want you losing sleep over any of this. As long as I’m here to protect you, you’re reasonably safe.”
To follow the art dealer’s instructions, Morath had to go to the Cafe Madine that morning, but he went first of all to the office. Which he found silent and deserted-he was too early. Then, suddenly, a swirl of activity. Mary Day with an apprentice copywriter, Mary Day with Leon, the artist, Mary Day talking to Courtmain through his open door. In a white, angelic sweater, she glanced at him as he hurried past like a man who actually had something to do. Morath retreated to his office, looked at his watch, came out, went back in. Finally, she was alone at her desk, head in hands over five words typed on a sheet of yellow paper. “Mary,” he said.
She looked up. “Hello,” she said. Where have you been?
“I tried to call, last night, I couldn’t find your number.”
“Oh that’s a long story,” she said. “The apartment is actually …” She looked around. People everywhere. “Damn, I’m out of pencils.”
She rose brusquely and he followed her to the supply room, a large closet. He pulled the door closed behind them. “Here it is,” she said, writing it down.
“I want to see you.”
She handed him a slip of paper, then kissed him. He put his arms around her, held her for a moment, inhaled her perfume. “Tomorrow night?” she said.
Morath calculated. “By ten, I think.”
“There’s a cafe on the corner of the rue Guisarde.” She pressed her hand against the side of his face, then grabbed a handful of pencils. “Can’t get caught mugging in the supply room,” she said, laughing.
He followed her swinging skirt down the hall until she disappeared into the bookkeeper’s office, looking back over her shoulder as she closed the door.
At the Cafe Madine, Morath stood at the counter and had his usual coffee. Twenty minutes later-somebody, somewhere was watching, he decided-the woman showed up. She ignored Morath, sat at a table by the wall, read her copy of
So then, Antwerp. He went to see Boris Balki at the nightclub.
“Still at it?” Balki said, pouring two Polish vodkas.
“I guess I am,” Morath said.
“Well, I should say thank you.” Balki raised his glass in a silent toast and drank the vodka. “My friend Rashkow’s out of prison. They brought him his clothes in the middle of the night, took him to the back gate, gave him a good kick in the ass, and told him not to come back.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Poor little Rashkow,” Balki said.
“I need to go up to Antwerp,” Morath said. “I’m hoping you’ll come with me.”
“Antwerp.”
“We’ll need a car.”
At dawn, Morath stamped his feet to keep warm and curled into his overcoat, waiting in a white fog by the entry to the Palais Royal Metro station. A splendid car, Morath thought. It came, very slowly, up the rue Saint- Honore, a 201 Peugeot, ten years old, painted deep forest-green and glowing with polish and affection.
They drove north, following lines of trucks, into Saint-Denis. Morath directed Balki through a maze of winding streets to a park behind a church where, working hard at the reluctant latches, they took out the backseat. “Please, Morath,” Balki said. “Don’t hurt anything. This is somebody’s life, this car.” He wore a stiff brown suit, white shirt, no tie, and a peaked cap-a bartender on his day off.
Morath opened his valise and stuffed thick packets of pengo under the wire coils in the seat. Balki was grim, shook his head as he saw all the money.
Route 2, headed north and east of Paris, went through Soissons and Laon, with signs for Cambrai and Amiens, the flat, weedy plain where they’d always fought the Germans. In the villages, smoke rose from the chimneys, women opened their shutters, glanced up at the sky, and put the pillows and blankets out to air. There were kids going to school, their dogs trotting along beside them, shop assistants raising the metal shutters of their shops, milkmen setting bottles on the doorsteps.
Just beyond the French town of Bettignies, the Belgian police at the border post were busy smoking and leaning against their shed and couldn’t be bothered looking at the Peugeot as it drove past.
“Half done,” Balki said, relief in his voice.
“No, that’s it,” Morath said as the shed disappeared in the mirror. “Once we get to Antwerp, we’re tourists. Probably I should’ve just taken the train.”
Balki shrugged. “Well, you never know.”
They turned off the road, drove out into the farmland, and put the money back in the valise.
It was slow going through Brussels, they stopped for eels and
“Shabet? Two stalls down,” they told him. He’d found the diamond exchange on Pelikaanstraat-long tables of diamond brokers, with the cutters’ offices on the floor above. The Shabet he found was in his thirties, balding and worried. “I think you’d better see my uncle,” he said. Morath waited by the table while a phone call was made, and ten minutes later the uncle showed up. “We’ll go to my office,” he said.
Which was back on Van Eycklei, on the second floor of an imposing gray stone building, and rather splendid: Persian carpets, a vast mahogany breakfront crowded with old books, an ornate desk with a green baize inset.
The elder Shabet settled himself at the desk. “So then, how can we help you?”
“An acquaintance in Paris gave me your name.”
“Paris. Oh, are you Monsieur Andre?”
“It’s the name I asked him to use.”
Shabet looked him over. He was in his sixties, Morath thought, with fine features and silver hair, a white silk yarmulke on the back of his head. A comfortable man, wealthy, and confident in what he knew about the world. “The times we live in,” he said, forgiving Morath a small deception. “Your friend in Paris sent someone up to see me. Your interest is, I believe, investment.”
“More or less. The money is in Hungarian pengo, about two million.”
“You don’t interest yourself in shape or quality, that you leave to us. Simply a question of conversion.”
“To diamonds.”
Shabet folded his hands on the desk, his thumbs pressed together. “The stones are available, of course.” He knew it wasn’t that simple.
“And once we own them, we would like them sold.”
“By us?”
“By your associates, perhaps family associates, in New York. And the money paid into an account in America.”
“Ah.”
“And if, to save the expense of shipping, the firm in New York was to use its own inventory, stones of equal value, that would not concern us.”
“You have in mind a letter, I think. Us to them, and the accounting worked out within the family, is that it?”
Morath nodded and handed Shabet a sheet of cream-colored writing paper.
Shabet took a pince-nez from his breast pocket and settled it on the bridge of his nose. “United Chemical Supply,” he read. “Mr. J. S. Horvath, treasurer. At the Chase National Bank, the Park Avenue branch.” He laid the paper on the desk and put the pince-nez back in his pocket.
“Monsieur Andre? What sort of money is this?”
“Donated money.”
“For espionage?”
“No.”
“What then?”
