[b]Kensington 3:24 AM[/b] “Slow down and repeat yourself one more time.” Adam Zinkman held the phone close to his ear in an effort to hear the callers frantic words. He’d taken it downstairs after one of the servants woke both him and his wife up. Apparently, there was an emergency telephone call for him. His first thought was that it was his father or that his brother James had ended up in jail once more. But he was surprised to hear a voice he didn’t immediately recognize saying something about masks and guns. “It’s… Bruce, sir. The nightwatchman at the exchange. We were robbed, sir. Men in masks and guns came in.” Adam felt a cold pit suddenly form in his stomach. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that the butler had left the room before he spoke. “How long ago?” “It was around midnight.” “Why are you just calling me?” “It took us that long to get free, sir. They tied us up and gagged us and covered our eyes.” “Have you called the police yet?” “No, sir.” “Good,” he said before quickly adding, “Don’t. Don’t call the police. We’ll handle this matter in-house. Do you know what all they took?” “As best as we can reckon, nothing in the showroom was touched. But they got into the basement of the safe.” “Shit." He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "Shit, shit, shit. Okay. Stay there and don’t touch anything. I’ve got to make some phone calls and I’ll be down there at once.” Adam killed the connection with his finger. He waited a few moments before picking it back up and hearing the dial tone. On the rotary, he began to dial the number to his father’s home in North London. He closed his eyes and sighed. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. --- [b]Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange 4:59 AM[/b] Adam and his father Isaac looked at the open safe without a single word between them. The thieves had left everything in the safe. Adam had verified that all the legal documents, charters, and nasty secrets in the top shelves were all there. The same with the rest of the jewelry inventory. It was all there. Everything except the diamonds that were scheduled for shipment across the UK and Atlantic that Monday. Isaac Zinkman stepped up and gave the safe a once-over again. Adam was unable to tell anything by his expression. The old man was always like that. His smoothly shaved head never wrinkled, his brow never furrowed, and the two green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses never seemed to betray his innermost thoughts. “This will ruin us,” he said in Yiddish. “The men who stole these diamonds have killed us. We cannot hope to survive in business if we do not have an inventory to sell. How can we be a diamond exchange if we have no diamonds to exchange?” “We’re insured,” Adam said in English. “We’ll recoup the money and we’ll be able to compensate the other diamond buyers.” “It is not just money I speak of, my son,” his father continued in Yiddish. “I also speak of our name. When we have been stolen from, then we cannot be trusted to take care of anyone’s goods. Would you trust with your fortune, a man who would get it taken away? I wouldn’t. And once we’ve been tarred with the reputation as weak, then no amount of scrubbing will clean it off.” “Well, what can we do?” Adam asked. “And answer in English, for god’s sake. You’ve lived her sixty years, father. Act like it.” “We have three days,” Isaac said in English. While he spoke the language fluently, his speech still retained traces of an accent. “Until Monday, everything in the world has come to a stop for the holiday. If we can get the diamonds back before Monday morning, everything will be fine.” “And how do you suppose we do that?” Isaac took a deep breath and sighed. “The Golem.” Now it was Adam’s turn to speak Yiddish, as he cursed under his breath in the language. “Please,” Isaac said. “Go home and be with your wife and my granddaughters. Leave this next part up to me.” --- [b]Brixton 6:35 AM[/b] Etan Ben-David was in the process of shaving when the phone rang. He wiped shaving cream from his chin as he walked through the little flat towards the telephone. A Murphy bed and a television tray were the only creature comforts in the room. Etan needed very little else. To him this place was nothing more than a waystation, a place of rest between destinations. “Hello?” “My friend,” a voice answered on the other end of the line in the old language. Etan felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “Do you know who this is?” “Yes, sir,” Etan replied in Yiddish. “I could never forget your voice.” “That’s good,” the voice said. “It is good that you do not forget. I do not forget either. I remember you as a boy, cold and hungry and no family. Do you remember those days?” Etan glanced down at his exposed forearm and the faded ink of the number tattooed on his skin. “That I can also never forget.” “I am in need of your services again. Someone has stolen something from me, something I need back very badly. I need it recovered before the weekend is over.” “For you, anything.” “And I need the people who took it to feel an immense amount of pain.” Etan nodded slowly, even though he knew the man on the phone could not see it. “For you, anything.”