Page 26 of The Expat Affair

It’s midmorning when I step off the tram at the Prinsengracht bridge and walk the few short blocks through a steady rain. An excursion to get my mind off an impossible situation, to fill the empty hours while Sem is at school with something other than worry about the state of my marriage. When my alarm woke me this morning, Thomas was already gone.

The canal on my left shimmers in the freezing air, the rain slapping the water with a million tiny splashes. I huddle under my umbrella and hug the houses to my right, ancient structures that have had centuries to settle on their foundations and now lean every which way, a messy but charming jumble of step-stone facades. Dancing houses, they call the ones on the water near Central Station, and these are just as lopsided.

I stop at number 467, a wide four-story canal house of black-painted brick with white trim, twice the width of the houses on either side. The building belongs to a man named Jan Visser. The upstairs apartments he rents out for an ungodly monthly rate, but the whole ground floor is reserved for him, for a tiny apartment at the back and the rest an ancient, dusty shop filled with mirrors. Suspended from chains hanging from the ceiling, leaning in stacks against every wall, smothering every table and vertical surface. The most exquisite mirrors in all of northern Europe.

Jan’s mirrors hang in castles and mansions all over the world. They hang in penthouses in New York and Tokyo and Beijing and in the villas lining the streets in Amsterdam Zuid, including Thomas’s. Jan’s mirror is the eighteenth-century masterpiece of gilded wood and smoky glass hanging above the side table in the hall, my favorite piece in the whole house.

But that mirror is not how I know Jan. Xander introduced us last fall, after I asked him to grow those diamonds. Jan and Xander were well acquainted with each other, because Jan knows how to make diamonds disappear.

There’s no bell beside the double doors, and I know from experience not to bother with the handles because they’re locked. With all those contraband stones Jan keeps buried in jars and boxes in the back room, he isn’t the most trusting guy.

This is it, though, the store the PI told Thomas about in the Nine Streets, the one secretly dealing in stolen diamonds. They were off by only a couple of blocks.

I pin the umbrella handle under an arm, wriggle my cell from my pocket, and fire off a text. I’m here. Open up.

The diamonds are also the reason for the German shepherd sleeping on a tartan pillow just inside the door, though Gijs is more for form than function these days. He’s almost as old as Jan, with the same questionable hearing and bum hip. I tap the glass, but Gijs doesn’t lift his head.

At the back of the store there’s movement, Jan shuffling from the workshop overlooking the generous backyard, his old body stooped and limping. He skirts around a giant table covered with antique pots and bowls, a row of old-school bikes, outside-sized trees in giant teak pots, and it takes him an eternity to reach the front, for him to sort through his keys. After forever, he peels opens the door.

I fold my umbrella and step inside, and Jan’s face crinkles into a smile. We exchange the standard three kisses on the cheeks. “So lovely of you to drop by, meissie. Coffee?”

He locks the door behind me and reaches for his cane.

“Coffee would be perfect, thanks. How’ve you been?”

I wedge my umbrella in a corner, leaving it to drip on the mat.

He makes a phlegmy sound deep in his throat, one that I take for not so hot, and motions me deeper into the warehouse. His pace is painfully slow—thump shuffle, thump shuffle. I make a quick pit stop at Gijs, who is panting at me in recognition but too lazy to get up from his bed, then I match my steps to Jan’s.

“Bored out of my mind,”

he says. “Nothing is moving right now, not with two people dead and the cops everywhere. I’m sure you’ve heard about the raid. One of the kitschy stores around the corner that charges a hundred bucks for a perfumed candle. If you ask me, that’s the real crime.”

I hadn’t heard about the raid, but I’m not all that surprised. If Thomas’s private investigator had intel that brought him here, to the Nine Streets, the police will have had the same info. They would have followed the same trail. If Jan is smart, he’s emptied his back room of everything but mirrors.

“At least it wasn’t a grenade on the stoop,”

he says. “That would have been really bad.”

I give him a wry smile, because he’s not wrong. Grenades are a favorite mob calling card, left on the doorsteps of restaurants and stores as both a threat and a warning. Whenever the police or heaven forbid a passer-by stumbles upon one, they shutter the store for months.

We come into the workshop, a long space that runs along the entire back of the building, where dozens of mirrors in various states of repair lie on wheeled tables, topped with paint pots and brushes on rags. Shelves cover the far wall, lined with a disarray of supplies in antique glass jars, plaster and clay and gold leafing, agate for polishing. Jan explained the process to me once, a long lecture on the ancient techniques and products he uses to painstakingly restore the glass and frames, and I have to give it to him, his mirrors really are spectacular.

He points me to a round table by the kitchenette, then pours two steaming cups of coffee and carries them over. He sinks onto the chair across from me. “Now. Tell me what was so important that you had to see me today.”

“I need a gun.”

Jan huffs a breathy laugh. “You Americans and your guns. Do you even know how to shoot one?”

“Stop being difficult and just tell me where I can buy one.”

“How soon you need it?”

“Quickly. Immediately.”

I pat the pocket of my coat, the thick wad of bills sitting inside. “I brought cash.”

Jan reaches down the table for a spiral notebook, then scribbles an address on the top sheet, rips it off, and passes it to me. “Ask for Maksim. I’ll let him know you’re on your way. What else?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the diamonds that disappeared from Xander’s safe the night he was killed.”

Beyond the missing necklace, the reports have been rather vague about what kind or how many, as I’m guessing nobody but Xander knew what was in there. All those diamonds the Asian lab tucked into their legit shipments to House of Prins and intercepted by Xander, but how many stones? How many shipments? Perhaps a Cullinan or two or nine? Now that Xander’s dead, there’s no one to do inventory except the person who emptied the safe.

But when it comes to black market stones, Jan has his ear to the ground. He knows all the players, gets wind of who’s moving which merchandise. If those diamonds from Xander’s safe have made their way to the market, Jan will know where they are, who’s got them.

Jan takes a noisy sip of his coffee. “Sure, I heard.”

“Twelve of my diamonds were in his safe. The ones Xander grew to match these.”

I tug a stack of papers from my bag and push them across the table, copies of the GIA certifications for stones in pieces Thomas has given me over the years. A pair of solitaire earrings, the stones seven carats apiece. A pendant in the shape of a pear, the diamond big and bright canary yellow. The six-carat diamond, bright and internally flawless, in my engagement ring. Another ring with a cluster of cushion and brilliant-cut diamonds arranged into an elaborate flower, with a whopping nineteen-carat total weight. This last one will be the most difficult to replicate, but I don’t want to replicate any of these pieces. I only want Jan here to switch out the stones.

He looks at the papers, but he doesn’t reach for them.

“Forget those stones. Those stones are history.”

“Come on, Jan. I know you know where they are.”

“I never said that I didn’t. Only that you should forget about them.”

I frown, giving a hard shake of my head. “I can’t do that. My circumstances have changed these past few days. I need those diamonds.”

It was the original deal I made with Xander: twelve lab-grown twins to twelve of my most valuable diamonds—a street value of a million euros combined—in exchange for the center stone in the bracelet, the last surviving Cullinan. For Xander, it was the deal of the century.

Only he never got that Cullinan and I never got my twelve diamonds. He was killed before we could make the exchange, before I could get the diamonds to Jan for him to make disappear. All those buyers of his, they’re not coming to him only for the mirrors. They’re coming for mirrors stuffed with diamonds then shipped off to addresses in the Middle East, Asia, South America. Diamonds that will soon be mounted on fingers and hanging from wrists, and not resurface anytime soon on the black market.

Which means Thomas will never see my twelve switched-out stones. He’ll never think to be suspicious. It’s not a foolproof plan, I am well aware, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

“I can pay.”

I wriggle off my engagement ring and settle it onto the desk. “Reset it with the matching lab-grown, and the middle stone is yours. Six carats, internally flawless. Want to grab a loupe?”

Jan stares at the ring for a couple of breaths, and I know I don’t have to sell him on the cut or quality. Jan knows what this stone is worth. He knows it’ll pay for the twelve lab-growns and then some.

“Nah. I trust you,”

he says finally, his gaze lifting to meet mine. “But I also like you, and as much as I want to help you out, the best way I can do that is by telling you to leave it alone. This road you’re walking down, it’s dangerous.”

“My twelve stones are dangerous?”

“Yes. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that two men are dead. Buyers are spooked, and you should be, too.”

“I’m well aware of the danger here, but I’m also desperate. My marriage . . . it’s not working out.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Whoever’s got those twelve stones, I can offer them the same deal. The center stone for the lab-growns.”

He laughs, another phlegmy bark.

“At least tell me where they are so I can—”

“You want to know where these stones are?”

He taps a finger to the certificate copies, still sitting between us on the table, his fingertip a direct hit on one word in particular. “Look inside your own house.”

Prins. The word is Prins. Look for Xander’s stones inside House of Prins?

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Ask yourself what could have happened to Xander’s stones, all those matches to Prins diamonds that sold for millions and millions of dollars. It’s the same thing that happened to the Cullinans.”

The Cullinans.

“What do Xander’s lab-growns have to do with the Cullinans?”

“Think about it, . Ask yourself who had the most to gain.”

“The Cullinans are worth hundreds of millions of euros.”

I frown, shake my head again. “Literally everybody had the most to gain.”

Jan smiles. “And at least three of them go by the name of Prins.”

Jan’s words chase me across town to Maksim.

Look inside your own house.

If I’m to believe Jan, those twelve stones that Xander grew to match twelve of mine, are in the same place as the nine missing Cullinans.

Think about who had the most to gain.

At least three of them go by the name of Prins.

If that’s true, if one of the Prinses cleaned out the Cullinan drawer, then it really would be the heist of the century. The flagship House of Prins stones, stolen by a Prins. Claiming their precious Cullinans were lifted and collecting the insurance money while secretly keeping their diamonds. Not a theft, but an elaborate insurance scam.

I think about Thomas firing Xander only hours before he was strangled in the shower. About the dead trader with a hole in his head and the instructions for printing a 3D gun on Thomas’s desk. About my husband who will do just about anything to protect his beloved House. Thomas, who, if I’m to believe Jan, may also have my twelve lab-grown diamonds.

All this time, I thought I knew who killed Xander, but now I wonder if I was wrong.

The transaction with Maksim takes place in the back room of an ethnic clothing store, and it’s quick and surprisingly easy. A loaded Ukrainian pistol for less than €800, but thanks to a delay with the trams, I’m almost late picking up Sem. I make it to school just as the double doors burst open with an explosive whack, letting out a thick stream of noisy kids. They race out the doors and scatter across the concrete slabs, an army of ants in floppy hats and bright, puffy coats, running every which way. I search their faces for Sem, but there are so many little bodies, and not one of them is standing still.

But because this is the lunch break and we have to do this all over again in ninety short minutes, folks generally don’t linger long. One by one, the kids peel away and head for home. The older kids to the kid-sized bikes, the younger ones hoisted onto their parent’s bike seat. I stand here as the crowd thins out, frowning when I don’t find Sem.

My gaze wanders down the building to the windows of his classroom. I spot his teacher, Juf Addie, behind the glass, talking to someone pint-sized—an adorable blond boy. I pull out my phone to see if I missed a text or call, but there’s nothing. Maybe Sem needed to stay longer for some reason? Maybe he needed a quick pit stop at the bathroom?

I head across the schoolyard for the double doors.

Inside, the hallway is quiet, the coat hooks mostly empty except for the few kids who stay during the lunch break, the ones with working mothers and no nanny. I hear them somewhere deep inside the building, a muffled clamor of children’s laughter.

At Juf Addie’s room at the end of the hall, I rap a knuckle against the wood, then hang my head into the open doorway. “Hi. I’m looking for Sem.”

I say it in my best Dutch. The teachers here understand English just fine, but they’re a whole lot nicer when you speak to them in their native tongue.

Addie looks up with a smile. “Oh, , you made it. You just missed him, though. He left about”—she glances at the clock on the far wall—“seventeen minutes ago.”

Seventeen minutes is before the bell, and by a good ten minutes. Sem left school ten minutes early.

“What do you mean he left? With who? Did Martina pick him up?”

Addie frowns, a combination of confusion and worry. “Not Martina. His aunt. I don’t remember her name, but she was listed in Sem’s file as an emergency contact. Sem knew her. He went willingly.”

His aunt. Sem only has one, but never, not once, has Fleur ever picked him up from anywhere. Not from our home for a sleepover with his cousins, definitely not from school. I’m surprised she even knows where to find him.

“Fleur?”

“Yes, Fleur. That’s her name. She said you had an unexpected appointment outside the city. She was to fetch Sem and take him back to her house, so you could pick him up after. She told me not to expect him back until tomorrow.”

Now I’m really confused. Fleur lives all the way in Blaricum, which means I have to go home, switch out my bike for the car, and fight traffic on the A1 there and back.

And why? What for? Fleur isn’t exactly a doting aunt. She never bothered learning even the simplest of signs when Sem’s world was still silent, she never asks what shows he likes or what books he reads or what subjects are his favorites at school. She didn’t call to make plans. She never asks to spend the afternoon with her nephew. This makes no sense.

“Did I do something wrong? Was he not supposed to go with her?”

Addie says, starting to look worried again. “She promised the McDonald’s drive-through. Sem was very excited.”

What kid wouldn’t be? And Fleur is smart. She knew Sem wouldn’t love the prospect of an entire afternoon with the twins treating him like the pesky baby brother. The promise of a Happy Meal was the only way she could get him out the door quickly, without complaint or pushback.

I thank Addie and rush back down the hallway and out the double doors, my skin prickling in warning. Something is not right. As I hustle across the yard to my parked bike, I hit Call for Fleur’s cell. She takes her sweet time, letting it ring three full times before answering.

“, what a surprise.”

Fleur is in the car. I hear the zoom of wheels on asphalt, the hiss of wind rushing past. I picture Sem sitting on the back seat of her big Range Rover, and I wonder if she thought to bring a booster seat. Probably not. Fleur never wanted a third child, and she would have purged her house of all of that stuff the second it was no longer useful. Whatever booster seats she once had are long gone.

“As much as I applaud you wanting to spend time with your nephew, want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I have something I’d like to discuss. In private. As soon as we hang up, I’ll text you an address. Meet me there and I’ll explain.”

“Explain what? Am I on speaker? Sem, can you hear me?”

Even if I am on speaker, it’s a crapshoot as to whether or not Sem will pick up on my voice. If Sem’s busy on an iPad, for example, or focused on something outside the car windows, I could be screaming and he’d likely not notice. Sem hears when he knows to listen.

“Sem’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Sem. Sem! If you’re listening, baby, say something. Say—”

“.”

Fleur’s voice cuts through mine, a harsh bark that kills the words in my throat. “You’re the one who needs to listen. Watch for the text. Meet me at the address I send you. And don’t mention this to Thomas. What I want to talk to you about has to do with him.”

I haul a breath—to ask her what’s going on, to scream another time for Sem—but it’s too late. The line is already dead.