Page 28 of The Collector
“And a rich husband.” Gabriel returned the pendant to his coat pocket. “I’m interested in selling it. A few other pieces as well.”
“Are you carrying a gun?”
“What do you think?”
“Let’s have it.”
Gabriel surrendered the Beretta butt first to avoid any possible misinterpretation of his motives. Ordinarily, he would have cleared the weapon as well, but members of the ’Ndrangheta were not known for their adherence to basic gun-safety etiquette. “May I speak to Mr. Nazarian now?” he asked in his pitch-perfect Italian-accented English.
The Armenian lifted his eyes toward the security camera, and the dead bolts of the next door gave way. Beyond it was an empty waiting room decorated with outsize photographs of glittering diamonds and the rugged mountains of Armenia from which they had purportedly come. More than fifty diamond-cutting companies operated in the former Soviet republic, and diamonds accounted for a quarter of the country’s exports. Khoren Nazarian handled a small portion of those stones. He had no mines or factories of his own, and no retail operation. He was merely a broker, a middleman. He purchased diamonds from one party and sold them to another, hopefully at a profit sufficient enough to keep a roof over his head. It was not an easy way to make a living, thus his willingness to occasionally handle stones of uncertain provenance.
He received Gabriel in his office wearing a crisp gray suit and open-necked white shirt with diamond cuff links. He was a slender, sharp-featured man in his mid-fifties, with an aquiline nose and thinning hair combed close to his scalp.
He regarded Gabriel speculatively over an unlit cigarette. “I didn’t catch your name earlier.”
Gabriel repeated it. One name only. Like the painter.
“And what sort of work do you do, Signore Raffaele?”
“I’m involved in a number of charitable endeavors. Widows and orphans, mainly. I’m also quite active in the Church.”
“How noble.” Nazarian coaxed an elegant gold lighter into flame and touched it to the end of his cigarette. “And in your spare time?”
“I work for an international conglomerate based in Calabria. We did about sixty billion last year, mainly in pharmaceuticals and real estate development.”
Nazarian cast an anxious glance toward his associate, and an exchange of quiet Armenian ensued. Gabriel, who neither spoke nor understood a word of the language, used the opportunity to take inventory of the items arrayed atop Nazarian’s desk. A crystal paperweight in the shape of an oval-cut diamond. A vintage brass message spike. A Harald Schneider professional jeweler’s loupe. A cushioned countertop display pad. A weighty ceramic ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. A calculator. An open notebook computer.
The room’s only window overlooked a deserted courtyard. The glass was gray-green, one-way, and shatterproof. And bulletproof, thought Gabriel suddenly, though he certainly hoped it didn’t come to that. After all, he was not in possession of his firearm. Fully loaded, with a round lodged in the chamber, it was in the giant Armenian’s coat pocket. The left pocket, to be precise.
Nazarian placed his cigarette in the ashtray. “May I see the diamond, please?”
Gabriel took note of the Armenian’s use of the wordplease. They were off to a good start.
He placed the solitaire pendant on the display pad. Nazarian examined the stone with the loupe while the steroid abuser examined Gabriel. He didn’t look quite so sure of himself any longer.
“My compliments,” said Nazarian after a moment. “This stone is quite extraordinary.”
“Yes, I know.” Gabriel tossed the rest of the pieces onto the display pad with deliberate carelessness. Four diamond necklaces, six diamond bracelets, four pairs of diamond earrings, and two diamond rings, the larger of which was six carats. “Those aren’t bad, either.”
Nazarian examined them slowly, stone by stone. “Where did youget these, Signore Raffaele? And please let’s skip the part about your sainted mother. I’ve heard that one many times before.”
“I acquired them in Paris.”
“How recently?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Cartier? Piaget?”
“An apartment in the Fourth Arrondissement.”
“Does the owner know they’re missing?”
“Not yet.”
Nazarian reached for the calculator and spent a moment nimbly fingering the keys.
“How much?” asked Gabriel.
