King Solomon's Diamonds

2 Treading on Snakes

“I can do it, but I’ll need very specific and very rare material,” Abdul Raya told his mark. “And I’ll need those by the next four days; otherwise I will have to cancel our agreement. You see, Madam, I have other clients waiting.”

“Do they offer a fee close to mine?” the lady asked Abdul. “Because this kind of exuberance is not easily trumped or afforded, you know.”

“If I may be so bold, Madam,” the dark skinned charlatan smiled, “by comparison, your fee would be seen as a gratuity.”

The woman slapped him, leaving him even more satisfied that she would be forced to oblige. He knew that her offence was a good sign, and it would leave her ego scorned enough to procure what he wanted while he duped her into believing that he had higher paying clients waiting on his arrival in Belgium. But Abdul was not entirely deceptive about his abilities in his boasting, because the talents he hid from his marks was a far more devastating notion to grasp. That, he would keep close to his breast, behind his heart, until it was time to reveal.

He didn’t leave after her outburst in the lowlit drawing room of her lavish house, but remained as if nothing happened, leaning with his elbow on the mantle in the dark red surroundings broken only by gold-framed oil paintings and two tall, carved, oak and pine antique tables near the entrance of the room. The fire under the mantle crackled with zeal, but Abdul ignored the unbearable heat against his leg.

“So, which ones do you need?” the woman sneered, returning soon after leaving the room, fuming. In her gem-adorned hand she held a posh notepad, ready to jot down the alchemist’s requests. She was one of only two people he had approached successfully. Unfortunately for Abdul, most Europeans of high class had keen character judging skills and quickly sent him on his way. On the other hand, people like Madame Chantal were easier marks because of that one quality men like him needed in his victims — a perpetual quality in those who always found themselves at the edge of the quicksand: desperation.

To her, he was just a master smith of precious metals, a purveyor of fine and unique pieces wrought from gold and silver, their precious stones fitted in fine smithing. Madame Chantal had no idea that he was a virtuoso at forgery as well, but her ravenous taste for luxury and extravagance blinded her to any revelations he may have accidentally allowed to leak out of his mask.

With a very capable left-handed slant, he wrote down the gems he needed to perform the task she’d hired him for. He wrote in the hand of a calligrapher, but his spelling was horrendous. Nevertheless, in her desperation to outdo her peers, Madame Chantal would do her best to attain what was on his list. After he was done, she perused the list. With a scowl sunk deeper in the prominent shadows of the fire, Madame Chantal let out a long sigh and looked up at the tall man that reminded her of a yogi or some arcane cult guru.

“By when do you need this?” she asked abruptly. “And my husband cannot know. We must meet here again, because he does not readily come down to this part of the manor.”

“I have to be in Belgium in less than a week, Madam, and by that time I must have completed your order. We are pressed for time, which means I will need those diamonds as soon as you can slip them into your purse,” he smiled gently. His empty eyes fixed on her while his mouth spoke sweetly. Madame Chantal could not help but associate him with a desert adder, flicking its tongue while its face remained stone.

Repulsion-compulsion. That is what it was called. She loathed the exotic craftsman, who also claimed to be an exquisite magician, but for some reason she could not resist him. The French noblewoman could not take her eyes off Abdul when he wasn’t looking, though he thoroughly revolted her in every aspect. Somehow his hideous nature, animal grunts, and unnatural talon-like fingers fascinated her to a point of obsession.

He stood in the light of the fire, casting a grotesque shadow that was not far from his own likeness against the wall. A crooked nose upon a bony face lent him the appearance of a bird — a small vulture, perhaps. Abdul’s narrow-set, dark eyes shied away under virtually hairless eyebrows, caught in deep falling holes that only made his cheekbones seem more protrusive. Stringy and greasy, his black hair was taken back into a ponytail, and a single, small hoop earring adorned the lobe of his left ear.

The stench of incense and spice permeated from him, and when he spoke or smiled, eerily perfect teeth broke the line of his dark lips. Madame Chantal found his scent overwhelming; she could not tell if he was Pharaoh or Phantasm. Of one thing she was certain: the magician and alchemist had a larger than life presence without even raising his voice or presenting a move of his hand. It frightened her and escalated the strange revulsion she had for him.

“The Celeste?” she gasped as she read the familiar name upon the paper he had given her. Her face betrayed the concern she felt for obtaining the gem. Flashing like sublime emeralds in the light of the fire, Madame Chantal’s eyes searched Abdul’s. “Mr. Raya, I cannot. My husband has agreed to donate the Celeste to the Louvre.” Trying to remedy her fault at even suggesting she could get him what he wanted, she looked down and said, “The other two I can manage, surely, but not that one.”

Abdul showed no sign of concern for the glitch. With a slow wave of his hand across her face, he smiled serenely. “I do hope you change your mind, Madam. It is the privilege of women like you to have the deeds of great men in their palms, at the ready.” As his elegantly crooked fingers drew a shadow over her fair skin, the noblewoman could feel an ice-cold bolt of pressure imbue her face. Briskly wiping her face where the chill crept, she cleared her throat and composed herself. If she faltered now she would lose him in a sea of strangers.

“Come back in two days. Meet me here in the drawing room. My assistant knows you and will be expecting you,” she ordered, still shaken by the ghastly sensation that haunted her face for a moment. “I will get the Celeste, Mr. Raya, but you had better be worth my trouble.”

Abdul said nothing more. He didn’t need to.