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“That is correct,” Hans stammered.
The apparent leader nodded without offering his own name. Retrieving a tiny key from his suit pocket, he slid it into the tiny hole in the handcuffs, and with a twist, he released himself from the handle. As he pressed a code into the case’s lock, he said, “I need you to verify the authenticity of a ring. You will create a document, and then we will leave.”
The briefcase opened. There was a thick bundle of banded euros and a ring box made of polished ebony. The leader extracted the box and held it in front of Hans’s nose.
Slowly, the nameless man lifted the hinged lid, exposing a red stone in a golden setting.
Heart pounding, Hans fingered the cord that dangled his glasses on his chest, opened the earpieces, and slid his readers into place on his nose. Hans didn’t need the glasses to know what he was looking at; he was simply buying himself a moment to think.
This was the Fire of the Desert.
Hans reached for the ring, sliding it onto the tip of his pinky finger and bringing it closer for inspection.
There was a forty-million-euro bounty on this ring.
Forty million euros, and here he stood with it wedged onto his pinky finger just above his jagged hangnail.
Hans trembled from head to foot.
“I see you know what this is.”
“I do,” Hans conceded.
The ring wasn’t worth even a tenth of that reward price. In today’s market, at auction, it would garner just over three—yes, maybe,possiblyas much as four—million euros simply because it had a romantic mythology and, of course, because of the rarity of the pure scarlet-colored two-carat diamond. The forty-million-euro reward was merely a way to catch the attention of the right kinds of people.
Zayd Ali Kamal, the man who put up the reward, didn’t care about money. Ten million here or fifty million there was unremarkable to him. But to a world filled with treasure hunters? Yes, it was a bounty that would motivate action. Sometimes, by not such nice people.
How had this team of men come upon this ring that had been missing since World War II?
The leader was staring at him; Hans should say something.
“It is the Fire of the Desert, or so it appears.” Yes, Hans told himself, since it had been missing for eighty years, it was much more likely that this was a clever counterfeit than the actual artifact.
Hans had a reputation for precision, for being one of the most knowledgeable in the field, and for integrity. His ethics were everything to him. He would be out of business—done—if he said something untrue. Less of a man. His life’s work would lie in ruins.
Hans felt the beads of sweat gather on his brow and above his lip.
For the first time in his life, Hans was afraid. Deep down in his core terrified.
These men concealed guns in their clothing, he was sure. They came here like this, with their legs spread wide and their arms crossed over their muscled chests, meaning to leave with what they wanted.
What would it mean if Hans did not give them the papers that they required?
Would they shoot him?
Would they … would they beat him? Torture him?
Why had he answered that phone call?
Hans’s glasses steamed in the heat of his distress, obscuring the ring. He tried to thrust it back at the man with the briefcase.
The man didn’t lift his hand to receive it. Instead, with a low, steady voice, he demanded, “Tell me what you know of this ring.”
Hans stumbled backward until the red leather chair, his old friend, caught him at the back of the knee, and he dropped into the seat.
Hans tugged his glasses down his nose with his free hand, letting them fall with a thump against his chest. A test? Probably not. Well, maybe.
Should he lie and make up a story about a ruby? Hans was honest, as a rule. Since he’d been a boy, a lie would heat his face until he turned red and sweaty, and his words would tumble over themselves as he stammered.