Ghost Ship Orlova

The Orlov Diamond (part 2)

One of the more disturbing rumors his brother had passed along to him described a secret project nearing fruition undertaken by the Romanov Clandestine Services to create an android so human in appearance that none but a full medical examination might uncover the fraud. Further, Alexei Orlov had investigated this rumor through distant Boyar relations, only to discover that the project was much further along than previously reported, droids having been planted by the Clandestine Services on several foreign planets. "Brother," Alexei had said, "one is rumored to be on Amsterdam, too, so take care you're not under surveillance."

Among the tidbits gleaned from palace intrigue was the rumor of negotiations between Grigory Potemkin, who'd replaced Orlov in Catherine's affections, and Grigory Safras, the Armenian jewelry broker, for the acquisition of the Eye of Vishnu, now known as the Amsterdam Diamond.

So far, Orlov hadn't seen any evidence of Potemkin's presence on Amsterdam.

Then, one evening, Orlov maintaining his vigil from beneath his beggarly guise, Safras did something unusual: he left the premises.

The hand which turned the sign from "Open" to "Closed" also pushed open the door, and Safras backed out and secured the door behind him, a valise in one hand. He turned on the stoop, looked left, looked right, and then stepped to the curb.

Orlov hunkered down in his embrasure, willing himself to be invisible, praying this might be the opportunity. He could always return to kill Safras if necessary. Purloining the diamond for Catherine was all he could think about.

A hover pulled to the curb, and Safras got in.

As the whine of the hover faded into the distance, Orlov waited, his eyes on the brokerage, the diamond in the armored safe, waiting patiently for him to reclaim it, whispering to him to wait five, ten, fifteen minutes to insure Safras wouldn't return immediately.

After fifteen minutes, Orlov rose and stretched. Days of enforced inactivity caused bones accustomed to inertia to complain. The ragged, grimy stevedore formalls were more fragrant for his having not showered or changed in two weeks. He looked repulsive and counted on his shabby appearance to deter the inquisitive.

He set off down the street, hoping to be unobtrusive, not wanting to be obvious. A hundred yards down, near an intersection, past several brownstones stacked side-by-side, he crossed the street. There, at the corner, he stopped and turned, first one way and then the other.

Then he went back, across the street from the way he'd come, shambling along and muttering to himself. Coming abreast the brokerage, he turned and stepped up the short walk to the stoop, his gait and posture unchanged.

He slipped the metal crowbar from his belt, wedged it between the door and the jamb, and yanked.

The doorjamb splintered at the striker plate and yawned open, creaking.

He waited a moment to see if alarms would go off. When none did, he stepped inside.

The place felt like a mausoleum. The vaulted ceilings of solid granite persuaded the buyer of the broker's high standards of excellence. Marble columns every six feet assured the buyer of the broker's integrity. A travertine floor appeased the buyer with the broker's solid foundation. All of it in ostentatious excess of the simple brownstone façade. The cold, lifeless stone sank into Orlov's bones like an enervating Siberian winter.

Four display cases sat against one wall, where soft velvet pillows cushioned jewels from across the galaxy. One each for diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. Ten stones in each case, among the largest Orlov had seen, many rivaling those in the Romanov crown jewels.