Boris Blatt required four hours to determine where his watch had been stolen. He was not sure if he would ever discover how, or by whom.
He’d set to work upon his return from Zurich earlier that morning. His plane had landed punctually at nine at City Airport, his car waiting on the tarmac to take him home. The twelve-mile drive to Highgate in the north of London took nearly as long as the five-hundred-mile flight from Switzerland. It wasn’t until ten that he pulled through the iron gates into Parkfield’s grand forecourt. It was the first time Blatt had purchased a property with a name. Frankly, he thought “Parkfield” rather bland and lacking in grandiosity, especially for a ninety-thousand-square-foot Georgian revival set on five acres of grassland that counted as the second-largest private residence in the city. He preferred the name given to the largest private residence. Buckingham Palace.
Once inside, he took the elevator to the third floor and proceeded to his private office, locking the door behind him. A priori, it was a simple enough matter. The watch had been either taken from his closet, where he kept it in a climate-controlled cherrywood case equipped with a “watch winder” that turned the timepiece this way and that every hour to keep the mechanism charged, or, more improbably, stolen while he was wearing it. Blatt had heard of thieves capable of lifting a watch from a man’s wrist without him noticing. But he’d never heard of a thief so talented he could replace it with another watch—in this case, an exact replica—without him noticing.
A mathematician by training, Blatt focused his efforts on the first, infinitely more probable possibility. The watch had been stolen and a replica put in its place at his home.
Blatt’s first order of business was to call his wife and ask if she’d looked at the watch. Her response was a somewhat distracted “No.” He believed her. She had her own collection of watches, and they were worth far more than his. Moreover, she hadn’t set foot in his bedroom either here in London or in any of their other homes—in Bermuda, Manhattan, Bel-Air, Saint-Tropez, or Moscow—in years. He ruled out his wife.
Next, Blatt summoned his chief houseman, Roderick, who was the only person—besides Blatt himself—allowed free entry into Blatt’s bedroom. On the surface, Roderick was beyond reproach. He was well paid. He had no debts. He didn’t drink, gamble, or keep a mistress on the side. All this Blatt had made it his business to know. It was this record of untarnished integrity that had landed him the job.
Even so, Blatt made sure his bodyguards were present, and at their most intimidating, when he inquired about the watch, and if they hit the old Englishman a few times, Blatt didn’t notice. No matter how often he was asked, Roderick’s answer remained an earnest, stammering “No.” The same was true when asked if he’d let someone else into the bedroom.
Blatt thanked him and let him know he believed him entirely. By the look of the sweat running off the older man’s forehead and the sad, defeated manner in which he limped out of the room, the acquittal was none too soon.
Of course, there was a more reliable way to determine if anyone had ventured inside Blatt’s bedroom.
Leaving his office, Blatt retraced his steps down the corridor and took the elevator to the second underground floor. Using a special key, he unlocked a steel door and entered Parkfield’s operational headquarters. It was from this warren of offices that all work done on the house was scheduled and supervised. Painting, carpentry, plumbing—all of it. Also housed on the second underground floor was Parkfield’s security.
A door stood open at the end of the hall. Approaching, Blatt caught sight of the multiplex of eighty monitors showing live feeds from all cameras placed around the property. A dark, gnomish man sat at the console. Seeing Blatt, he shot to his feet.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Anton, have you finished checking my request?”
“Just now, sir.”
Blatt perched on the corner of the desk. He’d called Anton the night before, requesting he check the feed from his bedroom to see if anyone, besides himself and Roderick, had trespassed.
“Well?”
“No one, sir.”
“You’re certain?”
“The computer uses an algorithm to detect activity and stops the recording at those spots. While you were away, it was only Roderick who entered. There’s been no one else.”
Blatt slapped his hand against his thigh. He was livid. He wanted to shout “Impossible!” but he knew he could not impeach the camera’s record. Without another word, he stormed out of the room and returned upstairs, making a beeline for his desk. Sitting, he pulled out his agenda and pored over the pages. A man of no small importance, Blatt led an active social life and dined out nearly every night. Reviewing his activities, he pinned down the two occasions when he’d worn the Patek Philippe. The first was to a dinner at the Russian embassy, the second to the Sotheby’s auction in Battersea Park.
He could rule out the dinner with the Russian ambassador. It had been an official gathering, and by official, he meant secret. He alone had attended and had met with the ambassador and the resident chief of the SVR for just under an hour. No one else had been present. He didn’t figure either of the men as world-class thieves.
It had to be Sotheby’s, then.
He called up Alastair Quince at once. “Boris Blatt speaking. I have a problem.”
“If it’s about the car,” said Quince, in his infuriatingly polite voice, “I’m pleased to tell you we’ll have it delivered to your home tomorrow. And if I may say, it is looking more beautiful than—”
“No, it’s fucking well not about the car,” Blatt shouted, forgetting himself. He paused, feeling distinctly ill at ease at the prospect of telling Quince anything about the watch. “It appears I may have misplaced something the other night at the auction.”
“What is it? I can put you in touch with Lost and Found immediately. I’m sure they can be of help.”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s something valuable. If they’d found it already, you would know. I need to see your security cameras from the event.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question. Only the police are allowed to view footage from the security cameras, and even then they must have a warrant. The law, I’m afraid.”
“This is a delicate matter that I chose not to report to the police.”
“Again, I’m sorry, Mr. Blatt. Unless you file a report, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Excuse me?” said Quince, beyond offended.
“I’ll give you twenty thousand pounds. Cash.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Twenty thousand to see the tapes or you will regret the day you were ever born. Call it what you will.”
“Twenty-five thousand and I’ll have the tape ready for you in an hour.”
Blatt hung up, enraged. He didn’t know whether to have Quince killed or to hire him.