“Come in, Bull,” he greeted Luster with an open hand. “Glad you could make it. General Baltimore is waiting in the pool room.” Tall and erect, in his late sixties, wearing a custom-tailored navy suit, he looked like a man in charge. Silver-haired, he held himself with stature of a born patrician. He led Luster through a wide, arched door down a hallway lined with oil paintings and statuary on pedestals into the poolroom, an expansive space with a piano on one end and an ornate billiards table in the center. Following the pleasantries, the three men played nine-ball.
“This President does not have the support she deserves,” said Stassinopoulos.
He set up his next shot.
“She can rely on you,” Luster quipped. He knew “Stash” before he retired from the Marines and took over at Global Coast. He knew him, not as an operator like himself but as a business manager, an armchair general, who had come up through logistics and supply administration, a genius in finding pockets that could be conveniently filled with Congressional funding under the guise of war-fighting necessity. In his last Pentagon job, he ran Defense Acquisitions Readiness before getting his fourth star and subsequently being named to the civilian role that led to his takeover at Global Coast. His ties with the current administration didn’t hurt his status.
“Let me explain it to you, warrior. Angola is a strategic partner. As the elected president of Angola, Dr. Carlos Eduardo Bombe deserves our support,” Stassinopoulos said.
“Seated at the point of a gun. So corrupt you’d want latex surgical gloves just to read his bio,” Luster responded.
“Angola’s a struggling democracy. We have an embassy there. We give Bombe millions in security support for their democratic movement,” Baltimore added, grinning.
“You mean bowel movement? And you get the off-shore drilling rights with muscle from Long Bow,” Luster frowned, looking from Stassinopoulos to Baltimore.
“A subsidiary—and why not? GC’s board has more stars than the Milky Way,” Baltimore boasted, looking over at Stassinopoulos.
“And more brass than the Souza Band.” Luster nodded at the peaked cap, spread with the scrambled eggs insignia of a general officer. It was mounted on a console next to the blazing fireplace.
Major General Randy Baltimore grimaced with a grunt.
“The world needs Cabindan oil,” Stassinopoulos said. “When GC went in, they were still having problems with the terrorists.”
Luster smirked. “Enter Long Bow. The average American would be shocked if they knew the whole story: Years ago ‘Big Oil’ funded the Soviet puppet Angolan regime even while the CIA fought with rebel freedom fighters to overthrow it. Financial expedience beats common sense every time,” Luster said.
“We get nowhere without engagement,” Stassinopoulos answered.
“Meaningless words. You and your Loony Left buddies are great at it. Interconnection. Global economy, appeasement bullshit,” Luster ripped back.
“You’re going back to Chamberlain—WWII, Bull,” Stassinopoulos said. “Wake up.”
“Capitulation!” Luster snapped.
“America needs that oil. It fuels everything from health care to schools to jobs.”
“Yeah, right. And we’re seeing the payback now with home-grown terrorists going off to train with fanatic Islamist Muslim groups like al Shabaab, who have now crept into West Africa from Yemen and Somalia, Iran, Libya, Egypt: American teenaged kids from Minneapolis to Mississippi.”
It was that kind of thinking that stirred President Valentine to boot Luster over to a Pentagon desk job as National Coordinator of Security, Infrastructure Protection, and Counterterrorism. No budget.
He tasted the bile.
“Linkage! Oil, blood diamonds, money, money to finance terrorism and build nuclear weapons, spread lies and hatred against us. Some bargain,” Luster added.
“The world is interconnected,” said Stassinopoulos. “Big computerized trading programs, New York and Chicago, London, Tokyo, all around the world. Even precious metals, diamonds are linked. That’s what makes dialogue so critical.”
“Fuck! The new Chairman, Joint Chiefs. Tells troops he Twitters! Rails against ‘collateral damage.’ Is this the new face, the American warfighter?”
Luster fired. The cue rammed the one-ball, broke the rack. The three-ball dropped into the far corner pocket.
“Nice break, Ace,” said Stassinopoulos. He stepped to his wet bar, poured three two-finger shots of Laphroaig 31.
It was Baltimore’s shot next. He announced a push-out to bank the nine-ball into a side pocket. He missed.
“Story of my life,” he sighed.
“I don’t know. Seems like you’re doing all right,” Luster countered. Authorized by President Valentine, Baltimore had taken over Luster’s authority at SAWC.
“Still nursing old wounds, there, Bull? You haven’t done so badly yourself,” Baltimore pressed. He referred to the chits Luster had compiled by handing off his demobilizing commandos to Long Bow for lucrative security contracts protecting the oil rigs off the coast of Cabinda.
“War never hurt your career. You never pumped your budget selling surplus to DRAMS?” Tired of Luster’s sanctimonious posturing, Baltimore’s angry charge bristled with accusation.
“The American way,” Luster smiled with total composure.
Luster took the cue and sunk his shot.
“Nice shot,” Baltimore said. “I always appreciate a good shooter. Hey, whoever said ‘War is hell!’ was full of shit. War’s the ultimate high. Nothing to do but blow things up, get laid, and kill people. How can you beat that?” He laughed at his joke.
Stash held himself in check. “You have an uncommon way with words, Randy.”
“Speaking of blowing things up, what do we hear about Maran?” Luster asked.
“He’s our most highly-trained killer, honed in every method known, not only to snuff out life but to organize, train, and mobilize lightning Kill-or-Arrest assaults against the enemy,” Baltimore said.
“Someone is out there pushing out these diamonds. The evidence points to Maran. He is using his training to enrich himself at the expense of the entire western world. He is a monumental traitor. He has to be stopped,” Stassinopoulos countered.
“At any rate, Randy is not so far off the mark,” Luster said. “In gentlemen’s terms, we have to be ready to stop the threat from raising its head. Ready to behead it with a battle-ready, fast-moving army. This president isn’t equipped to do that.”
“Sounds like sour grapes because you no longer report direct to CENTCOM,” Stassinopoulos snapped.
Luster’s face flushed. They not so secretly hated one another. Luster thought Stash a pampered brat, Stash considered Luster a crude thug, never mind that Long Bow, Stash’s company, were major employers of Luster’s former special action warfighters, men just like Luster.
“Peace in Cabinda would do you a lot of good, Patriot,” Luster sneered, the muscles in his thick neck and the cords of his snowplow jaw bulging.
“On that note, I think we’ll adjourn.” Stassinopoulos rose. He walked to the door. On the way out, Luster caught Baltimore by the coat.
“We have to talk. Soon. I’ll give you a call.”
The meeting broke up and Luster left. Stassinopoulos led Baltimore out of the poolroom into his adjacent office lined with maple wainscotting and accented by an open fieldstone fireplace surrounded by green and magenta, poppy-patterned arts and crafts tiles. Admiring his image in a large, gilded mirror topped with an American eagle on the wall, Stassinopoulos walked around the big Edwardian marquetry inlaid partners desk, circa 1810, and took a seat in his Alera traditional executive wing-back chair upholstered in oxblood leather. He opened the top drawer on the right column of drawers, reached down and pulled out a yellowed meerschaum pipe. It was carved with a pastoral lamb from Greek mythology and topped by a golden lid on a hinge. He opened the lid and filled it with McClelland’s Three Oaks Syrian blend pipe tobacco custom-flavored with Englis
h port. He lit it with a wooden match, leaned back in his chair and blew four or five consecutive smoke rings. They circled his head before floating to the ceiling where they hung together in a thin cloud.
“Randy. How are things working out?”
“Fantastic,” Baltimore told him. “The guy you connected me with has taken care of everything. We’re all set. No problem getting anything we need, from tanks and helicopters to small arms and surface-to-air missiles.”
“Good job. Bombe needs us. We have to keep him happy.”
“How about Luster?”
“Never mind him,” retorted Stassinopoulos.
“He’s put more SAWs on Long Bow’s payroll than anyone else.”
“He’s out of the loop now. We own the White House. The beauty of it is that this president is ours.”
“Solid,” Baltimore agreed.
“And clueless. If she ever knew how beholden she is to Bombe.”
“Ishmael knows.”
TWENTY-FOUR
New York City
Maran answered the phone in his room at the East Houston Manhattan hotel in New York City’s Lower East Side. The steam coming off the rain-wet streets outside didn’t do a thing to ease his mind. “Christ, Sergei, it’s five in the morning. I got in late from Washington.”
“Duty calls, my friend. You wouldn’t want me to wait to give this to you. It’s from KoeffieBloehm. They’re into everything, all backed by the most intense security the private sector has seen since the Borgias.”
Sergei’s search team had flagged a curious coincidence. A forecast from an arcane trade journal, the West African Diamond Guide, focused on sudden dramatic increases in the supply of large gemstone diamonds. A South African treasury official quoted in the piece raised the question of a relationship to increased short sales in the international futures markets, huge investor bets that prices were about to fall. Sergei recalled one of the axioms of his profession: There is no such thing as coincidence in the intel world.
“KoeffieBloehm?” Maran asked.
“It’s the largest corporation in Africa. One of the ten largest in the world. KoeffieBloehm is connected to New World Enterprises which owns the largest gold fields and diamond mines in the world. And that’s just the beginning.”
“I didn’t realize…” Maran started to say.
“Good reason. Until recently, their monopoly had made them outcasts in the U.S. The one business the cartel was allowed to operate here was limited to their advertising. Their interests are so extensive with their constant takeovers and mergers, their top executives have little idea from day to day what they own. But when it comes to diamonds, they are on top of their game. Problem is that with the diamond market in frenzy, the implications for KoeffieBloehm could be dire.”
“Levine,” Maran recounted. “He said the same.”
“KoeffieBloehm is pissed off, big time,” Sergei continued. “Their Central Merchandising Organization in London has always jawboned members into keeping prices jacked up. Now, they’ve lost control. When the company announced a twenty-five percent dividend cut last month, their stock fell fifty-percent. That triggered the crash on the Jo’burg Exchange. It spread to stocks in London, New York, and financial futures in Chicago on the Mercantile Exchange. Billions have already been lost. You couldn’t possibly believe they’re going to lay down on this. They’ve got their gorillas out hunting down leads. They’re mobilizing. It’s war.”
“What does it mean, Sergei?”
“I can only guess at the truth. Intel is all about informed guessing. The truth? There’s faith and there’s facts. The truth is somewhere in between. It’s not our job to discover the truth. Leave that to the philosophers. Whoever’s behind this saw the increased flow of little diamonds chipping away at diamond prices. Now they plan to finish the job and nuke KoeffieBloehm with these big stones,” Sergei said.
Maran saw where the theory was going. He respected Sergei’s analytical skills, wanted every nuance.
“This is a game-changer,” Sergei continued. “The markets are being flooded with big, beautiful stones. The price already hammered. Why not? The one thing that ever kept the price up is the iron control KoeffieBloehm keeps on the market. You think the twenty-five carat Graff Pink’s really worth fifty-million dollars? D-perfect? Only cost what, to dig out of the ground in Africa? Two, three bucks a carat? D-perfect. Average guy doesn’t know D-perfect from a glass chip. Biggest hoax since Adam and Eve.”
“Right. And now all the financial markets are reeling. So we go from a business problem to—what?”
“Massive economic terrorism.”
TWENTY-FIVE
South Boston
The next morning Sergei joined The Bird at the workstation to search Dolitz’s sales records. Outside, on the Boston Fish Pier, lumpers in shirtsleeves, wearing rubber aprons, wielded pitchforks unloading cod, flounder, and haddock from the cold locker in the hold of the “Finest Kind,” a commercial fishing dragger. The Bird patched in a series of digital watchers, virtual army divisions of cyber-spies, on thousands of buy-and-sell diamond web sites around the world. Target computers might offer only a millisecond window of vulnerability and a multi-layered defense, in-depth system of password protection: firewalls, packet filters, demilitarized zones, and intrusion detection systems, but nothing stopped PHALANX from entry with complete freedom of access.
The first purchase order for twelve large “special” diamonds provided the breakthrough they needed. It had come to Bradford & Bailey of Boston, Harold Mantville’s store. Soon they discovered purchase orders from stores all over the world, thousands of orders for large D-Perfect blue diamonds, “Chrysanthemums.” They were giving them away. The pricing was uniform, one-thousand dollars a carat, retail, for each and every one. The orders exposed a trail from B&B to Dolitz. Sergei needed to find their distribution source if not their origin. It was obvious to the former Russian spy how dumping of such a vital financial pricing tool as diamonds could be used as a terrorizing weapon of economic mass destruction.
Before long, they had it. All the diamonds came through C. Tolkachevsky & Sons Diamonds N.V. in Antwerp. They discovered additional correspondence in a string of newsgroup messages about Dolitz, Inc. From Al the Jeweler’s Pal, an apparent wholesale dealer, on talk.gems.misc, Sergei learned that, “In the past few months, Dolitz has increased its diamond business from several millions of dollars per month to several hundreds of million.”
“Wait a minute,” The Bird said. “Lookit this shizat! Dolitz!”
“Bingo,” he chirped. The article was from “SA Gemscape,” an out-of-print trade journal published in Johannesburg. The Bird hit “PRINT.”
Sergei read:
“Thousands of soldiers and civilians have died in military battles fought in the region. Data reported by the European Union-funded International Peace Information Service indicates that diamonds-for-arms trading by one man, known to Interpol as the ‘Animal of Angola,’ Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko, with his firm, Strategic Solutions, Inc., has been responsible for much of what was behind the brutal conflict between Uganda and Rwanda. Boyko has collaborated with Khalil Nazzeem Ibrahim, a Lebanese who operates out of his restaurant on the Kampala Road in Uganda. One deal engineered by Strategic Solutions accounted for more than half of Uganda’s diamond exports to Antwerp in the past year.”
Sergei whistled in amazement.
“That’s not all. Check this out,” The Bird said. He showed Sergei a list from the Panamanian Department of Commerce.
“I don’t believe this!”
“Its fahkin’ unbe-e-e-lievable,” The Bird confirmed.
The report showed that Dolitz made frequent trips to the International Free Port of Colon. The Free Zone, a haven for money laundering, is known as a favored vacation spot for the Cali international drug cartel. Sergei suspected that Dolitz hadn’t gone there as a tourist to snorkel over the reefs off the beach at Maria Chiquita Turiscentro or to spot the harpy eagles.
The Bird transmitted up to the National Reconnaissance Office’s CHALET II satellite, and punched a series of codes that put him into the Dolitz financial records at First Stone Bank in Manhattan. He searched the records for anything that had anything to do with the Colon Free Zone.
His screen lit up with a list of receipts. He shouted.
“Keerist on a raft!”
“Amazing,” Sergei agreed.
“I didn’t think there was that much money in the world,” The Bird added.
The list on Sergei’s screen showed that Dolitz was shipping container-loads of U.S. money orders each month to the Hong Kong Private Bank of Panama. All the money orders were in the $7,000 to $10,000 range, within the $10,000 U.S. Cash Transaction Report limit.
“Money! Money sent around the world at the speed of an electron, snaking under laws that were designed to protect innocent people from drug dealers, terrorists, and child pornographers, bless their little black hearts.” Sergei punctuated the air with his forefinger. “The cartel is using Dolitz as a gigantic laundry to clean their dirty cash. He’s leveraging his diamond operation to convert massive lots of big, gem-quality diamonds into hundreds of millions in cold U.S. currency.”
“Where’s the money going from Panama?” Sergei pressed.
The Bird punched some more keys.
“You’re so fast. A goddamned genius!” Sergei said.
They cracked into the Dolitz primary account at First Stone Bank. Once deposited at the Hong Kong Bank of Panama, the deposit amounts were transferred to a string of private banks from the Cayman Islands to Gibraltar, Kabul, Islamabad, Kinshasa, Moscow, and back to a Dolitz account at Citibank in New York.
“Drug money! Fuckin’ blood diamonds! They’re linked,” The Bird exclaimed.
“What’s next?” Sergei asked.
“An audit to Mack.”
TWENTY-SIX
New York City
Back in his New York hotel, Sergei’s audit confirmed Maran’s suspicion. The report was one more piece of the puzzle. Things were moving fast. As a result, Maran had set up a surveillance team in an empty seventh-floor office space across 47th Street from the Dolitz, Inc., building.
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