Blatt replaced the case on the tray. “I don’t understand.”
“All of it is fake. The dial, the hands, the clasp, the movement. Fake. Fake. Fake.”
“But…”
Gruber offered a weak shrug as consolation. “Boris, you’ve been had.”
Blatt left the building. An idea had come into his mind, and with every step he grew more convinced of it. At some point during the four weeks he’d been in possession of the watch, someone had stolen it and replaced it with a counterfeit.
Blatt’s bewilderment hardened to anger.
He would find the thief.
And he would punish him.
Chapter 29
Simon took a cab back to his hotel. He undressed and put on a robe, then ordered a light dinner from room service, including an order of fresh sardines and toast. He had an idea he might be drinking more than he’d like later in the evening, and the fish and bread was a proven measure to lessen the effects of alcohol. Waiting for the meal to arrive, he reviewed the notes from Delacroix’s phone. Once again, he was astounded as to the security man’s access to the prince’s most private data. The next step involved using that data—national identity number, credit card numbers, and more—to gain access to the prince’s email and phone records.
Dinner arrived punctually. He ate quickly, putting aside the sardines for later. Afterward, he rested for an hour, dozing fitfully. He woke at nine and showered. Toweling dry, he regarded himself in the mirror. The scar on his hip from the policeman’s bullet had hardened to a weal the size of a bottle cap. The bullet that had struck his shoulder had done more damage, shattering the clavicle and tearing the deltoid muscles, requiring two bouts on the operating table.
The result was an eight-inch incision that after all the years had gone white as bone. He had other scars, but these were from prison: a few puncture wounds in the abdomen, a nasty zigzag on his ribs courtesy of a serrated shank, and a patch on his thigh where he’d been scalded by boiling water. All these he viewed with bemusement. The other guy had gotten worse on every occasion.
Which brought him to the unsightly memento on his scalp.
He leaned closer to the mirror, running a finger along the jagged mark. Until a few years ago, his hairline had covered it entirely. But Father Time owed him no favors, nor did he expect any. He’d cheated death once too often. The scar on his forehead was a reminder that each day was a gift.
He closed his eyes, remembering the day long ago. He saw himself coming out of the shower, naked, unarmed, and wholly unawares. “Ledoux,” shouted someone behind him. He turned and stepped into the blow, delivered with an enemy’s worst intentions. The weapon was an iron bar fashioned from the leg of a prison cot, its leading edge sharpened like a hatchet. There had been no pain—not then, at least. There had been only a sickening crunch that exploded in the space between his ears and the leering face of the man who wanted him dead. He would forget neither as long as he lived.
Simon opened his eyes.
He still owed the other guy for that one.
Weak people avenge. Strong people forgive. Intelligent people ignore.
Another of the monsignor’s gems.
The jury was still out as to which of these Simon was.
Life in a box.
The cell measured ten paces by six.
Concrete walls that bled with damp.
A steel cot. No mattress. No blanket.
A hole in the floor.
A spigot.
A weak incandescent bulb protected by a sturdy cage that burned all day and all night.
Two meals a day.
Breakfast: bread, coffee. Dinner: boiled potato, egg, and, once a week, a square of dark chocolate.
No books.
