sort from the Spanish Inquisition. Rumor had it that there was a top-grade studio as well. Lights, camera, action. Dimitri was credited with enjoying replays of his more gruesome work. Doug wasn’t going to find himself in the spotlight in one of Dimitri’s performances, nor was he going to believe the myth that Dimitri was omnipotent. He was just a man, Doug told himself. Flesh and blood. But even at thirty thousand feet, Doug had the uneasy sensation of a fly being toyed with by a spider.
Taking another drink, he pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. That’s how he’d play it, and that’s how he’d survive.
If he’d had the time, Doug would have taken Whitney to the Hotel de Crillon for a couple of days. It was the only place he stayed in Paris. There were cities he’d settle for a motel with a cot, and cities where he wouldn’t sleep at all. But Paris. His luck had always held in Paris.
He made it a point to arrange a trip twice a year, for no other reason than the food. As far as Doug was concerned no one cooked better than the French, or those educated in France. Because of that, he had managed to bluff his way into several courses. He’d learned the French way, the correct way, to prepare an omelette at the Cordon Bleu. Of course, he kept a low profile on that particular interest. If word got out that he’d worn an apron and whisked eggs, he’d lose his reputation on the streets. Besides, it would be embarrassing. So he always covered his trips to Paris for cooking interests with business.
A couple of years back, he’d stayed there for a week, playing the wealthy playboy and riffling the rooms of the rich. Doug remembered he’d hocked a very good sapphire necklace and paid his bill in full. You never knew when you’d want to go back.
But there wasn’t time on this trip for a quick course in soufflés or a handy piece of burglary. There would be no sitting still in one place until the game was over. Normally he preferred it that way—the chase, the hunt. The game itself was more exciting than the winning. Doug had learned that after his first big job. There’d been the tension and pressure of planning, the rippling thrill and half terror of execution, then the rushing excitement of success. After that, it was simply another job finished. You looked for the next. And the next.
If he’d listened to his high-school counselor, he’d probably be a very successful lawyer right now. He’d had the brains and the glib tongue. Doug sipped smooth scotch and was grateful he hadn’t listened.
Imagine, Douglas Lord, Esquire, with a desk piled with papers and luncheon meetings three days a week. Was that any way to live? He skimmed another page of the book he’d stolen from a Washington library before they’d left. No, a profession that kept you in an office owned you, not the other way around. So, his IQ topped his weight, he’d rather use his talents for something satisfying.
At the moment, it was reading about Madagascar, its history, its topography, its culture. By the time he finished this book, he’d know everything he needed to know. There were two other volumes in his case he’d save for later. One was a history of missing gems, the other a long, detailed history of the French Revolution. Before he found the treasure, he’d be able to see it, and to understand it. If the papers he’d read were fact, he had pretty Marie Antoinette and her penchant for opulence and intrigue to thank for an early retirement. The Mirror of Portugal diamond, the Blue Diamond, the Sancy—all fifty-four carats of it. Yeah, French royalty had had great taste. Good old Marie hadn’t rocked tradition. Doug was grateful for it. And for the aristocrats who had fled their country guarding the crown jewels with their lives, holding them in secret until the royal family might rule France again.…
He wouldn’t find the Sancy in Madagascar. Doug was in the business and knew the rock was now in the Astor family. But the possibilities were endless. The Mirror and the Blue had dropped out of sight centuries before. So had other gems. The Diamond Necklace Affair—the straw that had broken the peasants’ back—was riddled with theory, myth, and speculation. Just what had become of the necklace that had ultimately insured Marie of not