“The two side wings are offices for Van Simson’s property business,” Jennifer whispered. “He lives on his own in the main building and has his office on the top floor.” Tom nodded. “Apparently, it’s an entirely separate construction within the original building built to Israeli military specifications to withstand a direct missile strike.”
Tom raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He had met people like Van Simson before and had long since ceased to be either surprised or impressed by the countless bizarre ways such people seemed to find to spend their money.
The front door buzzed open automatically as they approached and they stepped into the building’s cold, echoing emptiness. The vaulted ceiling soared perhaps thirty feet above their heads, while the walls and the wide square staircase that swept regally up into the darkness of the upper floors were sheathed in a somber collection of paintings and portraits. One in particular caught Tom’s eye. In it, a mother pleaded for her son to be spared, as around her Roman soldiers indiscriminately slaughtered women and children. The street ran with blood.
“Please go straight upstairs.” Another man, also clad in a black suit, had appeared out of the shadows on the left and indicated what looked like a door ahead of them. They walked toward it until it suddenly split open down the middle, revealing an elevator. There were no buttons, just a keyhole on the left, but it started up without their pressing anything.
They looked at each other in silence, a small red light on the overhead camera flashing intermittently, almost invisible under the laboratory glare of the overhead lights. With a gentle shrug, the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a large rectangular room, windows along one wall. Van Simson was behind his desk, open-necked white shirt over blue jeans, bare feet encased in soft brown suede. He stood up as soon as they came in.
“Hello, I’m Darius Van Simson.” Jennifer took his hand and shook it firmly.
“Mr. Van Simson, it is very kind of you to see us at such short notice.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Van Simson, smiling generously. “And you must be Tom Kirk?” He thrust his hand out again. “Charles’s son.”
“Yes,” said Tom, surprised.
“I thought I recognized your face. I was a great admirer of your father’s — a regular customer, in fact.” He indicated the four Chagalls that hung between the windows with his other hand. “He chose all these for me.”
“Really?” Tom flashed Jennifer a knowing glance. If his father, that bastion of puritanical thought and deed, had dealt with Van Simson, then he couldn’t be as bad as Jennifer had suggested in the car. “It’s a great set.”
“I’ve been very happy with them.” He smiled at Tom. “You have my condolences.” He sounded sincere and Tom was grateful.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s all sit down.” He led them past the large white architectural model in the center of the room to the two sofas on the other side and turned to Jennifer.
“Can I get you a drink? No? You, Mr. Kirk?”
“A vodka tonic please.” Tom relaxed back into the sofa.
“I think I’ll have the same,” said Van Simson as he busied himself over a small drinks cabinet. “And you must call me Darius.” He handed Tom a glass and sat down in the sofa opposite them. “Cheers.”
As he raised his glass, Van Simson’s left sleeve rode up slightly and Tom caught a glimpse of his watch’s black face and pink-gold case. He recognized it immediately. A limited edition Lange & Söhne Tourbillon de la Mérite, a masterpiece of German craftsmanship and at over $150,000 a shot, as expensive as it was rare.
“Beautiful watch,” said Tom, tilting his glass respectfully toward it.
“Thank you,” said Van Simson warmly. “Most people don’t notice but it’s always nice when someone does.”
He looked at it lovingly, centering it on his wrist before lifting his eyes back toward Jennifer.
“Ambassador Cross mentioned that you wanted to ask me some questions when he called up earlier today and demanded I see you.” A smile crossed his lips, as if the thought of someone demanding something of him was an amusing novelty. “So, now you’re here, how can I help?”
“It’s a… delicate matter,” Jennifer began under Tom’s watchful eye. He was curious to see how she handled this. “Approximately two weeks ago the French police recovered a coin here, in Paris.”
“Go on.”
“It was a 1933 Double Eagle.”
Van Simson gave a short laugh.
“Well, it must be a fake then. As far as I know there are only three 1933 Double Eagles. It’s certainly not mine and I doubt very much Miles Baxter has let one out from under his claws.”
“No, Mr. Baxter is as vigilant as ever.” Jennifer smiled. “But we don’t think it’s a fake. In fact, the forensic analysis showed an almost perfect match with the two Smithsonian coins.”
“Can I see it?” asked Van Simson, placing his glass down on the table in between them. It was a thick circle of glass resting on what looked like the shredded rubber remains of a racing wheel, evidence of Van Simson’s sponsorship of a Formula One racing team, Tom guessed.
“I’m afraid not. I don’t have it on me.” Tom smiled. She didn’t have to lie about that, at least.
“So where do you think this coin is from?” Van Simson folded his arms across his chest.
“At this stage, we’re not sure.”
“Then I’m sorry, but I fail to see how I can help,” said Van Simson, rubbing his hand across his goatee. “If you can’t show me the coin, how can I give you an opinion on it? That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“Partly, yes. But it did also occur to us that the coin we have might be yours. That would at least explain where it was from and the match to the Smithsonian coins.” Van Simson laughed.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the security system I have here is watertight. There’s no way that you have my coin.” Tom sensed that Van Simson flashed him a quick look as he said this. Perhaps he knew more about him than he was letting on.
“When was the last time you saw the coin?” Jennifer persisted.
“Four, maybe six months ago.”
“That long?”
Van Simson smiled.
“Some people love to endlessly gaze and touch and toy with whatever it is they collect. For me, I do not feel compelled to revisit my collection again and again. It’s enough to know that I own it. That I own it and no one else does.”
“Can I make a suggestion, then?” Jennifer asked.
“Of course.”
“If we can confirm your coin is safe, as you said, won’t that prove that the one we have is a fake?”
Van Simson got up and walked over to the window, his left arm folded behind his back, clearly considering Jennifer’s proposal. Outside, a distant church clock chimed the hours. There was silence as each strike resonated, then settled.
“I could wait for you outside,” Tom suggested to Jennifer, mindful of Van Simson’s earlier glance. If he did know who Tom was, then he would be the last person he would let down there.
“No need,” said Van Simson, turning round to face them, a broad smile on his face. “Let’s just go down and check on my coin and then we’ll both know what’s what. And I insist you come too, Mr. Kirk. I think we’ll all find it very interesting.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Van Simson inserted a small key into the keyhole on the left-hand side of the elevator and a rectangular section of the stainless-steel wall retracted smoothly, revealing a keypad and a glass panel. He punched a short code into the keypad; the glass panel lit up and he placed his hand against it. For a few seconds a bright blue light leaked out from under his hand as a scanner rolled over his palm and read his handprint. A few moments later the doors closed and the elevator started down.