particular, the Ahmadabad diamond, a 94-carat stone “of perfect water.” That wasn’t unusual; gem aficionados often fixed on a single specimen or group—for example, the Hope diamond or the Three Brethren. The Ahmadabad wasn’t the largest or most famous diamond in history, but it was the most controversial. A 78-carat pear-shaped stone currently in circulation purported to be a recut of the legendary diamond. But Zimmerman was convinced the genuine article was still intact, still missing, still waiting for him to find it.
He made no secret of his obsession. He had named his theater after the stone.
Now, as he sat in the empty, high-ceilinged room, passively watching the wriggling figures on the screen, he wondered how Feinstein could possibly not know about the Prairie. Was he telling the truth?
David took the number 23 trolley northbound on Eleventh Street, got off at Cliveden, then headed south on Germantown Avenue. It was midday, and the sidewalks were filling with people steered by hunger and motivated by short lunch breaks. He walked along the streetcar tracks, pretending to keep his balance on one of the metal strips, until a car honked and forced him onto the sidewalk.
Stay out of my way in the search for you-know-what.
David knew what. But the Prairie? What the hell was that?
Germantown was a dump. The Germans, right on the heels of the Indians and the deer they hunted, were long gone. And the charm of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century architecture had been obliterated by twenty-first-century trash and graffiti.
Stay out of my way …
He arrived at Tien Chau’s, an unsanitary Vietnamese restaurant where several riffraff were loitering out front. He had always found it ironic that some of the dirtiest places in the city served some of the city’s best food. As he was about to enter the restaurant, the riffraff suddenly pulled revolvers and pointed them at him.
“Put your hands behind your head,” one of them commanded. “Lay down on the ground. You have the right to remain silent.”
TWELVE
MANNFRED GEBHARDT HAD DISCOVERED an easy way to steal books from libraries: just throw them out a window, then snatch them from the bushes on the way back to the car.
Bookstores were more challenging, but he had solved that problem too: slit the covers off with a pocket knife while pretending to browse, thus removing any magnetic security strips that might be present, then simply walk out of the store with the signature-bound pages in hand. If the staff didn’t perceive a book was being stolen, a book wasn’t being stolen. Perception was the better part of reality.
One helpful bookseller recommended an encyclopedia of gemology recently published by the Bibliographisches Institut Leipzig. He also informed Gebhardt that the last copy had walked out the door just seconds before he walked in.
Gebhardt found the woman in an alley a block away, strolling smugly with the fat volume tucked under her tiny arm. Moments later, the book was his. He didn’t feel guilty about her injuries; she should have taken him up on his offer to buy it.
The richest source of materials was the library of the University of Heidelberg, famous for its mineralogy department as well as its index of all the world’s notable gemstones. Since the Heidelberg Library yield would be great, Gebhardt could not merely toss the stuff out a window. The more you wanted to profit from crime, the more crime you had to commit.
Late in the afternoon, while the Hauptbibliothek was still open, he passed through the gothic façade into the arched and marbled foyer, figuring none of the staff—government employees, all—would linger after closing time.
The university and library were Germany’s oldest. Founded in 1386, the collection had grown in healthy spurts but had also been seriously damaged during the wars, taking one step backwards for every two forwards. Now it contained more than three million volumes, and if Gebhardt had his
He made no secret of his obsession. He had named his theater after the stone.
Now, as he sat in the empty, high-ceilinged room, passively watching the wriggling figures on the screen, he wondered how Feinstein could possibly not know about the Prairie. Was he telling the truth?
David took the number 23 trolley northbound on Eleventh Street, got off at Cliveden, then headed south on Germantown Avenue. It was midday, and the sidewalks were filling with people steered by hunger and motivated by short lunch breaks. He walked along the streetcar tracks, pretending to keep his balance on one of the metal strips, until a car honked and forced him onto the sidewalk.
Stay out of my way in the search for you-know-what.
David knew what. But the Prairie? What the hell was that?
Germantown was a dump. The Germans, right on the heels of the Indians and the deer they hunted, were long gone. And the charm of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century architecture had been obliterated by twenty-first-century trash and graffiti.
Stay out of my way …
He arrived at Tien Chau’s, an unsanitary Vietnamese restaurant where several riffraff were loitering out front. He had always found it ironic that some of the dirtiest places in the city served some of the city’s best food. As he was about to enter the restaurant, the riffraff suddenly pulled revolvers and pointed them at him.
“Put your hands behind your head,” one of them commanded. “Lay down on the ground. You have the right to remain silent.”
TWELVE
MANNFRED GEBHARDT HAD DISCOVERED an easy way to steal books from libraries: just throw them out a window, then snatch them from the bushes on the way back to the car.
Bookstores were more challenging, but he had solved that problem too: slit the covers off with a pocket knife while pretending to browse, thus removing any magnetic security strips that might be present, then simply walk out of the store with the signature-bound pages in hand. If the staff didn’t perceive a book was being stolen, a book wasn’t being stolen. Perception was the better part of reality.
One helpful bookseller recommended an encyclopedia of gemology recently published by the Bibliographisches Institut Leipzig. He also informed Gebhardt that the last copy had walked out the door just seconds before he walked in.
Gebhardt found the woman in an alley a block away, strolling smugly with the fat volume tucked under her tiny arm. Moments later, the book was his. He didn’t feel guilty about her injuries; she should have taken him up on his offer to buy it.
The richest source of materials was the library of the University of Heidelberg, famous for its mineralogy department as well as its index of all the world’s notable gemstones. Since the Heidelberg Library yield would be great, Gebhardt could not merely toss the stuff out a window. The more you wanted to profit from crime, the more crime you had to commit.
Late in the afternoon, while the Hauptbibliothek was still open, he passed through the gothic façade into the arched and marbled foyer, figuring none of the staff—government employees, all—would linger after closing time.
The university and library were Germany’s oldest. Founded in 1386, the collection had grown in healthy spurts but had also been seriously damaged during the wars, taking one step backwards for every two forwards. Now it contained more than three million volumes, and if Gebhardt had his
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