Ghost Ship Orlova

The Orlov Diamond (part 2)

Count Grigory Orlov stared at the narrow doorway, waiting for his prey like a cougar on the savannah.

He looked nothing like the proud Russian Boyar who'd once attended upon Empress Catherine at the Winter Palace on Petrograd, securing her favor by attending upon her person. Then, he'd sported a uniform bedecked with medals, criss-crossed with gold and silver chains, his comportment commanding, his appearance immaculate, his coif perfect, his raiment so heavy he arrived home exhausted each evening. Now, five years later, he skulked through the streets of Amsterdam, a trading world on the Norman Arm near the galactic core, wearing the grimy formalls of a stevedore, his hair hanging in oily, ill-shorn sheaves, his head tucked between his shoulders.

Orlov had recovered slowly from the blow delivered by Safras on the banks of the Kaveri River on the planet Tiruchirapalli. After knocking him unconscious, Safras had absconded with the Eye of Vishnu. With a cache of other jewels looted by similar means from shrines throughout the Tamil Nadu constellation, Safras had set himself up in business on Amsterdam.

But Orlov's wounded pride hadn't healed, and now he lurked outside Safras' jewelry brokerage, waiting for the opportunity to strike. He'd kept watch on the brokerage for the last two weeks from an embrasure between two buildings across the street, a begging cup between his feet, muttering plaintive pleas to passersby. The brokerage occupied a building wedged tightly between two other buildings of similar façade, too little room between them to see daylight. The two-to-three story row houses had been refurbished into upscale businesses. On one side of the brokerage was a law firm, on the other a purveyor of fine clothing. Both saw far more foot traffic than the brokerage, Safras having so few visitors that Orlov began to wonder if Safras did most of his business remotely.

The first thing he'd observed about Safras was that the man didn't appear to sleep. No matter what the hour, Orlov never saw the lights go out. Safras was using the building both as his brokerage and his living quarters, a small suite of rooms above and behind the storefront. A deterrent to thieves, Orlov was sure. He couldn't quite fathom what might enable Safras to sleep so little. How am I to execute my plan if he doesn't sleep? he wondered. His original intent had been to slink into the house at night, kill Safras in his sleep, and steal the diamond back. Smuggling it off Amsterdam back to Petrograd as he was being pursued for murder seemed a secondary concern, one which he'd given little thought. He couldn't get past what he was going to do about the sleepless Safras, a challenge that forestalled any thought beyond the predicament he faced.

What he also observed from his fortnight vigil was that Safras rarely went anywhere. The occasional visitor walked in the door and soon left, but Safras himself never once departed the premises. Promptly at the same time each morning, a hand turned the sign in the front window to say "Open," and each evening the same hand turned the same sign around to read "Closed." But that was the only glimpse Orlov got of Safras. Every three days, a delivery vehicle pulled up and a grocer took in a box of food, and once per week, a garbage barge floated past, its great mechanical arm removing the receptacle from the storefront, emptying it into the barge, and re-inserting the receptacle.

Before he'd arrived, Orlov had researched Safras' transactions to assure himself that the Armenian still possessed the diamond. Gems of lesser size passed through the hands of Safras on a regular basis, but none so prominent or conspicuous as the Eye of Vishnu. Or as it was now known, the Amsterdam Diamond. A stone that large might only be marketed to the wealthiest of the wealthy, its size unparalleled.

The Orlov family, although dismayed by his fall from Catherine's favor, was nonetheless among the most preeminent of the boyar lineages. His having helped Catherine topple her husband Peter only six months into his reign and having engineered the former Emperor's death just six days later had scandalized the oligarchy and had firmly ensconced Orlov into the new Empress' favor. Despite Grigory Orlov's absence from the Winter Palace these past three years, his family still maintained its status and connections. His younger brother, Alexei, who had dealt the deadly blow to Peter days after Catherine deposed him, continued to feed information to the expatriate Grigory.