Dance Of Death

'That's kind of you.' Kaplan climbed in, the door shut, the locks shot down, and the car eased away from the curb.

'Security's going to be high,' said the policeman. Then he nodded at a gray plastic box on the seat between them. 'I'll have to ask you to surrender your cell phone, your wallet with all your identification, any weapons you might have, and all your tools. Put them in that box next to you. I'll pass them to my colleague, and they'll all be returned to you at the vault after they've been thoroughly vetted.'

'Is this really necessary?'

'Absolutely. And I'm sure you can understand why.'

Kaplan, not very surprised under the circumstances, removed the requested items and placed them in the box. At the next light, at Park Avenue, a vintage Jaguar that had been following them pulled up alongside; the windows of both vehicles went down; and the policeman handed the box through the window. Glancing into the other car, Kaplan saw that the driver had carefully groomed pale blond hair and was wearing a nicely tailored black suit.

'Your colleague drives a most unusual car for a policeman.'

'He's a most unusual man.'

When the light changed to green, the Jaguar turned right and headed for Midtown, while the policeman driving Kaplan turned south.

'I beg your pardon, Officer, but we should be heading north,' Kaplan said. 'Affiliated Transglobal Insurance is headquartered at 1271 Avenue of the Americas.'

The car accelerated southward and the policeman looked over unsmilingly. 'Sorry to inform you, Mr. Kaplan, but this is one appointment you won't be keeping.'

SIXTY-THREE

They gathered in the sitting room of Harrison Grainger, CEO of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The executive suite was perched high in the Affiliated Transglobal Tower, looking north up the great canyon of Avenue of the Americas to its terminus, a half dozen blocks north, at the dark rectangle of Central Park. At one o'clock precisely, Grainger himself emerged from his office, a florid man with cauliflower ears and a narrow head, expansive, balding, and cheerful.

'Well, are we all here?' He looked around.

Smithback glanced about. His mouth felt like paste and he was sweating. He wondered why in the world he had agreed to this insane scheme. What had sounded like a fabulous escapade earlier that day, a chance at a one-of-a-kind scoop, now appeared mad in the harsh light of reality: Smithback was about to participate in a very serious crime-not to mention compromising all his ethics as a journalist.

Grainger looked around, smiling. 'Sam, you make the introductions.'

Samuel Beck, the security chief, stepped forward with a nod. Despite his nervousness, Smithback couldn't help noticing the man had feet as small as a ballerina's.

'Mr. George Kaplan,' the security chief began. 'Senior associate of the American Council of Gemologists.'

Kaplan, a neat man dressed in black, sporting a trimmed goatee and rimless glasses, had the elegant look of a man of the last century. He gave a short, sharp bow.

'Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History.'

Collopy shook hands all around. He didn't look especially pleased to be here.

'William Smithback of the New York Times.'

Smithback managed a round of handshakes, his hand as damp as a dishrag.

'Harrison Grainger, chief executive officer, Affiliated Transglobal Insurance Group Holding.'

This set off another series of murmured greetings.

'Rand Marconi, CFO, Affiliated Transglobal Group.'

Oh, God, thought Smithback. Were all these people coming?

'Foster Lord, secretary, Affiliated Transglobal Group.'

More handshakes, nods.

'Skip McGuigan, treasurer, Affiliated Transglobal Group.'

Yet again, Smithback plucked weakly at his collar.

'Jason McTeague, security officer, Affiliated Transglobal Group.'

It was like announcing the nobility arriving at a formal ball. A heavily armed security guard shifted on his feet, nodded, didn't offer his hand.

'And I am Samuel Beck, director of security, Affiliated Transglobal Group. Suffice to say, we've all been checked, vetted, and cleared.' He gave a quick smile at his own witticism, which was reinforced by a hearty laugh from Grainger.

'All right, then, let's proceed,' said the CEO, holding out his hand toward the elevators.

They headed deep into the bowels of the building, descending first one elevator, then a second, then a third, at last winding through long and unnamed cinder-block corridors before arriving at the largest, most polished, most gleaming vault door Smithback had ever seen. Staring at the door, his heart sank still further.

Beck busied himself with a keypad, a series of locks, and a retinal scanner while they all waited.

At last, Beck turned. 'Gentlemen, we now have to wait five minutes for the timed locks to disengage. This vault,' he continued proudly, 'contains all our original, executed policies: every single one. An insurance policy is a contract, and the only valid copies of our contracts are here-representing almost half a trillion dollars of coverage. It's protected by the latest security systems devised by man. This vault is designed to withstand an earthquake of 9 on the Richter scale, an F-5 tornado, and the detonation of a hundred-kiloton nuclear bomb.'

Smithback tried to take notes, but he was still sweating heavily, the pen slippery in his hands. Think of the story. Think of the story.

There was a soft chiming sound.

'And that, gentlemen, is the signal that the vault's locks have disengaged.' Beck pulled a lever and the faint humming of a motor sounded, the door slowly swinging outward. It was staggeringly massive, six feet of solid stainless steel.

They moved forward, the well-armed security guard bringing up the rear, and passed through two other massive doors before entering what was evidently the main vault, a huge steel space with metal cages enclosing drawer upon metal drawer, rising from floor to ceiling.

Now the CEO stepped forward, clearly relishing his role. 'The inner vault, gentlemen. But even here the diamond is not kept unprotected, where it might tempt one of our trusted employees. It is kept in a special vault- within-a-vault, and no fewer than four Affiliated Transglobal executives are needed to open this vault: myself, Rand Marconi, Skip McGuigan, and Foster Lord.'

The three men, dressed in identical gray suits, bald, and looking enough alike as to be mistaken for brothers, all smiled at this. Clearly, they didn't get many chances to strut their stuff.

The interior vault stood at the far end of the chamber, another steel door in the wall. Four keyholes were arrayed in a line across its face. Above them, a small light glowed red.

'And now we wait for the outer vault doors to be locked before we open the inner vault.'

Smithback waited, listening to the series of motorized hummings, clickings, and deep rumbles.

'Now we are locked in. And as long as the inner safe is unlocked, the outer vault doors will remain locked. Even if one of us wanted to steal the diamond, we couldn't leave with it!' Grainger chuckled. 'Gentlemen, take out your keys.'

The men all removed small keys from their pockets.

'We've set up a small table for Mr. Kaplan,' said the CEO, indicating an elegant table nearby.

Kaplan eyed it narrowly, pursing his lips with tight disapproval.

'Is everything in order?' the CEO asked.

'Bring out the diamond,' Kaplan said tersely.

Grainger nodded. 'Gentlemen?'

Each of the men inserted his key into one of the four keyholes. Glances were exchanged; then the keys were turned simultaneously. The small red light turned green and the safe clicked open. Inside was a simple metal