Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  The feeling was unanimous.

  More than in any criminal trial in recent memory, in every state of the Union, in every town and city across the nation, the American people wanted blood.

  Would the jury feel the same?

  Jury deliberations lasted only an hour. Legal commentators from coast to coast attempted to explain the short length of time.

  They must be guilty.

  They must be innocent.

  Could go either way.

  The commentators’ babble died down as soon as the television screens showed the jurors exit the deliberation room and take their seats in the carved wood jury box.

  “Mr. Foreman. Has the jury reached its verdict?” Judge Taggart inquired. She too had become the darling of the press.

  An elderly Korean-American man rose solemnly from his position at the end of the jury box. “It has, Your Honor.”

  “What find you?”

  Slightly trembling with nervousness, the man unfolded a piece of paper and adjusted his round, gold-rimmed spectacles. “In the matter of The United States of America versus Diamond Sellers League, et al, we, the jury, find the defendants guilty on all counts criminal and civil. We hereby—”

  The shouts of vindication that streamed in through the windows drowned out the moans and gasps of the defendants in the courtroom.

  Carlton raised his eyes upward and clasped his hands. Thank you, God. Thank you.

  Judge Taggart’s gavel repeatedly slammed against its mahogany coaster. “Order! Order! Order!”

  The room fell silent.

  “Thank you, Mr. Foreman. The United States thanks all of the jurors for their patience, dedication, and hard work. Please remain in the jury box until after sentencing and the award of damages.”

  Carlton looked over to the defeated Churchman, who shared his shock at the judge’s statement. Sentencing? An award? Already?

  It made sense. Sentencing and the determination of a monetary award would normally have come later. But Judge Taggart was no media fool. If she didn’t pronounce sentences and announce the award of damages immediately, it would get lost in the press. She too wanted her moment of glory.

  “As the prosecution mentioned, the Sherman Antitrust Act provides for a maximum penalty of 10 million dollars for corporations. In this suit, it was alleged that each published advertisement constituted a separate violation of the Act. The statute of limitations under the Act is three years. Therefore, the penalties can be assessed only for advertisements published during the three years prior to the date of the filing of this case. Based on the jury’s verdict of guilty on all counts, this court hereby sentences the defendant Diamond Sellers League Inc. to pay the fine of $1.327 billion. This court orders defendant American Publications Inc. to pay the fine of $523 million. This court orders defendant...”

  Judge Taggart continued to read the staggering sums one by one in a sanitized monotone.

  The bankruptcy lawyers had prepared the defendants’ bankruptcy filings long before verdict and sentencing were announced. Each was filed within an hour of the sentence. Each defendant would seek reorganization under Chapter 11 of 10 U.S.C., the federal bankruptcy code. As a result, none of the defendants would pay more than a fraction of their fines. Nonetheless, the Justice Department’s objective was fulfilled. Never again would any member of the American media agree to run a Waterboer diamond advertisement.

  Not in print.

  Not on the radio.

  Not on television.

  Not ever again.

  Without advertisements to create and bolster the appeal and value of diamonds, it would be impossible for Waterboer to maintain its high level of sales in the U.S. and thus could never hope to regain control of the international diamond market.

  CNN carried the judgment live and beamed it around the world, including South Africa. Nine thousand miles east of the courtroom, a shot reverberated through Johannesburg’s financial district.

  Slythe’s head fell against his otherwise immaculate desk next to a small mound of cocaine. The desktop was soon covered with a pool of blood.

  The Waterboer monopoly was dead.

  EPILOGUE

  Macon Grove, Arkansas

  11:34 A.M.

  Neither Carlton nor Erika had ever been to Arkansas, the original loose end that had unraveled the Waterboer monopoly. They admired the bright green landscape in silence as they drove on the rural road. Spring had arrived to the Arkansas countryside. Flora and fauna had awakened from their winter slumber and now reveled in the rebirth of spring.

  Two hours after leaving Little Rock, they arrived to the town of Macon Grove, as small as it was quaint. Despite its size and location in the remote countryside, the town buzzed with an activity generally seen only in the big city. Construction crews were busy extending Main Street and constructing a series of one-story buildings. A large sign proudly proclaimed that an office center and retail stores were coming soon. Men and women walked through the two-block center of town with a tangible sense of purpose. Mostly new pickup trucks and SUVs drove along the town’s few but newly paved streets. Storefronts were bright with fresh coats of paint. Sidewalks were clean and newly landscaped with trees.

  Carlton and Erika continued along the rural road, which workers were expanding from two to four lanes. They understood why when traffic halted behind a crawling line of cargo trucks carrying everything from crates and oil drums to pipe and tractors. A half hour later, they turned right under a white entry gate that proclaimed: ‘Osage-Wenzel Mine’. In small letters below was written ‘Operated by MacLean Arkansas, LLC’.

  A guard stopped them, politely asked their names, identification, and nature of their visit, gave them passes, and directed them to a low, white building. They parked next to a mud-splattered, black Hummer with fat tires and stretched in the bright sun. The compound was composed of a large circular courtyard, in the center of which three tall flagpoles proudly flew the flags of the United States, Arkansas, and the Osage-Wenzel Mine. Mining equipment, offices, and warehouses surrounded the courtyard, where men and women dressed in hardhats, overalls, heavy jackets, and gloves walked to and from their duties amid loud mechanical noises and the thumping rotors of a departing helicopter.

  A loud voice boomed from behind Carlton and Erika. “Mr. Carlton and Ms. Wassenaar. I thought you’d never make it!”

  They both turned as the large helicopter lifted off and flew away. A man in his forties with a tan face stood in front of the little office, dressed in a navy blue blazer with a yellow silk pocket square, a pale blue shirt of Sea Island cotton fastened with bright yellow diamond cufflinks, pleated white linen trousers, and black leather moccasins worn without socks, looking like a Ralph Lauren ad had landed in rural Arkansas. With his brown slicked back hair and straight white teeth, the man looked more like a movie star from the 1930s than the owner of a mining concern. He walked up to them.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am finally to meet you. I’m Max MacLean.” He extended his hand in a warm greeting to both.

  “It’s an honor, Mr. MacLean. Thank you for everything you did for us,” responded Carlton, appreciating the strong handshake.

  “And thank you so much for inviting us,” announced Erika, who blushed slightly as MacLean kissed her hand.

  “Please call me Max and come in out of the sun. I hope you haven’t already had lunch. Follow me.” MacLean ushered them through the doorway. The air inside was pleasantly cooler and less humid than outside. The squat building was larger than Carlton had expected. The front office gave way to a hallway with administrative offices and restrooms, and led to a spacious office. It was brightly illuminated from skylights and furnished mostly with Le Corbusier black leather, glass, and chrome resting on a deep-pile pale green carpet. A bright red and black lacquered bar stood in the corner.

  MacLean waited for them to wash up before bringing them to the conference room, where they enjoyed an exquisite lunch of crab and shrimp salad, spicy velvet corn soup, p
enne pasta, and chocolate and marzipan cake accompanied by a crisp South African Stellenbosch white wine. MacLean’s curiosity was ravenous. He knew the general outlines of the missions to Murmansk, the Vatican, and the White House, but he wanted to know all the details, step by step. Except for Carlton’s and Pink’s still classified mission aboard the Seawolf and the trip to Vatican City, Carlton and Erika left little out and again thanked MacLean for the invaluable assistance he had provided at each step of the way. The introduction to Colonel Saunders, the escape to Atlantic City, the trip to Murmansk, and the introductions to Cardinal Benedetti at the Vatican and Don Forza in Palermo.

  After lunch, MacLean prepared espressos for himself and Carlton and a nonfat cappuccino for Erika in an ancient Lavazza machine in the corner. “This was Dan Wenzel’s machine. His wife said he would have wanted me to have it.” MacLean stared ahead, visualizing his friend and counselor’s face through the steam of the man’s adored hand-press espresso machine.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend.” Erika said softly.

  “Thank you.”

  “It was a nice touch for you to name the mine after him and Theodore Osage.”

  “It was only fair. They were the ones who brought the diamond deposits to my attention in the first place. And they paid for it with their lives.”

  An awkward silence ensued while MacLean finished preparing the coffee. After several minutes, MacLean handed Carlton and Erika their cups, each with a crescent-shaped chopped almond biscotti on the saucer.

  “Just like in Rome. Thank you, Max.”

  “Prego. May I offer you a cigar?” He opened a blue lacquered Elie Bleu humidor to reveal an impressive selection of Cuban, Nicaraguan, Dominican, Jamaican, and Honduran cigars. He saw Erika cringe slightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll open the skylight so the smoke doesn’t bother you.”

  She smiled with her green eyes behind the oversized cup.

  Carlton selected a CAO L’Anniversaire maduro robusto Dominican. MacLean was about to select a Cohiba Siglo IV Habano, but instead chose a Nicaraguan Pâdron Anniversario in deference to the Justice Department presecutor’s aversion to smoking illegal Cuban cigars in the U.S.

  Carlton watched the smoke billow upward. “What puzzles me is why you decided to build this mine. After everything that happened, the price of diamonds is at an all-time low. So low and politically incorrect that I hear it isn’t even economically efficient to pick them off of some old river beds, let alone mine them.”

  MacLean blew out his long cedar match and reclined in his chair. “This may seem strange to you, but from the moment Dan Wenzel told me about the diamond deposits here, I never focused on the mine as a money maker. I may be slightly extravagant, but I’m not greedy. I wanted the mine merely for the beauty of the diamonds themselves.”

  Over the past month, Carlton had become keenly aware of MacLean’s obsession with the esthetic. “I see.”

  “Waterboer and Scott Fress prevented me from opening the mine, as you well know. But after they were silenced, the Justice Department rescinded the forced purchase of the land, as you also know, so I was free to open the mine.”

  “I understand that, but if you can’t sell the diamonds, then what—”

  “No, no. I’m selling them. They’re going like hot cakes. And they’re making a fortune.”

  Carlton was puzzled. A quick glance confirmed that Erika shared the emotion. “You’ve lost us, Max. If diamonds aren’t worth anything anymore, how—”

  MacLean raised his cigar. “You are right to say that diamonds are no longer worth much. But that only applies to the smaller so-called common white diamonds; the engagement ring and bracelet diamonds Waterboer convinced society were necessary. But the larger stones and the fancy diamonds—the yellows, the blues, the pinks—those diamonds truly are rare. Their prices haven’t dropped. In fact, they’ve skyrocketed now that no one wants white diamonds anymore.

  “When Wenzel told me about the diamonds, we talked about the quantity and general quality of the diamonds, but Waterboer stopped the mine from moving forward before we could focus on the color of the diamonds. I had always assumed that the diamonds would be white, perhaps with a few fancies thrown in. But when we performed additional tests, we discovered something incredible.” He grinned, clearly enjoying the suspense. He walked to the credenza and carefully lifted a silver urn. “These are the diamonds that are buried under your feet.” He spilled the contents on the glass table.

  Carlton and Erika gasped. Spread before them was a mound of brilliant-cut canary yellow diamonds of inexplicable beauty.

  “Three hundred carats.” MacLean announced. “Not just stones, but gems. Cut here on the premises by a team of unemployed cutters I hired. The geologists expect a yield of five million carats within the next ten years.”

  “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life,” Erika whispered, leaning close to the table, pushing the little stones with her slender fingers. Each stone’s 58 facets refracted the sunlight in bright shards of light in a kaleidoscope of yellows. “They look like they’re winking.” Erika laughed, giddy with excitement.

  “After costs are recovered, my share of the profits will go first to fund a small hospital, a school, a sports facility, and a park for the people of Macon Grove. Then to establish national scholarships in legal ethics in Dan Wenzel’s name and in geology in Theodore Osage’s name. The rest will go to a fund for infrastructure and health care projects in Africa, under the direction of Bishop Azimbe, who you met in Rome, Pat. And one other thing.” MacLean stood and removed a keychain from his pocket. “I may have helped you, Pat, but you also helped me. You avenged my friend and my honor by arresting Scott Fress and destroying Waterboer. I will always be grateful. Please accept this as a small token of my appreciation.” He handed the keys to Carlton.

  Carlton looked at the keys, then back up at MacLean, once again puzzled. “What are they for?”

  “For the fully restored white 1958 Cadillac Biarritz convertible parked behind your apartment in Virginia.”

  Carlton stared at the keys, wide-eyed. “Max, I can’t—”

  “I insist.”

  He remained silent for a moment, staring at the keys to his restored Shark. “Thank you, Max. So you won’t refuse what Erika has for you.”

  Now it was MacLean’s turn to be intrigued as Erika pulled a small black velvet bag from her purse and handed it to him. “We found it in the Russian icebreaker before Russkost took over. It’s the only remaining diamond of the Russian stockpile.”

  “Mazal u’ bracha,” said Carlton.

  MacLean let the content of the bag fall into his hand. His jaw fell open in wonderment as the sunlight illuminated a brilliant-cut blue diamond the size of a golf ball.

  “Thanks for getting us there safely, Max,” said Erika.

  As they each admired the beauty around them, Carlton leaned back into his chair and looked at Erika and MacLean through the wisps of blue smoke from his cigar. “You know, after all is said and done, maybe Waterboer was right after all.”

  “How is that?” MacLean asked.

  “Diamonds are beauty.”

  THE END

  Now available in Nicolas Kublicki's Patrick Carlton Adventure series:

  THE TESLA FORMULA

  Turn page to read an excerpt of ‘The TESLA FORMULA’

  When genius inventor Nikola Tesla died in the midst of World War II, the FBI combed through his secret research – and discovered an invention so extraordinary that the agent could only reveal it to President Franklin Roosevelt in person. He didn't make it. The government never found what he discovered – but a Hollywood star murdered by the Nazis left a clue.

  When a cabal of rogue Saudi princes conspires with a global energy giant, power-hungry EU officials, and a corrupt Washington law firm to devastate the United States' economy, it is up to Justice Department prosecutor Patrick Carlton to track down Tesla’s lost formula before it is too late. But others want it first.

  F
rom the haunts of old Hollywood to the deserts of Saudi Arabia, through the wilds of Alaska to European capitals, Carlton will need the help of a beautiful Hollywood tour guide, a competitive FBI agent, a billionaire reformed mafia don, a scientist from a deep-black government agency, and a Polish secret agent to save the global economy from ruin and bring the plotters to justice.

  But first, Carlton must stay alive.

  ________________

  “Electrifying intrigue cannot begin to describe the international treachery of Kublicki's villainous cast of spies, murderers, crooked pols and depraved Saudi princes set upon destroying the free world's economy. Only the secret of Nikola Tesla's lost formula can save us. The theme is as up to date as tomorrow's headlines. No author paints his characters with greater élan or more scholarly and loving authenticity.”

  Margaret Cheney

  Author of "Tesla, Man Out of Time"

  Co-author of "Tesla: Master of Lightning"

  Turn page to read the first two chapters of THE TESLA FORMULA

  INTRODUCTION

  On the night of January 7, 1943, the visionary Serbian-American inventor Nikola Tesla quietly passed away in room 3327 of the Hotel New Yorker as snow fell on the city below. The holder of 272 patents in 25 countries, acclaimed for his invention of revolutionary electric marvels such as the alternating current (AC) now used worldwide, Tesla had become increasingly eccentric, devoting his last years to researching wild theories that the scientific establishment derided. Once hailed as the patron saint of modern electricity, he died ridiculed, penniless, nearly forgotten.

  Upon entering Tesla’s hotel room the following morning, his nephew Sava Kosanovic noticed that some of the inventor’s documents were missing, including a black notebook marked 'Government'. Kosanovic was shocked to find a door open to a secret room packed with scientific papers in disarray. He immediately contacted the Federal Bureau of Investigation.