CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Michel Issa squinted through the lens over the glittering stone. It was a real beauty. A brilliant canary yellow, wonderful luminescence, easily a C rating. It had been part of a larger lot he’d bought and was the pick of the litter. Hovering over the loupe, Michel knew it would fetch a real price from the right buyer.

His specialty.

Issa’s family had been in the diamond business for over fifty years, emigrating to the Caribbean from Belgium and opening the store on Mast Street, on the Dutch side of St. Maarten when Michel was young. For decades Issa et Fils had bought high-quality stones direct from Antwerp and a few “gray” markets. People came to them from around the world-and not just couples off the cruise ships looking to get engaged, though they catered to that, too, to keep up the storefront. But important people, people with things to hide. In the trade, Michel Issa was known, as his father and grandfather had been before him, as the kind of négociant who could keep his mouth shut, who had the discretion to handle a private transaction, no matter what its magnitude.

With the money trail between banks so transparent after 9/11, shifting assets into something tangible-and transportable-was a booming business these days. Especially if one had something to hide.

Michel put down the lens and transferred the premier stone back into the tray with the other stones. He placed them in his drawer and twisted the lock. The clock read 7:00 P.M. Time to close for the day. His wife, Marte, had an old-style Belgian meal of sausage and cabbage prepared for him. Later, on Tuesday nights, they played euchre with a couple of English friends.

Michel heard the outside door chime. He sighed. Too late. He had just sent his sales staff home. He didn’t flinch. There was no crime here on the island. Not this kind of crime. Everyone knew him, and, more to the point, they were on an island, surrounded by water. There was absolutely nowhere to go. Still, he reproved himself for having to be rude. He should have locked the door.

“Monsieur Issa?”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Michel called. He glanced through the window into the showroom and saw a stocky, mustached man in sunglasses waiting by the door.

He twisted the lock of the security drawer a second time. When he went around into the shop, there were two men. The man who called out, sort of a circumspect smile in his dark features, stepped up to the counter. The other, tall in a beach shirt and a baseball cap, standing by the door.

“I’m Issa,” Michel said. “What can I do for you?” He placed his left foot near the alarm behind the counter, noticing the taller man still hovering suspiciously by the door.

“I’d like you to take a look at something, Monsieur Issa,” the mustached man said. He reached inside his shirt pocket.

“Stones?” Issa sighed. “This late? I was just preparing to leave. Is it possible we can reschedule for tomorrow?”

“Not stones.” The mustached man shook his head. “Photographs.”

Photographs. Issa squinted at him. The mustached man placed a snapshot of a man in business attire on the counter. Short, gray-flecked hair. Glasses. The photo looked like it had been cut out of some corporate brochure.

Issa put on his wire reading glasses and stared. “No.”

The man leaned forward. “This was taken some time ago. He may look different today. His hair may be shorter. He may not wear glasses anymore. I have a suspicion he may have come through here at some point, seeking to make a transaction. This transaction you would remember, Monsieur Issa, I’m sure. It would have been a large sale.”

Michel didn’t answer right away. He was trying to gauge who his questioners were. He tried to brush it off with a modest smile.

The mustached man smiled knowingly at him. But there was something behind it that Issa didn’t like.

“Police?” he questioned. He had arrangements with most of them. The local ones, even Interpol. They left him alone. But these men didn’t look the type.

“No, not police.” The man smiled coolly. “Private. A personal affair.”

“I’m sorry.” Michel shrugged his shoulders. “I have not seen him here.”

“You’re quite sure? He would have paid in cash. Or perhaps with a wire transfer from the First Caribbean Bank or the MaartensBank here on the island. Say, five, six months ago. Who knows, he may even have come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Michel said again, the specifics starting to alarm him, “I don’t recognize him. And I would if he had been here, of course. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to-”

“Let me show you this one, then,” the mustached man said, firmer. “Another photo. You know how these things sometimes work. It may freshen everything up again.”

The man pulled a second photo out of his breast pocket and laid it on the counter next to the first.

Michel froze. His mouth went dry.

This second photo was of his own daughter.

Juliette, who lived in the States. In D.C. She had married a professor at George Washington University. They’d just had a baby, Danielle, Issa’s granddaughter, his first.

The man watched Issa’s composure begin to waver. He seemed to be enjoying it.

“I was wondering if that refreshed your memory.” He grinned. “If you knew this man now. She’s a pretty woman, your daughter. My friends tell me there’s a new baby, too. This is a cause for celebration, Monsieur Issa. No reason they should ever be involved in nasty business like this, if you know what I mean.”

Issa felt his stomach knot. He knew precisely what the man meant. Their eyes locked, Michel sinking back on his stool, the color gone from his face.

He nodded.

“He’s American.” Michel looked down, and wet his lips. “As you said, he doesn’t look the same now. His hair is closely shaved to his head. You know, the way young people wear it today. He wore sunglasses, no spectacles. He came here twice-both times with local bank contacts. As you said, maybe six or seven months ago.”

“And what was the nature of the business, Monsieur Issa?” the mustached man asked.

“He bought stones, high quality-both times. He seemed interested in converting cash into something more transportable. Large amounts, as you say. I don’t know where he is now. Or how to reach him. He called me on his cell phone once. I didn’t take an address. I think he mentioned a boat he was living on. It was just those two times.” Michel looked at him. “I’ve never seen him again.”

“Name?” the mustached man demanded, his dark pupils urgent and smiling at the same time.

“I don’t ask for names,” Michel said back.

“His name?” the man said again. This time his hand applied pressure to Michel’s forearm. “He had a bank check. It had to be made to someone. You did a large transaction. You had to have a record of it.”

Michel Issa shut his eyes. He didn’t like doing this. It violated every rule he lived by. Fifty years. He could see who these people were and what they wanted. And he could see, by the intensity in this man’s gaze, what was coming next. What choice did he have?

“Hanson.” Issa moistened his lips again and exhaled. “Steven Hanson, something like that.”

“Something like that?” The man now wrapped his stocky fingers around Issa’s fist and squeezed. He was starting to hurt him. For the first time, Michel actually felt afraid.

“That’s what it is.” Michel looked at him. “Hanson. I don’t know how to contact him, I swear. I think he was living off his boat. I could look up the date. There must be a record of it at the harbor.”

The mustached man glanced back around to his friend. He winked, as if satisfied. “That would be good,” he said.

“So that makes everything okay, yes?” Michel asked nervously. “No reason to bother us again. Or my daughter?”

“Why would we want to do that?” The mustached man grinned to his partner. “All we came for was a name.”