Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “There are also flashes of light all across its surface and very few dull spots,” I observed.

  “Yes, diamonds are full of surprises. That’s very good,” David remarked, and put the diamond back in its envelope.

  I felt as if I’d just been given a gold star.

  “Now take a look at this one,” he instructed, and placed a diamond that appeared to be six times as large in my palm.

  “Well, the color is slightly yellow and there seems to be a number of flaws,” I noted, holding it up to the light.

  “That’s right. Although it’s bigger, the stone is of inferior quality and not worth as much. I’ll make you an offer. Come in every day, study diamonds for the next six months, and I’ll make a dealer out of you,” David said with a smile.

  “It’s tempting,” I teased.

  He put on his coat, slipped a handful of manila envelopes into his pocket, and locked the wooden box in a safe.

  “You’re going to walk around like that?” I asked in surprise.

  David chuckled as he went to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his gun. “Most gem dealers carry at least a half million dollars of stones in their pocket while making rounds to cutters, setters, and retailers. Still want to come along?”

  “Absolutely,” I responded, wondering if he knew that I was an adrenaline junkie.

  The street was now bustling. It was filled not only with tourists and customers rushing between stores, but also Hasidic Jews in their broad, fur-trimmed hats, long black coats, and beards. It was as though I’d been transported to Eastern Europe as I caught snatches of conversation, all conducted in Yiddish.

  “The windows on the street are just for retail,” David related, as we passed by them. “The trade workers and manufacturers are all located on the upper floors.”

  I gazed around at the old multistory buildings on the block. None were spiffed up, but had a tired, depressed feeling about them. We entered one and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. Even the hallway felt musty and old. But that was nothing compared to what I found as we were buzzed through one of the office doors.

  Inside was a space that had been converted into a small, dark workroom, its every inch filled with wooden tables, benches, and equipment. Desktops were cluttered with pliers, screwdrivers, and tweezers, along with lamps, microscopes, stained coffee cups, and old cookie tins. Taped to the walls were cheesy girly calendars displaying beach babes dressed in nothing but thongs. Meanwhile the windows in the room were useless. Their panes were filthy and black, having become caked with decades of grime.

  I spied a husky man who looked like a miner wearing a visor. Its band, bedecked with magnifying glasses and a miniature swivel lamp, encircled his head. He sat in front of a tray of diamonds with a flame torch in one hand.

  “Ged, I need you to set these diamonds. You’ll do a good job for me, won’t you?” David asked, and handed him four of the small manila envelopes.

  “Of course,” Ged said in a thick Romanian accent, while giving me the once-over.

  Then the two men shook hands and, without another word, we left.

  “What? That’s it? No receipt?” I asked in astonishment. “Aren’t you going to get some kind of proof as to the number of diamonds that you left, along with their size and color?”

  But David shook his head as we walked out of that building and into another.

  “No need. Everything is based on a handshake in this business. The Diamond District operates on a strict honor code.”

  I’d always heard that the diamond trade was secretive and mysterious, but this seemed ridiculous. It was as if I’d stumbled into an arcane, medieval world. No wonder there was so much crime what with lax record-keeping, and piles of cash and loose gems lying about.

  We next entered an office where an old man sat hunched over a revolving wheel, his fingertips blackened and bandaged. The wheel’s hum filled the room with a continuous whir as he carefully polished a diamond.

  David tapped some gems out of an envelope and placed them in the old man’s hands. “Izzie, you’ll call me when they’re ready?”

  “Don’t I always?” he responded with a smile, and then nodded to me. “You hear that sound? Sometimes a stone will cry. But not this one. This diamond is singing to me sweetly.”

  From there we stopped at a place called Red Sun. David left a two-carat stone with a Chinese diamond cutter, along with exact instructions as to how it was to be cut.

  “Do you know everyone in the trade around here?” I asked as we left the room.

  “Just about. It’s a pretty close-knit community. One in which we live and die by our reputations,” he said, placing a hand on the small of my back and guiding me into the elevator. “All right. I know you have more questions about blood diamonds. So, go ahead. What are they?”

  I felt as though I’d just been given a free pass.

  “If blood diamonds are illegal, then how are they brought into the country?” I asked.

  “Diamonds are easy to smuggle. Do you know why?” he quizzed.

  “Because they’re small?” I ventured a guess.

  David slowly shook his head. “It’s something that few people realize. Diamonds can’t be detected by X-ray, nor can they be uncovered by drug-sniffing dogs. And once they’re here, there’s no way to tell where they came from. That’s what’s so fascinating about the stones. Diamonds are conducive to secrets. They’re virtually untraceable, giving no clue as to where they originated.”

  We entered yet another building and approached an ominous-looking black door.

  “Okay, this next stop is a dealer who wants to buy some uncut diamonds from me. If he asks, you’re my assistant. That way you won’t make him nervous,” David instructed.

  We were buzzed inside, where a diminutive man with large glasses and small suspicious eyes immediately “pounced” on me.

  “Who is she?” he asked David, without so much as hello.

  “Saul, this is my cousin Rachel. I’m teaching her the business. Not to worry,” David assured him, and pulling out a pouch, tapped five uncut stones on to the counter.

  Saul quickly went to work, placing a small digital scale, a sheet of white paper, and a clear glass plate next to the stones. Then, using a tweezers, he picked up one diamond at a time, placed it on the plate and held it over a bright light. He carefully studied each gem with his loupe.

  “Their clarity is very good,” Saul finally pronounced.

  But the transaction wasn’t yet over. The diamonds were next transferred to the digital scale and scrupulously weighed, after which Saul’s fingers pecked at numbers on a calculator.

  He handed it to David, who checked the total and then tapped in his own set of figures. I listened to the staccato rattle of calculator keys flying back and forth between the two men until they finally reached an accord. That done, they shook hands and said mazel, the Hebrew word for “good luck.”

  Then we walked back outside having concluded today’s business.

  “Now tell me. Would you have known where those uncut diamonds came from?” David asked.

  I dodged to avoid colliding with a harried dealer, but to no avail. We silently bumped shoulders.

  “No way,” I replied.

  “Well, neither do I or my friends. The only one who knows is the original buyer,” he explained. “And people who launder dirty money usually don’t care if rebels mutilate and torture civilians to force them to work in their mines. By the time a diamond arrives at Tiffany’s, its origin has already been changed or concealed. Just remember, nothing is what it seems to be in the diamond trade.”

  That apparently was true, including a diamond’s carefully cultivated image—that of romance and eternal love. Instead, the stones were stained with blood.

  “Do you think blood diamonds are being traded and sold in the Diamond District?” I questioned.

  David seemed to cringe. “Anything is possible. There are disreputable people in this business, just as in any other.
I’ve heard of jewelers that buy diamonds from shady characters. Most of the rumors involve drug dealers anxious to convert their cash profits into stones. No question that diamonds are more portable than gold.”

  I began to wonder if Tiffany Stewart might possibly be connected with a drug ring, though that wouldn’t seem to involve national security. Still, it was clear that behind the street’s facade was a nebulous world of murky financial transactions.

  “You have to realize it’s hard to hide cash assets, while diamonds can easily be moved around the world. Word is that Al Qaeda has made millions selling diamonds mined by Sierra Leone’s rebels. It would certainly be a smart way to sneak funds into this country. Their operatives could set up cells, buy weapons, and carry out terror operations without attracting any unnecessary attention,” he mused. “And it wouldn’t take much. Once the stones were smuggled in, all they’d need was a front man to sell the diamonds for them. Who would be the wiser?”

  A chill grabbed hold of me, though I said nothing. What David had just proposed made frightening sense. Then I remembered something else I’d heard. Al Qaeda operatives had been caught using stolen South African passports. I feared this was beginning to turn into a spider’s web of arms, diamonds, and ivory.

  I jumped as my cell phone rang, having become buried deep in thought.

  “Excuse me, but I have to get this,” I told David.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to quiet my heart.

  “Hello?” I answered.

  “This is Giancarlo. I’ve arranged a meeting today with my ivory contact. He expects you within the next few hours,” he said, sustaining both his pitch perfect accent and charade.

  “Hi Ralph,” I responded, just to irritate him. “Is it to take place at the ivory factory?”

  “Yes,” he replied, maintaining his cool. “It’s in Chinatown. Here’s the address.”

  I rummaged through my bag and grabbed hold of a rumpled receipt and pen to quickly write it down.

  “You’re to tell them your name and say that you’re there to pick up a blue ballgown,” he continued.

  “Pick up a ballgown at an ivory factory?” I asked. “Doesn’t that sound rather strange?”

  “Not at all. There’s a tailor shop in front that serves as their cover,” he explained. “The ivory factory is in the basement.”

  Just hearing his voice made my blood begin to boil. I felt sure Giancarlo had arranged for my beating. However, I had to keep a lid on my anger until I’d obtained all the necessary information.

  “Who should I ask to see?” I calmly inquired.

  “I wasn’t given a name. They’ll tell you when you get there,” Giamonte instructed.

  That was all I needed to know.

  “So listen, Ralph. That was quite the surprise you had waiting for me yesterday afternoon. If I were you, I’d keep your windows and door closed and locked, because you’re going to be sorry,” I advised.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” Giancarlo responded, sounding confused.

  “Oh come on. Don’t play dumb. I know damn well that you set me up. Those two thugs outside the Beaver’s Den? They said it was you that sent them,” I lied, hoping to use it as bait.

  “Thugs outside the Beaver’s Den? You’re losing your mind, Porter. Whatever happened, I had nothing to do with it,” he vehemently insisted. “Those aren’t the kind of people that I associate with. You should know that by now.”

  “You’d better hope I don’t get proof. In any case, try it again and you’re a dead man,” I warned.

  “How did I ever think that you were a socialite? You have absolutely no couth,” he retorted.

  “Uh-huh. Unlike the polish and gentility that you display in those DVDs of yours,” I reminded him.

  Giancarlo Giamonte, aka Ralph Goldberg, was silent for a moment.

  “Do you still want to go through with this meeting? Or don’t you trust me enough? I imagine that you think it’s a setup,” he finally said, getting straight to the point.

  Giamonte was right. I remained suspicious, but had no intention of backing out now.

  “I’ll take your word that you had nothing to do with the attack,” I said, knowing there was no way to be absolutely certain. “In the meantime, don’t mention this to anyone. I’ll be in touch,” I told him, and hung up.

  I turned to find David staring at me with a look that fluctuated between distress and horror.

  “Rachel, is everything all right?” he asked in a worried tone.

  “Sorry about that,” I responded, having momentarily forgotten about him. “I’m afraid I have to deal with some skeevey people in this business. That’s probably another thing that we shouldn’t tell your grandmother.”

  David gave an understanding nod, but I could tell that he’d never regard me the same way again. He headed back to work, and I took off for Chinatown.

  Midtown traffic was crazy by now, and I didn’t want to blow my life savings on a cab. With that in mind, I scampered down a set of stairs and into the bowels of New York.

  Sixteen

  The best thing about the subway system is that it’s still a bargain, compared to the rest of the city, and operates twenty-four hours a day. I didn’t have to wait long before a platinum eel of a train approached, its gleaming silver line cutting through the dark underground tunnel. I jumped on, and became one more pinball jostled about in a car full of people. In no time at all, I arrived in Chinatown.

  I emerged to join a crowd that snaked along tortuous, narrow streets. The sidewalks were filled with open-air fish markets, fruit stands, and sweet shops. My nose was amply rewarded with the delicious aroma of scallion pancakes, roast duck, and fried dumplings as I made my way through the swarm.

  If Yiddish is the official language of the Diamond District, then Chinatown also has its own vernacular. The only English to be heard came from Caucasians and tourists. Little did they know that behind the exotic-looking stores, Chinatown is still an area filled with gangs, protection rackets, drugs, and sweatshops.

  I left Tourist Central and headed down Oliver Street, eventually reaching the address that Giancarlo had given me. Just as he’d said, I spotted a sign that read BLACK STAR EXPERT TAILOR SHOP. I opened the door and entered a sparsely furnished room with clothing racks, a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and a sewing machine. A bell rang, briskly notifying the owner that a customer had arrived.

  The following moment, an elderly Chinese woman appeared from behind a heavy, dark curtain. She looked to be as frail as a delicate porcelain statue, and was as pale as a ghostly new moon.

  “Hello. My name is Cheri Taylor. I’m here to pick up a blue ballgown,” I told her, wondering if she knew what I was talking about.

  The woman’s face remained placid as she nodded once and disappeared.

  I waited, growing increasingly anxious, curious as to what was taking so long. My unease was partly due to a strange buzzing sound that I heard. It was as though a swarm of bees was hovering around me. The menacing noise reached deep inside and rattled my nerves. The old woman finally peeked from behind the curtain and motioned for me to follow.

  Had Giamonte decided to permanently dispose of his problem by selling me into white slavery? I wondered, slipping past the curtain to look down a steep flight of stairs.

  Suck it up, Porter. What are you, suddenly afraid of every little thing? Don’t you remember? He told you that the ivory factory was in a basement, I sternly reprimanded myself.

  I blamed it on the fact that my body was sore, my jaw ached, and the back of my neck continued to throb. Even so, my heart began to beat wildly as my foot hit the top step.

  The buzzing grew louder as a spectral cloud of dust began to rise and fill the air. The tiny white flakes invaded my eyes, nose, and mouth like gentle flurries of snow. The minute crystals tickled my lungs with each intake of breath as my stomach twisted and turned in anticipation of what I was about to discover. There was no doubt but that each step brought me closer to a unique
sort of hell. I continued my descent into the equivalent of an elephant graveyard.

  Little by little, I caught sight of a row of men in front of saws that whirred and lathes that turned. And everywhere there were containers filled with ivory pieces.

  Others worked by hand, plying their trade with chisels, awls, and files. They carved tusks that had been ripped from mothers, grandmothers, aunts, brothers, sisters, and babies. Fortunately, their deaths hadn’t been for naught. They now made lovely cigarette holders, chopsticks, and paperweights. Yet other elephants had been reduced to a large pile of newly carved Buddhas.

  There was even a special table dedicated solely to the making of hankos, or “chops,” personal finger-size signature seals used on financial contracts and other official Japanese documents. Their popularity and status had elevated them to must-haves.

  So this was why the elephants were being indiscriminately slaughtered: for knickknacks and curios in what amounted to a sickening display of man’s vanity. I thought of all the animals that had been mowed down. It almost made me ashamed to be human.

  But I had little time to dwell on such thoughts as someone began to approach. I found myself facing a Chinese gentleman who could have been anywhere from his mid-fifties to seventy-five years old. He was impeccably dressed in a tan tailor-made suit. The choice of color was wise. A shower of white clung like dandruff to everyone’s clothes.

  My contact moved with a sense of grace that was surprising, almost as if he floated on air. But there was an undercurrent of power in his walk, as well. My gaze was drawn to a face as smooth as an ivory billiard ball, and trackmarks left by a comb in a slick of dark hair.

  “Miss Taylor, welcome to my factory,” he said, displaying two shiny gold teeth, and shook my hand formally.

  I instantly knew that dealing with the man would be akin to sticking one’s arm in a tiger’s cage just to see what might happen. At the same time, he couldn’t have been any more courteous.

  “May I offer you some tea?” he politely inquired.

  “Thank you. That would be lovely,” I replied.