Back home, it took Carlton nearly four hours to read through Erika’s research material. How had he missed all of this? He was angry at himself for not having done more research. The complaint he filed was so simple, he had not felt research necessary. Sloppy. All because Stalin said the case was unwinnable.
The young woman was not only intelligent and beautiful, but also thorough. Her material was well researched and well organized. But the problem with research, Carlton remembered, was that it was never finished. The more Carlton read about Waterboer, the more questions and concerns he developed. They sprang to mind and prevented him from sleeping. He finally gave in to his curiosity. A few minutes past 1:30 A.M., he got dressed, drove to his office and scoured the Main Justice Building’s 1930s Art Deco library until he found nearly everything he thought he wanted. Books could not be checked out of the main DOJ library, but he desperately wanted to read through the material away from prying eyes, especially Stalin’s. So he scribbled a note to his friend Donna, one of the librarians, assuring her he would return the materials ASAP.
Back in his one-bedroom apartment, in the total calm of the winter night, he brewed a full mug of espresso, clipped and lit an Ashton maduro cigar, and plunged into the new material on the intriguing South African monopoly. Far more than the caffeine and nicotine, what he discovered gave him insomnia.
Waterboer was and still remained a global empire. During World War II, the Nazis needed industrial-grade diamonds for weapons, optics, and other engineering devices geared to the massive Nazi war effort. Germany didn’t have any diamond deposits. No one knew where they got their industrial diamonds until, little by little, American OSS agents - precursor agency to the CIA - discovered the Nazis obtained their diamonds from one of the Waterboer mines in the Belgian Congo. The OSS told Waterboer about the leak. Waterboer knew if it shut down the mine for only a few months, the Nazi war effort would collapse. No more war. No more Holocaust. Waterboer refused. Too much money would be lost.
Carlton cursed.
The amazing thing, he discovered, was that Waterboer refused to sell diamonds to the American war effort until much later in the war, even though America was a South African ally. Their disturbed logic was that even though Nazi Germany, Imperial Japan, and fascist Italy were taking over the world, America wouldn’t use the quantity it ordered and the oversupply would hurt prices. Only after massive pressure did Waterboer finally relent and sell America diamonds, but at bloated prices.
That was the Nazi connection. But there was also a Soviet connection. An inter-agency memorandum from CIA to Justice written by an analyst named Thomas Pink summarizing the history of diamonds in the Soviet Union stated that immense diamond deposits were discovered in Siberia in the late 1950s. The common misperception was that only Africa had diamonds when, in fact, Russia possessed the largest supply. Waterboer went ballistic. If Russia sold a large enough amount of diamonds on the market, the world market would tank. Waterboer sent its representatives to Moscow and offered the Communists hard currency for their entire output of diamonds. In the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, when the U.S. and the rest of NATO were spending trillions on defense to crush communism, Waterboer was selling millions of carats of Soviet diamonds to the West. Basically, according to Pink’s memo, Waterboer enabled the U.S. consumer market to finance a large portion of the Soviet defense buildup. This at a time when it was illegal for a South African to visit the Soviet Union.
The new Russian diamond supply was still a big problem for Waterboer. The diamonds out of Siberia were too small to send to the big cutters in Antwerp, Tel Aviv, or NewYork. Waterboer had to set up new cutting facilities, but traditional diamond cutters were too expensive to use on little stones. So Waterboer taught Third World children to cut diamonds for pennies apiece. Mostly in the slums of Bombay. Little kids. In filthy conditions. The practice continued today.
Carlton swore under his breath and stared at the pages of his research, dumbfounded. "How did I miss all this?"
After Mandela was elected president in South Africa, several people who worked for Waterboer came clean to the new government and its Reconciliation Committee. They confessed to kidnappings, torture, even assassinations, all against people who dealt in the diamond trade behind Waterboer’s back. Two months later, two of them were found dead. The police ruled their deaths suicides.
On the U.S. side, DOJ had been trying to nab Waterboer for over fifty years, but the investigations hadn’t gotten anywhere. Waterboer was a South African corporation and was too smart to do any business directly on U.S. soil, which is why it sold its diamonds in London. The U.S. had no jurisdiction. The two or three times the U.S. did get Waterboer, the penalties amounted to no more than slaps on the wrist.
Who could do such things? Carlton wondered. He dug for the material he had found about those who managed the Waterboer monopoly. Whoever they were, they were brilliant. Twisted and repulsive, but definitely brilliant.
The Slythe family had been running Waterboer ever since Cecil R. had usurped his mentor and the company’s founder Nicholas Waterboer, in the late 1800s. Today, Waterboer was headed by his descendant Piet Slythe. A real piece of work. Fifty-five. Educated in England. Sharp as a tack. The Slythes were raised from birth to think, eat, breathe, and sleep diamonds. They were a paranoid bunch who considered themselves to be the trustees of the world’s diamonds, who battle any and all who threaten their empire. Like a religion with their family as keepers of the flame. From the articles Carlton read, on the outside Piet Slythe appeared as a typical run-of-the-mill businessman. Happily married. Churchgoer. Gave money to orphanages. But the man was reputed to do whatever it took—no matter how evil—to maintain his family’s control of diamonds.
Waterboer’s pockets were just as deep as its market share of diamonds was broad. Five billion dollars of annual gross revenue from the monopoly of an international market by a single corporation not subject to U.S. laws. In an age when young kids killed each other over sneakers in the street, Carlton did not want to imagine how far a giant like Waterboer would go to protect such a monopoly.
The next revelation shot a shiver up his spine. One memorandum hinted that Waterboer had shut down a mine in Arkansas in the 1920s. "So that’s where they come in."
If Waterboer had been in Arkansas as far back as the 1920s, then maybe they were behind the Murfreesboro Mining case. It stood to reason. Twenty million dollars was huge for a small or even medium-sized Arkansas business concern, but it amounted to no more than a drop in the bucket for a global monopoly like Waterboer. If Murfreesboro Mining was part of the Waterboer diamond cartel, they were glad to accept the $20 million settlement offer, as overpriced as it may have seemed to Carlton. They stalled so I’d be happy when they agreed to $20 million, he concluded. And their tactic worked. You were happy, Carlton. He squinted angrily, feeling frustrated and deceived, realizing that Jonathan Black really had pulled the wool over his eyes. He relaxed. They didn’t expect you to continue the investigation, did they?
He searched diligently but could not find anything more substantive to confirm Waterboer’s involvement in Arkansas other than the one instance of rumor and innuendo. He’d have to call the CIA analyst. He looked for his name. Right. Thomas Pink. He leaned back in his chair and removed his cigar from the ashtray. It had gone cold. He lifted his mug only to remember that it was empty The clock on his desk read 5:32 A.M.
“I have got to get some sleep.”
He walked to his bed, set his alarm for 8:00 A.M. and fell asleep with all his clothes on. His dreams were as unpleasant as the research he had read.
12 COMPANY
Headquarters
United States Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)
Langley, Virginia
5:58 A.M.
As was his habit, Thomas Pink arrived at work early—after working until 2:00 A.M. the previous night. Pink was clean-cut and a workaholic. Though his early morning schedule prohibited any real night life, it afforded him a rapid commute b
efore the Northern Virginia highways clogged with rush-hour traffic. This morning the drive had taken him nine minutes. He navigated his dark blue Mercury Sable through the gigantic parking lot that took up a large chunk of the CIA’s 258-acre complex. Even at this early hour, the lot was nearly full with cars of other workaholic insomniacs. As a junior-grade analyst, Pink did not rate special parking privileges. He scouted through row after row of conspicuously nondescript American sedans and finally found a slot far from the main entrance. He locked his car and braced himself for the biting cold. Outside, neither his tan overcoat nor conservative navy blue suit offered much protection against the chill wind. His red tie flapped against his starched white button-down shirt as he walked briskly to the main entrance of the New Headquarters Building, the more recent of the two main Agency buildings that totaled over 2.5 million square feet of space. Each building was shielded in copper, enveloped in an outer shell, and acoustically defended by white-noise generators, all to protect against enemy eavesdropping technology so refined it could detect individual computer keystrokes from window vibrations.
Men and women in similarly conservative suits scurried about the warm lobby on their individual missions to protect the United States against its all-too-real foreign enemies. The black and white Company seal dominated the granite floor: fierce eagle head atop a shield that enclosed the rays of a star. Large white letters curved around the shield.
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
As he did each morning, Pink bowed his head reverently as he walked past a marble wall of fifty stars, one for each Agency employee who had given his or her life for the United States. Only a handful of stars were accompanied by names, the missions of the other victims so secret they had taken even their identities to the grave. He negotiated a maze of hallways, each lined with acoustic baffles to prevent information from being overheard by passers-by. He walked to the Intelligence Directorate, then to the Russian Section, where his tiny office was located.
He hung his overcoat next to his framed vintage poster of From Russia with Love, poured himself a cup of Company java from the hall coffee-maker, sat at his immaculately neat desk and speed-read the still-warm Russian AM Report, a collage of news clippings on Russia gleaned from the Russian, national, and international press. Hardcopies from Russian news services. Transcripts of news stories and interviews that touched on Russia from major television and radio stations. Official government communiques. Copies of Izvestia, Pravda, and Krasnaya Zvesda. Izvestia was Russian for “news”. Pravda meant “truth”. Under the late communist regime, it was a running joke that there was little izvestia in Pravda, absolutely no pravda in Izvestia. As for the accuracy of the articles in Krasnaya Zvesda— “Red Star,” the publication of the Russian military—it was anyone’s best guess.
Pink’s telephone warbled a series of single long buzzes, indicating an internal call.
“Pink.”
“In early this morning, Tom,” his boss said.
“What can I say? Analysis is my life.”
“Well, take a break from your life and come to my office.”
“On my way.”
Pink walked down the hallway, wondering what assignment awaited him. Despite the thinly avoided coup by the GRU two years ago and the country’s present economic and military mess, Russian affairs had become a touch routine since Orlov had acceded to power. Same news stories. Same reports. Since the passing of the Cold War and in the aftermath of September 11, the Agency had focused on the more unstable countries of Eastern Europe, the rogue nations in the Middle East, and the countries harboring terrorists. The Soviet analysis staff had previously constituted 50 percent of the Agency’s personnel, most of whom had been reassigned or laid off. The Aldrich Ames and Guatemalan disasters certainly had not endeared the Agency’s Russian Section to a Congress wanting the Agency to focus nearly all of its classified—but widely discussed—$30 billion annual budget on counterterrorism, regardless of the country’s other very real threats.
Deborah Gold was the director of the Russian Section, one of the several subsections under the DI—Directorate of Intelligence. The DI was tasked with the central purpose for which President Harry Truman created the Agency in 1947 as a reaction not to the communist threat but to the surprise Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor. The DI predicted the actions of foreign governments and organizations through a meticulous analysis of information obtained by the Agency and prepared the President’s Daily Brief, the most expensive and least distributed newspaper in the world, delivered each morning to the president and approximately fifteen other government officials on a strict need-to-know basis. Within the DI, Pink and Gold had developed a close working relationship based on the mutual respect of their talents.
He knocked on her door.
“Come in.”
Gold crossed her hands on the table, smiled warmly. “Morning, Tom.” She motioned to a seat.
Dressed in a smart professional gray suit and white blouse, she peered at him through thin-wire framed spectacles that perched on a nose becomingly "fixed" several years before, her only concession to vanity.
Her smile disappeared as she leaned forward. “I just spoke with Malcolm.” She referred to the DDI, the Deputy Director for Intelligence, second in line to the Director of the Agency. His real name was Randall Forbes, but the analysis staff referred to him as Malcolm because of his family wealth, despite the lack of any relation to the late financier, Malcolm Forbes. “Our dear Mr. Slythe is going to Moscow.”
“Waterboer strikes again. To renegotiate the Russian diamond contract, no doubt.”
“Exactly, probably a preliminary negotiation.”
“Scumbags.” An African-American, Pink harbored a particular enmity toward Waterboer and the monopoly’s notorious former apartheid practices. As for the Russia-Waterboer Mines contract, it hardly qualified as classified information. Its existence was public knowledge. The Wall Street Journal and other financial newspapers regularly published articles about the contract. Public knowledge, but of little public interest. One of the beauties of a monopoly was its lack of competitors. No competitors, no news.
“You recall the fire at one of their Siberian diamond processing plants?”
“Mirny. I read Jerry Delpin’s report from DST.” He referred to his counterpart in the Directorate for Science and Technology, responsible for initial satellite imagery analysis, among other things. After initial analysis, DST transferred satellite imagery to the DI analysis staff, who analyzed information collected by all four directorates. “If I recall correctly, he concluded it was a natural gas fire.”
“Exactly. The combination of the fire with Slythe’s arrival in Moscow and Pyashinev’s disappearance seems to have given Malcolm the Waterboer-Russia-diamond bug. He’s convinced there’s something brewing that we’re not quite seeing. He wants a full analysis on the current Waterboer-Russia relationship. With predictions.” She reclined, removing her eyeglasses. “It’s yours.”
Pink stood, cocked his head quizzically. “But why don’t you...”
Gold rubbed her temples, shook her head. “I’m off to Moscow. Conference with their Crimes Department about the terrorist and mafia problems. FBI Moscow Section, Interpol, us.” She jutted her chin forward after each name. “The usual gang. You’re on your own.” She sat forward, gathered papers, signifying the end of the meeting. “This is your big chance to impress Malcolm, Tom. But of course there’s a catch. He wants the whole thing inside twenty-four.”
“Hours?”
“You’d better get cracking.”
Pink looked at his watch, sighed. Six-twenty-five. “Nothing like an arbitrary deadline to get the adrenaline up.”
He walked to the door and turned. “Give Lenin the finger for me, will you?”
“Always do,” she said, without looking up from her documents.
13 LINK
Shaughnessy, McGuire & Wenzel, LLP
Century City, California
3.03 P.M.
“Gail Rothenberg’s office, please.”
“May I ask who is calling, sir?”
“Dan Wenzel. We were in law school together.”
“One moment, sir.” The secretary placed him on hold. The Muzak nearly put him to sleep.
Wenzel stared out at the tufts of clouds above the privileged residential neighborhoods of Beverly Hills and the Hollywood Hills. Shadows covered and uncovered the white letters of the Hollywood sign on a distant green hill.
The calls from NTHP, BLM, and the loony new-age environmental group annoyed Wenzel. But having practiced real estate and corporate law for over twenty years, they did not distress him. What pushed him over the edge was the story Osage told combined with Cohen’s warning, which MacLean had relayed. No matter how powerful MacLean might be as a private individual, Wenzel reasoned he needed government help from someone he trusted. Hence, his call to Gail Rothenberg.
“Dan?” Rothenberg’s voice sounded loudly through the handset. “I haven’t talked to you since my appointment party. How are you? I read about you in the Harvard bulletin.”
“Ditto. How’s government life?”
“No more billable hours, just politics. Marriage prospects are even worse than in private practice, if you can believe it.”
“The grass is always greener, Gail.”
“Still, I wouldn’t mind grazing on your side of the fence. What can I do for you? Or is this a social call?”
“I’m afraid it’s not. Ordinarily I wouldn’t ask you this, but frankly, I’m stumped, and you’re the only person I trust who I could think of on this.”
“I’m flattered. If only you weren’t married,” she chuckled. “So, how can I help?”
Wenzel recounted the facts of the Arkansas diamond project, the calls, and Cohen’s warning, careful not to mention any names. “At first I thought it was just environmental pressure. Call me paranoid, but now it looks like someone is trying to block diamond production in Arkansas. Who, I’ve got no idea. As the antitrust enforcer, I thought you might know something. Unless it’s privileged, of course.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 8