struggling in frustration with the latch and almost ripping off the cover as he opened it. The portable tester fell to the floor and he dropped it several more times before he managed to hold both it and the stone in his fingers. He pressed the button. For a second, a thought flashed across his mind. If this was just silicon carbide, then this dreadful mistake was over. The Wallenstein was still in its safe. He would just have to explain to Karla —a chance hadn’t presented itself. She would forgive him, he was sure of that.
Realising that he’d closed his eyes, he slowly opened one and looked at the LED display on the thick, pen-like sensor. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t focus until he opened the second.
One hundred percent diamond. Absolute, pure, crystal-clear diamond.
Shit.
For another age he seemed to sit there, and when someone walked past the car he thrust the Wallenstein back into the case and slammed it shut, waving weakly at the person who shouted out something to him.
He’d done it. He had stolen the Wallenstein.
Maarten had never felt more miserable in his entire life.
Pulling out his phone, sweating even more profusely now, he called up Karla’s number.
“Yes,” came her voice on the other end.
“I did it,” he said, unable to stop his voice trembling.
“Come over. Now,” was her terse reply—then she hung up.
Maarten had only visited Karla’s apartments in the old part of Amsterdam twice before. She always preferred to go out, to visit the sights of the city, and Maarten had never plucked up the courage to suggest he stay the night. This time would be different, he was sure.
He was wrong.
When she saw the Wallenstein, Karla’s green eyes glittered with a light as beautiful and as terrible as that which sparkled in the depths of the diamond.
“Let me hold it, please,” she said.
Eagerly thrusting it into her hands, desperate to be rid of it, Maarten fell back into his seat. Like everything else to do with Karla Pietersen, the room in which he sat was rich and ornate but not ostentatious, indicating the comfortably wealthy tastes of the woman who owned it.
“Beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”
That was what everyone said who saw the Wallenstein. Maarten had felt that way too about it once. As he had cut and shaped it, the twenty-carat rock had dominated his thoughts, become his obsession. Now part of him never wanted to see it ever again. It was Karla who was beautiful, not a piece of inert rock.
Placing it reverently back in his briefcase, Karla picked up her phone. “We’ll have to act quickly,” she said. “The next part of our plan kicks in now.”
Maarten was disappointed. Sensing this, Karla looked up. “What?” she asked sharply.
“Can’t I stay? Just for one night?”
This made her frown. God, even when her brow furrowed and her lips pursed that way she was beautiful. Maarten realised that he would do anything for her—absolutely anything. She was going to be his, forever. He just wished he didn’t feel so sick.
“Not yet, Maarten,” she said slowly, as though counselling a child. “You need to board a flight, and leave for London. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” he gasped, weakly. “Can’t I at least wait till the morning?”
She shook her head. “No. If you’re right, then no-one at Boeckman’s will suspect a thing, but if someone decides to test the Wallenstein —”
“They won’t.”
“—to test it and discovers the stone in their possession is fake, you won’t have any chance to get away.”
Sullenly he accepted the logic of this. “But you’ll come with me.”
That made her laugh. “Oh, yes. Maarten Kropp, famous misanthrope and loner, suddenly leaving Amsterdam in the company of a young, beautiful woman. Someone will notice—you know that. We discussed this. You go tonight. The hotel’s booked, near Heathrow. Tomorrow night we’ll be together. A day—two at the most—and I can find someone to
Realising that he’d closed his eyes, he slowly opened one and looked at the LED display on the thick, pen-like sensor. His vision was blurry and he couldn’t focus until he opened the second.
One hundred percent diamond. Absolute, pure, crystal-clear diamond.
Shit.
For another age he seemed to sit there, and when someone walked past the car he thrust the Wallenstein back into the case and slammed it shut, waving weakly at the person who shouted out something to him.
He’d done it. He had stolen the Wallenstein.
Maarten had never felt more miserable in his entire life.
Pulling out his phone, sweating even more profusely now, he called up Karla’s number.
“Yes,” came her voice on the other end.
“I did it,” he said, unable to stop his voice trembling.
“Come over. Now,” was her terse reply—then she hung up.
Maarten had only visited Karla’s apartments in the old part of Amsterdam twice before. She always preferred to go out, to visit the sights of the city, and Maarten had never plucked up the courage to suggest he stay the night. This time would be different, he was sure.
He was wrong.
When she saw the Wallenstein, Karla’s green eyes glittered with a light as beautiful and as terrible as that which sparkled in the depths of the diamond.
“Let me hold it, please,” she said.
Eagerly thrusting it into her hands, desperate to be rid of it, Maarten fell back into his seat. Like everything else to do with Karla Pietersen, the room in which he sat was rich and ornate but not ostentatious, indicating the comfortably wealthy tastes of the woman who owned it.
“Beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”
That was what everyone said who saw the Wallenstein. Maarten had felt that way too about it once. As he had cut and shaped it, the twenty-carat rock had dominated his thoughts, become his obsession. Now part of him never wanted to see it ever again. It was Karla who was beautiful, not a piece of inert rock.
Placing it reverently back in his briefcase, Karla picked up her phone. “We’ll have to act quickly,” she said. “The next part of our plan kicks in now.”
Maarten was disappointed. Sensing this, Karla looked up. “What?” she asked sharply.
“Can’t I stay? Just for one night?”
This made her frown. God, even when her brow furrowed and her lips pursed that way she was beautiful. Maarten realised that he would do anything for her—absolutely anything. She was going to be his, forever. He just wished he didn’t feel so sick.
“Not yet, Maarten,” she said slowly, as though counselling a child. “You need to board a flight, and leave for London. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” he gasped, weakly. “Can’t I at least wait till the morning?”
She shook her head. “No. If you’re right, then no-one at Boeckman’s will suspect a thing, but if someone decides to test the Wallenstein —”
“They won’t.”
“—to test it and discovers the stone in their possession is fake, you won’t have any chance to get away.”
Sullenly he accepted the logic of this. “But you’ll come with me.”
That made her laugh. “Oh, yes. Maarten Kropp, famous misanthrope and loner, suddenly leaving Amsterdam in the company of a young, beautiful woman. Someone will notice—you know that. We discussed this. You go tonight. The hotel’s booked, near Heathrow. Tomorrow night we’ll be together. A day—two at the most—and I can find someone to
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