LITMIR.BIZ

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really, to transfer funds where they’ll be safe even if there’s a revolution, and where the funds can be used by the Ins if they become Outs. To help them become Ins again. The cash has been sent to places like Berne and Tangier and Hong Kong.”

      “The free-money markets.”

      “Yes. But none was deposited in the United States because of possible legal complications. I guess you’d know about that.” She tapped ash from her cigarette. Her nails were almond-shaped, the polish blood red. Somehow I hadn’t noticed before.

      She said, “My father has been in the diplomatic service nearly thirty years. He’s known and trusted. When his government started sending assets abroad they sent something here for his safe-keeping. Something rather special.” Picking up the glass, she sipped cognac and set it back on the chow table.

      “How special?” I asked.

      She said, “If you know anything about my father’s country, you know most of its wealth comes from mining. Copper, lead, silver, and gold. And gems. Some of the finest amethysts in the world are mined there.” She looked at me sideways. “Do you know anything about emeralds?”

      “I’ve never bought any, if that’s what you mean.”

      “Well, they’re the most expensive precious stone in the world.”

      “More so than diamonds?”

      “Considerably more. Because they’re awfully rare—the perfect ones. The best have a deep velvety green color. The Czar’s Emerald is the largest perfect cut emerald in the world and weighs only about thirty carats.”

      “Worth how much?”

      “It isn’t for sale, but I’ve heard it’s worth close to a million dollars. There’s a much larger emerald crystal, though, still uncut, that weighs about fourteen hundred carats.”

      “Quite a chunk.”

      “If the wastage in cutting brought it down to a thousand carats, then at the same value as the Czar’s Emerald it would be worth around thirty million dollars. But it is badly flawed.”

      The room was cold but my forehead was damp. I mopped away the perspiration. “Is this the emerald we’re talking about?”

      “No, unfortunately, because it wouldn’t be marketable. It’s known as the Devonshire Emerald because it was bought by the Duke of Devonshire. No, the emerald sent to my father is a National Treasure. It has an odd and ancient history. Some historians claim it came from Cleopatra’s Mines on the Red Sea, others that it was found in Madagascar and brought to the New World by a Portuguese sea captain. In South America it is called La Verde de Madagascar: The Madagascar Green.”

      A burst of sound blasted through the duplex wall. Iris leaned back and pounded angrily on the wall. The volume lowered suddenly and she turned back to me. “Tracy Farnham,” she said. “Another hi-fi addict. It’s his quaint way of letting me know he’s home.”

      “A friend of yours?”

      She hesitated. “Well—a neighbor.”

      “Any other cute traits?”

      “A few. He goes in for Yoga and health foods. And he collects old coins.”

      “I always inclined toward flint arrowheads,” I told her. “Old coins usually went for pop and licorice candy. Well, back to the missing emerald.”

      “Yes. It weighs slightly under twenty-nine carats. It is flawless and its color is a deep velvety green. It is polished and step cut. It has been appraised at more than a million dollars. For a month it was in a small package in Father’s safe at the Embassy. Wednesday, when Silvio didn’t appear, Father opened his safe to make sure everything was still there. Everything was—except the emerald. Silvio must have taken it Tuesday night while he was at the Embassy. Father knows he’s personally responsible for it and the fact that it’s missing can’t be made public because it would become a burning political issue back home. The Outs would scream that the National Treasury had been ravaged by the government, and they might even be able to use the issue to set off a revolution.”

      “If Silvio has the emerald, what could he do with it?”

      “Have it cut into smaller stones here or in Europe, sell them, and live happily ever after. Or if his political sympathies happen to lie with the Outs he might even have stolen it to provide them with the issue they need. You guessed correctly that just finding Silvio wasn’t a matter of life or death, but finding the emerald is.”

      “Other than the Ambassador, who could get into his safe?”

      “Only the courier—Silvio. Father—everyone—trusted him completely. He’s been a courier for years. Father shared the combination with him as a matter of convenience. Planes don’t always arrive during office hours and it was much easier that Silvio could simply come to the Embassy at night, open the safe, leave the pouch, and come back in the morning.”

      “Sara?”

      She shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

      “Children have stolen from parents before. Do you know anyone not belonging to the Embassy who goes there a lot? To visit your father, for instance?”

      She considered for a moment, and then she said, “There’s my father’s brother—Uncle Oscar. He’s in business here in Washington, but he couldn’t get into father’s safe even if he wanted to.” Her eyes seemed to cloud. “Am I under suspicion, too?”

      I shrugged. “The story you’ve told me points to an obvious conclusion—Silvio was the thief. It’s so obvious I thought I’d examine other possibilities—if you don’t object.”

      “Sorry.”

      “What does Silvio look like?”

      She looked up at the ceiling, then down again. “He’s about two inches shorter than you, with cropped dark hair and a small mustache. How much do you weigh?”

      “One eighty-four.”

      “Then he’s twenty pounds lighter.”

      “Any moles or scars on his face? Got all his fingers?”

      “Well, there’s a small scar under his left eye, but it’s a very old one and you’d have to be quite close to notice it.” She lifted the cognac glass. “The suitcase he usually carried was tan leather, scuffed at the corners, with an accordion pocket on one side for shirts. Oh, and he had a blue canvas overnight bag. The kind the airlines insist on giving you. And he’s twenty-six.”

      “You’ll do,” I said, admiringly. “I could have traveled a lot farther and learned less. Does Sara know about this?”

      She shook her head, then her eyes lighted. “If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll ask her if she’s seen Silvio.”

      “Would she be likely to?”

      “No—but until she married Wayne she lived at the Embassy with Father, so she and Silvio knew each other and Silvio fell in love with her, even wanted her to marry him. It was all rather silly and impossible.”

      “Presumptious,” I said. “But even an alley cat can stare at a queen.”

      She resented it with her eyes. Finally she said, “Perhaps Sara has his picture somewhere. If that might help.”

      “It might—or your old locket photo of him would do just as well.”

      Her lips drew together tightly. “Meaning what?”

      “Pull back the claws. The outrage act doesn’t even rate a yawn these days. Meaning that if our Latin Lover was close enough to Sara to play house with her—or get large ideas about it—he was probably close enough to Big Sister to play for real. It could read like this,” I went on. “You know as much about the Madagascar Green as the government caretaker, and enough details about Silvio to be his doctor. If Silvio happened to be

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