Count Grigory Orlov stared at the narrow doorway, waiting for his prey like a cougar on the savannah.
He looked nothing like the proud Russian Boyar who'd once attended upon Empress Catherine at the Winter Palace on Petrograd, securing her favor by attending upon her person. Then, he'd sported a uniform bedecked with medals, criss-crossed with gold and silver chains, his comportment commanding, his appearance immaculate, his coif perfect, his raiment so heavy he arrived home exhausted each evening. Now, five years later, he skulked through the streets of Amsterdam, a trading world on the Norman Arm near the galactic core, wearing the grimy formalls of a stevedore, his hair hanging in oily, ill-shorn sheaves, his head tucked between his shoulders.
Orlov had recovered slowly from the blow delivered by Safras on the banks of the Kaveri River on the planet Tiruchirapalli. After knocking him unconscious, Safras had absconded with the Eye of Vishnu. With a cache of other jewels looted by similar means from shrines throughout the Tamil Nadu constellation, Safras had set himself up in business on Amsterdam.
But Orlov's wounded pride hadn't healed, and now he lurked outside Safras' jewelry brokerage, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He'd kept watch on the brokerage for the last two weeks from an embrasure between two buildings across the street, a begging cup between his feet, muttering plaintive pleas to passersby. The brokerage occupied a building wedged tightly between two other buildings of similar façade, too little room between them to see daylight. The two-to-three story row houses had been refurbished into upscale businesses. On one side of the brokerage was a law firm, on the other a purveyor of fine clothing. Both saw far more foot traffic than the brokerage, Safras having so few visitors that Orlov began to wonder if Safras did most of his business remotely.
The first thing he'd observed about Safras was that the man didn't appear to sleep. No matter what the hour, Orlov never saw the lights go out. Safras was using the building both as his brokerage and his living quarters, a small suite of rooms above and behind the storefront. A deterrent to thieves, Orlov was sure. He couldn't quite fathom what might enable Safras to sleep so little. How am I to execute my plan if he doesn't sleep? he wondered. His original intent had been to slink into the house at night, kill Safras in his sleep, and steal the diamond back. Smuggling it off Amsterdam back to Petrograd as he was being pursued for murder seemed a secondary concern, one which he'd given little thought. He couldn't get past what he was going to do about the sleepless Safras, a challenge that forestalled any thought beyond the predicament he faced.
What he also observed from his fortnight vigil was that Safras rarely went anywhere. The occasional visitor walked in the door and soon left, but Safras himself never once departed the premises. Promptly at the same time each morning, a hand turned the sign in the front window to say "Open," and each evening the same hand turned the same sign around to read "Closed." But that was the only glimpse Orlov got of Safras. Every three days, a delivery vehicle pulled up and a grocer took in a box of food, and once per week, a garbage barge floated past, its great mechanical arm removing the receptacle from the storefront, emptying it into the barge, and re-inserting the receptacle.
Before he'd arrived, Orlov had researched Safras' transactions to assure himself that the Armenian still possessed the diamond. Gems of lesser size passed through the hands of Safras on a regular basis, but none so prominent or conspicuous as the Eye of Vishnu. Or as it was now known, the Amsterdam Diamond. A stone that large might only be marketed to the wealthiest of the wealthy, its size unparalleled.
The Orlov family, although dismayed by his fall from Catherine's favor, was nonetheless among the most preeminent of the boyar lineages. His having helped Catherine topple her husband Peter only six months into his reign and having engineered the former Emperor's death just six days later had scandalized the oligarchy and had firmly ensconced Orlov into the new Empress' favor. Despite Grigory Orlov's absence from the Winter Palace these past three years, his family still maintained its status and connections. His younger brother, Alexei, who had dealt the deadly blow to Peter days after Catherine deposed him, continued to feed information to the expatriate Grigory.
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.
Alone, any one gemstone would set up any thief for a life of retirement. Together, they promised decades of profligate living, whispering of the fame and glamor they might grant him, if only he would purloin them from their display cases.
But the diamond display case did not hold what Orlov had come for. The Eye of Vishnu, or as it was now known, the Amsterdam Diamond.
Remembering the valise that Safras had carried out the door, Orlov panicked for a moment. No, he wouldn't hand-carry such a valuable jewel from his shop, Orlov told himself. And of course it won't be on display. Only a fool flaunts his most cherished jewels.
Beyond a low railing sat a safe.
Orlov stared at it a moment, bewildered at such an anachronism. The black metal box on claw-foot legs stood waist high and brooded at the room. Its satin-black finish and gold-filigree border snubbed the pretentious stonework. Its pewter handle and black, nocked dial mocked Orlov for its impervious door and dared him to try opening it. Where did you think Safras would put his most prized possession? it said to him.
Orlov peered into the rear hallway, noting the narrow stairwell and rear entrance, before turning his attention to the safe. A career criminal and safecracker, he was not, but that didn't deter him.
From his waistband, he pulled a lazgun. He flicked off the safety, and the soft whine and dull glow indicated it was armed. He aimed it at the latch and then hesitated.
If I were Safras, Orlov thought, I'd booby-trap the safe against thieves.
Easy enough to rig a bomb with a trip switch wedged into the doorjamb, he thought, one that gets disarmed when the proper code was dialed.
Orlov tore a leg from his stevedore formalls and divvied it up into strips. These he tied to each other, looped one end around the safe handle, threaded it through the low railing, and trailed it toward the back door. The strips reached just beyond it. He could step out the back door and yank on his improvised rope.
Returning to the safe, he set the lazgun on low and methodically cut through the latch, shielding his eyes with his forearm. The metal grew white-hot, and molten metal dribbled down the safe face. The stench of burn accompanied billows of smoke. Spatters of metal cooled on the stone floor, coils of smoke curling upward from each spot.
He lowered the lazgun and inspected his work. Ragged metal edges lined the crevasse. Good enough, he hoped, retreating toward the back door.
Then he heard it.
Keys jingled at the front door. The old-fashioned metal kind. Another anachronism.
Safras returning! Orlov realized.
He smiled a slow, slick smile and straightened to attention, his military bearing asserting itself. The cloth rope in his left hand, he raised his right fist, turned the palm toward his face, and raised a single finger.
The door swung open.
Orlov grinned at Safras. "Too late, you avaricious Armenian."
The face didn't change. Safras dropped to a crouch and launched himself.
Safras' slow-motion leap hurled him nearly to the ceiling. Orlov's military-trained reflexes took over, and Orlov yanked on his cloth rope as the Armenian reached the apex of his leap. The safe door exploded and careened away, catching Safras mid-thigh and sheering off both legs.
Safras crashed into him, and his momentum slammed Orlov into the back door. The shock wave hit them at the same time and hurled them into the alley. Safras somehow landed on top of him, and his hands latched onto Orlov's neck.
"Where is it?" Safras snarled.
How is he doing that? Orlov wondered, the safe door having sliced through both Safras' legs. Hot liquids dribbled across Orlov's thighs, and electrical shorts sparked and crackled. Orlov found his lazgun in his hand, and he brought it around to Safras' abdomen.
The point-blank blast blew the man's innards out through his back and left a ragged, fist-sized hole.
Safras threw his head back and laughed. The sneer of triumph fixed itself in a rictus to his face, and he crumpled to one side.
Orlov pushed himself to an elbow, unable to take his eyes off the specter: Safras, his face a rictus, his arms akimbo, his legs mere stumps, his abdomen eviscerated. Electrical sparks fizzed and popped, and a sticky, white fluid oozed from the wounds.
Droid, Orlov thought, dragging himself to his feet. His ears ringing from the explosion, he stumbled back into the brownstone and made his way through the wreckage to the safe.
A few feet away, two severed legs twitched and sparked, struggling to propel a body they were no longer attached to, like twin, eyeless slugs.
Orlov looked into the safe.
A second latched door scorched with burn marks was bowed inward as if struck by a giant fist. With a prayer to St. Peter, Orlov tried the latch. Stubbornly, it opened.
Inside was the Eye of Vishnu, the Amsterdam Diamond, all 200 carats, and along side it were a ruby, an emerald, and a sapphire, each of equivalent size.
He stashed all four in his sash and stumbled out the back door, the ringing in his head now accompanied by the horrific pounding of a hammer against anvil.
He glanced again at the droid body of Safras, still sparking and twitching, lying in a puddle of milky white syrup.
And then Orlov turned and melted into the alleyway, the diamond secure in his sash, his delivery of the largest diamond in the galaxy into Catherine's possession sure to retrieve her affections to him.