Page 50 of The Diamond Thief
He lifts his wine glass and swirls it. “My mother taught me the basics. Sifting flour. Beating eggs. Sauce thickness.”
“You didn’t have sisters?”
“Now who’s showing gender bias?”
“You described a 1950s-style upbringing. I would assume it comes with all the trappings.”
“I have one brother and one sister,” he says. “My sister is far younger. She may have learned after I left. She could barely see over the counter then.”
“Off to make your fortune?”
“Off to study under Antony.”
“How did he learn about you?”
He cuts off a bite of his chicken and slides it in his mouth. I get the sense he’s avoiding the answer. Perhaps it would reveal too much.
I decide to give him a story of my own in hopes he will expand. “I was given to Antony by my father. How is that for the patriarchy?”
It’s a total lie, but it works. Jacob stops chewing for a moment. “What?”
“I was a trade for something more valuable.” I shrug my shoulders.
He swallows. “That’s barbaric.”
“It’s how Antony often works. You’re a senior in the Den. You should know.”
But I can see from the way he sets down his fork that he didn’t.
“What did your father trade you for?”
I shrug. “Information. A way into a power cell of stolen goods.”
“No one should treat their own blood in such a manner.” His expression has gone stone cold. Interesting. I’ve tapped into something. He’s going to give me some answers, though.
“How did you end up at Antony’s?” I ask.
“My uncle. He was just a minion at the Den, one of the managers who orders supplies and hires workers. But he got me in.”
“Is he still there?”
“No, he died a few years back.” Jacob resumes cutting his chicken.
“I’m sorry.”
“He was seventy. He liked his life. He enjoyed being in the Den, even in a service-oriented role.”
“So your given name really is Jacob Holt then?”
He laughs. “Now you’re getting personal.”
I sense he wouldn’t tell me the real one if I asked, so I don’t.
We eat in silence for a while. I listen carefully to the sounds of the bunker. Clicks and drips where pipes might go or generators run. There has to be air conditioning and heat, and the ducts will go outside. An underground bunker has to be ventilated somehow.
I’m pretty sure we are underground. There is a faint dampness, a musty undertone beneath the cleansed air and careful neutral scent of the place.
“You’re thoughtful. Planning to rob me blind and then escape out the ventilation tube?” he asks.
