Dance Of Death

SIXTY-THREE

They gathered in the sitting room of Harrison Grainger, CEO of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The executive suite was perched high in the Affiliated Transglobal Tower, looking north up the great canyon of Avenue of the Americas to its terminus, a half dozen blocks north, at the dark rectangle of Central Park. At one o'clock precisely, Grainger himself emerged from his office, a florid man with cauliflower ears and a narrow head, expansive, balding, and cheerful.

"Well, are we all here?" He looked around.

Smithback glanced about. His mouth felt like paste and he was sweating. He wondered why in the world he had agreed to this insane scheme. What had sounded like a fabulous escapade earlier that day, a chance at a one-of-a-kind scoop, now appeared mad in the harsh light of reality: Smithback was about to participate in a very serious crime-not to mention compromising all his ethics as a journalist.

Grainger looked around, smiling. "Sam, you make the introductions."

Samuel Beck, the security chief, stepped forward with a nod. Despite his nervousness, Smithback couldn't help noticing the man had feet as small as a ballerina's.

"Mr. George Kaplan," the security chief began. "Senior associate of the American Council of Gemologists."

Kaplan, a neat man dressed in black, sporting a trimmed goatee and rimless glasses, had the elegant look of a man of the last century. He gave a short, sharp bow.

"Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History."

Collopy shook hands all around. He didn't look especially pleased to be here.

"William Smithback of the New York Times."

Smithback managed a round of handshakes, his hand as damp as a dishrag.

"Harrison Grainger, chief executive officer, Affiliated Transglobal Insurance Group Holding."

This set off another series of murmured greetings.

"Rand Marconi, CFO, Affiliated Transglobal Group."

Oh, God, thought Smithback. Were all these people coming?

"Foster Lord, secretary, Affiliated Transglobal Group."

More handshakes, nods.

"Skip McGuigan, treasurer, Affiliated Transglobal Group."

Yet again, Smithback plucked weakly at his collar.

"Jason McTeague, security officer, Affiliated Transglobal Group."

It was like announcing the nobility arriving at a formal ball. A heavily armed security guard shifted on his feet, nodded, didn't offer his hand.

"And I am Samuel Beck, director of security, Affiliated Transglobal Group. Suffice to say, we've all been checked, vetted, and cleared." He gave a quick smile at his own witticism, which was reinforced by a hearty laugh from Grainger.

"All right, then, let's proceed," said the CEO, holding out his hand toward the elevators.

They headed deep into the bowels of the building, descending first one elevator, then a second, then a third, at last winding through long and unnamed cinder-block corridors before arriving at the largest, most polished, most gleaming vault door Smithback had ever seen. Staring at the door, his heart sank still further.

Beck busied himself with a keypad, a series of locks, and a retinal scanner while they all waited.

At last, Beck turned. "Gentlemen, we now have to wait five minutes for the timed locks to disengage. This vault," he continued proudly, "contains all our original, executed policies: every single one. An insurance policy is a contract, and the only valid copies of our contracts are here-representing almost half a trillion dollars of coverage. It's protected by the latest security systems devised by man. This vault is designed to withstand an earthquake of 9 on the Richter scale, an F-5 tornado, and the detonation of a hundred-kiloton nuclear bomb."

Smithback tried to take notes, but he was still sweating heavily, the pen slippery in his hands. Think of the story. Think of the story.

There was a soft chiming sound.

"And that, gentlemen, is the signal that the vault's locks have disengaged." Beck pulled a lever and the faint humming of a motor sounded, the door slowly swinging outward. It was staggeringly massive, six feet of solid stainless steel.

They moved forward, the well-armed security guard bringing up the rear, and passed through two other massive doors before entering what was evidently the main vault, a huge steel space with metal cages enclosing drawer upon metal drawer, rising from floor to ceiling.

Now the CEO stepped forward, clearly relishing his role. "The inner vault, gentlemen. But even here the diamond is not kept unprotected, where it might tempt one of our trusted employees. It is kept in a special vault-within-a-vault, and no fewer than four Affiliated Transglobal executives are needed to open this vault: myself, Rand Marconi, Skip McGuigan, and Foster Lord."

The three men, dressed in identical gray suits, bald, and looking enough alike as to be mistaken for brothers, all smiled at this. Clearly, they didn't get many chances to strut their stuff.

The interior vault stood at the far end of the chamber, another steel door in the wall. Four keyholes were arrayed in a line across its face. Above them, a small light glowed red.

"And now we wait for the outer vault doors to be locked before we open the inner vault."

Smithback waited, listening to the series of motorized hummings, clickings, and deep rumbles.

"Now we are locked in. And as long as the inner safe is unlocked, the outer vault doors will remain locked. Even if one of us wanted to steal the diamond, we couldn't leave with it!" Grainger chuckled. "Gentlemen, take out your keys."

The men all removed small keys from their pockets.

"We've set up a small table for Mr. Kaplan," said the CEO, indicating an elegant table nearby.

Kaplan eyed it narrowly, pursing his lips with tight disapproval.

"Is everything in order?" the CEO asked.

"Bring out the diamond," Kaplan said tersely.

Grainger nodded. "Gentlemen?"

Each of the men inserted his key into one of the four keyholes. Glances were exchanged; then the keys were turned simultaneously. The small red light turned green and the safe clicked open. Inside was a simple metal cabinet with eight drawers. Each one was labeled with a number.

"Drawer number 2," said the CEO.

The drawer was opened; Grainger leaned in and removed a small gray metal box, which he carried over to the table and placed before Kaplan with reverence. The gemologist sat down and began fussily laying out a small collection of tools and lenses, adjusting them with precision on the tabletop. He took out a rolled pad of plush black velvet and laid it out, forming a neat square in the middle of the table. Everyone watched him work, the people forming a semicircle around the table-with the exception of the security guard, who stood slightly back, arms crossed.

As a last step, Kaplan pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. "I am ready. Hand me the key."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kaplan, but rules require me to open the box," said the security director.

Kaplan waved a hand irritably. "So be it. Don't drop it, sir. Diamonds may be hard but they shatter as easily as glass."

Beck leaned over the box, inserted the key, and raised the lid. All eyes were riveted on the box.

"Don't touch it with your naked, sweaty hands," said Kaplan sharply.

The security director withdrew. Kaplan reached into the box and plucked out the gem as nonchalantly as if it were a golf ball, laying it on the velvet in front of him. He opened a loupe and leaned over the stone.

Suddenly, he straightened up and spoke in a sharp, high, querulous voice. "I beg your pardon, but really, I can't work being crowded around like this, especially from behind. I beg you, please!"

"Of course, of course," said Grainger. "Let's all step back and give Mr. Kaplan some room."

They shuffled back. Once again, Kaplan bent to examine the gem. He picked it up with a four-pronged holder, turned it over. He laid down the loupe.

"Hand me my Chealsea filter," he said sharply, to no one in particular.

"Ah, which is that?" Beck asked.

"The white oblong object, over there."

The security director picked it up and handed it over. Kaplan took it, opened it, and examined the gem again, muttering something unintelligible.

"Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Kaplan?" asked Grainger solicitously.

"No," he said simply.

The tension in the vault went up a notch.

"Do you have enough light?" the CEO asked.

A freezing silence.

"Hand me the DiamondNite. No, not that. That."

Beck handed him a strange device with a pointed end. Ever so gently, Kaplan touched the stone with it. There was a small beep and a green light.

"Hmph. At least we know it's not moissanite," the gemologist said crisply, handing the device back to Beck, who did not look pleased to be cast in the role of assistant.

More mutterings. "The polariscope, if you please."

After a few false starts, Beck handed it to him.

A long look, a snort.

Kaplan stood up and looked around, eyeing everyone in the room. "As far as I can tell, which isn't much, given the horrendous lighting in here, it's probably a fake. A superb fake, but a fake nonetheless."

A shocked silence. Smithback stole a glance at Collopy. The museum director's face had gone deathly white.

"You're not sure?" the CEO asked.

"How can I possibly be sure? How can you expect an expert like me to examine a fancy color diamond under fluorescent lighting?"

A silence. "But shouldn't you have brought your own light?" ventured Grainger.

"My own light?" Kaplan cried. "Sir, forgive me, but your ignorance is shocking. This is a fancy color diamond, graded Vivid, and you cannot simply bring in any old light to look at it with. I need real light to be sure. Natural light. Nothing else will do. No one said anything about having to examine the finest diamond in the world under fluorescent lighting. This is an insult to my profession."

"You should have mentioned this when we made the arrangements," said Beck.

"I assumed I was dealing with a sophisticated insurance company, knowledgeable on the subject of gemstones! I had no idea I would be forced to examine a diamond in a stuffy basement vault. Not to mention with half a dozen people breathing down my neck as if I'm some kind of zoo monkey. My report will be that it is a possible fake, but that final determination will await reexamination under natural light." Kaplan crossed his arms and stared fiercely at the CEO.

Smithback swallowed painfully. "Well," he said, taking what he hoped were intelligible notes, "I guess that's it. There's my story."

"What's your story?" Collopy said, turning on him. "There's no story. This is inconclusive."

"I should certainly say so," said Grainger, his voice shaky. "Let's not jump to conclusions."

Smithback shrugged. "My original source tells me that diamond's a fake. Now Mr. Kaplan says it may be a fake."

"The operative word here is may," Grainger said.

"Just a moment!" Collopy turned to Kaplan. "You need natural light to tell for sure?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Collopy turned to the CEO. "Isn't there someplace he can view the stone under natural light?"

There was a moment of silence.

Collopy drew himself up. "Grainger," he said in a sharp voice, "the safekeeping of this stone was your responsibility."

"We can bring the stone up to the executive boardroom," Grainger said. "On the eighth floor. There's plenty of light up there."

"Excuse me, Mr. Grainger," said Beck, "but the policy is quite firm: the diamond can't leave the vault."

"You heard what the man said. He needs better light."

"With all due respect, sir, I have my instructions, and not even you can alter them."

The CEO waved his hand. "Nonsense! This is a matter of critical importance. Surely we can get a waiver."

"Only with the written, notarized permission of the insured."

"Well, then! We've got the museum's director right here. And Lord's a notary public, aren't you, Foster?"

Lord nodded.

"Dr. Collopy, you'll give the necessary written permission?"

"Absolutely. This has got to be resolved now." His face was gray, almost cadaverous.

"Foster, draw up the document."

"As director of security, I strongly recommend against this," said Beck quietly.

"Mr. Beck," said Grainger, "I appreciate your concern. But I don't think you fully comprehend the situation. We have a hundred-million-dollar limit on our policy at the museum, but Lucifer's Heart is covered in a special rider, and one of the conditions of the stone being kept here for safekeeping is that there's no limitation of liability. Whatever the GIA independently determines the stone's value to be, we must pay. We've got to have an answer to the question of whether this stone is real, and we've got to have it now."

"Nevertheless," said Beck, "for the record, I still oppose taking the gem out of the vault."

"Duly noted. Foster? Draw up the document and Dr. Collopy will sign it."

The secretary took a piece of blank paper from his suit jacket, wrote some lines. Collopy, Grainger, and McGuigan signed it, then Lord notarized it with his signature.

"Let's go," said the CEO.

"I'm calling a security escort," said Beck darkly. At the same time, Smithback watched as the security chief slid a gun out of his waistband, checked it, flicked off the safety, and slid it back.

Kaplan picked up the stone with the four-prong.

"I'll do that, Mr. Kaplan," said Beck quietly. He took the handle of the four-prong and gently laid the stone in its velvet box. Then he shut the lid and locked it, pocketing the key and placing the box under his arm.

They waited while Kaplan packed up his supplies; then they shut the inner door and waited for the outer one to open. They proceeded back through the succession of massive doors, where they were met by a brace of security guards. The guards escorted them to a waiting elevator bank, and within five minutes Smithback found himself being ushered into a small but extremely elegant boardroom, done up in exotic wood. Light flooded in through a dozen broad windows.

Beck stationed the two extra security guards outside the doors, then shut and locked them.

"Everyone please stand back," he said. "Mr. Kaplan, will this do?"

"Splendid," said Kaplan with a broad smile, his whole mood seeming to change.

"Where do you want to sit?"

Kaplan pointed to a seat in a corner, between two windows. "That would be perfect."

"Set yourself up."

The jeweler busied himself laying out all his tools again, spreading the velvet. Then he looked up. "The stone, please?"

Beck laid the box next to him, unlocked it with the key, and raised the lid. The gemstone lay inside, nestled in its velvet.

Kaplan reached in, plucked it out with the four-prong, and called for a Grobet double lens. Using this device, he peered at the diamond, first looking at it through one lens, then the other, then both at once. As he held it, light struck the gemstone, and the walls of the room were suddenly freckled with dots of intense cinnamon color.

Several minutes passed in absolute silence. Smithback realized he was holding his breath. At length, Kaplan slowly laid the diamond down on the velvet, swiveled the Grobet lenses from his eyes, and bestowed a beaming smile on the waiting audience.

"Ah, yes," he said, "how wonderful it is. Natural light makes all the difference in the world. This is it, gentlemen. Without the slightest doubt, this is Lucifer's Heart." He placed it back down on the velvet pad.

There was a relieved exhalation, as if everybody else in the room had been holding their breaths along with Smithback.

Kaplan waved his hand. "Mr. Beck? You may put it away. With the four-prong, if you please."

"Thank the Lord," said the CEO, turning to Collopy and grasping his hand.

"Thank the Lord is right," Collopy replied, shaking the hand while dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. "I had a bad moment back there."

Meanwhile, Beck, his face unreadable but still dark, had reached over with the four-prong to pick up the gem. At the same time, Kaplan rose from his chair and bumped into him. "I beg your pardon!"

It happened so fast that Smithback realized what he'd seen only after the fact. Suddenly, Kaplan had the gem in one hand and Beck's gun in the other, pointed at Beck. He fired it almost in Beck's face, just turning the barrel enough so the bullets went past and buried themselves in the wall. He fired three times in rapid succession, the incredibly loud reports plunging the room into terror and confusion as everyone dropped to the floor, Beck included.

And then he was gone, out the supposedly locked door.

Beck was up in a flash. "Get him! Stop him!"

As he picked himself up from the floor, ears ringing, Smithback could see through the double doors the two security guards sprawled on the floor scrambling back to their feet and taking off down the hall, fumbling with their guns.

"He's got the gem!" Collopy cried, struggling to his feet. "He's got Lucifer's Heart! My God, get him! Do something!"

Beck had his radio out. "Security Command? This is Samuel Beck. Lock down the building! Lock it down! I don't want anyone going out-anything going out-no garbage, no mail, no people, nothing! You hear me? Shut off the elevators, lock the stairwells. I want a full security alert and all security personnel to search for a George Kaplan. Get an image of his face from the security checkpoint video cam. Nobody leaves the building until we've got a security cordon in place. No, to hell with fire regulations! That's a direct order! And I want an X-ray machine suitable for detecting a swallowed or concealed gemstone, along with a fully staffed technical team to man it, at the Sixth Avenue entrance, on the double."

He turned to the rest of them. "And none of you, none of you, are to leave this room without my permission."

Two exhausting and trying hours later, Smithback found himself in a line with what seemed like a thousand employees of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The line snaked interminably around the interior lobby of the building, coiling three times about the elevator banks. On the far side of the lobby, he could see employees trundling carts piled with mail and packages, running them all through X-ray machines of the kind found in airports. Kaplan had not been found-and, privately, Smithback knew he wouldn't be.

As Smithback approached the head of the line, he could hear a hubbub of voices raised in argument, from a large group of people shunted to one side who had refused to allow themselves to be X-rayed. Outside were fire trucks, their lights flashing; police cars; and the inevitable gaggle of press. As each person in line was thoroughly searched and then put through the X-ray machine, finally emerging into the gray January afternoon, there would be scattered applause and a burst of camera flashes.

Smithback tried to control his sweating. As the minutes crawled by, his nervousness had only grown worse. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for agreeing to this. He had already been searched twice, including a revolting body-cavity search. At least the others in the executive boardroom had been subjected to the same kind of search, Collopy insisting on it for himself and the rest, including the officers of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance and even Beck. Meanwhile, Collopy-almost beside himself with agitation-had been doing all he could to convince Smithback to keep mum, not to publish anything. Oh, God, if they only knew…

Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to this?

Only ten more people in line ahead of him now. They were putting the people, one at a time, into what looked like a narrow telephone booth, with no fewer than four technicians examining various CRT screens affixed to it. Someone in front of him was listening to a transistor radio with everyone else crowding around-amazing how news got out-and it appeared the real Kaplan had been released unharmed in front of his brownstone a half hour ago and was now being questioned by the police. Nobody yet knew who the fake Kaplan was.

Just two more people to go. Smithback tried to swallow but found that he couldn't. His stomach churned with fear. This was the worst part. The very worst of all.

And now it was his turn. Two technicians stood him on a mat with the usual yellow footprints and searched him yet again, just a little too thoroughly for comfort. They examined his temporary building pass and his press credentials. They had him open his mouth and searched it with a tongue depressor. Then they opened the door of the booth and put him inside.

"Don't move. Keep your arms at your side. Look at the target on the wall…" The directions rolled out with rapid efficiency.

There was a short hum. Through the safety glass, Smithback could see the technicians poring over the results. Finally, one nodded.

A technician on the other side opened the door, placed a firm hand on Smithback's arm, and drew him out. "You're free to go," he said, pointing to the building exit.

As he gestured, the technician brushed briefly against Smithback's side.

Smithback turned and walked the ten feet to the revolving door- the longest ten feet of his life.

Outside, he zipped up his coat, ran the gauntlet of flashbulbs, ignored the shouted questions, pushed through the crowd, and walked stiffly up Avenue of the Americas. At 56th Street, he hailed a cab, slid into the back. He gave the driver the address of his apartment, waited until the cab had moved out into traffic, turned and glanced searchingly out the rear window for a full five minutes.

Only then did he dare settle into his seat, reach into his coat pocket. There, nestled safely in the bottom, he could feel the hard, cold outline of Lucifer's Heart.