The emeralds had fallen like underwater rain, a torrent of drops that tumbled and swirled as they sank, shot out glints and final verdant flashes until they were out of the sun’s reach.
Three hundred million dollars down the drain.
32
Kellerman watched Argenti’s hands.
He expected them to fist, but the fingers remained relaxed and the wrists didn’t go rigid. The hands lay lightly on the thigh of the crossed-over leg.
Argenti’s face revealed only little more reaction. The two vertical creases between the brows deepened and the lips pursed, as though tasting something bitter. The eyes remained steady, unreadable. Kellerman couldn’t see anything in them, and he was an expert at eyes, could detect and define an inner feeling from no more than a blink.
“Why would she want to do such a thing?” Argenti asked almost casually.
“Out of boredom, I’d say.”
Kellerman knew better. For two years he’d been compiling a dossier on Lillian. He’d known all along she, was a dabbling activist but had kept it to himself. When she’d gone poaching for the left and ended up in Barbosa, it was Kellerman who’d got her out of it. Without Argenti’s knowing, Kellerman had invented the excuses and convinced General Botero not to mention it. He’d made it seem he was doing the General a favor, since, as he said, the army had blundered and abused.
Kellerman couldn’t have cared less for Lillian really. And he wasn’t looking out for Argenti. He was protecting his own ambitions.
The way he saw it, Lillian was essential to getting Argenti’s exile lifted. Once Argenti was free to go, he’d go so gladly he’d rarely ever return to Bogotá. For a while Argenti might try to continue to run The Concession at an enjoyable distance. He’d find it difficult, soon impossible. The Concession was too complex. It required someone in charge on the spot. Kellerman was the obvious choice. From then on Kellerman would make changes, reposition loyalties, distribute his own patronage and, eventually, edge Argenti out. At the least, Kellerman would have the chance to skim as he wanted.
Thus it had been important to Kellerman that Lillian’s slate be kept clean. Now, however, to admit he’d withheld such information would be putting himself in the line of fire. He told Argenti: “Perhaps she’s one of those who can’t enjoy anything unless there’s risk in it.”
Argenti grunted.
“Often it gets to be a sexual thing, you know, a mix of stimulations.”
“That the best you can offer?”
“It seems to fit.”
“You’re wrong, Kellerman. Way off, except in one respect.”
“Her boredom.”
“Her crotch. He’s had her by the crotch all along.”
“You’re overestimating him.”
“No, that’s her shortcoming.” Argenti waited for Kellerman to appreciate his off-color play on words. “Wiley worked her up to it. Dangled the carrot, so to speak, in front of her nose.”
Kellerman smirked, nodded thoughtfully, although he didn’t agree. “Why would she go to such an extent for him?” His inflection said of all people.
“Common behavior for her type, the more common the better, as a matter of fact. I’m sure it’s a form of temporary insanity, lowering herself, using love as the excuse.”
“Anyway, he’s our man.”
“Balls for brains.”
“We’ll get him.”
It amazed Kellerman that Argenti could discuss Lillian and Wiley with such relative objectivity. Almost as though Lillian and Wiley were merely problem acquaintances, and there was nothing important at stake. Where, Kellerman wondered, was the indignation, the humiliation, the fury that should have erupted from having been manipulated like that? Incredible that Argenti had that much composure. Perhaps he hadn’t seen into the man as clearly as he’d thought.
Two weeks since the robbery.
Less than twenty thousand carats had been recovered, despite a severe crackdown on street dealing. A federal law was pushed through, prohibiting emerald transactions without an official certificate. The proper government form might someday be printed.
The Concession needed every emerald it could get, but this legal measure accomplished little. A couple thousand carats was all. The street dealers had seen it coming. They deserted Calle 14, hid themselves and their goods elsewhere. The more enterprising conducted business during late-night hours in the barrio, buying up the stones that had been thrown there.
Five Conduct Section operatives were sent into the barrio during the first week, five more the second. They posed as street dealers or campesinos, poor fellows from the country.
Not one of the ten came out.
Sending the men in had been Argenti’s idea. He loathed the thought of those grimy bastardos of the barrio gaining from his loss. They sang while he suffered. He wanted every pocket and asshole turned inside out.
Tactfully, Kellerman made him realize how futile such efforts were.
For the most part during those days, Argenti tended to business with sober efficiency. He spent long regular hours in his offices at The Concession, meeting each crisis as it came.
The clients were putting the pressure on. What about orders? When could delivery be expected? Demand would soon be felt, backing up from the retail level.
Argenti took every call, even those from clients whose yearly handle was comparatively minimal. He smoothed them down, bought time with the excuse that The Concession was undergoing an audit, voluntary naturally, requested by its board of directors just to make double sure where it stood. Seemed business was too good to be believed, he said lightly.
On top of all that, he told clients, there had been a tremendous find about fifty miles northeast of Muzo. Stones such as the world had never seen. The finest quality ever to come out of Colombia. Practically every stone had kelly in it. Why, at that very moment before him on his desk was an emerald as big as his fist, and he swore he could see clearly halfway into it, there were that few flaws. The new find was so extensive it was certain to affect price. Supply would balance out with demand, of course, everyone would benefit, but especially those on the first level of distribution. Understandably, The Concession needed a while to get its breath, to integrate these new holdings. No one wanted to ruin the market, now did they?
There was a tone of confidentiality in the way Argenti told it. Implying future favoritism, while all he asked for was patience. Argenti knew the common ground was greed, and he worked it.
He was sorry now that when he had structured The Concession he hadn’t allowed for a bad time such as this. He could just as well have stipulated that a percentage be taken off the top and set aside. Instead it had always been only a matter of running the funds through—operational costs and profits. Not counting his private skim, of course.
He put it to his cohorts, Vega, Arias, Robayo and Botero. They would have to chip in to help keep The Concession going. Expenses ran a million a week. The largest chunk of that went to Conduct Section’s world-wide network and all the people bought by the week down the line along the various lines.
Senator Robayo said he wished he didn’t have his own financial problems.
General Botero said his investments were so complicated it would be impossible for him to put his hands on enough cash soon enough to be of help.
Ministers Arias and Vega thought it unfair that they should each have to bear a third rather than a fifth of the brunt.
Argenti walked out while they were still arguing that. It was evident that if there was to be any shoring up he would have to do it.
A million a week.
More than that.
Twelve million was due the government on its lease. The Concession also currently owed the government twenty million in royalties. So as not to jeopardize its lopsided agreement, The Concession had never been late in its payments to the government.
Argenti went it alone. Withdrew from his Swiss accounts.
Fifty million.
That would hold thi
ngs for a while.
Practically every day Argenti went up to the vaults. The window had been replaced, the broken glass cleaned up. Everything appeared normal. Except the cabinets, all the empty drawers.
It hurt to look at them, but soon they’d be full again.
In the meantime orders were for the mines to put on extra shifts round the clock. Floodlight the hillside terraces so they could be worked at night. Triple the yield, if possible. Couldn’t offset the losses, but it was better to have something coming in.
Then, there were the esmeralderos.
All at once they wanted double compensation. Were they deliberately taking advantage of the situation?
Exactly.
The esmeralderos did not know what was wrong at The Concession, but they knew it was something serious. There was a rumor line almost as fast and often more reliable than the telephone that ran between the mountain villages and the barrio.
Representatives of the esmeralderos showed up unexpectedly one morning at The Concession’s offices. Ten altogether, one on behalf of each of the most powerful families. They had on their black city-and-church suits and very pointed black shoes. Their suits were so tight their guns were obvious.
Argenti received them.
He was very cordial.
They were polite and reticent. They wouldn’t sit and had to be urged into accepting cigars.
They finally got around to telling Argenti what was wanted—double pay.
He asked for a reason.
They knew his asking was only a formality.
They gave him several reasons that he knew were lies.
Double pay would amount to five to six million more a year.
Argenti agreed to it as though he had a choice.
It wasn’t enough.
No money would be enough.
The esmeralderos wanted their old ways back. They were weary of having to be violent according to instructions, of killing not when they wanted but in keeping with some set quota. Order, alliance had taken too much from them. There were too few chances to express their machismo. That was their biggest gripe, the thing that The Concession had deprived them of. Authentic opportunities for a man to prove and re-prove he was a man.
On the third night after Argenti agreed to pay double to the esmeralderos, the headquarters of the mine at Coscuez was raided. Fifteen guards were killed. Only the superintendent knew the combination to the safe, so he must have opened it. The yield of ten days, about two thousand carats, was removed from the safe. Left in its place were the superintendent’s genitals.
Two days later an armored truck and its army troop escort of twenty men was set upon only a few miles from the main mine at Muzo. The truck was carrying all the emeralds that had been found in that most productive area over the past two weeks. It was a brief, intense battle. The troops were outnumbered and outgunned. The last of them knew there was no hope in surrender, tried to make a run for it. Grenades were lobbed, landed ahead of them, so they ran themselves to death.
Over two hundred killings occurred in mine territory that week. Twenty of those were esmeralderos. The families were already at one another. The old codes were being reestablished.
Bad news for The Concession.
And not one carat.
Each day before leaving the office Argenti met with Kellerman for a progress report. Kellerman’s dossier on Lillian, which he was still keeping to himself, was valuable now. She could hide anywhere—for a short while. However, those places where she was likely to be for any length of time were numbered, known. It was only a waiting game now. Lillian would emerge, with Wiley clinging to her skirts.
The emeralds, the three hundred million dollars’ worth?
Kellerman doubted Wiley and Lillian would move to market the emeralds. They certainly hadn’t. There wasn’t as much as a trickle of extra stones anywhere in the world.
Argenti said that if Wiley was smart he’d salt away the emeralds, leech off Lillian until the time was right. Although that would require endurance. He laughed.
The two men spent at least an hour or more recapping each day and discussing the next day’s tactics. The situation was becoming more and more critical, but Argenti remained in control. Kellerman had to admire Argenti under stress, not a chink in him. He didn’t even have dark circles beneath his eyes, looked as though he was getting good sleep.
Truth was, however, while Argenti gave his days to business, he kept his nights.
From the moment he arrived home, shut the door behind him, he let out his anger. He bellowed like a wounded, raging grizzly, tore off his clothes and prowled from room to room.
He was alone in the villa. The servants had fled in fear.
He detested everything, especially whatever was beautiful, fragile, irreplaceable.
“Quella vecchia troia!” came out of him, guttural, as though he were bringing up phlegm. Those words looped in his head. He viewed everything through them. They required more expression. He printed them in red ink on the creamy-colored silk of a lampshade next to his bed.
He couldn’t stay still.
He turned on every light in the villa.
He rampaged downstairs, up and down again, and around. In the caretaker’s supply room he found several pressurized cans of enamel.
QUELLA VECCHIA TROIA
he sprayed in foot-high red letters along a beige damask-covered wall and diagonally up another wall to ruin a most believable scenic trompe l’oeil. The enamel ran from the bases of the letters. He enjoyed the effect.
Other surfaces asked for it. He scrawled, condensed, extended it, made it small or as large as possible. Around the belly of a grand piano, across the back of a needlepoint bergère, over the face of an Aubusson tapestry. Did it a letter to a square on the parquet Carrara floor and on the bottom of his blue-gray St. Anne marble bathtub.
He ran out of enamel long before he ran out of surfaces or the incentive. He dropped the last spray can into the bathroom wastebasket, and stood facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a kind mirror tinted slightly pink.
Looked at him looking at him.
The dark hair on his forearms glistened red from the mist of enamel that had settled on them. And the hair of his chest and the tighter hair of his groin, beaded with it, seemed to be bleeding. His nostrils were red where he had inhaled his hate.
A sob moved up into his throat like a bubble. His facial muscles made his eyes smaller and his mouth larger, and the sob came out as a strained whimper around the words “No, dolce madre, no” (no, sweet mother).
He pressed against the mirror to embrace, comfort himself. Left his red imprint.
Exterior cries intruded.
The window was open. They were the love cries of all the little creatures that ran wild and brave in the night grass.
He hurried to an adjacent room, where he removed his favorite shotgun from its fitted leather case. A Beretta SO2 over-under twelve-gauge. He also chose a pistol, a SIG 210 automatic, twenty-two caliber. And took along several cartons of shells.
On the second-floor landing at the top of the wide stairs he stopped to load the shotgun. He held it at his side in ready position.
Pull!
As though skeet shooting, he brought the gun up swiftly to the snug of his shoulder, swung it to target and fired both barrels.
The enormous settecento-style Venetian glass chandelier that hung over the reception hall shattered.
Two more shots and it was bare, like an inverted tree that had lost all its delicate crystal leaves.
Argenti went down to the main salon.
He sat on a velour-covered taboret in the center of the large room.
Across the room on a side table was a pigmented terra-cotta figure of a woman by Giovacchino Fortini, done in the 1690s.
Argenti blew it in half with the pistol.
To the right of that a glass case. Containing figurines of jade, pink and mutton fat and spinach green. Also a blue-and-white Ming bowl that had gone for $220,000 at S
otheby’s. And a pair of famille-rose vases with imperial-pink ground of the K’ang Hsi period.
One twelve-gauge shot destroyed them.
A purpurine and sang-de-boeuf porcelain cat by Fabergé.
A bronze of a young girl by Bugatti.
Another done in the sixteenth century by Alessandro Vittoria.
Blasted to bits.
His sights came upon a pair of rare Ming Buddhist lions of streaked brown and green and blue glazes. He found momentary fascination in their protruding eyes, the way they were reared back defiantly, their oversize ears alert and their whiskers proudly exaggerated. He mentally snarled at them a moment before he pulverized them.
For variation he splintered off the slender front legs of an eighteenth-century Florentine table, so the crystal-and-ormolu candelabra and the Lalique covered candy dish that rested upon it crashed to the floor. He thought of it as the price of dependency.
Paintings.
A Titian portrait of a lady done four hundred sixty-seven years ago.
Without hesitation Argenti shot the lady’s face away.
He peppered a Giacometti until the canvas hung in tatters, and he tortured a Modigliani, a portrait of the artist’s wife. He used the twenty-two pistol on the Modigliani, shot precise holes in the slitty eyes, forced open the prim mouth and created a pattern up the elongated neck. He put her out of her misery with the Beretta, both barrels. What shreds that were left of the canvas slid down the wall along with its frame.
“Quella vecchia troia,” he uttered.
That fucking old cunt.
Emphasis on old.
Lillian, of course.
33
East Hampton, Long Island.
Third town from the tip.
That was where they would lie and wait. Not hide. They had considered trying to hide but realized they couldn’t. The Concession’s reach was too long and relentless, and they honestly doubted they’d be able to put up with the drawbacks of total obscurity. Fading into the ways of some small town suited the predicament but not them.
So they’d decided on off-season East Hampton. Somewhere more crowded might seem safer but actually wouldn’t be, they reasoned. In a crowd how could they tell who wasn’t after them? It would wreck their nerves.
Green Ice Page 35