by Jeff Buick
She was four minutes into the hardening time when the door behind her opened. She turned abruptly from her instruments, glaring at the intruder. It was the De Beers employee who had checked her case.
“What do you want?” she snapped at him, her tone bordering on uncivil.
“We were wondering how much longer you will be, Dr. Carlson,” the man said, taken aback by the tone in her voice. Behind him, Samantha could see Kerrigan starting to move for the door.
She got to her feet and faced the man, blocking the entrance to the room. “Grading diamonds takes time, sir,” she said. “You have allowed me the professional courtesy of examining these stones; now please give me privacy while I analyze them.” The employee moved back. When he was outside the door, she grasped the handle and pushed. The door closed. She waited a moment for Kerrigan to rip it open, but that didn’t happen. She moved to the table and resumed examining the real stones. She checked her watch. It was just six minutes. Basil had said eight would be better. She relaxed into the chair and placed another stone on the proportion analyzer.
A full nine minutes from first injecting the catalyst, Samantha opened the case and let the stones fall out on the table. She gasped as they landed close to her and away from the real ones. They were perfect. The color was identical to the rough greenish tinge that covered the diamonds she had taken from the kimberlite pipe in the Congo. Their shapes were without flaw. She quickly examined one with her instruments, marveling at how the modified zirconia now simulated the exact molecular structure of diamond. Christ, Basil was good.
She now had two piles of diamonds. The fakes were closest to her and hidden from the camera, the real ones sitting out in plain sight. One by one, she took a real diamond, exchanged it for a fake and placed the real stone in the correct mold in the case. Time was wearing on and she knew placing the wrong stone in a mold would be disastrous. She finally came to the last diamond and slipped it into the only remaining mold. It fit perfectly. She snapped both the bottom and top of the case shut and stood up. She walked to the door and opened it. Two Saudi princes, one director of De Beers and one employee, McNeil, and Kerrigan all stared at her from the anteroom.
“Gentlemen,” she began. “I’m afraid the news is not good. The diamonds are fakes.”
“Impossible!” Kerrigan shouted. “You know damn well those stones are real.”
Every eye turned to look at him. “And how would she know that, Mr. Kerrigan?”
He swallowed, hesitated. “Because she just examined them, of course.”
The De Beers director was stone-faced. He picked up a phone on a nearby table. “Please have three of our best gemologists come to the executive room,” he said. “Immediately.” He turned to the employee. “Please check Dr. Carlson’s instrument case. Carefully.”
Scant seconds later, three men dressed in white lab coats appeared at the door. The director explained to the men the situation, and asked them to closely examine the stones to determine authenticity. The three men piled into the sight room and began their examination.
“Mr. Kerrigan, I don’t have to tell you what this means if Dr. Carlson is correct,” he said.
“Of course not,” Kerrigan fumed. “If the diamonds were fakes, my membership to the World Federation of Diamond Bourses would be revoked. But they are not. They are real. Very real.” He stared directly at Samantha as he spoke. The lifelessness had left his eyes, and she saw the epitome of hate growing from the depths of his mind and manifesting itself in his stare. She had never seen such evil, and after a few moments she looked away.
Time passed until a full fifteen minutes had elapsed. The De Beers employee completed a thorough check of Samantha’s instrument case, declared it was fine and handed it back to her. A tense silence enveloped the anteroom, with Samantha and Kerrigan exchanging hateful glances as they waited for the verdict. The door to the sight room opened and the three experts filed out. One of them spoke for the group.
“We’re not sure,” he said, hesitantly. “Some of the tests are conclusive—they appear to be real diamonds. But others are not so clear. There’s more than a shadow of doubt as to their authenticity.”
The director looked grim. “It’s either diamond, or it’s not. You’re the experts. Which is it?”
“We dropped the stones in question into methylene iodide alongside real diamonds and watched how quickly they sank to the bottom,” one of the gemologists said. “They dropped at exactly the same rate. Therefore the density is identical, eliminating cubic zirconia, strontium titanate, YAG and GGG.”
A second gemologist continued, “We ran a thermal conductivity test and sent pulses of power through the stones. The stones registered as diamond on the calibrated scale.”
“At that point, we were convinced they were diamond,” the third man said. “But a final test has us wondering.”
“You measured the reflection coefficient,” Samantha interjected.
“Yes.” The man turned to her. “Is that how you knew?” She nodded and he continued. “In cubic zirconia, the refractive index changes faster with the wavelength than with diamond. We measured the difference in the infrared spectrum and found substantial differences from where a true diamond should measure. The readings were closer to cubic zirconia.” Samantha made a slight motion to Travis. Then she set the instrument case on the table. He gathered it up and excused himself under the intent of leaving the building to have a cigarette. After he was gone, Samantha addressed the room.
“Gentlemen, there is one test that is quite easy to perform that would conclusively prove whether the stones are genuine or fake.”
“What is that, Dr. Carlson?” the director asked.
“Let me show you.” Samantha reentered the sight room and waited until the gemologist, the director, both Saudi princes and Kerrigan had all followed her in. “It’s quite simple, really. If this is a molecularly modified form of zirconia, it will fail this test miserably.” She turned abruptly, picked up the small microscope from the desk and brought the base down on one of the stones. A series of gasps escaped from the onlookers. She left the microscope sitting for a moment, then lifted it up. Scattered on the table was a pile of broken zirconia. “As I said, the test is rather simple.”
“What the fuck did you do with my diamonds?” Kerrigan exploded.
“Mr. Kerrigan, De Beers is a respectable establishment. Foul language is not acceptable. Another outburst and I will insist you leave immediately.” The De Beers director was very serious.
Kerrigan could barely control his rage. Through clenched teeth he managed to snarl, “Where are my diamonds?”
“On the table, Mr. Kerrigan. Exactly where they were when I entered the room.”
Kerrigan turned to the director. “She did something with the diamonds. These are not the same ones I brought to the sight.”
The director motioned to the employee. “The photographs, please.” The younger man produced a full set of high-quality digital photographs printed on a color laser printer. The quality was impeccable. The photographs were placed on the table and the diamonds arranged so they sat beside the photo that had been taken when they first arrived. Careful examination revealed that the stones were identical.
“These are the stones, Mr. Kerrigan,” the director said. He picked up the microscope and brought it down on another of the forgeries. It smashed, as the first one had. “I think you owe us an explanation.”
“She switched them,” Kerrigan said defiantly. “She has the diamonds.”
“We searched her instrument case and found nothing,” the director said, turning to Samantha. “Would you object to a search, Dr. Carlson? A very, shall we say, intense search of your person?”
“I would and I do. However, to protect the De Beers name, I’ll allow it.” She left the room with the employee as the director called for a female security officer to meet them in the security office.
“We shall see, Mr. Kerrigan,” the director said after Samantha had left the room. �
�You had better pray that she has them, or your days dealing in precious stones are over. This is not something De Beers takes lightly.”
“She has them,” Kerrigan spat back at him. “Somewhere, somehow, she has them.”
The search did not take long. The female officer peered into the anteroom and shook her head. Moments later, a vilified Samantha Carlson entered. She smiled at Kerrigan. “What a terrible mistake, Mr. Kerrigan. Trying to defraud De Beers.”
The Saudi princes had had enough. They bowed politely to the director and left. Samantha thanked the man for allowing her to sit in on the sight, and he thanked her emphatically for preventing a complete disaster. She took one last glance at Kerrigan as she left. He was arguing with the director, but the man looked disgusted and was shaking his head. She felt partially vindicated. Kerrigan’s reputation was in tatters. His high-income years had just come to an abrupt halt, but that still didn’t take care of the immense wealth he had already accumulated. And he could use that money to live out the remainder of his life in style. It wasn’t right. He deserved to suffer hell on earth.
And then, as she left the De Beers building, an idea hit her. Perhaps there was a way to mete out justice and punish the man on the level he truly deserved. She reached the sidewalk and looked for Travis. He was nowhere to be seen. Sam checked her watch, noting that almost twenty minutes had passed since Travis had left the executive sorting room. As she scanned the faces that passed her on the street, a police car careened around a corner and came to rest in front of Antwerp’s main train station. Its blue light was flashing and the officers leapt from the car and hustled into the massive building. Another car followed suit, then another. As she watched, the wide street outside Central Station filled with police and emergency vehicles, all with their flashing lights on.
She drew a deep breath. Travis.
FORTY-ONE
Travis picked up the instrument case and excused himself as Samantha led the men into the examining room. The hallway was clear and he walked nonchalantly back through the maze, encountering three security checks en route. He showed his visitor’s pass, allowed the guards to check his clothing and the box, then strode to the elevator and pressed the ground-level button. He exited on the main floor, still clutching the small metal box containing Samantha’s geological instruments and the diamonds.
The muted sunlight was stronger than the interior lighting, and it took a second or two for his eyes to adjust. Despite his sight being blurred for a moment, he still picked out the man across the street immediately. The man altered his position slightly to shield his face from Travis’s line of sight, but it was too late. He matched perfectly the description of the man the pilot had flown to Rhodes. Travis clipped the small box that held the diamonds onto his belt to give him two free hands, turned left and started toward the cavernous structure of Antwerp’s Central Station. Safety in numbers.
He reached the station and entered through the main doors. A short hallway with an arched roof ended with a staircase leading down into a massive chamber. Columns and windowed arches lined the walls and the floor was a sweeping mosaic of squares with inlaid diamond shapes. Towering over the door was a huge fan-shaped window centered with a tower clock. He wasted no time and dove into the mass of people milling about the station as they waited for trains to arrive or depart.
Through the steady stream of people coming and going, Travis spotted the man enter the station, move to the side of the arched hallway and hug one of the columns, almost obscuring himself from view. Travis held his position inside a throng of people checking the arrivals board. A group of tourists found the information they needed and moved toward the tracks, exposing Travis for a moment. He risked a quick glimpse over his shoulder and then started walking. His tail had spotted him and was on the move.
Travis traversed the open hall and entered the ticketing area of the station. The roof and walls were closer here, with no vantage point for his tail to spot him from above. The space was more confined and the passengers closer together, both sheltering him and allowing his shadow to close in without being spotted. He saw a doorway with a small stairway sign on it and angled toward it. The door opened to his touch and he left the crowds for the quiet of the stairs. He started up and had just reached the second floor when the door opened and closed below him. It was an educated guess that the person entering below him was Kerrigan’s man. Travis tried the door handle on the second floor landing—locked. He continued up. At the third level, the stairs stopped. A solitary locked door was the only way out other than retreating down. He heard cautious footsteps from below and knew that that route was gone. He looked to the door.
It was a fire door of heavy metal construction, but the lock was on the handle alone, no deadbolt. Travis slipped his lock-picking tool from his belt and went to work. Seconds later the tumblers clicked and he swung open the door. The space behind the door was dark, but he entered and closed the door behind him, locking it. He moved ahead slowly, feeling his way down the pitch-black hallway. The stones were old and rough to the touch, never having been exposed to the elements. An occasional glimmer of light shone through tiny cracks in the mortar, but not enough to give him any visual sense of where he was or what lay ahead. The narrow passage curved as it continued, and he sensed that it was following the roofline at the top of the station’s grand entrance. He heard a noise behind him and looked back. For a brief second there was light in the hall, then nothing. His adversary was through the door and coming.
He kept moving, one step at a time. His senses of touch and sound were heightened by the lack of visual stimulation, and he could hear the gentle scraping of the person behind him as he felt his way through the narrow hall. Travis’s hand suddenly hit something solid. He put both hands ahead of him and felt the obstacle—a door. He swiped his hands across the flat surface, looking for and finding the handle. It was locked. He slipped the slender metal tool out again and went to work, this time totally blind. A few moments later, the handle turned and he opened the door.
Light flooded into the narrow passageway and he moved quickly to get out of the exposed doorway. He clicked the door shut behind him and glanced about. He stood atop a tiny catwalk that overlooked the entrance hall. He estimated the distance to the floor at fifty feet. Beside him was a stone railing and ahead the clock that centered the giant fan-shaped window he had seen from below when he entered. He moved cautiously along the catwalk toward the clock, then stopped. He looked back at the door.
It was an out-swing door. If he stayed at the door, he could wait for the man to open it about halfway, then slam it shut.
It might stun his attacker, perhaps knock his weapon from his hand, if he had one. He looked ahead to the clock, then back again. He made his decision and moved back to the doorway, positioning himself on the side with the hinges. Then he waited.
Fifty feet below him, the crowds moved about their daily schedule, totally unaware of the drama playing out in the rafters of the old building. Travis watched a family enter the train station and move together toward the tracks. Two small children clutched their parents’ hands for security amid the noise and confusion. He found himself wanting what they had. The simplicity of a normal life, with children and a future that extended further than the next five minutes. A scratching sound from inside the door brought him back to reality. His tail was inches away, separated only by the metal fire door.
He steeled himself, driving his heels against the stone pillars that bordered the catwalk. He angled his body so his shoulder was at ninety degrees to the door. The handle slowly turned, then stopped. The door opened a crack. He didn’t move a muscle, waiting for the man to commit. The door suddenly flew open and a hand with a pistol in it appeared. Travis pushed with all the strength his legs could muster and threw his weight into the door. His momentum was greater than the man coming through the opening, and the door slammed back into its jamb. The extended arm was caught as the door slammed shut and the finger automatically squeezed the tr
igger. A single shot rang out through the cavernous room, echoing like thunder. The bullet smashed into one section of the huge glass fan above the front door, showering people inside and out with shards of sharp glass. Screams split through the air as panicked crowds ran for cover.
Travis heard his opponent yell in agony as the door partially crushed his right arm. The gun clattered to the catwalk and Travis made a grab for it. The door opened again, this time with the man barreling through and hitting him full force in the chest. For the first time, Garret Shaw and Travis McNeil were eye to eye. A millisecond passed as the men took stock of each other, then both tried for the gun. It sat on the catwalk, only a few feet from them. Travis’s hand touched the metal first, but Shaw hit the pistol away just as Travis tried to grab it. The gun hovered at the edge of the catwalk for a moment, then plunged to the floor below. Travis spun to face his attacker, his hands already coming up in self-defense.
Too late. A well-placed fist smashed into his jaw, knocking him sideways. He twisted to avoid the next blow, but again, too late. Shaw anticipated the open body shot and took it. He drove his fist into Travis’s kidney, doubling him over in pain. Another shot, then another. Travis couldn’t get up, couldn’t get a chance to go on the offensive. The blows that were now raining down on him would soon be lethal. Once his limited defense was gone, the man would snap his spine or neck.
Travis reached down and grabbed the metal box that held the diamonds and wrenched it off his belt. With all his strength he threw a wild roundabout punch, leading with the box. He felt it hit flesh and for a brief second the blows stopped. He rolled and dragged himself to his knees, seeing the blood pouring from a nasty gash on his attacker’s head. He threw a straight rabbit punch at Shaw’s face and felt the pain shoot through his hand and arm as it hit.
Shaw staggered back, his senses almost gone from the shattering blow to his temple. He saw the metal box coming at his face but couldn’t stop it. Again and again. For a second Shaw teetered on the edge of the catwalk, unable to stop the relentless pummeling. One last blow and he felt gravity begin to take over. He reached the point of no return and clutched for the stone rail as he fell. He missed, then was airborne for a couple of seconds. His body hit the stone floor with a sickening sound.