African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  “Yeah, that’s a good point. He had no idea about our expedition and I got the feeling he didn’t know about the others either. He wasn’t a happy man.”

  “But was he mad enough to sic the FBI on Kerrigan?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  The plane had reached cruising altitude, and the flight attendants moved through the cabin, serving drinks. Samantha had a rum and Coke, something she almost never did when flying. Travis settled for coffee, and they sipped on their drinks for a few minutes in silence. Samantha spoke first.

  “You ever been to Antwerp?” she asked casually.

  “No. Never had a reason to until now. Never stole millions of dollars in rough diamonds. Until now, of course. You’re a bad influence.”

  “Yeah, right, me. I’m the bad influence. I don’t think so.” She laughed. She’d had her share of interesting situations, but nothing like what he had seen in his life. “It’s a very different city. Rubens was from Antwerp—painted all of his masterpieces in the city. He built his own home, a beautiful house and garden with a gorgeous courtyard. But the whole city is flat and it rains a lot. Check out the trees when we get there. Every side, not just the north, is covered with moss. I think Antwerp has the least number of sunny days of any European city.”

  “It sounds depressing.”

  “God, no. It’s beautiful. You’ll see.”

  “And De Beers is there.”

  “Oh, yes, Travis. De Beers is there,” she said, envisioning the monolithic company. The heart of the world diamond cartel was in London, but the Antwerp office was crucially important to them. The rough diamonds that poured into Belgium were cut and polished by some of the best craftsmen in the world, then sent ahead to the world market. Antwerp represented a link in De Beers’s chain that, if severed, would severely impact the monopoly they held. And at the heart of what held Antwerp out as such a cherished link were the diamond sights. “De Beers is definitely in Antwerp,” she added. “In some ways, De Beers is Antwerp.”

  Flight 972 landed in Brussels slightly ahead of schedule and they caught an inter-city bus into Antwerp. McNeil didn’t want to risk using a credit card for a car rental, even though he was positive Kerrigan’s people had already picked up their movements when their passports cleared British and Belgium customs. The bus was actually quite enjoyable, one of the large luxury cruisers usually reserved for longhaul trips. Samantha stared out the window, watching a narrow band of rippled water that paralleled the road as it swept north toward Antwerp. Windmills dotted the fields, their blades rising above the new summer growth. An occasional farm, surrounded by trees in full foliage, broke the monotony of the tidal basin that was northern Belgium. The farmland gave way to houses first, then to the commercial bustle of Antwerp’s port. They entered the city from the south, the driver cutting off the Autoweg at Koning Albert Park and slowing as he maneuvered through the slower traffic.

  The city was typical European, with narrow cobblestone streets lined with three-story, centuries-old brick buildings. Flemish was the dominant language on the ornate signage that identified businesses and guild houses. Numerous humpback bridges spanned the River Schelde as it snaked its way through the heart of the city, each ancient and sturdy in its stone construction. Houses and shops lined the water-way, and life was in full bustle as their bus pulled into the central station. They asked the driver for directions to a reasonably priced hotel close to the diamond district. He jotted down an address for a mid-range hotel on Appelmansstraat, close to the Andimo Building, home of De Beers’s Belgium office. It wasn’t far and they opted to walk.

  “We must be running out of money,” she said as they cut through a square with a central fountain.

  “Actually, no, we’re just fine there. I borrowed a few thousand from Basil before we left London. The guy’s loaded; he won’t miss it.”

  “We have to pay him back,” she said. “Somehow.”

  “I have an idea,” he said, pointing down Appelmansstraat to number thirty-one. “I’ll tell you later.” The Alfa Empire Hotel, complete with a tacky vertical sign and glassed-in lobby, stood out like a sore thumb amidst the restored historical ambience that bordered it on either side. Travis just shrugged his shoulders and headed for the lobby. “Maybe it’s better inside.”

  It was. The rooms were acceptable and had private baths. It was far from a five-star hotel, and they felt comfortable that Kerrigan wouldn’t be sleeping next door. Samantha dragged out the phone book and looked up the main switchboard number for De Beers. She dialed the number, explained who she was, and asked the receptionist if it would be possible to get the names of the current directors. The woman was surprisingly accommodating and read off a few names. Samantha stopped her at the fifth name, Peter Van Housen. She asked to be put through to his local number, and waited as the phone rang. It eventually went to his voice mail, and she hit zero. The recording stopped and a different woman answered.

  “Mr. Van Housen’s office, Stephanie.”

  “Hello, do you speak English?” Samantha asked. Her Flemish was nonexistent.

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Van Housen. Could you put me directly through to him, please?”

  “I’m sorry, but that is quite impossible. Mr. Van Housen is on holiday this week. Could I be of some assistance?”

  Samantha thought quickly. Peter Van Housen was her ticket to an invitation to Wednesday’s sight. She knew the man well from several meetings in different cities over the past five years. He represented De Beers in the capacity of international marketing, and in the course of his daily duties met with geologists, cutters, buyers and competitors on a regular basis. She respected his abilities, and knew that he held her in the same capacity.

  “Could you please contact Mr. Van Housen at home and let him know that I’m in Antwerp?” She gave the woman her name.

  “That would be highly irregular, Ms. Carlson.” The woman sounded uncertain.

  “Please call him. I know Peter well, and I think he’d be very disappointed if he knew I had visited Antwerp and was unable to contact him.”

  The secretary capitulated and asked Samantha to hold while she tried the director’s home phone number. Two minutes later, she took Sam off hold, apologized profusely for not putting her directly through, and patched the line across to Van Housen’s home. It rang twice and a familiar voice picked up.

  “Samantha Carlson, is that really you?”

  “Hi, Peter. It’s me. I just arrived in Antwerp a couple of hours ago and thought I’d look you up. I hope I’m not bothering you by having your office ring you at home.”

  “God, no. I would have been furious if they hadn’t put you through. Listen, I’m on an international call on the other line. Would you like to pop over and have a drink, maybe dinner?”

  “That sounds wonderful. I’ve got a friend with me, if that’s okay?”

  “Of course it is. My address is twenty-two Ambiorixlei, in Schoten. Just give the taxi driver the house number and he’ll know where it is. See you in an hour?”

  She agreed and hung up. She turned to Travis, a grin on her face. “I know this guy pretty well. I’m feeling a lot better about getting an invite to the sight.”

  He clutched her close to him and kissed her. He felt the urgency and unabashed desire in her lips as she kissed him back. She slid her hands up and began to unbutton his shirt, then his pants. “Do we have enough time?” he asked quietly.

  “The guy’s on holiday, Travis. He’s at home and expecting us. Where is he going?”

  “God, I love your attitude,” he said, working his own magic on her buttons.

  Forty minutes later, Samantha hailed one of the many black Mercedes cabs that cruised about the city in search of paying customers and gave the driver the address. He headed north, weaving through the back streets and giving his passengers the scenic route. He spoke some English and tried to point out landmarks and important buildings as they p
assed. Eventually he merged onto a main thoroughfare to cross the Albert Kanal, then angled east and into Schoten. The upscale neighborhood was anything but European. The houses were huge and surrounded by estate-size lots, covered with mature fir and birch trees. The roads were still cobblestone, but gone was the congestion of the city, replaced by a tranquil country setting. Samantha had to keep reminding herself she was in the heart of a city in the most populated country in Europe.

  “What are these houses worth?” Samantha asked the driver.

  “If you have to ask, you can’t afford them,” the man replied. “Anyone who lives here is either very wealthy, or a foreign national working in Belgium. Or both.”

  They turned onto Ambiorixlei and then through the brick-pillared gates of number twenty-two. The house was deep brown, with brick stretching across the exterior of the main floor. Dormers punctuated the steeply sloped roofline and the white trim was freshly painted. The Mercedes rattled ever so slightly as it pulled slowly up the long, sweeping cobblestone drive. They had just come to a stop when the front door opened and a middle-aged man walked out to greet them. He was well-dressed and very fit for his age, his hair still brown with no signs of gray. He clasped Samantha’s hand and shook it vigorously. His complexion was pale and looked white against her tanned skin. She greeted him cordially and introduced him to Travis.

  “I’m pleased to meet any friend of Samantha’s,” Peter Van Housen said warmly as he shook Travis’s hand. He insisted on paying the taxi driver and waved them into the house.

  The home was furnished with a masculine hand, the furniture dark leather with silver studs on its arms. The heavy tables were highly polished. Coats of arms decorated one wall of the foyer and original oils graced the formal living room. Van Housen motioned for them to be seated. The leather was soft and warm to the touch.

  “I noticed a brass plaque on one of the brick pillars in front of the house,” Travis said, interested. “It said Villa T’luipeerd. What exactly does that mean?”

  “All the houses in this area have names,”Van Housen said, relaxing in an armchair. “This one is Leopard Villa.”

  “It makes that look a little out of place,” Samantha said, pointing at a stuffed beaver tucked away in the far corner of the room.

  “Ah, my beaver. I bought this house from an executive with General Motors. He and his wife were Canadian. I made the mistake of telling them I liked it and when they left Belgium, they left me the beaver. It does make an interesting conversation piece.”

  Samantha nodded. She was interested in how Peter had ended up in Antwerp, and the next half an hour was spent tracing his movements for the past year or two. Finally, Van Housen asked Samantha what had brought them to Antwerp.

  “We’re just taking some time to see a bit of Europe,” she said. “Antwerp seemed like a nice place to visit. And . . . I noticed De Beers has a sight set for Wednesday morning. Now that would be interesting to sit in on.”

  “Are you kidding?” Van Housen sat upright in his chair. “It would be an honor to have you at the sight, Sam. We don’t get enough field geologists in Antwerp. Too many cutters and polishers, and not enough gatherers. Do you really want to take it in?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He reached for the phone that sat on the table next to his chair. “Then consider it done.” He began to dial.

  “Peter, do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Sam.”

  “Just tell your people that a geologist will be attending. Don’t use my name.” When he looked bewildered, she went on to explain. “Diamonds might be a girl’s best friend, but the business is still run predominantly by men. Sometimes guys get their shorts in a knot when a woman is peeking over their shoulder. But once I’m face to face with them, it’s usually okay.”

  He finished dialing. “As you wish, Sam.” Someone answered and Van Housen spoke in fluent Flemish. He was on the line for a minute, then hung up. “That’s arranged. Now, how about some dinner?”

  It was well after nine in the evening when they finally poured themselves into a cab and headed back to their hotel. Peter Van Housen had been the consummate host, entertaining them with stories and plying them with food and liquor. The truth be known, both of them were fairly smashed when they left. They fell into bed together and Travis was asleep within seconds, leaving Samantha alone with her thoughts. And the one thought that kept recurring to her was that she was going to get her chance at Kerrigan. One chance, and only one.

  But could she pull it off?

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Patrick Kerrigan deplaned in Brussels, hailed a cab and stretched out in the backseat. He gave the driver his hotel name in Antwerp and watched the man’s expression light up. Brussels cabbies liked nothing better than fares to Antwerp—they were a license to print money. It was bordering on dusk and Kerrigan had lost all of Monday to the flight and time difference. He hadn’t slept at all on the plane and drifted off intermittently as his ride cruised through the Belgian countryside. He woke as they entered Antwerp, and twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the city’s only fivestar accommodation, the Radisson SAS Park Lane Hotel.

  His room was reserved and the desk clerk had a message for him from a Mr. Shaw when he checked in. He settled into the suite, then called Garret on the number his hired killer had left. It was prefixed with a London area code.

  Shaw answered immediately. “Hello, Patrick. McNeil and Carlson are in Belgium.”

  “What?” Kerrigan was stunned. “Where in Belgium, and when did they get here?”

  “They flew into Brussels this afternoon. Probably arrived about three o’clock or so.”

  “They flew into Brussels? What the hell are they up to?”

  “No idea. I missed getting on the plane by seconds. One of your moles called from Washington. They couldn’t contact you, so they tried me.”

  “Shit. My guess is they’re coming to Antwerp. But why?”

  “Maybe the diamonds you got from them in Cairo were not all they had. They could be in Antwerp to dump off some rough to a cutter.”

  “Perhaps,” Kerrigan said slowly, “but I don’t think so. No, they’re up to something.”

  “I’m on the next flight from London. It leaves tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, you know where I’m staying. I’ll see you when you get here.” He hung up and paced the room.

  Samantha Carlson was a major fucking headache. A headache that refused to go away. And with McNeil in tow, she was dangerous. All this two days before the private sight he had arranged at De Beers. He briefly contemplated whether the two could be connected, then discarded the idea. De Beers had set the sight at his request and had arranged for two Saudi princes as potential buyers for the entire lot, but his name had not been associated at any time. There was no way Carlson could have linked him to the sight. Of that he was positive.

  Room service arrived with fresh coffee and pastries. He poured some coffee into the fine china that accompanied the urn and stirred in some cream. He watched as the cream dissipated in the coffee, lightening the color. The world was a bit like that, he thought. Every person who was added into the mix changed things a bit, altered the original. Some more so than others. And some in very distinct ways. He had committed some actions that could be construed as atrocities. Bringing down Cranston Air Flight 111 was horrific, but necessary. Killing the geologists didn’t bother him in the least. They had been hired to perform a specific task, and when they double-crossed him by keeping the location of the diamonds secret, he had no choice. Eliminating people who stood in his way wasn’t a major concern to him, nor was it the highlight of his life.

  But Samantha Carlson was different. Killing her was going to be fun. A simple death was too good. He would make her suffer, torture her until she screamed to be put down, like a wounded dog. But even then he would refuse. He would make the pain linger until he was satisfied she had suffered enough. Then, and only then, would he kill her.

  Perhaps her trip to A
ntwerp was a blessing in disguise. She was close by and Shaw was on his way in from London. They would slip up somehow, and Shaw would pounce. Once McNeil was out of the way, she would be helpless. His pulse quickened as a surreal vision of Samantha Carlson at his mercy ran through his mind.

  Soon, he thought. Very soon.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday dawned clear in Antwerp, a rarity in a city that generally languished under cloud cover. The parks were jammed with families, the squares bustled with activity and the sidewalk cafes did a robust business. Antwerp worshipped the sun on the few days it chose to show itself. Travis and Samantha were caught up in the adrenaline and spent some of the day outside their hotel room, touring and taking in the city’s history. Being spotted by Kerrigan was a concern and they kept a low profile, spending most of the time in the back of a cab. Belgian chocolate, world-famous for its rich texture and taste, was plentiful and Samantha tried a few different stores. They found a quaint restaurant specializing in mussels and opted for an early dinner.

  The conversation varied, but consistently came back to Kerrigan and what would happen tomorrow morning. The sight was to begin at ten o’clock and Samantha was set to arrive only a couple of minutes before ten. She would meet both the seller and the buyers, then have an opportunity to grade the diamonds before the buyer’s agents made an offer. It would be precisely ten o’clock when she locked eyes with Patrick Kerrigan.

  “You going to be okay?” Travis asked, finishing off the last of his mussels and ordering another Stella Artois.

  “Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you’re there to take the case after I come out of the room.”

  “I know, take the case and casually get the hell out of there—with the diamonds. If the security’s as tight as you think it is, they’ll search it on the way out. But I don’t think they’ll find the section where the diamonds will be hidden. Basil’s work is absolute perfection.”