African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  He found his boss easily enough. A small crowd had gathered at the entrance to the baccarat area, watching the high-stakes action. Kerrigan sat at a forty-five degree angle to the gateway, allowing him a peripheral view of the gawkers. He noticed O’Donnell immediately, and waved for him to enter. The guard posted at the break in the ropes hesitated for a moment, reluctant to let the Irishman in without a tux, but a quick flick of the pit boss’s wrist and he moved aside. O’Donnell moved to Kerrigan’s side and watched the hand play out. Kerrigan held eight and a half points, a winner unless the banker drew nine. He slid a pile of chips into the betting area and closed his bid. The banker declared eight and he raked in the pot. He motioned to the pit boss to cash him in and credit it to his room. He tipped the banker handsomely and left the room with O’Donnell.

  “It looked like you had about one hundred thousand dollars in chips,” O’Donnell said as they walked through the jumble of slot machines toward the door. “Not bad.”

  “Unless you consider that I started with two-fifty. Chump change.” They didn’t speak again until they reached Kerrigan’s suite and both men settled into the easy chairs with a scotch in hand. “Who did you bring with you?”

  “Brent, Tony and Paul,” Liam answered. “They have better skills for close-in fighting. Street to street—the kind of stuff you get in a congested city. They’re out picking up their weapons.”

  “Brandt came through okay?” Kerrigan asked, referring to a nefarious German they had used on numerous occasions to arm themselves in foreign countries.

  “As usual. He has a depot in the Masakin Al-Waila Al-Kabir district, in the northeast section of the city. It’s two blocks from the Meteorological Services, and get this—one block from the National Guard headquarters.”

  “Brandt’s got balls all right,” Kerrigan said. “He should for what we pay him.”

  O’Donnell nodded. “Any hits on Carlson’s location?”

  “Not yet, but it won’t be long. We’ve traced a withdrawal she made from the expedition’s Swiss account three days ago to the Cayman Islands and then to Grand Bahama. The Canadian bankers on the island are rigorous, almost impenetrable, in their security. Almost. My men in Washington will find out where the money was transferred to when it left the Bahamas.”

  “So it’s just a matter of time,” Liam said.

  “Yes. Once your men are armed, keep them ready,” Kerrigan answered. “And speaking of being armed, the feedback I got from the soldiers who survived the jungle firefight was that our targets left with nothing but a few guns. No boxes of any sort.”

  “No ammunition.” O’Donnell saw where Kerrigan was leading. “I’ll check with Brandt as to where Carlson and her team will most likely find someone to sell them ammunition, and have my men watch for them to show up. There probably won’t be more than a handful of places to buy clips for automatic weapons.”

  Kerrigan nodded and watched his team leader leave the upscale suite. He finished his scotch and poured another one, this time decanting the liquor until the ice cubes began to float. He sipped it slowly, enjoying the burning sensation on his throat. He moved to the window and stared out at the Nile River. It was murky, almost dark brown, and seemed stagnant, incapable of supporting life. Yet from this overused, exploited river an entire nation thrived. Millions of people and animals, crops and trees existed in the harsh desert environment that typified northern Africa for one reason only. The Nile. But it was an enigma. It gave hope, then took it away. It receded, then flooded. It was alive, an entity that knew it held the power of life or death over the living organisms that amassed on its banks as it meandered through the wastelands to the Mediterranean Sea. From the dark liquid, at first disgusting and putrid, came life. The silt and crud suspended in the water could be filtered and the water purified. Appearances were indeed deceiving.

  Where the Nile had appearances of malodor, it truly benefited humanity. He, on the other hand, was presented to society as a man of good intentions—wealthy and giving. Nothing could be further from the truth. In his own mind he was dangerous and cunning, striving beneath the calm exterior for power and control—the power that came from capturing the global diamond market. And he was close. Closer than any one man or woman in history. Rhodes and Oppenheimer had toyed with control, but the very companies they created ultimately tied their hands: the Diamond Trading Company and De Beers. The two companies had stood the test of time, and had flourished by keeping tight control on global production and distribution. Now he stood poised to throw them into turmoil, and to rock the very foundation of the network they had created. And rock it he would. He had garnered diamonds from each of the first three expeditions to the Ruwenzori, but never the location. And from the rough he held or had sold, he knew the quality and quantity of the find was beyond anything previously discovered. It rivaled the legend of King Solomon’s mines, yet this was no legend. It existed, and he would have it. And once he had it, he would use his trump card to either gain control or destroy De Beers. It would be their choice.

  Kerrigan stared at the river, knowing greatness was at his fingertips. He felt the presence of the Pharaohs, of Cleopatra and Anthony, of the Egyptian gods. And he knew that history would remember him as a man of incredible vision, a man of action. And all he needed was the location of the diamonds. And to get that, he simply needed Samantha Carlson. And her, he would have. Soon.

  NINETEEN

  Roland Janus swung his Volvo S80 into the bank parking lot, switched off the ignition and sat for a moment, looking at the palm trees that surrounded the building. He adored palm trees. They personified everything he loved about life and disliked about his native country. A transplanted Canadian, he had never grown used to the cold weather and snow that descended every year between November and February. When the opportunity to head up the offshore investment banking division of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce on Grand Bahama had dropped in his lap, he couldn’t say yes quick enough. His wife and kids had been slightly less enthusiastic, but it was a career move, and they had tagged along out of necessity.

  He slid out of the Volvo and headed for the building, without question the most impressive structure on the entire island. Fronted with massive pillars and coated with acrylic stucco, it had more the appearance of a Southern plantation than a bank. He entered through the front doors, nodding to staff members as he wove his way to his corner office. His secretary appeared with a steaming cup of coffee a few moments after he sat down. He powered up his computer, and immediately began to have a very bad day.

  Someone had hacked into the secure system CIBC used to protect its international clients. He felt sweat forming in his armpits, dripping onto his silk shirt. He isolated the files the intruder had accessed and printed them. Seven wire transfers, all from the Caymans, and all within the last week. He switched programs and downloaded the client information, again sending it to the printer. Three transfers were for the same client, one who regularly used the tax-free conduit between the islands. He ignored them and looked at the remaining four.

  The first was a nominal amount, just enough to cover the bank’s fees for overseeing the offshore activity of a Pittsburgh company. The second was a transfer-in of funds for one of the staff members. He ignored them. The third was a sizable amount, over three hundred thousand dollars, that had been rerouted from their branch to a Cairo affiliate almost immediately after it arrived. He set that one on his desk. The final transfer was for over twenty million dollars, bank to bank. He discarded that and picked up the sole paper from his desk. Three hundred twenty thousand American dollars, wired in from the Caymans, then wired out inside one hour. Someone was trying to hide a money trail. But from whom? He kicked the program out and booted up a new one, this one capable of tracing an intruder’s location. They had entered through the Internet, and he isolated the IP address of the user. He stared open-mouthed at the response.

  The CIA had illegally tapped into their system and stolen information. What had been a sligh
t perspiration problem became two large rings of wetness, soaking his shirt and ruining it. He didn’t care. His problem was, what to do with this? If he filed a report, the big brass in Toronto would be all over this. A breach of security in an offshore bank, one that held over five billion dollars in tax-exempt money, was a major issue. What if it was drug money? One mandate the CIBC was adamant about was that the money entering the pipeline was to be clean. They would not be a conduit for illegal funds. And one aspect of his job was to ensure the bank never laundered money.

  Christ, what was going on? The implications of this were far-reaching and ugly. If the CIA was looking at wire transfers, they were there for a reason. And if that reason was dirty money, he could kiss his Bahamas posting good-bye. In fact, he could probably say good-bye to his career with the CIBC and any other reputable Canadian bank. He looked at the information that glowed at him from the screen. Then he looked at the keyboard, at the delete button. He sat unmoving for a minute or two, then reached out and pressed delete. The screen went blank, the CIA connection lost forever. He finished his coffee and changed his shirt. And said a silent prayer that the bastards would never hack into his system again.

  TWENTY

  Travis glanced back at Alain, waiting for the signal. One last car pulled away from the curb and Alain motioned to Travis that things looked clear. Travis shouldered the box and quickly moved down the stairs of the Angel Gabriel church to the waiting taxi. He dumped the box into the trunk and slammed the lid. Alain jumped in the rear passenger door and Travis joined him. The driver pulled away from the curb onto Harat as-Saqqayin and blended into the afternoon traffic. Both men watched the surrounding cars and vans closely to see if anyone was paying special interest to the cab. None were.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Alain said, relief obvious in his voice.

  “I can’t believe these guys. They pick a church to do the deal. Fuckers have no respect.”

  “Like you’re a church-going guy, Travis. Maybe when pigs fly out of my butt.”

  McNeil grinned at his partner. “I think there’s a god, and that he’s got something special lined up for me.” Vivid recollections of Samantha at the jungle pool came flooding back to him. “At least, I hope so.”

  The taxi pulled up to the villa and the driver jumped out and opened the trunk. Alain paid the man while Travis manhandled the heavy box from the trunk into the apartment. Alain closed the doors and by the time he reached the second floor, Travis and Samantha were inspecting the contents of the small crate. Row after row of bullets, 5.56mm and a perfect fit for the Vektors they had rescued from the jungle. He breathed deeply, feeling the cool touch of the metal against his fingertips.

  “They wouldn’t let us open it in the church,” he explained to Samantha. “And they were well enough armed to not argue with.”

  “We weren’t too worried,” Alain added, “as Ali was referred to us by Greg Adamson. But still, you wonder.”

  Greg Adamson had come through again for Travis. The doctor had called to let them know Troy was recovering well and should be on a plane home within a day or two. While Travis had him on the line, he asked the doctor if he had connections that could net them ammunition for automatic weapons. Not surprisingly, he did, and two hours later Travis was having coffee with a cheerful Arab named Ali at a nearby coffeehouse. Ali informed him that 5.56mm ammunition was a piece of cake, it was becoming increasingly popular, and that he kept a few thousand rounds on hand all the time. The price would be significant, of course, as they didn’t have the necessary paperwork to legally buy the munitions. Travis agreed and the next day they met at an address. An address that turned out to be the Angel Gabriel church.

  Samantha rolled off the couch and stretched. “I want a real coffee,” she complained. “Let’s go to a coffeehouse.”

  Travis slid a handgun into his belt and pulled the loose Arabian garments over it. They walked, heading away from the center of the Khan El Khalili and its horrific odors. Three blocks east, bordering on the fringe of the popular bazaar, was a small cybercafé with four online computers. The three westerners seated themselves at a table up front, just out of the ever-present sunlight. They ordered the house specialty and mint tea, and Samantha slipped in behind an older model Compaq computer and brought up the Internet. She quickly set up a proxy, then logged on and pulled up her mail. Three pieces, two from friends, and one from Patrick Kerrigan. She pointed to the name of the sender and both Travis and Alain leaned over to read the e-mail he had written.

  Samantha Carlson,

  It appears that things have not gone exactly as either of us would have predicted. You and the remainder of your team have left the Congo, and in doing so have violated one term of our contract. You were to stay in touch at all times, and to let Gem-Star know of your whereabouts. This is not the case at present, and thus voids our agreement.

  I am reasonably sure that you know the precise location of the diamonds and the value of the find. To think that you can exploit the find is ludicrous. You have neither the resources nor the connections within the government necessary to take diamonds from the source into the world market. I, however, have both of these.

  So I suggest a compromise.

  Contact me by sending a reply to this e-mail, giving me your current location, and we shall meet. For the information that leads me to the mine site, I will entrust to you ten percent of the net profit from all operations the find produces, over its entire life span. You do the math, Ms. Carlson. That’s a lot of money. But first, we must meet.

  Patrick Kerrigan

  Samantha typed out a reply and looked to Travis and Alain for their approval. They both gave it the thumbs up and she hit Send. The message sat in the outbox for a few seconds, then disappeared on its way to Kerrigan’s computer. She logged off, but the smile on her face dissipated quickly as the computer acknowledged her signoff.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered, more to herself than her tablemates. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” McNeil asked.

  “When I sign off, it should register me as an ‘unknown user’ because of the proxy. It didn’t,” she said, pointing to the screen. “It gives my e-mail address. I must have mistyped something when I set up the firewall on this system, or it may be so old it didn’t recognize some of the commands. At any rate, we’re in trouble.”

  “Define in trouble,” Alain said.

  “For the two or three minutes I was signed on to the Internet, my IP address was visible to the world. If Kerrigan has someone watching, they’ll find it.”

  “Can they trace it back to this computer?”

  “It’s unlikely they could get that precise a hit on it, but I’m sure they’ll know we’re in Cairo.”

  “Okay,” Travis said, sitting back in his chair and sipping his hot tea. “We’ve got to get out of here. Alain, we’re going to need a car, truck, van, something that runs. I don’t want to try flying. We don’t have enough cash on hand to bribe the officials or charter another private plane, so we’d be forced to go through customs using our passports. I think we can get through a border checkpoint easier than the airport.”

  Alain nodded. “How much cash do we have left?”

  “Just over ten thousand U.S.,” he replied, not bothering to check his wallet. He finished his tea and stood up, looking down at Sam. “Let’s go, just in case they traced your Internet connection quicker and more accurately than you think.”

  They paid the tab and left the cafe, Samantha and Alain following about a block behind Travis. Both men were armed with Glock A-17 pistols, their safeties off. Once back at the apartment, Alain laid out a plan of action to secure a vehicle. They called Adamson, who gave them the number of an Arab who always had something for sale, and if he didn’t he’d know where to find it. One hour later, Travis and Alain had a meeting set to look at a fifteen-year-old Jeep. Samantha opted to stay in the cool of the apartment. She locked the outer doors behind the two men, then returned to the upper floor and powe
red up the computer.

  This computer was secure, she was sure of that, and she wanted to stay up with her e-mail in case Kerrigan sent her another message. She signed on and checked her inbox. Just the two unopened messages from her friends. She sat back and stared at the screen, unseeing. What did she expect? Kerrigan to send her an e-mail saying that he’d been bad and now wanted to atone by giving himself up to the police? Hardly likely. He had them trapped like rats in a maze, except there was no exit to this labyrinth—it encompassed the globe. Kerrigan had money, and with money came power, the power to hire a small army to track them no matter where they hid. She swept her hair back from her face and flopped back into her chair. How the hell had she let herself get into such a mess? A milliondollar paycheck? The lure of unearthing a virgin diamond discovery? Returning to Africa? She mentally nodded to each one. She had been duped into working as Kerrigan’s pawn for all those reasons, and at least one more—her interest in Travis McNeil. She switched her attention to the computer screen.

  The Nasdaq was up, the Dow-Jones down, and the American economy moving back into a higher gear as people gained confidence in the Bush administration. A Palestinian terrorist had driven a bus loaded with explosives into an Israeli checkpoint, but the charges had failed to explode. A key word caught her attention and she clicked on a headline that read, “Families of Cranston Air Flight 111 protest continued search for diamonds.” The full story leapt onto the screen and she read on.

  HALIFAX, Nova Scotia (AP)

  Embattled families of the 229 victims of Cranston Air Flight 111 that crashed into the Atlantic Ocean in September 2002 are again protesting the possible desecration of their loved ones’ final resting spot by treasure hunters.

  Ari Kryptostolis, a professional treasure hunter operating out of Athens, has confirmed his company will anchor a suction dredge ship above the wreckage site and comb the area for $300 million in missing diamonds.