Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  Maxfield, MacLean's English butler, set two espresso cups painted dark blue with small lemons on the coffee table in front of them. Wenzel lifted one tiny cup with his large hand and drained its contents.

  “Tell the local residents the truth. Tell them that we're going to hire and train local labor, offer good benefits, share profits, the whole nine yards. Tell them we'll set up an environmental preserve in the area, clean up some land. Heck, it's only fair. Crunch some numbers. Get a petition going so the local authorities take stock of what their electorate thinks. Even if they're coerced by the feds, once they see the voters want a mine, they'll support the project and issue permits. Once the local residents get riled up, the federal government may not have the inclination to stop the mine.”

  “Might work. I'll give it a shot. Besides, it'll be good to see Osage again. Maybe he'll cook some more of his fried chicken.”

  MacLean winced. “On my end, I'll have a chat with Abe Cohen.”

  6 DEFENDANT

  Main Justice Building

  Washington, D. C.

  10:07 A.M.

  Carlton struggled to find the telephone receiver under the draft documents, memo pads, and federal case reporters that papered his desk. Remnants of the complaint against Murfreesboro Mining Corporation he had filed in Arkansas federal district court and served on the defendant the day before. Knowing that the government wouldn't recover much from the elderly Raymonds, and that the media would have a field day against DOJ if it sued them, he decided not to include them in the complaint, but sent them a copy so they could see what Mufreesboro Mining was doing.

  He followed the trill and fished out the instrument milliseconds before voicemail cut in. “Pat Carlton.”

  “Mr. Carlton, Jonathan Black at Fox, Carlyle, Ashton, Chase, Whitfield & Whyte.” A haughty nasal voice enunciated the entire string of name partners, then paused to allow the statement to impress Carlton. “In Manhattan.”

  Carlton immediately disliked him. Not because Black was hiding behind the name of his mega firm, not because he emphasized Manhattan to give Carlton notice that Black was a tough bastard, but because Fox, Carlyle had a well-founded reputation for unnecessarily litigious, scorched-earth, underhanded, and just plain unethical practices. He had dealt with Fox, Carlyle when he was with the Merchants of Pain. As far as Carlton was concerned, they were the devil, which should have tipped him off.

  “Is that so? Well, what can I do for you, Jonathan Black of Fox, Carlyle, Ashton, Chase, Whitfield & Whyte in Manhattan?”

  “Our firm represents the Murfreesboro Mining Company.”

  “I see.” The fact that Fox, Carlyle represented Mufreesboro Mining automatically lowered Carlton's opinion of the defendant.

  “We received your summons and complaint and wanted to discuss the possibility of settlement.”

  Carlton stood, stunned. Already? Instinct forced him to snap out of it. Knowing Fox, Carlyle, it was probably a prelude to a slimy trick. He decided to take the bait. “Great! I'm so pleased your client will save me a lot of work. I propose twenty million.” The handset buzzed through a long pause. “Hello?”

  “Twenty million?”

  “Correct. I think it's a reasonable sum, don't you?”

  “You're not serious.”

  “I am serious. Twenty million.”

  “No...I don't think so, Mr. Carlton. My client has only authorized me to offer a settlement of one million dollars. Far more than the case is worth.”

  Black had anticipated surprising Carlton with a quick settlement offer that he would have felt compelled to accept. But that had assumed Black made the opening offer, take it or leave it. If he had done so, $1 million would have appeared a generous settlement offer. Unrefusable, even. But Carlton beat him to it. Black hadn't counted on it. The young toughie was now perplexed.

  “One million?” Carlton asked incredulously. “Oh come on, Jonathan. No. Listen, between you, me, and the wall, Justice is looking at this antitrust violation very carefully. Very carefully. My hands are tied. Department policy and all that jazz. Twenty million.”

  “But that's ridiculous. The maximum prescribed by the Sherman Act is ten million.”

  “Of course. But that's just the criminal portion of the statute. Remember, civil antitrust violations carry treble damages.” Under the rule of treble damages, the amount of actual damages was multiplied threefold to discourage future violations. “Plus, criminal violations carry jail time.”

  “My client is a corporation. There can be no jail time.”

  “Corporate veils can be pierced. I'm certain that the Murfreesboro Mining Corporation has made some mistake with its corporate formalities or its capitalization that would convince the court to bring the individual principals to justice.”

  “It has not.”As if he knew. “Regardless, twenty million is excessive. I cannot in good faith recommend such an amount to my client. It's simply excessive.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Carlton announced sadly, sitting down. “But if that’s the way you feel, the United States will be happy to go to trial on this case.” Jarvik may have told Carlton to settle, but Carlton had far more respect for Deputy AAG Rothenberg’s opinion than his. “But that really wouldn’t be good press for your client, especially now that the environmental crowd has begun to scrutinize your client’s mining techniques,” he pushed, having read that one of Murfreesboro Mining’s parent companies recently was forced to clean up one of its former mines. “By the time all of this useless paperwork got investigated, researched, served, mailed, filed, and tried, your client would lose and be hit with treble damages. Not to mention your firm’s massive legal fees. Is that what you want to recommend to your client?”

  “But twenty million. It’s simply too high. Too high.”

  Carlton sharpened his tone. The fact was, he didn’t like Fox, Carlyle and he didn’t like this weasel Black. The result was that he transferred all his rage concerning Jarvik and Global Steel against Murfreesboro Mining and Black. “Listen, Jonathan. This isn’t personal. I have nothing against you personally. I’m certain you don’t go around deceiving little old ladies into antitrust violations. But Murfreesboro Mining does. Your client, Mr. Black. Not mine.”

  “Now see here. My client never -”

  “Let’s just cut the crap, Jonathan.” He jabbed at the air with his finger, as if Black could see him. “Your client is guilty. As sure as God make little green apples, your client is guilty of civil and criminal violations under the Sherman Act. Guilty of manipulating the free market. This case is about as open and shut as they come. I know that, and you know that. We’ve both seen the evidence,” he bluffed. The evidence was about as strong as wet toilet paper. “I’m sure you’re a terrific attorney, Jonathan. After all, you’re with Fox, Carlyle. In Manhattan. And I know you’re supposed to push this settlement amount down to the lowest amount possible. But it won’t wash. Not with me. Not with Justice. In addition to the fact that your client conned an elderly couple - a particularly appetizing fact for jurors - your client interfered in the free market price of diamonds. The free market. The heart and soul of America. I’m sure most jurors have purchased an overpriced diamond engagement ring. Or didn’t because they couldn’t afford it. How do you think they’re going to react to a defendant who helped keep the price of those shiny little rocks sky high?”

  “I -”

  “I’m reasonable. And so is Justice. Take your time. Discuss it with your client. I’m certain the Murfreesboro Mining Corporation will see the wisdom of the government’s settlement offer.”

  Silence on the other end. “I’ll call you back.”

  “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  Carlton stared at the telephone, dumbfounded.

  A settlement proposal only one day after serving the defendant? What was going on? His instinct told him there was something else here. What it was, he had no clue.

  7 HELICOPTER

  Ninety Miles West of Cuba

  2
:16 A.M.

  “Damn this machine!” Leonid Pyashinev howled. “Can't it go any faster?”

  “No, comrade,” replied his pilot, Major Esposito of the Cuban Air Force. “We will be there soon. Have patien—”

  “Patience? Don't talk to me about patience! I've been traveling for ten days! In cars and airplanes and boats and submarines! I have no more patience! Go faster, damn you!”

  “The helicopter can only go so fast. I can't push it beyond its—”

  “Push it, damn you! Skoryie, skoryie! Go faster!”

  “It would be unwise.”

  “God damn you! Skoryie!”

  “As you wish.” Pompous Russian ass. Hijo de puta. Esposito swore under his breath as he forced the two throttles further into their metal grooves. The twin Allison turbines screamed overhead. Needles on backlit gauges crept into the red. An oil pressure warning light buzzed, immediately followed by another.

  “One hundred sixty-two knots. We're going too fast. The engines can't handle it.” Esposito switched off the alarms, gripped the stick with sweaty fingers.

  In the passenger compartment, Pyashinev patted his sweaty forehead with a dirty handkerchief. After a journey of nearly ten thousand miles, he was beyond exhaustion. He panted with fear and anxiety, peered through the large window of the compartment. Pitch darkness. Not a sliver of light on this cloudy night. He could see nothing. Not even whether they had reached the mainland. For a man who detested flying, it was not a reassuring thought.

  He removed a creased cigarette nervously from a crumpled pack of Marlboros in his pocket. The flame from his lighter momentarily cast wild shadows about the padded cabin. He inhaled deeply. Just a little longer. Just a little longer and I will be rich.

  A wicked smile curled on his lips. His expensive Italian double-breasted suit and the silk shirt under it could not mask the toll greed and fear and exhaustion had taken. Dark craters sagged under his gray eyes. Matted hair and a ten-day beard emphasized his haggard face. He smelled of sweat, of the urine he expelled during the takeoff and maneuverings of the fighter jet that had flown him out of Russia several days before. He shifted uneasily in his seat, hacked violently into a sweaty palm. Ash fell from the tip of the burning cigarette, drifted to the floor.

  Rich. I will be rich. Just a little longer. Just a little—

  The helicopter shuddered violently. Pyashinev was rammed against the hull. “Shto eta?” He shouted at Esposito. “What is it? What is happening?”

  Esposito's arms and hands flailed crazily among the forest of switches. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, the turbulence ceased. The only sound that remained was of air that curled around the airframe in a high-pitched whine. It bored into the Russian's skull.

  A second series of sirens wailed.

  “Damn you, Major! What—”

  “We've lost turbine two! And the rotor's leaking oil! It's going to—"”

  Blinding red lights flashed in the dark. Needles spun madly in their gauges.

  “We've lost pressure on the rotor! Madre de Dios! We're going to crash! You fat Russian pig! We're going to crash!”

  Esposito began to pray as he fought to steady the directional stick.

  Pyashinev was paralyzed. Terror bolted him to his seat. Sweat trickled from his forehead and stung his eyes. His mind and body went numb. He could not even feel the stomach-churning loss of altitude. The numbness prevented any thought of using the parachute stowed under the seat, even if the helicopter had been high enough to use the contraption. Seconds later, amid deafening sounds that seemed very far away, Pyashinev plunged into unconscious darkness.

  Pyashinev awoke in excruciating pain. His head throbbed wildly. His legs were broken. The pain assured him of that. His blurred vision and the darkness of the crash site made it difficult to discern anything in the interior of the cabin. He opened his mouth to suck in air. Blood splattered onto the floor below.

  He stared at the sight for several seconds before understanding. His seat belt had kept him alive through the crash and now cradled him in a precarious hanging position above the floor and port side window of the helicopter. In pain, he lifted his head and looked toward the cockpit. Branches and trees grew where glass once stood as a barrier between pilot and sky. Major Esposito was dead. Of that Pyashinev was also certain. The human body simply could not remain in working condition contorted into the former pilot's position.

  Pyashinev was nothing if not a realist. He would die as well. The hemorrhaging was simply too profuse to prevent it. Perhaps if there were an ambulance. Or a doctor. But there was no one. Nothing but the sounds of jungle fauna nearby. As a security precaution, the Russian had ordered the pilot to disconnect the helicopter's radio. Esposito would never have been able to send a distress call.

  He would die on this miserable spot.

  In pain.

  Alone.

  He could feel the life ebbing from him now. With each wheeze of his injured lungs he felt less energy, more numbness. Though Pyashinev was an atheist, he experienced regret and guilt. The diamonds. The government would never find them without him.

  With extreme difficulty, Pyashinev removed a pen from his pocket, tore a scrap of paper that hung from the ripped lining of the ceiling. For what seemed like hours, he scrawled letters on the paper, barely readable through his increasingly blurred vision.

  Finished, he let the pen and note drop to the floor.

  If there is a God, forgive me.

  8 KREMLIN

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, Russia

  5:25 P.M.

  Russian President Vasili Illych Orlov observed the glacial Muscovite winter from the warm confines of his office in the distinctly Russian, yellow-and-white eighteenth-century building inside the Kremlin compound. The weak glow of the setting sun cast the frozen trees and the snow-capped crenellated walls in a golden hue.

  Orlov turned his worried face away from the window, reached into an ornate lacquered box with thick fingers, and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, reclined, and scanned his office, the eighteenth-century porcelain stove in the corner of the room reminding him of the tsars.

  The tsars. No pollsters, approval ratings, or elections. Their word was law. In Russia today, law had little meaning. Law wasn't a rule anymore, merely a suggestion.

  A loud knock sounded at the door.

  “Da.” Orlov's mood improved when he saw his political aide peek through the heavy carved wood door. “Vladimir Petrovich. Come in, come in. Sieditiest. Sit down.” It was his first smile of the day.

  “I have good news.” The thin man bore a look of happy urgency as he strode briskly toward Orlov. "As of this afternoon, the Mirny diamond processing plant is back on line. The main portion of the plant was made of concrete, so it was not harmed. Diamond shipments will resume shortly. As you ordered, Marshall Aleksakov has been promoted to commander of the Eastern Ground Forces. He is supervising the rebuilding and the replacement garrison." Orlov had ordered the promotion to replace Marshall Ogarkov, who had been found murdered along with his chauffeur one week earlier, in a bullet-riddled Mercedes on Moscow's frozen Tverskaya Prospekt.

  “Harasho.” Excellent. “I was worried. To have our largest diamond production center at a standstill during the negotiations with Waterboer would have been devastating. The South Africans are already stealing from us. It would have been an excellent excuse for that bastard Slythe to offer us an even lower price for our diamonds than Waterboer already pays.” He blew a trail of smoke that billowed into a gray cloud. “Now if Kovanetz would only shed some light on Pyashinev's disappearance, we should be in good shape for the negotiations”

  “He should be here at any moment.”

  The disappearance of Leonid Pyashinev bothered Orlov almost as much as the Mirny fire. Absent any demand for ransom by the mafiya, the man's disappearance did not make sense. Over a week had passed since his family had reported him missing. No one had heard from him since. If Pyashinev had been an ordinary citizen, such a disap
pearance would not have attracted much attention. But Leonid Pyashinev was no ordinary citizen. Pyashinev was the director of Komdragmet, the committee in charge of the Russian diamond industry. His disappearance was a serious matter.

  Yet Orlov had not reached his present position of power without considering every crisis as an opportunity. Like many of the other Russian industries whose control—if not its ownership—Orlov had wrested from the oligarchs, he had wanted the Kremlin to assume control of the diamond, other gems, and metals industries. Until now it had been politically risky because those industries were the last real sources of the oligarchs' profit—particularly diamonds and palladium. But now, the imposition of real Kremlin control seemed possible. He had a legitimate excuse. It was about time, he reflected. God only knew how many billions of dollars were bleeding away from Russia to offshore accounts the world over.

  As if on cue, another knock sounded at the door, far more military in tenor than that of the aide.

  “Da.” Orlov looked up to see the chiseled face of Colonel Kovanetz, without rising from the seat.

  The colonel held an olive green officer's hat firmly between his left arm and ramrod-straight torso. His wiry frame was draped in the double-breasted olive green suit, black tie, and ocher ‘scrambled eggs’ lapels of the GRU—military intelligence. The combination of his sharp angular features and flat jade green eyes revealed a soul that had witnessed a great deal of pain, much of it inflicted by himself, and knew little of kindness.

  “So, Nikolai Konstantinovitch. What news of your search for Pyashinev?”

  Orlov opened the cigarette box and held it out to Kovanetz, who selected a cigarette. “Thank you, tovarish prezidyent.” He lighted the cigarette with a silver lighter emblazoned with a gold hammer and sickle encircling a red enamel star. Orlov disliked officials who continued to favor the red flag and hammer and sickle, particularly military officers. And they knew it. To Orlov, such displays signified that they considered the present political organization of Russia merely temporary, transitory to a future right- or left-wing bloody and enslaving empire. But he had bigger fish to fry and let it slide.