Rome, Italy
10:04 A.M.
“He’s only asleep,” noted police officer Sorrenti, feeling the pulse of the GDF guard in the rear maintenance room. He opened the door that led to the staircase. “Two on each floor. Ricci and I will take the main floor,” he ordered in a whisper. “Avanti!” He motioned with his Beretta.
Sorrenti waited for the ten officers to climb the staircase, then walked up to the ground level a half-flight up from the maintenance room. He opened the door that led to the main hallway and peeked out. He immediately ducked his head back into the stairwell and cursed.
“What is it?” Ricci asked.
“Soldiers. Wearing gas masks. I count about... ten of them. Except—” He stuck his head out again, not believing what he thought he had seen.
“What?” Ricci pressed.
Sorrenti turned to his partner. “They’re not armed.”
The team leader watched as the remaining bags were placed in the rear of the truck. With a quick gesture, he ordered the men to get in, grabbed the last remaining bag, pointed to his mask, then to them.
The team leader waited for the last man to climb into the rear of the truck and was about to step up into it when he heard a noise in the hallway behind him. He turned, only to stare at the Beretta muzzle Sorrenti aimed at his head.
“Alto! Polizia! Don’t move!”
“I’m unarmed,” he responded calmly, silently cursing Forza for not allowing any of his team to carry weapons. He raised his arms, his right hand still clutching a canvas bag full of diamonds. He heard the trucks start their engines behind the entrance door. At least the diamonds and the files are safe, he thought happily, loyal to his don.
“There is nothing you can do, sergeant. Everything we came for is gone. If you kill me, I will be of no use to you.”
“Shut up! Keep your hands up!” Sorrenti was far more nervous than Forza’s seasoned mafia soldier. He had only recently been made a sergeant, and that was only because his cousin was a senator. The Eternal City had changed little over time. His hand trembled.
“If you arrest me, my boss will have me released within an hour,” the team leader continued calmly.
His boss? What was he talking ab— Then Sorrenti remembered why the Banco Napolitana was under surveillance. It was because of Arcangelo’s files. The man must be one of Arcangelo’s soldiers, he reasoned incorrectly, tightening his grip on the Beretta to prevent himself from shaking.
“You see. You can’t win.”
“In the air!” Sorrenti shouted, quickly losing his wits.
“If you let me go, you’d be doing yourselves a favor.” He winked at Ricci who stood behind Sorrenti, pale as a ghost. “I can promise you’ll be promoted. Both of you. Lieutenants...” he quinted at the names on their uniforms, “Sorrenti and Ricci. Good names for detectives, don’t you think?” He was now alone, the trucks having rumbled away, but it did not matter. He was a professional. His don and the mission came first.
“Why don’t you drop those guns? I am unarmed,” he continued, his voice soft, gentle. “And take these instead.” Without lowering his hands, he dropped the canvas bag and kicked it toward Sorrenti.
“Cover him!” Sorrenti ordered. He bent down, opened the bag. He removed one of the black velour bags, slid out one of the envelopes. The diamond roughs glowed under the bright lobby lights. Sorrenti looked up at Forza’s soldier. “Are they real?” He asked, lamely.
“I think you should inspect them.”
Sorrenti stared at him for several long seconds. “I think we need to inspect this evidence very carefully indeed.” He lowered his weapon. Ricci did the same.
“Take your time,” replied the team leader, winking back. He dropped his arms, removed his mask, and walked out the door.
The pope and his entourage had returned to the Vatican. Maintenance crews mopped things up in the large avenue. Police officers shepherded the strays clogging the avenue back to work, pleased no incidents had occurred during their impromptu call to crowd-control duty. Still dressed in Army fatigues, the team leader walked out of the bank’s lobby past one of the police officers, who saluted with his baton. He walked several blocks, hailed a taxi to the Termini train station, boarded the direct train to Fiumicino airport, then a shuttle flight to Palermo.
Two hours later, the uncut diamonds from the Banco Napolitana Lucchese with a wholesale market value between $900 million and $3 billion and a retail value of over $9 billion were divided. Soon thereafter, 50 emissaries from the Vatican Secretary of State’s office arrived at Fiumicino airport, handpicked by the cardinal Secretary of State himself. Each boarded a flight to one of 50 cities around the globe. Each carried an attaché case handcuffed to his wrist. As diplomatic couriers from the sovereign Vatican City State, each enjoyed full diplomatic immunity. That immunity extended to the attaché cases, each of which contained between $18 million and $60 million wholesale in uncut diamonds.
Within hours, the contents of those cases would be distributed to the world’s poor through the Catholic Church’s legion charitable organizations. The impoverished recipients would then immediately sell the stones to myriad jewelers throughout the world. As more and more stones were sold, the prices paid would become increasingly low, causing a massive drop in the worldwide price of diamonds. And the number of jewelers who were purchasing diamonds from these impoverished recipients of unorthodox Church aid were so numerous and located in so many places around the globe that it was logistically impossible for Waterboer even to attempt a wholesale buyout of the stones from the jewelers.
Ordinarily, the blow to Waterboer would have been debilitating, but not fatal. But these were far from ordinary times for the monopoly, and the tidal wave of Vatican diamonds on the market did not occur in a vacuum. The civil war between the Afrikaaner Volksfront and the South African government was costing Waterboer a fortune in liquid capital. The enormous increase in prices paid by Waterboer for Russian diamonds under the recent renegotiated contract constituted an additional drain, particularly as it would not change now that Molotok and his nationalist Russkost had been eliminated. The other diamond-producing countries, like sharks, had smelled the blood and soon demanded similar increases in the price of their diamonds.
Waterboer was a company under siege. Alive, but now anemic and hemorrhaging badly. In Johannesburg, Piet Slythe called a special meeting of his top corporate officers to defend the sanctity of the diamond cult and protect Waterboer and the Slythe family, its keepers.
In the Vatican Secretary of State’s office, the cardinal Secretary and Monsignor Rancuzzi each sipped a glass of champagne—smiling and slightly awed by their diplomatic and political skills. Not only had they and the Church turned a political scandal into a great victory by dealing a near fatal blow to a corrupt and evil organization, they had effectively ended the potential blackmailing influence of the Order, the Holy See’s internal enemy for 200 years. Once the banks learned of Altiplano’s inability to repay the hundreds of millions of dollars he had borrowed on behalf of the Order, they would not be overwhelmed by feelings of charity.
The Church would bail out the Order. But in exchange for doing so, it would reorganize the Order to such an extent that it would not resemble a shadow of its recent self.
The unexpected papal mass had threatened to derail Cristina Petronelli’s mission for Don Arcangelo. But she would let nothing stand between her and her 250,000 euros. She had already positioned the ten cubes Don Arcangelo’s men had delivered in the alley and turned on their miniature timers when the popemobile arrived. She wasn’t sure what happened inside the bank after that, but apparently the members of her shift had been gassed to sleep for some time. Strange, she thought. She hadn’t noticed any gas. Perhaps it was because she hid in a bathroom stall and listened to the events outside through an open window. When she exited the bathroom, police officers were swarming inside the bank, smashing windows to evacuate the invisible gas. Luckily, she had hidden the cubes well. She doubted
that the police would find any of them. She took advantage of the confusion to go to the fifth floor, where she quickly installed Arcangelo’s cellular telephone to one of the computers. She was surprised to find another cellular telephone attached to a nearby computer.
Tired after her stressful day, Petronelli signed the daily log and exited the headquarters building nearly three hours before her shift was scheduled to end. A few minutes later, the entire six-story building exploded in flames.
She saw the blast first, then felt the waves of heat emanating from the conflagration. She knew the cubes had caused the inferno and for the first time became afraid. Not guilty or remorseful at having murdered several dozen of her law enforcement colleagues, but afraid for herself. People all around her were running and screaming, many shouting instructions. As soon as she saw fire engines, ambulances, and police cars rush to the scene, she started to run to her apartment as fast as her well-exercised legs would take her.
It was too bad about the building and her coworkers caught inside, she thought. But the vision of the 250,000 euros soon made her forget their horrible deaths. As she ascended the staircase of her apartment building, she suddenly realized that despite having set the timers to go off after her shift ended, the blast had occurred far before her shift was scheduled to end.
She stopped abruptly on the stairs one story below her floor. But by then it was too late.
Enzo intercepted her. As her life ebbed away, she did not regret her acts, only that she had not been smart enough to realize the risk and ask to be paid in advance.
80 PROSECUTION
Alitalia Boeing 747SP
35,003 Feet
Atlantic Ocean
11:07 P.M.
Carlton reclined in his wide leather seat on the flight from Rome to Washington. Exhausted though he was, he couldn’t sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, the events of the past month roiled in his mind.
He gazed about the plush first-class cabin. Except for the minders Forbes had sent to protect him, all the passengers slept soundly. He had no desire to watch a movie on his personal LCD television screen, even though the title of one James Bond selection from 1971 elicited an ironic smile. He didn’t have the patience for an airplane novel. And cigar smoking hadn’t been allowed on commercial airliners for years. He restlessly drummed his fingers on the handrest, then buzzed the attractive blond flight attendant to order another Bombay Sapphire and tonic with plenty of ice and lots of lime.
Slipping on the feather-light headset, he selected a Sinatra album named after a song about flying. It made him think of Erika. He had not seen her in - how long? It felt like weeks. He longed to be with her. He felt warm as he recalled their lovemaking, casually leafing through the newspapers and magazines in the seatback compartment in front of him. His favorite headline was ‘POPE OUTSHINES DIAMOND CARTEL.’
There was no mention of White House Chief of Staff Scott Fress. Forbes must be dealing with him quietly, he thought.
He coughed up a mouthful of gin as soon as he opened one of the magazines. There on the very first page of the glossy American magazine was a diamond advertisement. Spread across the page was a vivid photograph of a woman’s slender neck, circled by a shimmering river of brilliant diamonds. In small white letters were scrawled three words.
Diamonds Are Beauty.
In tiny letters underneath were the words Waterboer Mines Limited.
He stared at the ad, enraged and frustrated.
How could Waterboer advertise in the American press when it wasn’t allowed to do business in the U.S.? Waterboer employees couldn’t step into the U.S. without being summarily arrested. He threw the magazine on the floor, gulped down his G&T, and stared out of the window at the starry sky and moonlit clouds. Frank was now singing about high hopes. Hope he had. A plan is what he needed.
After another G&T, the gin finally started taking effect and his mind began the free association of ideas. An idea flashed in his mind, then disappeared. He picked up the magazine, found the Waterboer ad and stared at it hard. The thought returned. It was so obvious. How could he not have thought of it before?
He grinned, thinking of the lawsuit he would file.
You’re mine now, Slythe.
81 OUTRAGE
Yale Safehouse
Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia
6:21 A.M.
The navy blue Ford Crown Victoria sedan with tinted windows that collected Carlton at Dulles Airport pulled into the Yale safehouse’s long front drive under gray clouds. The gravel path, coated with a thin layer of snow, cracked under the tires. One of the resident agents walked out to greet the visitors.
Pat Carlton and Tom Pink emerged from the rear doors, protected from the chill wind by heavy overcoats. They were ushered into the large colonial foyer, complete with sweeping staircase and crystal chandelier. “Gentlemen, this is Agent Hargrave. He’ll be conducting your debriefing.”
Carlton grasped the agent’s hand. “I hope this isn’t going to take long.”
“We’ve got bedrooms, showers, clothes, and lunch ready for you. Your debriefing shouldn’t take more than forty-eight hours.”
Carlton raised his eyebrows in shock. “Forty-eight hours? I’m thinking more like forty-eight minutes.”
“You’ve got to give these things time, sir.”
Something caught Carlton’s eye above the staircase. He looked up.
Erika bounded down the steps, locked him in her arms. They embraced, kissed, oblivious to the others.
“I missed you so much,” she whispered, crying softly.
“Me, too. Me, too.” He turned to Pink. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”
He smiled. “I figured after so many bad surprises, you needed a good one.”
Carlton turned to Hargrave, pulling Erika tightly against him. “You know, maybe forty-eight hours isn’t so bad after all.”
Agent Hargrave was true to his word. Two days later, Carlton had been fully debriefed and was free to go. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised Erika.
“Fress hasn’t been arrested?” Carlton bolted upright. “Why on earth not? After everything that scumbag has done? The man murdered Osage and Mazursky and Wenzel and God knows how many others! He took bribes from a foreign monopoly that financed a white supremacist civil war in South Africa and nearly started a civil war in Russia! Not to mention how many times he tried to kill Erika and Tom and me. I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Pardon me, but are you out of your fucking mind? Sir?”
Unlike Pink, who cringed at Carlton’s monumental disrespect for his boss, Carlton did not work for Forbes. He remained standing, glowering at the CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence who sat in his wheelchair, unruffled, sending peaceful cherry-scented smoke signals from his pipe.
Ordinarily, Forbes would not have tolerated such insolence, but he knew what Carlton had just accomplished, understood his frustration, and gave him wide latitude. Sensing Carlton had finished his outburst, he removed the pipe stem from his mouth. “I understand your anger, Lieutenant. But no. Fress has not been arrested.”
“Why not? You have all the evidence you need! You’ve had it for a month. Why the hell—”
“I thought it would be eminently clear to you by now, Lieutenant. Think about it for a moment. Not as a Justice Department prosecutor, but as a foreign policy strategist. As you just suggested, there is a good possibility Fress knew about Molotok and Waterboer and their plans for the Russian stockpile. Fress may even have wanted Molotok to start a civil war in Russia so he could play cold warrior in Washington. If we apprehended Fress, it would have tipped off Molotok and Waterboer about the stockpile. We couldn’t take that chance.”
“I’m not suggesting the CIA should have arrested him. But at the very least you could have given Justice the—”
“Perhaps you should see this.” Forbes’ straight white teeth clamped down on his pipe. He rolled himself to the side of his desk, reached for a sheet of paper, and handed it to Carlt
on. “I took the liberty to expand on your initial investigation. Particularly with respect to Fress’s cronies on the Waterboer payroll.”
Carlton scanned the list. His head pounded and he started to sweat. “My God,” he whispered, sitting quietly. “It goes that high at Justice too?”
“And wide. I believe Harry Jarvik is your boss.”
Carlton was mute. Stalin. That pompous prick.
“So you see, Lieutenant. Even if we had decided to take the risk, it’s doubtful anyone at DOJ would have arrested Fress, much less prosecuted him. But they most definitely would have tipped him off.”
“And all these people are still free,” Carlton whispered.
“Free as the wind.”
“This isn’t happening,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He sat silently for a moment, shook his head and stood. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let this happen.”
“Admirable. What exactly do you propose?”
“It’s clear, isn’t it?” Carlton grinned without smiling. “I’m going to arrest the bastard.”
“Arrest the White House Chief of Staff?” Forbes dismissed him with a wave of his pipe. “Don’t be silly.”
“Silly?” Carlton shouted back. “Do you think that—”
“Don’t get me wrong, Lieutenant. You’re one tough, resourceful, determined son of a bitch. And you’ve got my admiration. But think about it. What you propose won’t fly.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
“Politics, Lieutenant. Politics. You can’t just arrest the Chief of Staff. The White House Chief of Staff. Who’s going to give you an arrest warrant?”
“A federal judge.”
“Just like that? A federal judge? Do you realize Fress personally handpicked most of the sitting federal judges for nomination by the president?”
“I’ll find one appointed by a former administration. There’s got to be a few who aren’t indebted to Fress.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 49