The Take(52)

Blatt’s timing had been fortuitous. As Russia began to privatize its industries, he stood ready with money, contacts, and ambition. In a series of rigged auctions, he scooped up the gems of his country’s corporate might. Aluminum in the Urals. Timber in Siberia. Oil in the Caucasus. He earned his first billion in 1998. He hadn’t looked back since.

For years he’d traveled to Zurich to call on his bankers. There was no pressing need for the trips. He could have checked his balances from home or simply spoken with his portfolio manager on the phone. Still, he visited as often as six times a year just to ensure his money was where he had deposited it and that no one had stolen it while he wasn’t looking.

Blatt had examined this behavior and decided that it was as inescapable as it was irrational. The fear bred from the centuries of persecution visited upon the Jews of Eastern Europe had embedded itself in his genes, his very DNA. His behavior was no different from that of a merchant living in a shtetl outside Kiev a hundred years ago who constantly checked beneath his straw mattress that his money was safe and sound. This tie to his ancestors pleased him. It reminded him that he came from a race of survivors.

Today, however, he had not come to Zurich to visit his money.

He’d come for a different reason altogether.

Blatt crossed the Paradeplatz and continued along the Bleicherweg to Stockerstrasse. The lake was a few blocks to his left, and on this warm, sunny day he could smell the clean, crisp water. He’d brought a two-man complement with him, both registered with the Swiss government and permitted to carry firearms. They walked a few paces behind him, dressed in casual clothing. Bianca, his blond German girlfriend—decidedly not a Jew—walked at his side. As always, she insisted on holding his hand.

After a few blocks, Blatt turned up a side street and stopped in front of a door marked simply J. GRUBER ET CIE. He rang a buzzer and raised his face to the hidden security camera. He heard the lock disengage and pushed open the door, shooing in Bianca ahead of him.

“Stay here,” he said to the bodyguards. “I won’t be more than an hour.”

The men crossed the street and blended in with a trendy crowd gathered at an outdoor café.

The door closed behind Blatt. He and Bianca stood in a security cage and waited for the second door to open. Strangely, he felt more vulnerable inside the box of bulletproof glass than when he was exposed on the street. Several of his former colleagues had been killed in phone booths and restrooms, and he was wary of confined spaces.

A buzzer sounded and the door opened automatically. Bianca led the way into a large, nicely appointed showroom not dissimilar to what a customer might find at Beyer or Gübelin or any of the other luxury watch and jewelry boutiques lining the Bahnhofstrasse. Maroon carpeting, tasteful leather chairs, antique Louis XV desks, a grandfather clock. There were no display cases, however, no vitrines sparkling with gold watches and diamond rings. There was just Herr Gruber, Europe’s most discreet dealer in stolen goods, a thin, spritely octogenarian wearing an olive sweater vest beneath a black suit, his hair whiter than the last time Blatt had seen him, but the glimmer in the blue eyes as sharp as ever.

“Herr Blatt,” Gruber exclaimed, arms raised in welcome. “So nice to see you. A good trip, I hope.”

“Uneventful,” said Blatt. “That’s the most one can hope for these days.”

“And who is this?” Gruber took both of Bianca’s hands in his.

“Be careful,” said Blatt. “Bianca is not as tame as she looks.”

Gruber made a catlike hissing sound and dropped her hands. “Welcome, Bianca. May I offer some coffee or tea?”

“No,” said Blatt curtly. Niceties bored him. He hadn’t flown five hundred miles for a cup of coffee and a piece of apfelkuchen. “I have something interesting for you.”

“So you said on the phone. I’m brimming with curiosity. Such mystery. Such intrigue. Sit. Sit.” Gruber held a chair for Bianca and waited for Blatt to seat himself before taking his place on the opposite side of the desk. From a drawer, he removed a green baize display tray and set it between them. “And so? What is it today? A ruby necklace perhaps? A Fabergé egg?”

“A watch,” said Blatt. “Swiss, of course.”

“Oh?” Gruber’s shoulders slumped, visions of a wildly lucrative transaction dashed.

“Don’t look so glum. I didn’t fly here to sell you a Swatch.” Blatt unclasped his wristwatch and set it on the tray. Gruber picked it up by its strap and brought it close to his eyes. His effervescent smile returned. “This is not a watch,” he said, once again all alacrity and goodwill. “This is a rarity. A Patek Philippe day date perpetual calendar chronograph with phases of the moon. Also known as Reference 2499. Patek manufactured ten pieces per year beginning in 1951 and ending in 1986. A total of three hundred fifty units. But most were of gold or rose gold.” He paused and shook the watch as if it were a child’s bauble. “This is platinum.”

“So it is.”

“Of which only two were created,” continued Gruber. “One of which was last sold at Christie’s Geneva in 2012 for the sum of 3.6 million dollars. I hadn’t realized it had come on the market again.”

Blatt met the inquiring look head-on. “I obtained it from a private seller.”

“No doubt you have the box, all papers, packing slips.”