African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  “I just hope Basil’s little contraption works. If it doesn’t, I’ll look like a complete idiot. Worst-case scenario lands me in jail for attempted theft.”

  “You’ll do fine, Sam. You’re a woman of many talents.”

  “Theft was never high on my list.”

  “If you get the diamonds and replace them with the cubic zirconia, Kerrigan is finished. He’ll never trade in precious stones again.”

  “Travis.” She looked at the table as she spoke, afraid to make eye contact in case he gave her the wrong answer. “After this is over, would you consider getting out of this lunatic line of work you’re in? I’ve got more than enough money. Not just to live on, but for us to start a business or something. You know, something not so dangerous.”

  He reached across the table and cupped his hand under her chin. He gently lifted it and her eyes met his. He smiled. “Yes” was all he said.

  They paid their bill and left the restaurant. They were close enough to the hotel to walk, and with twilight setting in, Travis thought they would be safe without taking a cab. The walk was refreshing and half an hour later they locked and bolted the hotel-room door. Samantha checked out Basil’s box for the final time and Travis powered up the computer and logged on to the Internet. Sam had already programmed a proxy into the machine, effectively blocking it from sniffers. Travis opened and closed a few web sites and was getting bored when he had an idea. Learn more about geology. He pulled up the American Institute of Professional Geologists and began to poke around. Eventually he made his way to the awards section. He noted that every year, the AIPG selected a member who was without peer and awarded him or her with a silver-plated geologist’s hammer. He scrolled back, reading the brief bios of the recipients over the past few years. He hit 1994 and stopped in his tracks. David Samuel Carlson had been the board’s unanimous choice that year for his selfless devotion to the discipline. Samantha’s father.

  “Hey, look at this,” Travis said. “Check out the 1994 winner of the AIPG fellow of the year.”

  Samantha set the box on the table and sauntered over. She leaned on his shoulders and read off the winners until she hit 1994. “My dad won it that year. I knew they’d picked him once but I didn’t know what year. David Samuel Carlson,” she read off the screen. “He always hated David, much preferred Sam.”

  “Not your average trophy. The winner gets a silver hammer.” Samantha stared at the screen. What had he said? The winner gets a silver hammer. Her knees went weak and she collapsed to the floor. He turned quickly in his chair, then was on his knees helping her up. His lips were moving, asking her if she was okay. Some part of her brain sent a reply—she needed water. He picked her up and set her on the couch, then hurried off to find some. He returned a few seconds later. She drank deeply, almost trancelike. He was close, staring at her, talking to her. She cut him off, asked him a question.

  “What was the name of the hotel we stayed at in Butembo?”

  “The Queen Anne. Why?”

  “Could you do me a favor and get the telephone number for the hotel?” He just stared at her. “Please,” she added. He dialed the international directory, and after a few minutes jotted a number down on the pad of paper beside the phone. He held it up for her to see. “Dial it, please.” He nodded and handed her the phone as he dialed the number.

  “What’s wrong, Sam?” he asked quietly.

  “Let me make this call first, Travis.” She held up her finger. Someone in Butembo had picked up. “Could I speak with Martine Abouda, please?” A few moments of silence. “Hello, Martine, this is Samantha Carlson. Do you remember me? I stayed at your hotel a few weeks ago.” She was silent as he confirmed that he knew who she was. “Martine, when I introduced myself to you I remember you said something rather odd to me. You said that I don’t look like Sam Carlson. Why did you say that?”

  He watched the remaining color drain from her face as she listened to the answer. “Could you please check your records and see exactly when Mr. Carlson stayed at your hotel.” Again, silence as the man dug up the old records. “I see. Thank you very much.” She hung up. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she stared ahead at nothing.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, moving beside her and holding her. She was shaking.

  “When we were in the Congo, in Butembo, the manager of the hotel said I didn’t look like Sam Carlson. He said that because he had already met Sam Carlson. My father had stayed at the hotel.”

  “What? When?”

  “Just over two years ago. Two years and three months, minus a couple of days. Dad stayed at the Queen Anne before heading into the Ruwenzori.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The hammer. The geologist’s hammer we found at the foot of the diamond formation. D.S.C–1994. It never clicked until now, because Dad never called himself David. But that hammer, the one we found in the Congo, was given to my father by the AIPG in 1994. And my father stayed at the Queen Anne just before he died. Travis, Kerrigan sent another expedition to the Congo, one that we didn’t know about. And my father was in charge of it.”

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered softly. “After your father finished with the expedition, he met your mother in Morocco. They were killed in a plane crash taking off from Casablanca.”

  “That bastard,” she seethed. Gone was the timid woman with the tears. In her place was a woman consumed with anger. She stood up, the room whirling. Her arms lashed out, smashing the lamp and a vase. She grabbed the phone and hurled it at the wall. It missed the window and bounced off the painted stone, pieces flying about the room. Travis grabbed her and held her close. Her fists were clenched, her eyes afire, her lips contorted into a vicious sneer.

  “That bastard,” she said again, this time with sorrow. “He killed my parents.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  The mood over the breakfast table was somber. After talking with the hotel manager in Butembo, Travis and Samantha had spent three hours reconstructing the last few weeks of her parents’ lives. There was no doubt Kerrigan had initiated the sequence of events that had culminated in the fatal plane crash off the coast of Morocco. Before he left on the fated trip, her father had talked to her about his upcoming expedition, but never with any clarity that would allow her to pinpoint his exact target. She had remained in the dark, without really thinking about it, for the two years since the crash. All she knew was that her mother had met her father in Casablanca and they were to fly into London—and that they had never arrived. And her life had forever been changed.

  But there had been clues that she had either ignored or failed to see—clues that now pointed to Kerrigan as the architect of her parents’ deaths. The Manhattan meetings before he left New York, his interest in laser ablation, malaria pills, and his reputation inside the geological community. Kerrigan made no bones about going after the best, and her father was the best. Then there was the timing. They had calculated that Kerrigan had sent three teams, including theirs, into the jungle. But that left a huge gap between the first and second. There was no such gap; there was an additional expedition. The one her father had led. He had located the same vein that she had, and he had refused to divulge to Kerrigan where it was, probably for the same reasons she had refused. Finding his hammer at the formation and confirming he had stayed at the Queen Anne just before trekking into the Ruwenzori was merely the concrete proof. Kerrigan had killed her parents.

  Samantha poked at her breakfast, tired and despondent. Travis looked awful, his face readily showing the lack of sleep. He drained a fifth cup of coffee and waved for the waiter to bring another. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” he said.

  “I know you are,” she replied, reaching across the table and taking his hand. “You are so special to me.” Tears welled up in her eyes and a solitary droplet spilled down her cheek. “I’ve got to stop taking this whole thing so personally and remember that getting Kerrigan isn’t just for me, it’s for every person with a loved one on that plane. And for the families
of the expedition members he murdered. And more.”

  “It’s time to go. You ready?”

  She nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  They checked out of the hotel and piled their luggage into a waiting cab. The sky had clouded over and Antwerp seemed drab, almost devoid of energy. Gone were the children skipping on the cobblestone squares, replaced by a light drizzle of rain that muted the colors and highlighted the gray stone the city’s architects had loved so dearly. They drove on in silence, both knowing that this was it.

  Kerrigan snapped his briefcase shut and glanced across the hotel suite at Garret Shaw. The man was tinkering with a gun, polishing it. Killing time, Kerrigan thought. And time was something that Travis and Carlson were running out of. He was sure they were in Antwerp but he wasn’t sure why. That bothered him, but not enough to alter the plans he had in place. Shaw had spent all of Tuesday calling the local hotels, trying to locate them, with no luck. Not surprising, as Travis would surely have checked in under an assumed name. But this was Wednesday morning and De Beers awaited. The phone rang just as he stood up with his briefcase and umbrella. He waved Shaw off and answered it himself. It was Langley.

  “I’ve got them,” the voice from deep inside CIA headquarters said. “One of the numbers I had a tracer on got a hit.”

  “Which one?”

  “An Antwerp number called the Queen Anne hotel in Butembo last night.”

  “Where in Antwerp did the call originate from?” Kerrigan asked, angry that it had taken the man this long to call, but hesitant to tear a piece off of him.

  “The Alfa Empire Hotel, on Appelmansstraat.”

  “Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Shaw. “The Alfa Empire on Appelmansstraat. It’s not far from here.”

  “Fuckers. That was one of the first ones I called yesterday. The bastards at the front desk lied when they told me no one matching that description had checked in.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Get over there and take care of them. Now.”

  Shaw slid the pistol into his waistband, grabbed a jacket and was gone. Kerrigan stood in the center of the room, thinking. Samantha Carlson had arrived in Antwerp the same day he had. Coincidence? He was beginning to think not. Then she called the hotel in Butembo where both she and her father had stayed. Why? Was there any way she could have linked her father to him? Next to impossible. But still, if she had somehow figured out that Samuel Carlson had led the spring expedition two years ago, she would be on the warpath. Especially if she extrapolated that logic one step further to the plane crash he had engineered. The stupid bastard. If her father had just told him where the damn diamonds were, he and his wife could have lived. But no, he refused, and in doing so had signed his own death warrant. A slight adjustment to the plane’s stabilizers had caused it to crash into the Atlantic, killing everyone on board.

  Possibly, he reminded himself, was the key word. There was no proof to tie him to the Casablanca incident. He began to relax. Shaw was on his way to their hotel, and soon McNeil would be dead and Carlson would be in his hands. And he had wanted to tell her about her father anyway. Perhaps she already knew, and if she did, so what? It would just take away the element of surprise. He would still have the enjoyment of describing to her in the tiniest detail exactly how he had killed her parents. This twist wasn’t a problem. He would still have his way with the bitch.

  He left the suite, his briefcase in one hand, umbrella in the other. A taxi was at the curb and he slipped into the backseat. A twisted smile came to his face as he thought about the day that lay ahead. Twenty-five million dollars in uncut diamonds would pass from his hands, through De Beers, to some fabulously wealthy Saudi princes. De Beers would take their cut and he would pocket over twenty million. Then Shaw would call on his cell phone and inform him McNeil was dead and Carlson was captive. And then the real fun would begin. Yes, this was going to be a very good day indeed.

  Shaw cursed under his breath as his taxi glided up to the lobby of the Alfa Empire Hotel. Exiting the front doors right in front of him were McNeil and Carlson. He thought briefly about taking McNeil out right there on the sidewalk. He nixed the idea—too many witnesses. He chose instead to have his driver follow their taxi. It wasn’t a long drive. The cab pulled up in front of the Andimo Building, home of the De Beers Antwerp office. Shaw sat in stunned disbelief as McNeil and Carlson paid the fare and disappeared into the building. He dialed Kerrigan’s cell phone number, but the call went directly to voice mail. The building must be screened to prevent cellular calls from entering. He got out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do.

  Kerrigan was already in the building, of that he was sure. And so was Carlson. This was not a coincidence. He checked his watch. It was three minutes to ten. There was no way he could just walk into De Beers, unannounced and unexpected, and be ushered through to the inner sanctum in order to warn Kerrigan. Whatever was going to happen inside was going to happen. There was nothing he could do to stop it. But when they came out, that was a different story. He moved across the street to a cafe, chose a corner table and ordered a coffee. His targets would eventually walk out that door, and when they did . . .

  FORTY

  Samantha and Travis cleared the first level of security on the third floor and entered De Beers’s Antwerp offices. The furnishings were opulent, the interior design tasteful and muted, matching the early summer day outside. Persian carpets overlaid Italian marble floors and original oils hung intermittently throughout the reception area. The teak wood accents and the gilt-edged lighting added an exclusive ambience. They were welcomed by a fashionably dressed receptionist, fluent in unaccented English, and led through a series of rooms and hallways to a highly secure wing of the floor. The decorating here was stark in comparison, the walls an off-white and the furniture simple. Nowhere to hide diamonds.

  A director of the Antwerp office introduced himself to Samantha and Travis, then led them deeper into the labyrinth of grading rooms. In one of the larger rooms, bench after bench, covered with white paper, sat next to south-facing windows. Piles of diamonds sat on each table, carefully sorted according to size, color, quality and shape. They passed the largest of the sorting rooms and entered an anteroom adjacent to the private sorting chamber. Four men were already in the room: a De Beers employee, two Saudi princes, and an American. Patrick Kerrigan. He turned to see the newcomers, and froze.

  “Mr. Kerrigan, this is the world-renowned geologist we mentioned would be helping to grade the diamonds at the sight. May I introduce Dr. Samantha Carlson. Dr. Carlson, this is Patrick Kerrigan, a regular client and president of Gem-Star, based out of New York.”

  Kerrigan’s eyes showed surprise, but no emotion as he took the outstretched hand. Samantha’s fury boiled precariously close to the top. She stared into the very soul of the monster who had taken her parents from her. The man who had killed countless others, innocents who stood in his warped way. And she loathed him. She had never felt true hate like she felt as she gripped his cold hand. She squeezed, her grip equally as strong as his, perhaps stronger. Then she relaxed, releasing his hand and letting it slip from her grasp. This was not the time or manner in which to hurt Kerrigan. That would happen soon enough.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Carlson,” Kerrigan managed to grind out.

  “Likewise.”

  The De Beers director introduced her to both the Saudi princes and she shook their hands. “Dr. Carlson, the diamonds are already in the sight room.” He pointed at the small metal box she carried. “We’ll have to examine that case before we can allow you in the room. Standard procedure, of course.”

  “Of course,” she answered lightly, handing it to the nearby employee. He opened it, removed and checked each piece of instrumentation, then carefully scrutinized the box itself. Satisfied it was a standard carrying case filled with the usual geological tools, he returned it to her. “Thank you, Dr. Carlson.”

  The director waved to the door and she entered, closin
g it behind her. The room faced south, with a large window that allowed ample sunlight in. Even with the typical Antwerp cloud cover, the room was bright. A table covered with white paper sat facing the window. On the paper sat the diamonds—the diamonds Kerrigan had taken from her in Cairo. She moved to the table and set her box down as she seated herself. She opened it and removed the microscope first, then the proportion analyzer and finally the eyepiece. As she worked, she noted every inch of the room. She was looking for the camera she knew was there somewhere. Then she saw it. Slightly behind her, to the left, was a section of wall a fraction of a shade lighter than the surrounding area. The stream of filtered sunlight reflected off the cover at a slightly different angle, revealing the tiny square. She shifted slightly to place her body between the diamonds and the camera, then got to work.

  With her left hand, she worked the proportion analyzer and the eyepiece, carefully judging each stone, taking her time as she went. With her right hand, she twisted the clasp on the box in the reverse direction and it popped open. One after another she carefully placed the rough diamonds into the soft black rubber between the inner and outer shells of the box. She positioned twenty-one on the upper side of the box, then snapped it shut and flipped it over. She opened the bottom and inserted the final twenty stones. She snapped it shut for a few seconds, then opened both the top and bottom and let the stones fall back on the table. Fortyone perfect molds stared back at her, all vacant and ready for the cubic zirconia. She snapped the case shut and twisted the handle slightly as Basil had shown her. The liquid zirconia flowed from its storage tubes into the rubber that lined the case. It settled out in the indentations, filling them. She waited the required two minutes, then released the catalyst by twisting the handle in the opposite direction. Now she needed at least six minutes for the catalyst to harden the zirconia. She turned her attention back to the real diamonds, which lay on the paper in front of her.