Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  No sign of the boy.

  He hurried to the entrance of the building, dodging a spray of water and a bright yellow tractor carrying construction debris in its raised front bin. One by one, he searched possible hiding places: behind a short brick wall, inside deep trenches, amid piles of broken tiles.

  The child was nowhere to be found.

  Carlton stopped next to a stack of old bricks, wiped sweat and dust from his forehead. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the boy had not come here at all.

  His gaze focused on a lumber pile in the entrance courtyard. A pair of eyes peeked out from behind it, below a bowl-cut mop of hair.

  “Spencer!” He shouted, running toward the boy. The playful child was not finished with the man in cowboy boots who wanted to play hide-and-go-seek. He giggled with delight, running around the woodpile. Carlton rushed after him. The kid was quick.

  He was only ten feet away when Spencer bolted away from the stacked wood beams. Instead of moving toward Carlton, he tore across the front of the library building, ducked under a loose portion of the fence, squirmed inside.

  Carlton stared in horror at a sign hanging above.

  Danger – Demolition.

  Carlton halted at the fence, rattled it hard. “Spencer, stop!”

  The boy stopped and turned, grinned, waved, then darted into a portion of the building pockmarked with advanced signs of approaching demolition. Plaster was torn from the wall in several areas, exposing tired red brick and crumbling gray mortar.

  The bottom part of the fence was too narrow for Carlton’s bulky six-foot frame. He searched for an alternative entrance and abruptly stopped at the sound of a bone-jarring crash.

  He swiveled.

  Amid a haze of dust, a black iron wrecking ball the size of a truck tire dangled from a crane at the end of a thick steel cable. The monstrous orb swung back from a gaping hole that seconds before had been a brick wall. Debris tumbled into the building not more than ten feet from where Spencer had entered, sending a cloud of dust into the air. With a portion of its support destroyed, the roof began to sag, accompanied by ominous creaks.

  No time to find an entrance through the fence. Carlton grabbed the upper part of its chain links, kicked himself off the ground, used the tips of his boots to climb to the top. He twisted his body, jumped off, fell to the ground on the other side just as the wrecking ball slammed into the library anew, transforming yet another section of the wall into rubble and dust, a mere five feet from where Spencer had entered. Wood beams detached from the weakened roof and crashed to the ground.

  Carlton jumped up and down, gesticulating wildly to capture the attention of the ball operator. He was about to run to the person at the controls, but stopped. The operator was perched one hundred feet above the ground behind protective metal mesh. To make matters worse, he wore goggles and sound-suppressing earmuffs. Carlton would never be able to reach him in time. Two or three more blows and the roof would cave in on top of the boy.

  Carlton positioned himself in the crane operator’s line of sight and continued jumping, shouting, waving his arms. The operator did not notice him, directing his attention to the wrecking ball swinging away from the building, making sure it did not hit anything as it increased its destructive momentum. When it had completed its backward arc, the crane arm reversed course. The wrecking ball followed with startling speed, directly at the wall – and Carlton. He dove to the ground an instant before the massive sphere plowed through another section of the wall.

  He coughed, spat out a glob of dirt. For a second, he thought that the crane operator had seen him. He realized that he was mistaken as soon as he saw the crane arm accelerating backward. This was not working. He had to change tactics.

  He studied the area in front of the building. A large yellow tractor was parked near the fence a dozen feet away.

  The idea was crazy, but he was desperate. If he did not stop the demolition immediately, tons of debris would rain down, crushing the child. Crazy was all he had. Crazy would have to do.

  He ran to the tractor, hoisted himself up its mud-caked side, scrambled into the driver’s seat. Thank God I was raised on a farm, he thought, locating the ignition key. He twisted it, pressed the firestarter. As the monster engine roared to life amid a belch of oily black smoke, he started shoving gears in hopes of finding the right one. The tractor lurched backwards. Carlton hit other levers, finally causing the five-ton beast to roll forward on its giant wheels. He waited until the wrecking ball swung back from its latest devastating impact, then lurched the tractor toward its next target. Carlton stopped a few seconds later, leaped off, sprang back up, ran inside the building. He stood inside the nearest doorframe, gripping both sides to protect himself in case the roof gave way.

  He had barely stopped moving when the wrecking ball slammed into the tractor with an agonizing screech of twisting metal. Carlton saw the tractor rise up on its side tires, then fall to the ground in a cloud of dust. A klaxon blared.

  He felt a momentary sense of relief. Someone had triggered the alarm.

  Agitated construction workers swarmed around the tractor’s mangled remains, speaking with animated gestures. A barrel-chested man wearing a hard hat and a look of authority spotted Carlton running toward him, glared.

  “Are you the idiot who-“

  Carlton shot his hand out. “A little kid ran in here,” he shouted back. “I couldn’t reach the crane operator in time.”

  The man’s anger shifted to panic. “I’ll get help,” he replied, dashing off.

  Carlton could not wait for help to arrive. The repeated blows of the wrecking ball had severely weakened the old roof. It sagged and groaned. Wood planks fell to the floor with increasing frequency, accompanied by a steady rain of roof tiles and dust. Only moments remained before the roof collapsed.

  Carlton raced inside.

  A few minutes later, he burst out of the building cradling Spencer in his arms, dashing to safety. He was barely ten feet out of the creaking structure when he tripped and fell to the ground, losing his hold on Spencer. Quickly checking that the boy was all right, he scrambled to his feet when he heard the din of splintering wood and crumbling brick behind him. He crouched and shielded Spencer as wood beams, tiles, plaster, and bricks crashed down, sending a cloud of dust rushing out through the demolished front wall directly toward them. Choking dust and debris engulfed the pair.

  Then there was silence. Coughing, blinking, and shaking off a crust of dust, Carlton muttered a prayer of thanks, looked at Spencer. The boy wailed uncontrollably, but appeared unharmed. Both looked as though they had been dipped in milk chocolate.

  Arms plucked the boy from him. Carlton peered up to see Spencer's mother squeezing her son tight. Tears of joy streamed down her face. His sobs subsided.

  "I don't know how I can ever thank you.”

  “You just did,” he replied, standing. He grinned while ruffling Spencer’s brown hair, dirt falling away from both in sheets.

  “I think you just made a new best friend,” she replied, watching her son finally smile. "How did you know he would be here?”

  Carlton shrugged. “This is where I would have gone at his age. Construction sites and monster trucks are magnets for four year old boys.”

  Carlton noticed Spencer clutching a folded piece of paper in his tiny balled fist.

  “What do you have there, big guy?” He asked, peering at the paper.

  Thinking that Carlton was playing a game, Spencer giggled and yanked his hand away.

  “Spencer, give it to the nice man,” his mother instructed. She turned to Carlton, rolling her eyes. “He’s always picking things up.”

  The boy complied, offered the find to his newest friend.

  “Thanks, buddy,” replied Carlton, taking the paper. Like them, it was caked with dust. He shook and blew it off, unfolded the page. It was a faded premiere program for a movie entitled Infamous, printed on heavy paper stock measuring about five by six inches. Yellowed and brittle with age, it pr
oudly displayed a black and white frame of the dapper Montgomery Grant in the lead role, with its title scrolled above. Below the photo and movie credits read:

  Carlton peered closer. A handwritten address was scrawled diagonally in the top left corner, barely legible in faded ink. He squinted. It looked like ‘2232 Watt Heights Road’, followed by the letters ‘BR’. He reluctantly handed the paper to Spencer’s mother.

  She shook her head. “You keep it,” she replied. “As a memento. I insist.”

  Spencer did not object.

  Carlton grinned, tickled the boy. “Thanks.”

  He was still staring at the piece of Hollywood memorabilia when a reporter and cameraman materialized.

  “Tina Delgado, LA News,” she announced, shoving a microphone in his face, firing a barrage of questions. “Are you the one who rescued the boy? Is this him? Is this his mother? What's your name? How did it happen? What do you have in your hand?”

  A modest man, Carlton was about to utter ‘no comment’ and walk away when Spencer’s mother foreclosed the possibility.

  “This man is a hero,” she announced, pointing to Carlton.

  He was about to disagree, but realized that giving him credit would help the woman forgive her momentary inattention to her son. He relented, dutifully answering the reporter’s questions, showing her the old movie premiere program, noticing with a supressed grin that Spencer was enjoying the interview far more than he as the boy reached out and grabbed the reporter’s microphone.

  Carlton was searching for a way to disentangle himself from the reporter’s clutches when he spotted the tour guide. Before the reporter could ask yet another question, he raised his hand.

  “Please excuse me. I have something to attend to.” He turned and walked to the tour guide in brisk strides, more dust falling away from him with each step.

  "That was amazing. Just like in the movies, except they use stunt men. That took a lot of guts,” she announced, removing her cap, releasing a cascade of blonde hair styled in a peek-a-boo cut reminiscent of Veronica Lake. Long wavy strands partly hid her left eye.

  Carlton shrugged. "I just guessed where Spencer was.”

  She leaned forward, incredulous. “You ran into a crumbling building.”

  “Actually, I ran out of a crumbling building, which is a lot easier,” he precised, smiling. “Anyone else would have done the same.”

  The look on her face made it clear that she did not agree.

  He extended his hand. “Patrick Carlton.”

  “Alexis Hamilton.” She grimaced at his strong grip.

  “I think you would be interested in this, Ms. Hamilton. Spencer found it inside the library. It’s a movie premiere program for Infamous with Montgomery Grant.” He carefully wiped the faded paper on his dust-caked jeans, handed it to her.

  Alexis’s eyes opened wide. She took the yellowed paper from him, handling it with reverence, as though it was a museum piece.

  Carlton studied her while she read with rapt interest. Her pale angular face, straight pointed nose, and large mahogany eyes would have given her a cold, patrician air if not for her full red lips, which seemed to smile even when at rest. Though her tour guide uniform was far from flattering, it failed to mask the graceful bearing of her five foot five frame, slim but not starved.

  She looked up at him, astonished. "Did you know that this was the building where Grant was murdered?”

  It was Carlton’s turn to be stunned. He only knew that Grant had died at an early age. "Murdered?”

  “His body was found in the library in 1942. Infamous was his last movie. He disappeared from the movie premiere and was found dead in this building the next morning.” She brought the paper program closer, squinting. "Looks like someone wrote in the corner.”

  “An address, I think,” replied Carlton. “Since Grant’s body was found here, do you think that maybe this was his program?”

  “Probably. It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

  Carlton gazed at the writing on the program. “If it was his movie program, chances are that he made the notation.” He looked back up at Alexis. “Who killed him?”

  “The Nazis,” she replied, reluctantly handing the program back.

  Carlton noticed the reporter making a beeline toward them, waving her microphone. “I've had enough of the press for today. Give them an inch, they want the whole nine yards. Thanks for the tour.” He smiled. “Except for the last part, I really enjoyed it.”

  Without giving the reporter an opening, Carlton walked across the street to a prewar luxury condominium building, jumped into the blue cab waiting out front.

  Heck of a way to start a vacation.

  In truth, a vacation was the last thing Carlton desired. What the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) prosecutor really wanted was to lock terrorists plotting against America in metal cages.

  Ironically, that was why he was on vacation to begin with, he reflected, rubbing his temples.

  Deputy Assistant Attorney General Frederic Edison had sought an experienced DOJ hand to help organize his newly-created anti-terror National Security Division. Touching forty, Carlton had a distinguished history of prosecution victories below his belt – many originally deemed unwinnable by the DOJ aristocracy. Distinguished enough to keep him swimming in litigation partnership profits at any number of white shoe law firms. Yet Carlton had left the world of mega law firms behind years ago, never looking back. Money was not his quest. Edison knew it, luring him by promising a hefty anti-terror caseload once the new DOJ division got off the ground.

  With his memories of Iraq painfully fresh, Carlton had not thought twice about leaving behind his hard-earned position in DOJ’s Antitrust Division, with its more impressive title, higher pay, and larger office with a better view. Yet a year after joining Edison’s division, Carlton was still buried waist-deep in administrative work, rarely seeing the inside of a courtroom. His meager cases were dog bites compared to the lion attacks that Edison assigned to the legal stars Carlton himself had recruited to staff the man’s National Security Division.

  He began to consider moving to another DOJ division when the FBI arrested Abu Hassan, the Saudi-born leader of 100 radicalized Americans and Europeans hours before they could launch an attack against the painfully obsolete U.S. electric grid and plunge the nation into darkness, chaos, and ruin. It was clear that Hassan had a handler, but he refused to divulge his identity. Extracting it through harsh interrogation was no longer a legal option – or a practical one after a major New York newspaper had refused to keep the critical FBI investigation confidential, giving it – and Abu Hassan - instant worldwide attention. Edison assigned Hassan’s prosecution to Carlton, finally giving him his first meaningful anti-terror case. Carlton could not wait to tear into it – and the terrorist.

  That was before FBI Counterterrorism Special Agent in Charge Faraday, in charge of the Hassan investigation, somehow convinced Edison to reassign the case to the U.S. Attorney in Houston. Carlton had no idea how the agent had pulled it off, but he knew why. Faraday bore a deep grudge against Carlton over a past incident. Unwilling to admit succumbing to Faraday’s pressure, Edison cited jurisdiction as the reason for reassigning the case. Valuing loyalty and honesty above all else, Carlton received Edison’s weasel lie as a personal insult – and a punch in the gut. He confronted his boss, receiving only a question in reply. It still rang in his ears.

  Are you so gung-ho about putting Hassan behind bars because he is a threat to the United States or so you can expiate your guilt over what happened in Iraq?

  It was the wrong question.

  Carlton’s anger exploded. The ensuing shouting match swiftly earned him the choice between suspension for insubordination or a forced vacation. Faced with a career-ending blot on his exemplary DOJ record and hoping to survive another day at DOJ to prosecute terrorists, Carlton had little choice.

  He took a deep breath in the rear of the cab, unclenched his fists. He forced his anger aside, gazing
at the ornate French Normandy and Spanish Colonial Revival prewar buildings lining Crescent Heights Boulevard, focusing instead on what had just transpired.

  He soon found himself wondering why the Nazis had murdered Montgomery Grant.

  This work is entirely a work of fiction. The characters, corporations, businesses, organizations, entities, names, events, places, and incidents in it are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Diamonds are not as rare as the cartel deceives well-meaning consumers into believing. Global deposits are enormous. New diamond mines are coming on line every few months. In a free market for diamonds, diamonds would not be expensive. If you don’t believe this, try selling your diamond to a jeweler. You’ll be surprised at how few dollars you’re offered. The cartel hoards and stockpiles diamonds to prevent such a free market.

  Far more disturbing is the crisis brought to light in recent years by groups such as Global Witness: international terrorism and bloody civil wars, mostly in diamond-rich Africa, are fueled and funded by diamonds. Diamonds are used as untraceable and easily hidden currency to fund terrorism outside regular banking conduits. Impoverished, terrified, and enslaved men, women, and children are forced at gunpoint to dig through filth, disease, and live land mines to obtain diamonds for rebel groups of all political stripes. These stones are called “conflict diamonds” or “blood diamonds”. Incensed, well-meaning legislatures the world over, including the United States Congress, are attempting to restrict the import and sale of diamonds not labeled as “conflict-free”. Labeled by whom, one wonders. The cartel has stated its support of such labeling. Not a difficult decision to make, since banning the sale of conflict diamonds ensures that diamonds not under the cartel’s control cannot be sold, thus reinforcing the cartel’s monopoly. Sadly, these lawmaking bodies completely miss the point. The culprit is not the sale of illegal unlabeled diamonds, but the cartel’s monopoly. As long as the cartel singlehandedly keeps diamond prices artificially high by regulating diamond supply and demand, terrorists will continue to enjoy an untraceable flow of funds, and our fellow brothers and sisters in Africa will continue to lose limbs and lives to obtain the shiny stones. How long will civilized men and women allow this to continue by buying pressed-coal engagement rings when so many other beautiful, monopoly-free gemstones exist? Everlasting love cannot be symbolized by a diamond for which an orphan child has lost a limb. The solution is only as far as our pocketbooks. I gave my wife a sapphire engagement ring and she still said ‘yes’.