Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

“That’s what I thought, sir. Checking with Busy Two now, sir.” Ears fed the sonar signature into the computer. The Busy Two was rarely wrong. The distributed-processor-architecture system linked massive UYK computers through more than 1,000,000 lines of Defense Department computer code and a data bus that integrated sonar, weapons, and fire control into a single unit. Within seconds, the waterfall displayed Sierra Twenty One’s most probable ID: a Russian Delta Three-class sub.

  “Sir, Busy Two confirms Sierra Twenty One as Delta Three Kal’mar-class. States 8-4 percent probability that it’s the...” Ears hesitated. That’s got to be wrong too.

  “The what?”

  ”The Pushkin, sir.”

  “Now I know it can’t be right. The Pushkin was sold for scrap over a year ago. Stars & Stripes even ran an article on it.”

  Ears closed his eyes and cocked his head again. “Sir! New contact bearing northwest.”

  “Designate new contact Sierra Twenty-Two bearing northwest.”

  “It’s faint, sir. Very faint. I’d be able to hear it better if we weren’t cavitating all over the place. But it sounds like...like crumples from explosions. Topside.” Ears checked the Busy Two waterfall display back and forth. “Three of them. Whatever’s happening to Sierra Twenty-Two, it ain’t pretty.” He pressed his earphones hard against his ears. “Metal twisting. Underwater implosions. Sierra Twenty-Two’s sinking, sir.”

  The sonar supervisor squinted. “Range?”

  “Range is approximately 4-0 nautical miles. She’s awfully close to Sierra Twenty One, sir.”

  The sonar supervisor hit the intercom. “Conn, sonar. Unknown surface vessel sinking range 4-0 nautical miles. Should we render assistance, sir?”

  The XO was about to reply but the captain cut him off. “Sierra Twenty Two is close to our target. For all we know, she may even be our target. Until then, steady as she goes. What about Sierra Twenty One? Any more data?”

  The sonar supervisor turned to Ears.

  “Heading 2-0-1. Depth 7-0-0 feet. Speed 2-4 knots, sir. Approximate range 3-0 nautical miles.”

  “Twenty-four knots for a Delta Three? That’s its maximum speed. At least it’s heading away from us.” He punched the intercom again. “Conn, sonar. Busy Two identifies Sierra Twenty One as Russian Delta Three—class Pushkin. Course heading 2-0-1, speed 2-4 knots. Range approximately 3-0 nautical miles. Probability 8-4.”

  The X0 turned to Hendricks. ”Sir, the Pushkin was supposed to have been decommissioned.”

  The captain shook his head. “Correct, but this is no time for history, Mr. Wathne. Monitor it and keep moving. It’s probably heard us too, I know. But it’s moving away from us. Unless that changes, we maintain course and speed. Besides, Delta Threes have a top speed of only 24 knots. We can outrun her. We’ll see about survivors after we’ve picked up our people.” He hated when his orders conflicted with his seaman’s instincts. Out there in the freezing cold, an entire crew could be struggling in life rafts or worse yet, in the icy water. But there was nothing he could do. His orders were clear. And they came from the commander-in-chief himself. He could only hope that his target and Sierra 22 were one and the same so he could save the survivors.

  “Steady as she goes. Aye, sir,” XO Wathne acknowledged uncomfortably. Like any other submariner, he felt vulnerable whenever his sub generated so much noise, particularly when it was in another country’s territorial waters. And especially when they were Russian territorial waters. His mind continued to analyze the situation. He stared at the chart on the plotting table, trying to understand the Russian sub’s probable destination. There wasn’t one for over 1,000 miles. So what’s a decommissioned Delta III class sub doing heading nowhere at flank speed?

  The notion was particularly troublesome in light of the fact that the Pushkin was a boomer—a missile sub—with vertical launch tubes designed to contain sixteen SS-N-18 long range ballistic nuclear missiles.

  54 DECEPTION

  Rossiya

  Barents Sea

  11:32 P.M.

  “But...I don’t understand,” muttered First Mate Vasily Damov, trying hard not to be insubordinate to an officer of the navy he so admired. “Why did the American ship sink? Why are we not rescuing the survivors? ANd why are you taking the diamonds off the ship? Shouldn’t we inform Moscow and bring them to the proper authorities?”

  “Nyet!” Ulianov shot back. “The proper authorities, as you refer to them, are corrupt. They’re selling Holy Mother Russia out to the West. To those Amerikanskii you saw trying to steal them earlier.”

  “But...sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to.” Ulianov removed his silenced Makarov pistol from his shoulder holster and fired a round directly into Damov’s skull.

  Without a trace of emotion, he replaced the handgun into its holster and boarded the gangplank to the Alexandr Nevsky. “Go. Go! Cast off!” He shouted to his pilot.

  As the Alexandr Nevsky gained speed, Ulianov entered the bridge and looked at his first officer. “What’s our ETA to the Pushkin?”

  “One hour, twenty-two minutes.”

  “Harasho. Do it now.”

  Less than a second later, the air was filled with a deep rumble as the explosives in the engine room of the Rossiya were detonated by remote control. Another rumble erupted, this time from amidships. Another from the bow, the final one from the stern.

  The triple-hulled icebreaker was designed to withstand heavy shock from the exterior of the ship, but not from within. In less than fifteen minutes, the fire engine red icebreaker disappeared under the Barents Sea.

  “Da?”

  ”Molotok?”

  “Da, da. Ulianov, shto et—”

  “Victory.”

  “You have it?”

  “We have the—”As powerful as the Volki and their krestnii otet allies might be, Moscow still had ears. “Da. We have it.”

  “Harasho! Ochen harasho!”

  “You should see them. They are nothing like I imagined. Pyashinev did well, the traitor. The best quality. The very best of Siberia. Like fire. Fit for the tsar’s court. And so many of them. It’s like a fairy tale.”

  “You have done well.”

  “But it’s not over. Now we must get them to their destination.”

  “Be careful.”

  “We have practiced the plan long and hard. All of the men are in place. Unless you wish otherwise, I will give the order to start.”

  “Da. I will contact the other side. Be careful, my friend. I don’t have to remind you how much rests on your shoulders.” To the Siberian bear and his ideologue soldier, this was not a stale cliché but a vibrant hope and caution.

  Piet Slythe despised being awakened in the middle of the night. As far as he was concerned, almost anything could wait until the morning. Yet here was Ian, waking him, nearly shaking him out of bed. “Bloody hell, man. What is it? Do you know what time—”

  “It’s the Russian. Molotok.”

  “And?”

  “He’s on the telephone. He won’t speak to anyone else.” Ian offered his master a cordless telephone.

  “Bloody bolshevik boor.” Slythe sat up, took the phone. “Slythe here.” Sniff

  “Eta Molotok.”

  “Yes, and I assume you have a bloody good reason to get me out of bed at this hour.”

  “Da. We found it. Found it and taken it.”

  Slythe shot out of bed. “Finally! Smashing, sir. Smashing!”

  “Da. We are taking it to planned destination. Be ready, da?”

  “My people will be there. For God’s sake be careful.”

  Slythe hung up and turned to Ian.

  “The Russian has the stockpile. He’s on his way to Aberdeen. Tell our people to stand ready. No cockups.”

  55 LIFEBOAT

  Claire Sailing Lifeboat

  Barents Sea

  420 miles Northeast of Murmansk

  12:09 A.M.

  They could no longer see the Rossiya. The survivor
s shivered in the pitch darkness and glacial cold of the open arctic sea, scouring the horizon and sky for some sign of rescue craft.

  Nothing.

  Once was enough for a lifetime. This was their second time in three days. But the first time was planned, and that lifeboat was motorized and protected from the elements. The Claire’s lifeboats had been destroyed. The lifeboat they were in was no more than a glorified rubber life raft, with no engine, no heat, no light, no water, and no food. At least they were safe. For the moment.

  The moment did not last long.

  Freezing raindrops the size of grapes began to pelt the survivors. The rain drowned out all other sound, reduced visibility to nil. In the black night, none of them noticed an enormous shape rise behind them, no more than 30 feet away. Like a monster from the deep, it continued upward until it towered 50 feet above the overloaded rubber boat. If they could have seen it, they would immediately have noticed the large white letters on its skin.

  56 UNTOUCHABLE

  Palace of Justice

  Uffizio di Guarda di Finanza

  Rome, Italy

  10:03 A.M.

  As mayor of the global Cosa Nostra capital, Orlando Leonida worked regularly with the Italian Ministry of Justice and its financial law enforcement arm, the Guarda di Finanza (GDF). But Leonida’s level of work with the Ministry was unusual. Often, his predecessors had willingly exchanged their reputations and honor for a pittance from the Cosa Nostra masters. Mayor Leonida had stood firm in the face of offers of large sums of money and threats to his job, his life, and his family. Like the U.S. Treasury Department’s Elliot Ness in the 1920s, Orlando Leonida was beyond threats and bribery. Untouchable. Even the 1992 assassination of the heroic anti-mafia Sicilian judge Giovanni Falcone, by a bomb of such power its blast had registered on seismographs throughout Europe, failed to sway Leonida.

  Finally, through campaign after campaign, Leonida’s tenacity was having its intended effect. The tide was turning. The patience not only of Sicilians but of all Italians had been exhausted. After decades of cynical shrugs, Italians finally realized the vicious killings, corruption, and criminal business activities of the Cosa Nostra were sapping the lifeblood not only of other countries but of their beloved Italia as well. Bleeding away Italy’s economy, Italy’s glorious patrimony, and most importantly, Italy’s future—her children. Schoolhouses were infected with heroin, cocaine, ecstasy, and a host of other deadly narcotics available at prices artificially lower than anywhere else in the world. Enough was enough.

  Basta!

  Mayor Leonida became not only popular, he became a star. Never alone, a soldier of the Italian Armed Forces—sworn enemies of the Cosa Nostra—armed with a Beretta submachine gun stood guard in his room even when he slept. In the bathroom when he urinated. Leonida never left his apartment without a bulletproof vest under his flawlessly cut three-button suits. Bomb-detecting German Shepherds always swept his path, even indoors. It was a high price to pay, but for Leonida it was worth it.

  The bright sunshine masked the bitter Roman winter cold on this particular morning. Escorted by his handpicked retinue of armed soldiers and German Shepherds, Mayor Leonida marched through the ornate hallways of the Guarda di Finanza and into the director’s office.

  Director Vittorio Umberto knew a personal visit from his colleague could mean only one thing. Umberto was one of the few other members of government unafraid to do what was right. Another untouchable, although it was easier for him in Rome, away from Sicily. He welcomed his colleague with a sincere smile, open arms. ”Buon giorno, Orlando.”

  ”Buon giorno, buon giorno.”

  The men embraced in a warm hug. Leonida refused Umberto’s offer of a comfortable velour chair and dismissed all but one of his soldiers. He removed a manila file from his attaché case, placed it on the director’s parchment desktop, and opened it with a flourish.

  “Ché cosa? What is this?” Umberto asked.

  Leonida grinned. “This,” he pointed to the open file, “is what we have worked on for the past six months. A list of five bank accounts in the Rome office of the Banco Napolitana Lucchese belonging to Arcangelo. It’s finally time to bring him in.”

  Umberto glanced at the file and looked up at Leonida with frustration. “Orlando. You know I want to bring him in, but just because Arcangelo has bank accounts doesn’t—”

  “This is different, Vittorio. Look closely. Notice these are not just bank accounts. These are bank accounts opened to receive funds from five government contracts for the restoration of monuments never begun. So far, nothing new.”

  Massive government disbursements over the years for the restoration of monuments in Palermo alone were enough to build palazzos from Sicily to China. Almost none of the monuments had been touched with as much as a paintbrush. The funds went into the coffers of construction companies owned by the mafia, the monuments indefinitely closed with signs that read “e chiuso per il restauro.” Closed for restoration.

  “But this is different. We obtained copies of the original government restoration contracts. They’re in the file. The difference is that although the deposits in the five accounts are equal to the amounts of the contracts, the government agency hasn’t made payments to Arcangelo’s companies yet.”

  Umberto’s eyes opened wide.

  “See what I mean?” Leonida sat and lit a cigarette.

  “Santa Lucia,” Umberto whispered.

  Leonida blew a contrail of smoke toward the ceiling. “Not only did the government not make the payments, but the amounts in those five accounts are identical to the payoffs on five corporate shakedowns and kidnappings Arcangelo recently pulled off in different parts of Italy. We know this from the electronic surveillance that the Americans helped us establish.” He took a deep drag from his cigarette.

  “I never would have noticed this level of detail, except I was watching for something strange. And finally Arcangelo made a mistake.” He exhaled, removed a piece of tobacco that had lodged between his straight white teeth. “He moved the money from the Palermo branch to Rome.”

  Director Umberto still could not believe his ears and eyes. “These amounts are...” He looked at Leonida, down at the file, back up at Leonida. “There must be—”

  “Roughly 100 million euros.”

  “Are you telling me the Banco Napolitana Lucchese—”

  “Laundered 100 million euros of kidnapping money for Arcangelo. Si. That is exactly what I am saying.” He blew a cloud of smoke upward. “And I’m not just saying it. Those documents prove it. And under the Piola Torre law, your Guarda can—”

  “You don’t need to remind me.” Umberto stabbed at a button on his telephone.

  “Pronto,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Please come in immediately.”

  Twenty seconds later, a smartly dressed woman stepped into the office through a side door. Trailing a wisp of fragrance, her graciousness and beauty fooled few people in the Guarda di Finanza. As Umberto’s right hand, Simona Calfio was responsible for the day-to-day management of the Guarda’s field operations. The Woman of Steel, the GDF staff called her. She bowed slightly toward Leonida before standing at attention near Umberto.

  “Simona,” Umberto began. He glanced at the antique clock on his desk. “We are finally moving against Arcangelo. By two o’clock this afternoon, I want the main branch of Banco Napolitana Lucchese closed. Closed, sealed, and guarded around the clock. I want every ledger, every computer disk, every vault, every scrap of paper locked down. I want that place guarded and sealed so tightly not even the plants can breathe.”

  “Si, direttore.” Calfio turned and walked out of the office.

  He looked at Leonida. “I think you may have done it, Orlando. Santa Lucia, I think you finally did it!”

  “Don’t be too confident. I wouldn’t stop praying if I were you.”

  By the time Mayor Leonida left Director Umberto’s office ten minutes later, five unmarked armored Fiat vans containing 40 armed of
ficers in special tactics gear, computer technicians, accountants, engineers, and communications experts of the Guarda di Finanza rushed through the congested streets of the Eternal City toward the headquarters of the Banco Napolitana Lucchese.

  57 HUNT

  USS Seawolf

  Barents Sea

  401 miles Northeast of Murmansk

  12:42 A.M.

  Carlton sat up on his cot in the Seawolf’s infirmary. “What do you mean you haven’t looked?” He nearly shouted at Commander Hendricks. “I told you. Those diamonds are a matter of national security.”

  “Come, now, Mr. Carlton. Just relax. You’ve just come out of shock.”

  Commander Hendricks had spent his entire career surrounded by military personnel. He was not accustomed to dealing with civilians. Particularly civilians attempting to discuss what they believed were national security issues. As if Carlton would know a national security issue if it bit him on the rear end. Hendricks had followed orders, rescued the castaways, and reported back. Listening to civilians was not part of those orders.

  “Just relax, son. I’m sure it’ll be found sooner or later.”

  Carlton stared into his eyes. “You’re not taking me seriously, are you? You’re not taking any of this seriously.”

  The intercom crackled. “Commander. VLF transmission informing us of FLASH transmission.”

  Again? “Acknowledged. Take us to antenna depth. I’m on my way.” He turned to Carlton. “Get some rest.”

  Russian nationalists. Diamond monopoly. Where did these people come from? He grabbed the strip of paper from the communications officer as he strode toward the control room.

  Z73446

  FR: COMSUBLANT

  TO: CO USS SEAWOLF

  URGENT LOCATE AND PROCEED TO RUS ICEBKR ROSSIYA

  AIRLFT ONLY JR PD AND EW

  PC USNR 0-3 ACTV DUTY

  PC AND TP TO ADVISE

  XTRM COURTESY