'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  When he stepped out of the elevator, his face froze like a poker player. A narrow hallway. One door. Steel. The diamond merchants valued their privacy. The door sported a plate-sized glass diamond plaque. The door cracked open, triggered by the soft buzz of an electronic signal. Inside, the reception area looked like the VIP client lounge in a private Swiss bank. Maran had visited one on Army business once in Zurich. It was the receptionist, however, that tipped him back on his heels. She was a Sabra, a native-born Israeli Jew. Tall, buff, and fawny. She was an ingénue. One of those nice neighborhood girls struggling to balance the tone between tasteful sex appeal and vampishness who were often standard fixtures in reception rooms catering to big money. She looked up. He stood in front of her. He tried not to gawk, to contain his interest. It was fleeting.

  “Mr. Maran?”

  “That’s right. Early. Is there a private area? Sorry to trouble you; I have a call to make.”

  She led him down the hall in the highest heels he had ever seen. Her body moved like silken mist.

  “You can use this room,” she said. The voice, like butter in warm maple syrup, soothed. She smiled. Maran watched as she walked away.

  Grow up Maran, he chided himself.

  “MACK MARAN, MY OLD friend!” Mini Eitan greeted him. When Maran entered the office, Mini got up from a chair in front of Levine’s desk. He wore jeans with a white sport shirt. A riot of coarse white chest hair tumbled from his open collar. Though he was still fit, built like a boulder, shoulders round from top to bottom, his short, black hair was sprinkled with gray. Maran put him in his late sixties.

  “Mack, Jacques Levine.”

  Levine, executive director of the board, sat behind a glass desk etched with the enormous outline of a diamond. He wore a gray herringbone suit with a hint of pink speckle. A large, bright chartreuse bow tie accentuated the muted specks. Maran wondered how this man could be an orthodox Jew. He described the problem. Large, D-perfect diamonds were flooding the U.S. market. Worse, they were selling at enormous discounts.

  “Mini says you’re the best there is. That’s good enough for me. You’re hired,” Levine smiled.

  “Let’s cut right to the chase.”

  Something between apprehension and relief flooded through Maran’s body.

  “You think it’s a gang of diamond smugglers?” Maran asked.

  “Worse. It’s got to be part of a professionally-led, international terrorist attack. It could crush the diamond and precious metals markets. Who knows where it could go from there?”

  “Why? How?” Maran asked.

  “We know Middle East militants use African blood diamonds to buy bombs and guns,” Levine explained. “Is there a connection here? We don’t know.”

  Maran leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “I assume you have not shared this with the FBI?”

  “If Congress gets wind of it, it’ll be page-one news. Panic. Just what we don’t want.”

  “So. You want me to unravel this. Quietly.”

  “It’ll be dangerous. That’s why we need you.” It was apparent that Mini was satisfied that Maran would provide the perfectly symbiotic fit. Maran stood, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a cardholder. He handed Levine a business card.

  BANG! INC.

  BUSINESS ANALYSIS NETWORK GROUP

  Corporate Investigations:

  Competitive Intelligence to Due Diligence.

  Discrete results guaranteed.

  Call 800-226-4462 (800-BANG-INC)

  “BANG! competitive business intelligence? Good cover,” Levine said. “You’ll need it. The moment whoever’s behind this realizes they’re being tracked, they’ll be looking for you. You’ll be way out there. Alone. We’ll need plausible deniability. You’re familiar with the term, I believe. We can help but only in the deep background‌—‌as a source of information.” Maran had been deployed many times under that rubric. It meant that if a U.S. covert agent was arrested for breaking the criminal laws of any country during a mission, the White House would deny any knowledge of it. The agent would face possible execution‌—‌with no recourse or help.

  “This should help,” Levine said, passing him a thick manila packet. It contained the essential tool of any black op. But instead of a wad of cash, a handful of cut diamonds spilled into Maran’s lap.

  “We’ll also provide you with credentials, Amex Travelers Checks, and Platinum credit cards under any two legendary I.D.s you want to use. Those should cover any of the most imaginable situations you are likely to encounter. We’ll agree to balance limits when we decide how much you’ll need to get the job done.” It was clear the Board had decided in advance to go to any lengths to stop the diamond scammers.

  “We have to get whoever’s behind this. Now.”

  “Then what?”

  The answer hung. Unspoken.

  SEVENTEEN

  New York City

  Like a flash flood, the spell came over Maran in waves that rolled in from a distant place. Pinpoints of sweat pricked his skin. He knew his emotional balance was fragile. He dreaded what might come next.

  The Animal! Here.

  Maran could almost reach out and choke the pig. Maran’s body quaked. Pain seared his skull. Sweat beaded his face.

  The vision evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

  “You look like you’ve just been spooked. Are you all right?” Levine asked. “Naomi, please get a cold drink for Mr. Maran.”

  Maran steadied his hand. He lifted the crystal tumbler to his lips. The cool spring water helped him concentrate. Levine insisted he sit down.

  “It’s nothing,” Maran assured him as he sat. “Just a little vertigo; I probably climbed the steps too fast.”

  “Sure,” Levine agreed. “Happens to me.”

  They exchanged small talk. Maran’s encrypted cell phone hummed a signal. He excused himself.

  The Bird answered.

  “What do we know?” Maran asked.

  “I’ll let you talk to the degenerate,” The Bird snickered.

  “Some new materials technology has given KoeffieBloehm a new way to brand their stones with a microscopic serial number,” Sergei said in his Russian accent.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Blood diamonds. Terrorists are laundering cash with them. KoeffieBloehm is distancing itself so they won’t be tainted when this comes to light.”

  “Anything else?” Maran asked.

  “Diamond has military apps.”

  “Right. We can forget that.”

  “We can’t forget anything, yet.”

  “OK. What military applications?”

  “Have you forgotten Mount Haleakala?”

  “Maui?”

  “Right. For years now, the Air Force has been secretly targeting hostile reconnaissance satellites, blinding them with directed high energy laser bursts.”

  “OK, so?”

  “The weapon beam is directed by a concave dish coated with micro- scopic diamond film.”

  MARAN HAD ALREADY LEFT when Jacques Levine’s phone rang.

  “Jackie,” Abe Cone opened. “Y-y-you, ahh, you-you g-get anyw-w-where yet?” Cone stuttered.

  Levine sympathized, but Cone’s impediment was a distraction. He still bore emotional scars from his days as a survivor at Theresienstadt, a Nazi concentration camp not far from Prague. Pushing 90, he had been unable to speak until he finally mustered enough composure to stutter out what he wanted to say.

  “We just hired a man,” the director said.

  “F-f-fast w-w-work. I-I-I’m impressed,” he responded.

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  “When d-d-d-does…” Cone couldn’t get the words out.

  “Take your time.”

  “OK. When d-d-d-doe he s-s-s-start? W-w-what’s th-the game plan?”

  “He’s already started.”

  Levine wondered if Cone’s condition was deteriorating.

  Levine hesitated. But Cone was a trusted member of
the Board. He filled him in.

  THE NEXT DAY, MARAN was back in Jacques Levine’s office. Light streamed across the room, filtered by a potted palm in a window overlooking 47th Street. They sat at a low-slung table of inlaid African Gaboon ebony and elephant tusk ivory. Today, Maran noted, export of such a table from Africa would be banned under international treaties.

  On Levine’s desk sat a high-precision diamond scale made a hundred years ago by the Sartorious Gem Scale Company. Levine looked grave. “The price of diamonds is getting weaker. We fear it’s going to get worse. Much worse. More and more of these stones are showing up. The market can’t take much more. KoeffieBloehm is already alarmed. They’re renegotiating their loans with the London and New York banks. Treasury is working with them, gearing up for a full court press investigation. But they want to keep it concealed. If it continues, that will be impossible. This recession will turn into a depression. It will make the thirties look like a scrimmage.”

  “Confirms our worst fears.”

  “No doubt about it. We want you to pay a visit to Abner Dolitz. He is the head of one of our biggest member firms. Something funny is going on there. To track the growth of the industry, we audit each of our members every year. Dolitz is dumping beautiful stones at bargain prices and it doesn’t make sense. You can check their paperwork to determine where these diamonds originate.”

  “Won’t he ask for credentials?”

  The diamond maven got up. He took a piece of plastic from his desk. He placed it in front of Maran. The card verified Mack Maran as an auditor for the New York Club.

  “You have an appointment with his firm’s Financial Controller. In the meantime, you can meet with one of our top cutters. He has new information.” Levine had turned to Schulim Mostakovictz to examine several suspect diamonds that had surfaced.

  Levine called ahead. He was told that Mostakovictz was praying at the Beit Midrash, a small synagogue at the back of the Diamond Dealers Club, set up and blessed by a Hasidic rebbe. Schulim had left a message that he would be another fifteen minutes. He would meet with Maran and Levine in the trading room.

  “He’s a very religious, very independent man,” Levine told Maran as they walked down the hall to the club’s bourse. It was flanked by cutting rooms.

  Levine showed his badge at a bulletproof window staffed by two armed guards. They entered through a thick glass door. Inside, the hall bustled with Orthodox and Hasidic Jewish men wearing untrimmed beards and payot, long, curled side-locks that bounced like springs when they turned their heads. Knee-length black overcoats over black suits with black beaver caftan hats. Prayer strings dangled from the sides of their black slacks, completing their unofficial uniforms. Deals here were made without contracts, just a simple, traditional blessing, mazel und brucha, and a handshake. Word was law. It was an honor system cast in a tradition as hard as the diamonds it protected.

  Maran had never been in a diamond bourse before. He noticed that many of the men spoke Yiddish. Upstairs, Levine ushered Maran through a turnstile. Several rows of simple folding conference tables filled the large room. The traders sat across from one another negotiating prices. At one of the tables, Maran overheard a seller speaking in a hoarse whisper.

  A paper packet lay opened on the table in front of them under a small pyramid of gems. “All right, all right. The whole lot, fifty carats and twenty-five points.”

  “Gut,” the buyer responded in guttural Yiddish. “Und ve credit you ze ten carats ve owed from our last transaction und fector een ze two percent. That eez…”, the man said, “…three-hundred-ninety-four-thousand-four-hundred-fifty dollars.” Maran noticed he didn’t use a calculator.

  The buyer’s hand flashed in and out of his inside jacket pocket. He extracted a wallet thick as a phone directory. It was secured by a chrome steel chain to a heavy leather belt around his waist, hidden from view. His hands reached across, enveloping the paper packet of diamonds. He smoothed the pyramid, scooped the gems back into the envelope, and crimped the edges closed with the diamonds inside. In a flick of his hand, it went into the buyer’s billfold and back with it to the inside pocket. As the buyer’s hands parted his coat lapels, Maran spotted a heavy automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. No cash was exchanged.

  The two men smiled, got up, shook hands, and left.

  MOSTAKOVICTZ, IN HIS SHIRTSLEEVES and looking solemn, came into the bourse and joined Maran and Levine. The men exchanged pleasantries.

  “Schulim has some discoveries to pass on to you, about ‘our problem.’” Levine said.

  “Yes. Mr. Maran. The diamonds I have examined so far were all cut the same; they come from the same firm’s cutting rooms,” Mostakovictz said.

  “Go on.”

  “Let me explain. The beauty of a gem is dependent on its brilliance, its gentility, the way it reflects light. The standard round ‘brilliant’ cut breaks the stone into several main sections.”

  “I know only that the facets are the polished faces on the surface; the crown is above the girdle and the girdle is the cut band around the stone,” Maran confessed.

  “That’s right. But these questionable stones have two unusual aspects that regular diamonds do not possess. First, they are all perfect‌—‌in spite of their incredibly low price. Unheard of! Second, the cut of these stones is highly stylized, even experimental. Whoever designed this unique cut is a man of uncommon skill. He has set a new standard.”

  “Amazing.”

  “He is also a monumental crook,” Mostakovictz added.

  “Did he fall on hard times?”

  “I’ll get to that, Mr. Maran.”

  “Sorry. Please continue.”

  “When a stone is manufactured, half the weight is lost‌—‌”

  “‘Manufactured?’” Maran interrupted.

  “…Conversion from rough to a finished gem.” Mostakovictz explained. He paused.

  “Continue.”

  “A two-carat rough crystal should yield a finished, cut stone of one carat. A cut stone is priced at nine times the cost of the rough and a rough crystal as perfect as these, would sell for many thousands of dollars a carat. Once cut, a one carat stone could be sold at a multiple of nine by a wholesaler like Dolitz. We suspect Dolitz is selling these stones wholesale for one-hundred dollars a carat. Something is terribly wrong.”

  Maran agreed.

  “But how? Why? Where are they coming from?”

  “That is for you to find out,” Levine said turning to Maran.

  “What else can you tell me?” Maran asked.

  “The ‘brilliant’ cut has always been considered to be the one to provide the most vivid fire,” Schulim said. “But these stones are even brighter. Somehow the firm’s owner has found a way to increase the depth of the crown which allows him to make more cuts in the stone’s pavilion. It’s ingenious. But what’s very strange is he has sought no publicity for this cut. I wondered why he would want to keep such a brilliant new technique out of the limelight. Perhaps now we know why.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Last February, a friend showed me one of his stones at the International Diamond Trade Show in Shenzhen, China. It was the only time I’ve ever seen that cut. My friend said the cutter is very secretive. He comes from a long tradition of KoeffieBloehm Diamond viewers. His grandfather, founder of the firm, was one of the first of the cutters named by Sir Albert Stevens as a “viewer,” privileged dealer, at the turn of the century. By the mid-fifties, the family had become Antwerp’s largest dealer with more than five hundred cutters in various locations. Now the children have invested in other, newer, faster tech businesses and left the diamond cutting to the old man. It was tough for him when his sons turned their backs on everything he taught them as observant Jews. They took a shine to fast horses, wild women, and gambling. It took a lot of cash to keep the loan sharks off. Their debts piled up so high, he couldn’t handle them so he started cutting corners. Things got worse when he lost his ‘viewer’ status with KoeffieBloehm.
”

  “His name?”

  “Chaim Tolkachevsky. Owns the only firm in Antwerp capable of cutting such large volumes of stones.”

  Before Maran left New York City, Levine had supplied him with the two complete sets of credentials he’d asked for. One, matching the business calling card he had already had printed up, identified him as Rodney Davis, investigative journalist. The other had him as Walter Q.R. Jackson, investigator in competitive intelligence at Bang!

  EIGHTEEN

  Presqu’ile de Banana, Angola

  The Zebra Tours charter jet from Brussels descended through the moonlit night over the jungle. It set down with a bump on the surprisingly puddled airport tarmac. The heavy-set man looked out on the large field of oil tanks at the edge of the Lulondo River and in the near distance noted the graffiti that marked an old warehouse wall, confirmation that PFLEC had taken up arms again.

  His passport said he was Alex Pajak, but he never signed checks. He didn’t have to. All his business transactions were in the hardest of currencies‌—‌diamonds. In his mid-fifties, of average height, he was built like a block of cement with his clipped blond hair severely brushed back, short as a Rottweiler’s. He wore a chocolate tweed sportcoat over an olive shirt under a tan sweater and khakis. He could see Boyko waiting for him, leaning against an armored Humvee at the edge of the runway. Two security guards sat up front. Pajak took note of the Humvee’s U.S. Special Forces add-on goodies, especially the remotely operated weapon station. It let the gunner fire the MK-19 Grenade Machine Gun from inside the armor. He greeted Boyko and they climbed in together. They drove a half-hour past bombarded houses and buildings through two different checkpoints. The first was a concrete bathhouse where the road swung down through Little Ilha beach. A fully loaded gasoline truck, its motor rattling, barred the way.

  “That beach hasn’t seen a swimmer all summer,” Boyko remarked.

  Security in the DRC was a joke. A lone soldier sat inside the concrete guardhouse, a Russian AK-47 pointed out at them over the rim of the shed’s small window.

  “Internal fuckin’ security assholes,” Boyko muttered.