some MI-6 agent wanted to bounce around on her Burberry coattails, he’d better be able to keep up the pace.
Becca again seated herself before the table. An old beige PC sat at the end of the stretch of Formica, tangled cords snaking down to the rubber-streaked linoleum floor. The distinct odor of burned wiring made her wonder if it was more a conversation piece than an actual working computer.
Picking up the diamond, she redirected her focus. Hefty. Solid. The asscher cut was rather ugly. Herself, she preferred the classic round-brilliant cut stones.
But it was an extraordinary showpiece. A stone this size would likely be utilized as the key setting in a necklace or brooch. Only the wealthiest of wealthy could touch so fine a piece. She knew because she belonged to this exclusive, but often troubled social sect.
So she held a cool bit of cash in her palm, but didn’t feel the least bit giddy.
What bothered Becca was that someone had tried to kill for this diamond. Murder didn’t seem necessary. Had the London theft been foiled by the arrival of Scotland Yard? Or had the thief’s MO changed? Was this even the same thief who had struck in New York? Or had that man alerted another in his gang to the sale?
If it was organized crime, as Agent Dane had alluded, the scenario seemed likely.
Mentally, Becca reminded herself that her task wasn’t to bemoan the method, but to study the gem. Her expertise was not homicide. Which was why she intended to play nice with MI-6.
“Big as my thumb,” Dane noted over her shoulder. “Cat burglars always go for the flash.”
“Can he still be considered a mere burglar once a homicide has been attempted?”
“You’re right. A proper murderer, with a taste for sparklers.”
“A stone this size,” she said, “could fetch over a million American dollars—maybe two—depending on its characteristics.”
Dane whistled appreciatively. “And I work a fifty-hour week to make my bloody rent.”
He assumed his casual pose again in the open door frame, hands shoved in the pockets of his loose-fitting black trousers of indefinable label. Curiosity flashed from his blues, accompanied by a satisfied kitten-in-the-cream smile. For the next few seconds he simply held that Cheshire cat expression, which managed to make Becca wonder.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
A tilt of his head surveyed her from heel to crown. “You.”
“Oooh-kay. Don’t you have an interrogation to begin?”
“Soon, love. Just doing a bit of surveillance.”
“On me?”
“Indeed. Since when can a CIA agent afford the pretty stuff?”
“I’m not CIA. I’m a gemologist assisting the CIA.”
“Right.” He winked. “So what have we got? Tweed and silk. Cashmere scarf and Burberry coat.” He made a show of peeking under the table at her calfskin shoes. “Ferragamos, yes?”
“Yes,” she answered, utterly stunned the man would know something so trivial as the brand of shoes barely revealed beneath her slacks.
“So, you’ve a bit of dosh,” he deduced. “And you get your hair done at the best salons, to judge from its don’t-touch-me sheen and delicious fragrance of frangipani.”
Reduced to a gape at that correct deduction, Becca lifted a brow.
“I do love that word frangipani. Such a treat for the lips. But what the hell does it mean?” he asked.
“How would you recognize the scent if you don’t even know what it is from?”
“I’m quite the expert on female perfumes, Miss Whitmore.”
“I can imagine.”
“Meow.” He paced to the two-way window, glanced at the suspect still sitting at the table, and walked back to the doorway. A whistle preceded his announcement. “Look out, blokes, we’ve another strong woman in our midst.”
“You have something against strong women?”
“Not at all,” he answered quickly. Then he shrugged, hands still in his pants pockets. “Maybe. No.”
“Which is it?”
“Ah hell, I like to be a man. To protect, you understand?”
“Well, you needn’t waste your protection skills on me, Agent Dane.”
“Duly warned.” He punched a fist into his palm once again.
If that little exchange had been an example of his flirtation skills, Becca had little to worry about.
The Louis Vuitton valise on the table held tools of Becca’s trade: viewing loupes, refractometer, dichroscope, a calibration scale and a few measurement charts. Her laptop sat in a Gucci bag on the floor.
Dane tapped the alligator leather valise with his finger. “Nice.”
Ignoring his continued implications of her wealth, she picked up the diamond with a tweezers and again searched the square girdle for a lasered ID number or origin name. This was the part she liked best, investigation.
Hours spent picking and perusing rocks as a child during her summers at the Hamptons had led to a passion for gemstones. Mere rocks, yet cut and polished to breathtaking beauty, at least in the eyes of a child. To her, rocks held secrets, some revealed, some forever hidden in their depths. A lot like herself, she often mused. Becca had her secrets, and like a rock with more facets than met the eye, she wasn’t about to reveal them all.
Aware of Dane’s soft breathing and faint cologne, Becca tried to concentrate. She turned the stone around twice, seeking its secrets. It was completely unmarked. Which was either a good thing or a very bad thing. Unmarked stones were generally sold in lots of much smaller carat size. The single ones should cause suspicion.
“Divulge your findings, oh, strong, wise one.”
Tilting her head to look up, Becca nearly banged foreheads with him. Ole blue eyes didn’t flinch, but stared at the stone, silently inquiring.
“Do you mind? You’re in my light.”
“Sorry. Though I must say, a woman so remarkable as you tends to give off her own light.”
“Agent Dane.” Becca dug about in the valise. “Your blatant flirtations may prove effective in procuring company in your bed every night, but I am not interested. I’m here to do a job, and I’ll ask you not to interfere.”
“You find my sparkling personality interferes with your concentration?”
“Please.” She leaned against the hard metal chair back and stretched her right leg under the table. Without even looking she could feel those perfect blue eyes trained on her movement. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but it was interfering with her concentration. “I just…” she sighed “…haven’t entirely woken up yet. I slept only half the flight. Is there coffee in this place?”
“Sure you won’t have a cup of tea?”
“Just coffee.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Both please.”
“Back in a twink.” He spun out of the room with an enthusiastic, “Ta!”
Closing her eyes, Becca rubbed her palms over her face. The British Airways 747 had landed at Heathrow Airport an hour earlier. She had glimpsed the rising sun glinting gold on the eastern face of Big Ben as they’d circled the city during their descent.
Sitting up, she fished out a disk light from her valise. A little larger than a quarter, the snappy little device had been designed for her by Alan Burke. Alan was the gadget guru for the Gotham Roses, and he never encountered a challenge he couldn’t meet or a foreign movie he didn’t like.
A squeeze of the rubber case produced ultraviolet light on one side and white light on the other side. Leaning over the table to block some of the unnatural overhead light, Becca beamed the white light across the diamond. “That’s odd.” She tilted the diamond to redirect the blocks of prismatic color being beamed across the white card. There was something…
Startled at her discovery, she turned the crown of the diamond toward the tabletop. Beaming the white light through the lower pavilion of the gem produced a kaleidoscopic dance of light on the pale gray Formica. Within the glow, small, dark spots littered the colors…in a pattern.
Letters?
She couldn’t be seeing right.
She squinted at a few of the larger but blurry color blocks. Her breathing grew faster. Thinking to try the UV light, she flipped the disk.
As expected, the diamond fluoresced. But wow, it fluoresced pink! Most diamonds fluoresced blue, and fluorescence wasn’t necessarily favorable when pricing a stone. More fluorescence tended to make the diamond murky, sometimes oily in color when viewed in daylight. As an attribute, the fluorescence was prized only if it cut the yellow in the stone to produce a blue-white color.
But this stone wasn’t yellow; in fact, in was quite clear.
The door to her left opened and in came Agent Dane, whistling.
“Coffee swimming in cream and dazzled with sugar.” He set a cup of extremely pale brew before her. “The man does know how to pour up a cup.”
“Did you manage to get a few drops of coffee in my cream?” she asked. A sip proved it the perfect temperature, and very coffeelike, but smooth as her favorite indulgence, a Godiva chocolate martini. “Delicious.”
“My personal blend,” he stated, while seating himself next to her. Stealing her elbow room, he slid the squeaky metal chair up to the table. His dark suit coat brushed the sleeve of her white silk blouse in a hiss of couture battling bargain basement. “So, did our wayward American germologist find anything?”
“Gemologist.” She couldn’t stop a smile, followed by a laugh. Cocky Brit. Becca jiggled the diamond on the white card before her. “Strangely…yes.”
“Divulge.”
Another sip of caffeine glided down her throat. “There’s something on the table of this diamond. An ion beam brand?” She spoke her suspicions out loud.
Ion beam branding served as a means to place identification information, even coded matrixes, upon the table of a gemstone. It was rarely used by any but De-Beers, the industry’s leading diamond retailer, though Becca had seen such markings on more than a few occasions. But it was impossible to read the nano-size brand with the naked eye. And should be impossible to view with anything but a high-powered electron microscope.
Dane stretched his right arm across the table, slouching like a bored student. “There’s something inside the diamond?”
“I’m not sure.” Becca held up the stone before him. “There is a method jewelers use to mark diamonds in a minute manner. It’s completely invisible to the naked eye, unlike the oft-used laser engraving etched into the girdle. This is the girdle.” She ran a finger around the edge of the diamond. “Ion beam branding deposits identification codes or matrixes on the table of a diamond. They’re only viewable with a high-powered microscope.”
“And where is yours?”
“Not here. The 200x microscope required is too large to lug about in my little case. But what makes the discovery strange is that I didn’t need it.”
Grabbing up the light disk, she clicked it on the UV side and flashed it over the crown of the diamond. Again a faint pink glowed within the stone.
“Brilliant.”
“Yes, but check this out.” She flashed the white light across the stone.
This time, Becca didn’t see anything. No letters or branded matrix. In fact, the marks she had seen were now completely gone. “This isn’t right—”
“Oh, blighted bollocks!” In a clatter of metal, Dane’s chair collapsed as he sprung to his feet and dashed from the room.
Becca spun to the two-way window, then jumped up herself and rushed to it, slapping her palms to the glass. The suspect was convulsing on his chair, the guard talking frantically into his two-way radio.
Dane appeared and grabbed the suspect by the throat. White spittle oozed over the man’s tightly clamped lips. Dane pounded a fist against the bound man’s chest, then released him with a thrust. Still strapped to the chair, the man fell backward, landing on the floor, his feet in the air. He didn’t move.
Dane shouted, “Sod me!”
He flung his arms out and turned to approach the two-way window, giving the glass a blow with his fist. A tight grimace stretched his mouth.
He kicked the chair leg, and exited the room.
Becca rushed to the open door and peeked around another posted guard to find Agent Dane standing in the hallway, hands on his hips and head shaking. He looked at her and clenched his fists. “Bastard killed himself.”