“That’s what you always say.”
“It will. Trust me.”
“I gotta give Bloch something.”
“Of course. I understand that. Explain to him that Hendrik de Geer and I are meeting at Lincoln Center tomorrow night to discuss a plan to get Bloch enough money to purchase the weaponry he needs and to get into his permanent camp—and out of my life for good. That’s to his advantage as well as mine. Our current arrangement is too dangerous for us both.”
Otis nodded at Ryder’s plate, and Ryder shook his head and pushed it over. “I ain’t had a good plate of eggs in I don’t know when. You should see the crap the sergeant feeds us. Granola, for chrissake. So, what kind of plan?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Man, you gotta.”
“Look—”
“You want Bloch at Lincoln Center, then you clamp up right now.”
“That’s the last thing I want!”
Otis dug into Ryder’s cold eggs. “Then talk to me, Sam.”
“I’m going after a diamond.” Ryder measured his words carefully, trying to ignore the grinding pain in the pit of his stomach. He was so afraid. Dear God, he was afraid. But everything would work out. “It’s the largest, most mysterious uncut diamond in the world.”
“Huh?”
“And if I can get it—if—I intend to turn it over to one Master Sergeant Phillip Bloch.”
Three
A young woman in a fresh white apron smiled across the counter in Catharina’s Bake Shop at the tiny dark-haired woman. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Rachel Stein said, only vaguely aware that in this place, her faded Dutch accent seemed right. “I’m here to see Catharina Peperkamp—Fall, I mean.” It was impossible to think of Catharina married, with a child. “Catharina Fall.”
“And who should I tell her is here?”
“Tell her Rachel.”
It would, she believed, be enough.
The waitress went back to the kitchen, and Rachel took a piece of broken butter cookie from a sample basket on the counter. For many years when she was young, she’d often been mistaken for a child, but now, with deep lines etched into her forehead and around her serious mouth and small, straight nose, people thought she was an old lady when she was only sixty-five. She’d gone from looking too young to looking too old. Her cab driver had offered to help her out of the taxi! She’d declined, of course, but thanked him lest he not offer his help the next time to someone who truly needed it. She supposed a face-lift would help, but although she could easily afford one, she refused even to investigate the procedure. In her opinion, people needed to see in her face, in its lines, what life had done to her. She believed that. But she kept herself well-groomed—her nails were always manicured, her hair perfectly styled—and she wore expensive, fashionable clothes. In that way, life had been good to her.
Within thirty seconds, Catharina Fall rushed out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, a panicked, uncertain look on her face. Rachel wished she could smile to reassure her. But she couldn’t. A smile, now, would be a lie. Yet she wasn’t surprised the impulse was there; everyone had always wanted to protect Catharina.
“My friend,” Rachel said quietly, holding on to her emotions, “you look wonderful.”
“Rachel.” Catharina put her fist to her mouth and held back a sob. “I don’t believe it’s you.”
She’s going to throw me out, Rachel thought. She can’t bear to see me. I’m a reminder. A shadow. As she is for me.
Instead Catharina burst from behind the counter and threw her arms around Rachel, crying, “My God, Rachel, oh, Rachel,” and Rachel found her own eyes filling with tears and her arms going around her strong, good friend. She’d missed her. Without realizing it, she’d missed her.
It had been more than forty years.
Catharina was sobbing openly, and the people around them were pretending not to notice. “I can’t believe…I never thought I’d see you again.” She stood back and brushed away her tears without embarrassment; flour stuck to her nose and she tried to laugh. “Oh, Rachel.”
Rachel’s throat was so tight it hurt. A sob would relieve the tension, but she blinked back her tears and refused to cry. She was a master at self-control. She hadn’t expected Catharina to have this kind of impact on her. “My dear friend,” she said, squeezing Catharina’s hand, then releasing it. I must be strong. “It’s so good to see you. I heard about your shop, and I thought, while I’m in New York I’ll have to stop and see you.”
Catharina had stopped crying and was shaking her head. “You know that’s not true.”
Rachel had to smile, and some of the tightness in her throat eased. “Achh, I never could fool you. It’s always been that way between us, hasn’t it? You always know when I’m not telling the truth. Even after all these years. But come, let’s pretend for a little while.”
“Rachel…”
There was fear in those deep green eyes. Rachel wished she hadn’t seen it. “Please, Catharina.”
“All right.” Catharina nodded, but the fear didn’t go away. “We’ll have tea.”
“Wonderful.”
She pointed to a small table in the far corner. “There, go sit down. I’ll bring a tray.”
Rachel quickly took her friend’s hand. “Don’t be afraid, Catharina.”
“I’ll be all right. Now go sit down. I’ll bring the tea.”
“As you wish. I’ll wait for you.”
The big, open newsroom of the Washington Gazette was filled with the noise of bustling reporters, computers, typewriters, and telephones. Alice Feldon had been at her desk for two hours and had yet to sit down. She didn’t mind. It was a sign things were hopping. What she did mind—what irritated the hell out of her—was that she couldn’t find Matthew Stark. Again. She ignored the skinny, sorry-looking man who wanted to talk to Stark and scanned the newsroom. She had to squint her eyes because her glasses were on top of her head instead of on the bridge of her too-prominent nose. She was a large, lumpy-fleshed, big-boned woman, and she had no illusions about herself or the blue-collar tabloid she worked for. Last night, during a bout of insomnia, she’d painted her nails a shade of lavender she’d found on her daughter’s shelf in the medicine cabinet.
“Where the hell’s Stark?” she demanded of no one in particular.
A young reporter three desks away looked up nervously from his computer screen. A Post type if she’d ever seen one. His name was Aaron Ziegler, and he’d majored in journalism, which she considered a dumb thing for a reporter to have done. She’d hired him because he didn’t show her any of the practice obituaries he’d done in class reporting. “He went for coffee,” Ziegler said. “Promised he’d be back in five minutes.”
“When was that, a half-hour ago?” Alice growled and glared at the skittish guy as if it was his fault she was stuck with a lazy shit like Matthew Stark. She should have fired him four years ago when she’d come in as the Gazette’s metropolitan editor. He’d been occupying space for six months and hadn’t done a damn thing that she could see. But he was a name, and the Gazette had precious few names. The boys upstairs had pressured her to give him a chance. She sighed at Ziegler. “Go find him, will you? Tell him he’s got company.”
Ziegler was already on his feet. “Any name?”
The skinny guy