“I want their names, Lieutenant,” Bloch said. “I want to know who they are, where they live, everything.”

“I can’t!”

“In case you fuck up, Sammy, I want to be able to go after the stone myself. So talk.”

“My God.” Ryder breathed deeply, sweat pouring down his back even though he was so cold. “Will you promise not to interfere-dammit, Sergeant, will you give me a chance?”

“Sure, Sammy.”

Bloch might have just laughed in his face; it would have been no less convincing than this empty promise. But what choice did Ryder have? He knew when he was beaten. If he didn’t talk, Bloch would come to Washington. And then what would Ryder do?

“All right,” he said stiffly, trying not to sound defeated. “According to Miss Stein, there are four Peperkamps. Johannes Peperkamp, a diamond cutter in Antwerp, is in my opinion the most likely candidate to have or know where to find the Minstrel.”

“Johannes Peperkamp, diamond cutter, Antwerp. Sounds good. Go on.”

“But he’s the main one-”

“And if he doesn’t know diddly? Then what? You said there were four. I want the other names.”

Ryder shut his eyes, tasting the salt of his sweat on his upper lip. The fire crackled at his feet. “There’s a Wilhelmina Peperkamp. She resides in Rotterdam and is a retired civil servant of modest means. I don’t believe-”

“That’s two. Next.”

“She has a sister, Catharina Fall, who lives in New York and runs a bakery. She apparently was willing to corroborate Miss Stein’s accusations against de Geer, but now with her-umm-death…” His voice trailed off. Why had he brought that up?

“Handy, wasn’t it? A loose end we don’t have to worry about.”

Sinking deeper into the couch, Ryder recalled how Master Sergeant Bloch had never been able to tolerate anything he deemed a loose end. In combat, that compulsion had saved lives. But this was civilian life. Ryder bit down hard on his lower lip, nearly drawing blood, but he told himself it made no sense for Bloch to have killed Rachel Stein or to have had her killed. It was an accident. You saw how old and frail she was.

Until now, frail had not been a word he had associated with the tough, cynical, and somehow warm-hearted old Hollywood agent.

“That’s three then,” Bloch said. “Who’s number four?”

Ryder didn’t move. He opened his eyes, and in the redorange flames he saw the pale silken hair of Juliana Fall, the dark green eyes, the curve of her breasts. Bloch wouldn’t dare touch her. She was too famous, too beautiful. “A young woman,” he said hoarsely. “She couldn’t possibly know anything about any of this. She’s not-”

“For chrissake, her name.”

“No!”

“Goddamnit, then, I’ll find out myself.”

“Don’t-no, don’t. Fall.” He put a shaking hand to his mouth, as if somehow it might catch the words as they came out and keep them from Bloch. “Her name is Juliana Fall. She’s Catharina Fall’s daughter.”

“Lives in New York too?”

“Yes,” Ryder hissed.

“Then that’s all four.”

He could hear Bloch’s yawn. “Sergeant, I’ve been more than fair to you. At least tell me what you plan to do-”

“Sammy, Sammy. I’m going to make sure you don’t screw up. Isn’t that what I always do?”

Nine

H endrik de Geer walked along Schupstraat, one of the main streets of Antwerp’s busy, highly congested and very wary diamond district. The buildings were mostly unremarkable, but inside were some of the greatest diamond minds and some of the most sophisticated communications and security systems in the world.

The Dutchman knew enough about the code that operated here not to be lulled into a false sense of security. He moved slowly but with apparent purpose, not wanting to attract attention to himself. It was a gray day, cold and damp on the North Sea, and the streets were crowded with diamontaires. Hendrik noticed neither the weather nor his own sense of ambivalence as he walked past a group of men in the distinctive garb of the Hasidim. Many of Belgium’s Jews worked in the diamond business. As moneylenders, cutters, and polishers and as a persecuted people, they had dealt with diamonds for centuries. Cutting was one of the few crafts they had been permitted to practice, and as moneylenders they were often asked to exchange diamonds for gold and silver. When forced to flee their homes, they could take the easily portable gems with them, knowing diamonds were valued virtually anywhere and would help them to reestablish themselves. The Holocaust had decimated the twentieth-century diamond industry in Amsterdam and Antwerp, but, although Amsterdam never fully recovered its prewar status, Antwerp had regained its place as the diamond capital of the world. Here again could be found the most highly skilled cleavers, the ones who knew what to do with difficult roughs.

Among them was Johannes Peperkamp, a Gentile, an old man but still a legend in the business. He had knowledge, and he had instinct. No matter what problems a rough presented, he could cut it successfully, and few remembered the rare times the hands of Johannes Peperkamp-or any Peperkamp-had reduced a valuable rough to splinters.

But Johannes was in his seventies now. Age, computers, and lasers were cutting into his business, and Hendrik wasn’t surprised to find that his old friend’s shop was located in one of Schupstraat’s lesser buildings. Security wasn’t as tight as it would have been in other buildings, and Hendrik, speaking in Dutch to the Flemish security guard, was quickly permitted to go upstairs. As he mounted the two dingy flights and approached a door with a frosted-glass window, Hendrik felt no change in himself. His heart wasn’t pounding. He wasn’t sweating. He was doing what had to be done. That was all.

He zipped his jacket halfway. Until now, he hadn’t noticed the cold. He sighed at his weakness and pushed open the door.

Johannes Peperkamp was sitting at his ancient desk eating his lunch-bread and cheese and a cup of hot tea. His eyes looked glazed, and he chewed slowly. He hadn’t heard Hendrik enter.

Closing the door behind him, Hendrik took a moment to stare. He remembered Johannes as a vibrant and healthy man, gentle in his way, intelligent, already one of the world’s premier diamond cleavers. He’d had little choice in the matter. When you were a Peperkamp male, you were expected to be in diamonds. At least in Amsterdam you were for the last four hundred years. After WW II Johannes had taken his business to Antwerp. Now he was the last of the Peperkamp males; Juliana Fall was the only member of the next generation. The Peperkamp diamond tradition would die with her uncle.

So many years gone since he’d last looked into those blue eyes, Hendrik thought, weighing the passage of time. They’d both survived to grow old. It seemed so inconsequential now, more than forty years later. If they’d died during the war, would they have missed so much? He didn’t think so. And they’d have died as friends.

Although Hendrik knew not to judge the power and success of anyone involved in diamonds by his surroundings, it seemed Johannes’s day had passed. How many diamontaires even knew Johannes Peperkamp was still alive, still working? His shop was small and pathetic. Hendrik remembered the large roughs, the people flowing in and out, the feel of life and success, back in Amsterdam. This place was little more than a small, shabby room. It contained all the paraphernalia of his trade-the lights, wedges, hammers, mallets, saws, loupes, and roughs. A yellowed photograph of Johannes with Harry Winston, which had appeared in Life magazine, hung on the wall. The years hadn’t worn well on Johannes. Time and technology-computers, lasers-were making him obsolete.

The old cutter swallowed a bite of his bread and cheese and wiped his long fingers with a paper napkin as he started to glance up. “Yes? I’m not expecting-” He spoke in Dutch, but his mouth snapped shut and his piercing eyes fastened on his fellow Dutchman. “Hendrik de Geer.”