The Red Diamond

supporter.

CHAPTER 1

CLARISSA STANFORD SAT suspended in a mental storm. Fear clawed her entire being. Consequences to those who didn’t play by the rules kept repeating in her head. The warning could no longer be ignored. Later today, she hoped to correct things, make amends. But for now, it was a waiting game.

Internal conflict raged on as Clarissa stirred her hot mocha latte. Am I losing it? Maybe this is only hysterical paranoia, and I’m conjuring up demons that don’t exist!

The busy coffee house where Clarissa was passing time was just a short jaunt from the old location of the Gemological Institute of America (GIA) in Santa Monica, California. The twenty-something crowd was simply too self-absorbed to notice the apprehensive blonde sitting alone by the window. The line of preoccupied customers attentive only to texting or gabbing on cell phones surfaced only to place an order, pick up their brew and go. At 9 a.m., few hung around to take in the mix.

At twenty-five, Clarissa thought she knew it all. She had counted on and succeeded in utilizing her great looks most of her adult life. Her trump card, possessing a sexy, curvaceous figure, proved repeatedly to be irresistible to men. She was used to getting her way—sex being her tool of choice. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder how her life had become so complicated.

She had graduated the year before from GIA’s formidable hillside complex located in Carlsbad, California; yet, home and business ties were here in West Los Angeles, close to its previous headquarters. She sailed through UCLA, earning both her BA and MFA Degrees. Not wasting any time, she enrolled at the GIA for the Graduate Gemology program. During those months of schooling, she lived and breathed gemstones from morning until night. Despite the demanding curriculum, Clarissa garnered the highest grade in her graduating class. The new gemologist felt invincible. Then a job offer too good to be true was hers for the taking.

If Clarissa had foreseen the true depth of what she was getting herself into, she’d undo everything. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. Looking down at the expensive Prada handbag, designer jeans, and pricey Louboutin shoes, Clarissa knew she had made a poor decision. Greed and naiveté were a dangerous couple, and she had chosen to dance with the devil. Guess she wasn’t that smart after all.

Upon reflection, she’d been up most of the past night stressing over her worrisome situation. When she awoke, she walked Tiffany Ann, her miniature poodle, around her condominium complex off of Barrington in Brentwood. Tired and edgy, Clarissa’s antenna was up and on alert for anyone or anything that appeared suspicious. Confident that she wasn’t being monitored or followed, the anxious blonde felt a false sense of security and returned to her apartment. Once inside, though, Clarissa’s mind continued to ricochet alarm. With nerves frayed, she simply had to get out. A caffeine fix was essential before going to meet her friend.

Like a bell going off in her head, Clarissa was startled back to the present. Someone was asking to bum a chair from her table.

Of course, help yourself, she responded, jittery, then glanced at her watch.

She’d left a pointed text for her best friend, Talya Solomon, the night before to meet at 11 o’clock at Le Petit Café, a French bistro not far from the coffee house. The text was self-explanatory. It was essential that she come. Clarissa knew she needed to be careful, very careful. She didn’t respond to the two texts that came back from Talya, fearful that her texting was being monitored. After all, the cell phone had come from her boss.

Then her mind zeroed in on the cause of her distress, one that would prove to be life-changing. She had been contacted by a representative for a foreign collector whose identity was withheld because of his wish for anonymity. The messenger congratulated her on earning the top spot in her graduating class. As a result, there was a job in the offing. Would she be interested, and could she meet for dinner the following night? His employer would only be in the United States through the weekend.

Clarissa’s curiosity and ego got the better of her. The heavily accented representative arranged a meeting with her in La Jolla at George’s restaurant the following night. Depending upon the outcome of that conversation, a second appointment would be arranged in Santa Monica on Saturday for a quick intro with the mysterious individual who was interested in hiring her for a healthy six-figure amount. A coffee house came to mind—this coffee house—a safe house.

Clarissa sidestepped the unsettling memory. She peered at her watch again. It was only 9:40 a.m. Her insides churned. Time was moving by robotically, and her patience was losing ground. The young gemologist was too anxious to stay put for another hour. Instead, she decided to drive to the beach and listen to the peaceful sounds of the ocean. Then she’d return to the café in time to make her appointment with Tal. She could always count on her best friend.

Clarissa would finally tell Talya Solomon the whole truth. She would explain why she kept the whole matter under wraps. The dangerous reasons for her lies. How else could she explain the expensive condo, sports car, furnishings, and clothes? Her job as an appraiser for an international billionaire who chose to stay anonymous was simply smoke and mirrors.

Then something inexplicable caused goosebumps to trigger across her body and make her hands clammy. Clarissa sensed eyes looking at her but saw no one.

OUTSIDE, ANGLING across 26th Street, the morning sun reflected the silhouette of a gray sedan with a lone male driver mirrored against the window where Clarissa sat within. The man sat chuckling to himself.

This is going to be a slam dunk, no doubt about it.

The assassin had nothing but time and had received a thick wad of cash in advance. A fully loaded Glock 9mm pistol was sitting next to him ready for the job at hand—though he had alternatives. The killer had been on her tail for the past twenty-four hours. Watching from afar, he saw her every move. She’d give any guy a hard-on.

In another time, he would approach the mark and take her somewhere private to have his way but not today. The moneyman behind the contract wanted a clean job, and sex wasn’t part of the deal. Damn, he thought. He could use the physical release. His groin twisted in hungry frustration. Then he turned on the news.

"Same old shit. Just another day in bullshit paradise," he said mockingly.

He shoved another cigarette between his brown stained teeth and lit up. His sunglasses and baseball cap shielded the moving sun and his identity. The hit man could be patient. The surroundings paid him no mind. Cars whizzed by with drivers immune to anything but red lights. His car was merely a part of the sprawling landscape that made Santa Monica a popular destination point. By the conclusion of the day, Clarissa Stanford would be just another dead end.

THE BEACH COMMUNITY of Venice, California, was a fifteen-minute drive to the coast. The community boasted a reputation for being a haven for artists, fashionistas, actors, and the misunderstood. The streets always teamed with walkers, cyclists, and the curious. A mixture of quaint shops lined Windward Circle and Pacific right down to the beach. It was common to see the homeless and downtrodden with cart in tow begging for handouts, while rich, older men prowled the establishments for the young innocence they had lost years before. In Venice, anything was possible.

Talya Solomon was almost finished peddling her ten-speed down Main Street on her return trip home. The eight-mile trek she rode often hadn’t changed since she started using this course six months back. The summer heat spell rose toward the 87°F predicted high, causing excessive perspiration to run down her forehead and cloud up her wraparound sunglasses. Her chestnut brown hair twisted through the opening in the back of her Dodger baseball cap was saturated. A toned, muscular body emerged through her tight spandex tank top and shorts as she peddled south. Talya kept her twenty-nine-year-old body in top physical condition.

The scenery of locals and tourists crowding the sidewalks and bike paths usually made for good distraction. But not today—Talya’s mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t keep from thinking about the alarming text message her friend Clarissa had left on her cell the night before.

HAV2 TALK

NEED HELP! N DANGER

DO NOT CALL! MEET 2MORRO

11AM FRENCH CAFÉ

When she tried texting her friend back, there was no response—not last night, or this morning. Talya slept fitfully, trying to imagine what kind of danger Clarissa could be in. Regardless, she would be home soon, quickly shower, and show up promptly at 11 to hear the story. It had better be a good one to unnerve me like this! Fortunately, her first appointment wasn’t until 2:30 p.m.

Born of Russian and German Jewish immigrants, Talya was fluent in Russian, Hebrew, and German. Her family had fled from Russia to Israel in ’92, leaving again for domicile in the United States in 2002. Her father, a respected diamond cutter in Ramat Gan, a major diamond exchange in Israel, had taught his exceptionally bright daughter the ins and outs of the diamond trade during her late teens. His two sons showed no interest early on.

Benjamin Solomon, Talya’s uncle, immigrated to the U.S. in 2001 and was the motivating factor for Julius to uproot his family and move to Southern California. Ben convinced his brother that the diamond business was good in Los Angeles. Plus, it was much safer living in the States than in Israel. Life changed radically for the Solomons. Assimilating into the new culture wasn’t as easy as they’d hoped.

Even as a young girl, Talya had big aspirations, yet no one close to her really knew what made Talya Solomon tick. Growing up, the remarkably bright girl kept to herself, making few friends. Yet, there was another side to this deeply private female. Talya was gifted with a sixth sense. She learned to listen to her inner guide no matter what her intellect demanded. As time moved forward, one thing became certain. No person could intimidate or catch her off guard.

Talya graduated summa cum laude from Stanford University, earning her BA and MFA degrees, followed by a GG degree from the GIA. She did weekend apprentice work at Solomon’s Fine Jewels, her Uncle Ben’s jewelry and watch repair store in Brentwood. Talya created Solomon’s Appraisal Service and went solo after becoming a gemologist. Having wealthy and influential clients in Brentwood helped the savvy gemologist build a successful appraisal business. However, when Sotheby’s LA offered her a position, it was a done deal. As an appraiser of fine jewels for Sotheby’s, Talya had a sought-after job with great pay, benefits, and respect—but she had greater ambitions, and Sotheby’s could help her get into the big leagues.

CHAPTER 2

CLARISSA JUST COULDN’T shake the uneasy feeling that eyes were watching her every move. She decided it was time to go, then noticed a troubling picture all at once. A grey sedan parked across the street hadn’t moved since she arrived. That, in itself, wasn’t odd, but someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.

Why? she wondered.

No one had entered or left the car. That she would have noticed. With the rush of people moving in and out of the coffee house, cars came and went quickly. He wasn’t waiting for a friend; he or she would have already been through the line and long gone. Clarissa had been sitting in the corner window seat for well over an hour, and that damn car had been there the entire time.

Clarissa saw the bathroom sign and nonchalantly got up. She intentionally left her coffee and magazine on the table as if she was coming back. She turned away and caught the reflection of the car and driver in the mirror that covered the wall behind the coffee counter. Someone was definitely watching her, probably tailing her. She asked the young male server working the cappuccino machine if she could get a refill, claiming her coffee had gone cold.

Not a problem, he said, looking up. Just gimme a sec.

Catching his gaze, she quietly added with an urgent look in her eyes. By the way, is there a back way out?

He looked at her rather peculiarly. Realizing what it must sound like, Clarissa explained a believable situation. An ex-boyfriend was stalking her, and she didn’t want a scene. The jerk was waiting out front to top it off.

The server gave the pretty blonde a wink, poured her a fresh cup, and tilted his head toward a closed door located past the restrooms. Just then, a new rush of coffee addicts came piling through the front door. The line of absorbed customers were comatose to anything but the smell of freshly ground coffee permeating the air and caffeine fix waiting to bombard their brains. Clarissa used the opportunity to squeeze through the human blockade and exit out the back way.

IT WAS 10 A.M. when Talya arrived home pumped and invigorated. She stored her bike back inside the garage against the wall and ran up the stairs to her second-story hideaway. She rented a small one-bedroom apartment off of 19th Avenue in Venice. Talya had more than enough time to shower, dress, and drive to the restaurant.

She would come back after meeting with Clarissa to properly dress for her appointment, but for now, slacks and a halter top would suffice. Minimal makeup was all Talya used. Her mother’s Jewish-Russian heritage contributed to her strong features, dark eyes, and smooth olive skin, while her father’s part-German gene pool accounted for her tall, muscular frame. Talya was nothing short of gorgeous.

Unlike her friend Clarissa, who used sex as a tool, Talya was no easier to access than the gemstones she appraised that were locked up in vaults. Trusting men wasn’t one of her strong suits. At 10:30, she was ready to leave.

CHAPTER 3

9 P.M.

MOSCOW

ON THE TOP FLOOR of a state-of-the-art office building overlooking the Moscow River, Dmitry Novikov was sitting at his desk. He swiveled back and peered out the window of his penthouse office suite, observing Central Moscow. Just thirty floors below, Red Square held court. The massive project, Moscow’s International Business Centre (MIBC), commonly called Moscow-City, was Moscow’s answer to the fast-paced competition amongst emerging countries seeking the forefront for skyscraper-futuristic cities. Dmitry had been involved from the start on the major project and got the pick of office space in Tower 2000.

Just a matter of putting money into the right pocket, he mused.

The sun still hung high in the sky—even though it was 9 p.m. At this time of year, darkness came late to Russia. Shifting back in his chair, Dmitry admired the grandiose office that surrounded him—his own brilliant creation. He sat like a king on the penthouse floor of Tower 2000 wearing his chocolate brown Brioni pinstripe suit—his impeccable looks a key component to his powerful image.

At 6′ 3″, Dmitry was not only in top physical form but a force to be reckoned with. A strong jaw balanced by high cheekbones framed his striking face. Piercing ice-blue eyes and coal-black hair added to his magnetism. His daily attire consisted of white silk shirts with French cuffs and the finest of handmade suits. He had more Hermés ties than the boutiques he patronized.

The floors beneath his feet were inlaid with rare Italian marbles in striking shades of red, pink, gold, green, and alabaster, intertwined in dramatic Old World patterns. In various areas of the massive room, museum-quality Royal Kerman and Tabriz Persian Rugs laid claim to the marble artistry they complemented. Antiques from 16th- and 17th-century European castles dotted the large space. Even treasures from the Russian Czars graced this private museum. The spoils of war and backroom deals with the underbelly of the art world proved anything could be had for a price.

His eyes traveled along the walls, being greeted by some of the finest masterpieces museums across the globe would kill to acquire. Dmitry knew—Dmitry had. His heart raced as he admired his collection of Renoir, Titian, Caravaggio, Donatello, and Bellini. The entire space, temperature, and humidity control ensured the best possible environment for the artwork and antiques.

By twenty-five, Dmitry was already a self-made millionaire. With a master’s degree in architecture from the Moscow Architectural Institute, he had his hand in major infrastructure projects throughout the country. Now, at forty-two, he had achieved the status of billionaire. Dmitry was on top of the world, and everything and everyone was beneath him. He had three bodyguards round the clock, always out of sight but never out of reach.

This evening, however, he had other things to ponder. Just a year ago, he had hired that American gemologist, Clarissa Stanford, to represent him in acquisitions of important gemstones—truly the center of his vast collections. He learned early on that appraisers were often better contacts than the brokers that hounded him on all fronts. Everyone, including his competitors, knew that The Russian, as he was aptly named because no one knew his real identity, was a man of great means and had a voracious appetite for possessing the best.

In the beginning, the girl was worth her salt. She was excellent at her job and attended all the major auctions throughout the world on his behalf. He was never disappointed with her acquisitions. Yet, now he was at an impasse.

Dmitry was a man of discipline and kept his personal life separate from his business affairs. He had a stable of gorgeous Russian and Scandinavian women available to him any time to do his bidding whenever he wanted a warm body to touch. His life was completely compartmentalized.

A rough childhood and an abusive, alcoholic father discouraged him from finding a wife and settling down. He knew early on that his blood ran cold, and sentiment lost out to other priorities. Maintaining concealment of his identity was mandatory in order to protect his secret world. However, he was still human, and Clarissa was exceedingly smart, beautiful, and sexy. His dilemma was real, nonetheless.

Novikov, or as his birth certificate stated Boris Petrovskii, reveled in his ability at deceit and camouflage. His father’s bloodline made it easy for him to change his name. He wanted nothing to do with his Arab heritage, but that didn’t stop him from having business dealings with the Arab world.

His grandfather, Viktor Petrovskii, had married a Yemeni girl, aged twelve. Abdullah Ahmed, a Yemeni rag trader, bartered off his only virgin daughter to the rich businessman from Moscow as part of a business deal if Petrovskii would contract the man’s exclusive brand of handmade textiles back in Russia. An unexpected pregnancy ushered forth a quick marriage that seven months later produced a son aptly named Igor, his repugnant father. He knew he couldn’t blame his young grandmother for the raping she endured at the hands of his vile grandfather, but his own ruinous youth was a by-product of that union.

At age eleven, Boris was forever disfigured, branded across his back with a cattle prod by his sadistic father. He also endured countless beatings during his youth when Igor had too much vodka.

Boris learned the art of murder with his first killing, a present he gave to himself when he turned sixteen. Without the slightest bit of remorse, he slit Igor Petrovskii’s throat and left him to wallow in his own blood. He didn’t even say goodbye to his abused, pathetic mother; he simply left, quickly changing his name and his world.

Dmitry refocused his thoughts to the present and Clarissa. He had already killed twice on her account. Her own execution was being carried out this very night. Then Dmitry got up from his burnished red leather armchair and walked across the opulent room to a wall where his only DaVinci painting hung. He paid homage to the master of the Renaissance, as DaVinci understood science as well as art. It was fitting that DaVinci would lead the way to his inner sanctum and the core of his priceless collections. He took both hands and shifted the painting to the left, then pressed his right hand against a lit scanner that was flush with the wall.

He stood back. Quietly, the bogus wall swung open. Dmitry pulled a remote control from out of his right pocket and tapped a code into the keypad, causing the entire inside vault to come alive with light.

Had anyone been there to witness this event, their eyes would have danced with awe and delight. The vault was covered from floor to ceiling with sparkling gemstones, including crowns, golden swords encrusted with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and riches that defied imagination, resting upon etched glass shelves anchored by gold and platinum hardware. The entire room radiated in spectral brilliance.

For Dmitry, all was simply a backdrop for the stone that shared no companion at the center of the vault. Sitting upon a simple marble pedestal atop a ten-inch crystal pyramid with an indented top was the rarest diamond in the world and probably the most valuable. A 24.02 carat, round brilliant, fancy intense red diamond shimmered back at him. To date, the Moussaieff Red diamond, at 5.11 cts., was known to be the world’s largest red diamond. The Dmitry Diamond, cut at 24.02 cts., was clearly in a league by itself. This treasure was unquestionably the rarest of all his collections. Nature’s gift to the universe. All the diamond cutter did was to release its beauty before meeting his own fate. Just another loose end tidied up.

Dmitry Novikov nodded in respect. At that moment, Dmitry knew he’d kill again and again to keep his treasure hidden and secure.

CHAPTER 4

CLARISSA MADE HER WAY outside through the back door of the coffee house unnoticed except for a giant German Shepherd sitting in a pickup truck parked next to the exit. It was clear the truck was parked in the rear for deliveries, the side panels advertising the best baked goods on the Westside. Worried the dog might start barking and bring unwanted attention, Clarissa passed quickly by.

Fortunately, the back door led to an alleyway that fed to the street where Clarissa’s car was parked. Her path to safety was protected by the corner building’s canopy that swung around the block as a shield for outside diners, leaving the chaser in front blind to her escape. With car keys in hand, she made the final stretch.

Luckily, Clarissa’s black M6 BMW was parked in front of a commercial driveway on Colorado Ave. Once inside, she backed her convertible into the lot, then bolted straight out of the driveway. Clarissa took side streets south, aiming for Olympic Blvd., the goal being the Santa Monica Freeway westbound. She wasn’t even 100% positive the guy in the gray sedan was after her or if her paranoia had gone into overdrive. Regardless, distance seemed the best option for her at the moment.

As the escapee got further and further away, she couldn’t help but think about Marcelo Branco. Frightening thoughts bombarded her brain. Was his murder her fault? Things that she had pushed back, repressed for fear of untold consequences, surfaced now with a vengeance. She released an agonizing sigh, accepting the fact that her storybook job was just a hoax.

Clarissa caught the freeway at Centinela and Pico, heading west toward the coast. She hadn’t seen the gray sedan since leaving the coffee house, despite checking in her rearview mirror often. Confident the getaway was undetected, her body finally eased up, and welcomed a sense of calm. Traffic was light with rush hour behind, leaving her mind clear to think as she headed toward the beach.

Remembering back, Dmitry’s representative, Anatoly Levkov, had told her at George’s restaurant that the individual wanting to hire her was extremely affluent and powerful. He was a world-class collector of fine art and collectibles and always got what he wanted. Now she understood what that meant. She would have access to private jets, a generous expense account, and bonuses for finding and procuring rare gemstones, not to mention a $250,000 salary.

Anatoly warned her that a breach of confidentiality would be grounds for immediate suspension, loss of employment, and possible consequences. He placed a $20,000 cashier’s check made out to Clarissa Stanford on the table as a sign-on bonus.

Name me one person that wouldn’t have snatched up that check? She defended herself at first, then berated her actions