The Hawk Is Dead

47

Friday 24 November 2023

‘Oh yes,’ the diamond cutter muttered and nodded, peering through his monocular loupe at the magnificent oval diamond on the small velvet pad.

He laid down the loupe and put his glasses back on. They were tiny, round and black, reminding her of the kind that might have been worn by a 1930s university professor.

The cutter was in his early seventies, slight and bald, dapperly dressed in a grey suit and knitted tie, and very self-assured. A force of nature, crackling with energy despite his years, just like the diamond, way older than both of them combined, which sparkled so intensely it looked almost alive and moving. He was lord of his small but rich domain, the narrow office with long viewing shelves — diamonds did not need a big office, he always said. It felt an oasis of calm here, two floors above London’s Hatton Garden, the epicentre of the UK gem trade in the heart of busy, lunchtime-traffic-snarled Holborn.

‘Oh yes,’ he muttered again. And then a third time, nodding increasingly enthusiastically. His name was Gary van Damm, scion of a diamond trading and cutting dynasty. He only knew her as Mrs Smith. He didn’t know her real name, never had and never asked, despite the fact they had been doing business for over a year — extremely good business!

Secrecy and trust, two of the platforms on which the global diamond trade was founded. All their communications were via the dark web and all his payments to her were in Bitcoin. Payments in the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands and very occasionally even higher. As today would be.

‘So nice to see one of these again,’ he said. ‘Granny’s Chips! Or rather, to be strictly accurate, one of Granny’s Personal Chips! Do you know the story?’

‘I don’t think I know the full story, no,’ she replied.

‘You are familiar with the legendary Cullinan diamond — the largest rough diamond ever found?’

‘Of course. It was cut up and the two largest stones — known as Cullinan I and Cullinan II — are part of the Crown Jewels.’

‘Correct. In 1905 the diamond came out of a mine in Cullinan, South Africa — it weighed 3,106 carats. And its colour was perfect. In today’s money it would have been worth about thirty-seven million pounds.’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘At that time the most famous diamond cutter in the world was a Dutchman called Joseph Asscher — actually a rival to my great-grandfather. His cutting process produced nine major stones from the Cullinan diamond, as well as ninety-six smaller ones, most of which are now part of the British Crown Jewels — such as that big stone you’ll have seen in the Sceptre. But...’ He raised a finger, giving a knowing smile. ‘Some of the stones, of a very nice size indeed — this being one — fell between the cracks.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘No one is quite sure. The late Queen Elizabeth loved diamonds, as did her mother, and it’s quite possible either of them — or indeed Queen Mary before them — held them back for personal use. And why not!’

‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it!’

‘But save the receipts!’ he retorted with a grin.

In response to her puzzled frown, he explained, ‘It’s a Yiddish expression.’

‘Ah!’ She smiled. ‘The two biggest remaining stones, Cullinan III and Cullinan IV, were made into a brooch by Queen Mary, and then handed down to her granddaughter Elizabeth — our late Queen.’

‘Correct,’ van Damm said. ‘Hence the jokey moniker “Granny’s Chips”. Its value today is around sixty-five million pounds, if not more. The last time I saw it was in 1981. The late Queen, God bless her, wanted to wear it at the marriage of Prince Charles to Diana, but it had some slight damage — I was asked to polish the damage out. Which of course I did. But there’s something that not many people know.’ He smiled, raised a finger, and winked conspiratorially.

He looked down at the diamond and nodded again. ‘This is truly something. To see this — Number 7 of Granny’s Personal Chips — I can’t even put a value on it yet.’

She smiled. ‘So we will make a lot of money out of it?’

‘Oh yes. A very nice amount indeed. On current prices, one carat today varies from two to twelve thousand pounds depending on the colour of the stone. And this is perfect. And it is close to three hundred and fifty carats!’ He seemed in an uncharacteristically elated mood. ‘You know the origin of the word “carat”?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I should, but jewellery has always been my weaker area of knowledge.’

‘Carob beans! The Greek name for the carob pod was keration. They discovered every carob seed weighed almost exactly the same — a fairly consistent 0.197 grams. The traders were able to use them as counterweights when buying diamonds, gold or gemstones.’

‘Not a lot of people know that,’ she said, mimicking Michael Caine. ‘You’re a mine of information today. So you have one of your oligarch or Far Eastern clients lined up for it?’

He shook his head, with an expression of mock horror. ‘Dear lady, this stone is far too identifiable. Yes, one of my oligarchs would buy it, but he wouldn’t pay top dollar because he knows he would struggle to sell it, without risking rather too many questions. Considering all the trouble you’ve gone to purloin it, and the potential earnings from it, we need to have it very subtly altered — re-cut it. Cosmetic surgery on an old lady, shall we call it?’

‘And you can get that done?’

‘Oh yes, but not here — we wouldn’t want to take that risk. We need a — shall we say — friendly diamond cutter safely tucked away abroad. I have the right man in Mumbai. I’ll just pop it in my jacket pocket and hop on a plane. Then we’ll have to get it shipped to the Gemological Institute of America for assay — that has to be done on every stone above half a carat. After that, we’re good to go. Put it out to auction to my network of private buyers. Magnificent diamond with possible royal provenance. What’s not to love?’

‘Your expenses, perhaps? Flights to Mumbai? New York?’

Gary van Damm shrugged. ‘Small beer. And I’m afraid here’s another expense, and this does not come cheap.’ He reached down under his desk and produced what looked, for an instant, the identical twin of the diamond on the velvet pad. It was in a small black box. ‘A very fine replica of the stone you’ve brought in, don’t you think?’

He placed them side by side and then performed a magician’s sleight of hand trick, switching them so fast, so many times, that she lost track of which was which. And when he removed his hands she could not tell, at first look, which was the real one and which the fake.

He gave her a questioning look.

‘It’s good! An amazing job just from those close-up images I sent you,’ she said.

‘Good enough, right?’

It was good enough. It would go into the box of Granny’s Personal Chips, and perhaps lie there for decades, if not centuries, so long as no one had any reason to question the authenticity. Just like so many of the paintings and precious objects in Buckingham Palace they had taken and replaced with forgeries in recent times. ‘I’m honestly not sure which is which!’

He picked up one with his fingers and laid it back on the velvet pad. ‘This one.’

She could see it now, the full magnificence of it: an individual presence even, an almost magical quality. It looked brighter, truer than its pale imposter. ‘Awesome!’ she said. ‘It really is quite awesome and fitting for our retirement plan!’

He nodded and interlocked his hands, as if he himself was locked in thought. A faraway expression on his face faded after some moments into a dreamy smile. ‘Yes. Yes it is. I’ll tell you something: you’ve brought me some very fine diamonds in the past, but this — this is the one to die for.’