Authors: Pamela Hegarty
Contreras stepped ever closer, drawn to the diamond. “Not lost in the history of my family. In the eleventh century, a Moorish invader absconded with the Breastplate from the Holy Land. The Arab brought it in utmost secrecy to Spain in hopes of using its power to retain conquest of the land. But even then, the Breastplate was incomplete, its gems missing, its divine powers diminished. In twelfth-century Spain, as El Cid expanded his conquest, a Contreras captured a Moorish ruler. The coward offered the Breastplate in exchange for his pitiful life. My family’s destiny was set in motion. And in the sixteenth century, my ancestor, Alvaro, acquired the last of the missing gemstones, the Kohinoor diamond. He brought the completed Breastplate to the New World, to begin the world anew.”
His words intoxicated Jared. Once again, he was dizzy with the thought that he could be a part of a new evolution in the history of mankind. He forcibly drew his gaze from the brilliance of the diamond. “The Kohinoor resurfaced in India,” he said, partially to buy time, but mostly for his passion for the gemstone. “Shah Jahan, the builder of the Taj Mahal, placed it in his magnificent Peacock Throne. Yet the Shah was overthrown by his own son, Aurangazeb. Aurangazeb murdered his three brothers and imprisoned his father in the Agra Fort, with only one small window to look over his beloved Taj Mahal, some say only by seeing it reflected in this very diamond. Though the diamond was in Aurangazeb’s empire, he, too, was conquered in 1739, his cities sacked, by the Shah who, finally able to obtain this most famous diamond, exclaimed Kohinoor, when he saw it, dubbing it the Mountain of Light.”
“
And so it is,” Contreras said, reaching for the diamond. “And I shall reclaim its true destiny, to create an empire that will finally rule the world.”
“
Just as the British believed they would,” said Jared, “in 1849, when the Kohinoor was handed over to the possession of the Queen Victoria as part of the Treaty of Lahore. At that time, the British empire spanned the globe, including India, large swaths of Africa and, of course, Australia and Canada.” Jared was a traitor to all that his country had bled for. Once he handed over this gem, he would either die as that traitor, or live for a chance at redemption. “Now it is said that if these gems were to leave England, the British Empire will fall.”
Contreras snatched the diamond from Jared’s palm. “Too late for that,” he said. He clutched the diamond in his gloved fist and pressed it against his heart. “It is mine.” He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they looked even blacker than before. “And I will soon wield its power in its entirety. Alvaro shall be avenged. I will fulfill the destiny that was set forth a millennium ago. I will create the world that God envisioned, where no son will lose his mother to please a false prophet.”
Contreras turned away, gestured for Torrino, who approached bearing the open briefcase. He placed the diamond next to the sapphire, into its perfectly matched hollow in the black velvet. He drank in one last look and closed and locked the lid. “I would pay a fortune simply to sit and admire these stones which I’ve devoted my life to acquiring,” he said, “but all my money cannot buy time.” He punched his hand from his cuff to look at his watch, a vintage Patek Philippe. “I am very close to acquiring the third of the seven sacred stones. It is a time for action, not accolades.”
Jared stole a glance at the clock on the desk. He, too, wished he could buy time. He judged that Fox, at best, would not arrive for several minutes. The realization that he had actually fooled Contreras filled him with elation and self-doubt. It had been far too easy to convince the man to incorporate him into the master plan. Like a poker player who had risked the pot on a bluff, he had to play it out. He thought about Zoe and his unborn child. He no longer cared about the money, nor the heavenly reward. He just wanted to hold his wife in his arms, to feel the breath of their baby on his cheek. “So what is our next step?” he dared to ask. Contreras often indulged in boasting about his intricate plans, no matter how precious the time.
“
Your next step is one that cannot be taken lightly,” said Contreras. “The sword is in readiness for the dinner tonight.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Jared quickly went to the bedroom and retrieved the black walnut box from beneath the bed. As he did so, he saw Contreras hoist the bottle of champagne from its bucket. Without removing his gloves, Contreras removed the foil from the champagne and deftly uncorked it. He shimmied the bottle back into the ice bucket. Jared tried not to look at it too intently.
He brought the box to Contreras, opened it with a flourish. On the plush, maroon velvet lay a bejeweled masterpiece of Jared’s own craftsmanship, the Lux et Veritas sword. Its blade was thirty-five inches of finely honed carbonized steel. Its hilt was gold, inlaid with twenty precious and semi-precious stones. But these stones, like the sacred stones, carried with them a certain power in their provenance.
Each of the countries in the G-20 had contributed one of the stones. Each was unique. It was the culmination of months of negotiations to get each nation’s representative to agree to which stone their country would contribute. It was only a small prop to the aspirations of the G-20 summit, but almost a miracle that the sword was completed. It surely would not have been if not for Contreras’s worldwide network of corporate diplomats and behind the scenes promises of new jobs and affordable medicines. The sword, once presented at tonight’s dinner, would reside, in turns, on exhibition in each of the twenty nations, symbolizing cooperation and strength. Looking at the sword with Contreras standing by it, Jared realized that it was this heady commission that had made him arrogant enough to believe in Contreras’s mission.
Contreras lifted the sword from the box by its grip. He hefted it upwards, admired the simple yet elegant design that incorporated the twenty stones. He gingerly tested the blade’s razor sharp edge. “Just as I envisioned,” he said. “You have once again done a masterful job.”
“
With your inspiration,” Jared said.
“
There are those who are protesting the meeting of the G-20,” Contreras said. “Even those who are determined to derail the world leaders’ talk of peace.”
Jared laid the sword’s box on the desk. “This sword symbolizes everything the terrorists despise,” he said. Despite his despicable crime, he was proud of the sword he had designed and crafted. “As one nation passes this sword to another, they pass along a vow of cooperation, an alliance that they will fight together the power of evil.”
“
It is a threat to the terrorists,” Contreras said. “One might even believe that they would kill to defame the symbolism of this sword. It would become a new symbol, of a new ruler who can truly bring about world peace.”
Jared stepped back. He could see death in Contreras’s black eyes and feel the cold breath of Satan on the back of his neck. Contreras clutched the sword’s hilt with both hands. He thrust it forward with the violence of murder. Jared heard a grunt of surprise and realized it came from Torrino. A blow punched Jared in the gut. He doubled over, but was confused. Had Contreras merely struck him with his fist? Then he felt the invasive cold of the steel blade inside him and the warmth of his blood seep into his shirt. He looked down. Contreras released his grip on the handle. It was beautiful, that handle, a masterful design of gold, silver and small but precious gems. It brought a tear to Jared’s eye. His knees buckled. He fell backwards, his arms flailing. His hand hit the ice bucket, sending it crashing off the serving cart. Contreras snatched the neck of the champagne bottle, pulling it to safety, as the ice skittered across the carpet.
Jared landed hard on the floor, his arms outstretched. He could not move. He had done good work on the blade, its point so sharp that it had thrust him through and penetrated the wood floor. His sword pinned him there, as his lifeblood pooled around him.
Contreras looked down upon him. He poured champagne into the two flutes, handed one to Torrino. He held his flute towards Jared in a toast. “In death, as in life, you are an admirable gentleman,” he said. “You have fallen upon your own sword.” He grinned thinly, not without mirth. He drank, then stepped back as a rivulet of blood neared the toe of his Italian made loafer.
“
Please, Mister Contreras,” Jared croaked. His own voice sounded distant, as though he were already leaving behind his physical self. “Zoe, she’s pregnant.”
Contreras frowned. He nearly looked regretful. “I will see that she is cared for,” he said, “and your child.” With that, he turned away. Jared could hear Contreras and Torrino’s footsteps as they left the room. He could hear the door shut and latch behind them. And he could hear Alba’s voice calling him from heaven, as he fell further and further away from her.
CHAPTER
40
Christa checked her cell as she hurried along Tenth Avenue, past the lone vender hawking I Love NY t-shirts. She and Daniel had made good time getting into New York, but time was running out. She had to get that Emerald from Ahmed.
Dark storm clouds choked out the daylight above. Buildings pressed in on each side. A biting wind whipped up from the Hudson River. The few people hustling down the sidewalk bent their shoulders to the cold. Christmas stress outgunned holiday cheer these days, but their sense of urgency was frantic, as if the cold gusts were the push before the raging waters of a flash flood that would suddenly thunder down this canyon of a street and wash them away to their deaths. No festive conversations were shouted above the din of honking horns, squealing brakes and the ragged, oppressively festive holiday tunes oozing from the stores. Even the pungent smoke from the street vendor roasting chestnuts wasn’t enticing any customers.
“
The poison,” Christa whispered to Daniel. A vibration trembled through the city, a sense of dread that became more palpable as she neared the Marrakesh restaurant. “It’s starting to affect people.”
Daniel reached for her hand and held it, tight. His warmth felt out of place. Affection, like fear, had become an indulgence she couldn’t afford. She tried Percival’s cell again. Still no answer. He would have turned off his cell in the clinic, but the spindly-fingered heebie-geebies were crawling up her spine. Never a good sign.
“
Contreras will need a theologian,” said Daniel. “Only a high priest can wear the Breastplate of Aaron.”
“
Daniel, I don’t know if I should love your naiveté or fear it. He’s not worried about communicating with God. He thinks he is a god.”
Daniel clasped his coat in tighter against the north wind. “This Ahmed you’re meeting. He’s a Muslim. This time in history is not exactly that religion’s finest hour. If they get their hands on the Breastplate of Aaron, it could be just the power they need to rid the world of infidels. Converting everyone to Islam is one of their core beliefs.”
“
The core of Ahmed’s belief is to do the right thing.”
“
As is mine,” said Daniel. “Question is, what is the right thing?”
“
This is it,” she said. “Ahmed’s cousins’ restaurant.” On any other day, she loved this section of the city, the Middle Eastern eateries, from Ethiopian to Turkish. The Marrakesh was one of her regular haunts before her heavy class load this past semester. Its double doors were painted with an intricate Moorish design she remembered from her days in Morocco, an elaborate pattern of geometric shapes painted in rich reds, blues and ambers. They were a work of art and sign of welcome that even the most callous delinquent would not deface with graffiti. Daniel heaved open the heavy door to a room even darker than the gloom outside.
The scents slipped towards her like a magic carpet, gliding her away to a different time, a different place, a different world. Sweet cinnamon, exotic coriander, cool mint. Red, yellow and green lanterns ensconced in pointed arches lighted the interior and somehow didn’t look garish. Framed Moroccan travel posters, photographs and small woven rugs with geometric patterns of bold reds, blacks and whites dotted the deep golden walls. Engraved brass trays, four feet across, were balanced on wooden tripods and served as tables. Low settees, slumping ottomans and carved wooden chairs gathered around them. The room was eerily empty. Even the slices of Arabic and busy clank of pots from the kitchen sounded far away, afraid to creep into the gloom. One man sat alone, beneath the poster of camels in a dirt parking lot outside the terra cotta walls of the Marrakesh medina. He rose unsteadily from the low, plush cushions of the settee.
The two of them stood for a long moment, taking each other in. Ahmed had grown more dashing. The slight beard and mustache defined his strong chin. His hair was dark and short, outlining a broad forehead. His eyes were dark, but approachable. Only one thing had changed. He did not smile when he saw Christa. Ahmed had aged not on the outside, but in his soul. She moved towards him. He edged around the round table to meet her. She wrapped her arms around him.
The earthy fragrance of the red sands of Morocco escaped the folds of his shirt. The warmth of the desert sun somehow lingered on his chest when she pressed her cheek against him. It was crazy, worthy of hours of psychoanalysis, but Dad was somehow there, embracing her through Ahmed.