'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  “Where do you come in?” Maran asked.

  “I led him on. Got him stoned one night. In a blackout he told me he was going to kill Boyko, take over his whole operation.”

  Boyko! The Animal!

  “Who’s Boyko?” Maran asked, deceptively. She told him everything.

  “What about Vangaler?”

  “He hates me,” Amber told him.

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t fuck him.”

  She returned to her own inquiry.

  “What did you do before you became an investigative reporter? Military?”

  Maran sidestepped the question.

  “I still want to know what you did before journalism. Were you ever in the army?”

  “That was good.”

  Then he told her all that he could about his military career. Everything but Cabinda.

  She absorbed what he said. Hearing him gave her hope.

  Maybe he can help get Tony back if all else fails.

  They were safe for the time being, but they needed a break from the tension.

  It was then she told him about Boyko’s gem smuggling.

  “Funny thing is…” she said. “…he thinks of himself as a shrewd businessman. He’s in the right business. He’s flooding the market. There is so much air in the price of diamonds to begin with‌—‌putting aside the obvious, the murder and terror‌—‌it’s hard to fault him for that. Take the legitimate mining companies. Only costs them two or three dollars a carat to bring them out of the ground. Last year the U.S. traded more than $20 billion in diamonds of all kinds, greater than the value of all the gold and silver bought and sold. Keep the market hot with advertising, and you can’t buy retail stones without going through their system.”

  She told him that if the flood of new diamonds crushed the market, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “The Russians did it in the 70s,” she said. Maran remembered it as part of their Cold War strategy to attack western economies. She was getting carried away with details, statistics. So he reminded her.

  “Let’s get to Knokke.”

  He didn’t tell her about his contract with the Diamond Dealers Club.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Knokke-Heist, Belgium Coast

  The Hotel La Luxe in Knokke-Heist was everything Amber promised: a five-star resort that included multiple swimming pools, massage rooms, and a world-class casino. The kind of place that government employees like her father could never afford, unless they were smuggling diamonds on the side. A stay there gave guests a pass to the ultra-exclusive Royal Zoute Golf Club, an amenity Maran had no interest in. They shared a room as a couple. She rolled to the far side. They slept together, in opposite sides of the queen-sized bed, fitfully. Neither of them had much peace of mind and she revelled in the chance to feel free from any obligation to engage in sex. He respected her boundaries.

  Maran woke early. Got up and looked out the window. Outside, it was the pinnacle of perfect holiday weather. Thermal waves sparkled over the white sand on the beach. He stepped out into the balcony overlooking the flowered villas of Het Zoute. The crystal reflections of the sun shimmered off the North Sea. He turned to glance over to the rumpled bed where Amber lay sprawled out, like laundry. Tiny beads of sweat lined her lips. Maran felt the heat deep inside of him, stirring dormant memories that challenged his solid sense of propriety. Their room was on the eleventh floor. She woke, pulled the sheet off the bed to wrap herself and joined him. Standing on the balcony together, looking out at the postcard scenery, she convinced him to take advantage of their sanctuary to play for a few hours.

  Downstairs in the apparel shop, they picked out an outrageous Roxy bikini bathing suit for her. He insisted on long-legged, waver-rider board shorts. Then they went shrimping on horseback in the shallow surf along the beach. It was a hot day, bright, clear, and promising. When they finished, they spread a blanket on the sand and flopped down on it. While she lay on her back in the sun, Maran, desperate for exercise, ran, still limping, for three miles along the surf out to a distant jetty and back in a less than one-hour gallop in the soft sand. Afterward, soaking with sweat, he leaped into the surf before returning to their blanket and flopping down next to her. A half-hour later they swam together. Then, returning to their beach towels, they lay on the sugar-soft, heated sand. A high sun, no clouds, the slightest breeze that, like a soft breath, just barely kept their skin dry. The only thing they got off the towels for was iced tea, crayfish salad and a quick dip.

  He awoke to see her swim in the surf, riding the waves onto the shore where she rolled on her back, spread her arms, welcomed the sun’s warmth. He noticed several men turn their heads, acknowledging her physical attributes. He realized she was the type of woman who could do nothing to stop such adulation. It was just her, the way she was. Like so many other things, she accepted it stoically. Just overweight enough to be considered voluptuous, she also was spectacularly fit. But her body didn’t tell the whole story. That was in her eyes. They blazed with a hatred that frightened Maran. A combination of uncertainty and tough resolve that can only come from the fear of insurmountable, irrevocable loss, like a boxing champion asked by mobsters to throw a title fight.

  Strong as Amber was, Maran wondered if it might not be too late to bring her back.

  He sat up, smiled at her. She caught his approving glance, stretched her litheness, both hands behind her head.

  “Where’d you pick up the limp?” she asked undiplomatically.

  “Football,” he lied again.

  “Fuck, I need to relax,” she sighed and went silent. They both knew that was a dream that would remain unfulfilled until they succeeded.

  Finally, hearing the music she was listening to on her iPod, Maran broke the silence.

  “Leki?” he asked.

  She turned and smiled for the first time. “Good call,” she said. “Like her?”

  “Actually, I prefer Jimmy Omonga for local stuff. If I have a choice, I pick Rihanna.” He chose not to tell her he had switched to Vivaldi.

  “Pussy rap. I’m impressed.”

  As he lay under the sun, he could sense through his sunglasses that she was studying him. He knew what was going on in her mind.

  Can this be it? Can Rodney Davis help?

  LATER, HE SLIPPED INTO his jeans. He pulled a scarlet polo shirt down over his head.

  When they returned to their room, she told him what she knew about Boyko and Vangaler’s history, about the hostages of Mbandaka, the capital of the Equateur Province, at the confluence of the Ruki and Congo rivers. There, she said, “the SSI went on a rampage. They beheaded two dozen U.N. peacemakers with machetes.”

  “Unbelievable,” he said, silently recalling his own experience.

  “Vangaler’s got his child army convinced that his magic, blood from an enemy that he smears on their bodies, makes them immortal, immune from bullets that will turn into water when they hit them. He fills them full of narcotics and gets them stoked into a frenzy for operations. Before they were finished in Mbandaka, they raped more than a hundred and twenty women, left them with traumatic fistula, torn vaginas, hacked off the cocks of the men. Dry them and wear them around their necks as good luck charms.”

  It was too close to home for her composure. Her steel façade broke down. A tear trickled down one cheek.

  “What a sick world,” he said. He drew her close.

  She asked him about how he grew up.

  “In the Boston projects. It was great. Had a hundred guys who would take my back. Most of them were Irish,” he laughed, rolling back his sleeve and pointing to the green shamrock inside the blue Star of David on his shoulder.

  “Didn’t it hurt to be black?”

  “Only if you let it. Like any other kind of razzing or bullying, if any asshole went over the line, it only took one fistfight, win, lose, or draw, to put an end to it.”

  She looked into his burning green eyes and at his bulky shoulders and hands, scarred shovels that lo
oked like they could ball up like battering rams. “I don’t imagine you lost many.”

  He just shrugged, emphasizing the fact that winning wasn’t always the point.

  She told him about Tony.

  He told her about Dennis.

  BACK IN THEIR ROOM at La Luxe they showered and stretched out, relaxing as best they could. Before dinner they continued their heart-to-heart, lying side-by-side in one another’s arms, naked. Her trust was opening to him. Amber told him about Alberta Chiang.

  “She’s one hell of a bitch. You have to meet her. She’s key. Your story won’t be complete until you do,” she said. She was going along with his cover story.

  “Tell me,” Maran said, “Where does a Chinese scientist come in?”

  “She’s a hot shot high pressure physicist at some company outside Boston. Diamond mining technology. She’s never there. Works in Kin and Mbuji for Boyko.”

  “Where does she fit?”

  “Boyko’s techie. Quality control.”

  “How can I get an interview?”

  “No one can get near her but Boyko and his pit bull, Vangaler‌—‌but, Chaim told me something,” Amber said. “She’s going to an honoring party they’re giving for her at Boston’s art museum, the MFA.”

  The plot was turning home.

  Boston!

  “How do we know she’ll show up?”

  “Has to, Chaim says she’s money, a big arts fanatic. Huge donor. Big fundraiser for some kind of Biennial Perspective. ‘Post-modern,’ ‘Minimalism’: that shit.”

  “You troglodyte. When does this happen?” Maran asked.

  “In about five days. This is the only chance you’ll get to her.”

  “You can introduce me?”

  “Vangaler may be looking for me. But Chiang will be glad to see me if he’s not with her. She’ll speak to you if you’re with me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She’s in love with me.”

  “Love or lust?” Maran asked.

  “Unlike Vangaler, where I had Boyko for protection, I had to fuck her.”

  She didn’t apologize or explain. She didn’t have to. It was self-evident. Lesbian sex wasn’t one of those things that bothered her.

  There were things about Amber that he still didn’t understand: pain, mystery, secrets. He needed her secrets. But at first, she was just a key to the diamond riddle. Now she had become more. He kneeled up on the bed, rolled her over onto her stomach, drank in the beauty of her back‌—‌strong, muscled‌—‌the furrow of her spine defined by those cut lats and traps. A naked fairy tattoo graced her entire back down to the cheeks of her rump, facing out, bold breasts defiant, wings feathering down over each cheek. Above the tattoo, across her shoulders, in black Elegant Old Script calligraphy were inscribed the words: Freedom Frees.

  “Amber you really are a Wild Angel,” he said, harking back to lyrics in Martina McBride’s country song: “Keeping love alive in these troubled times. It’s a miracle in itself.” He caressed her skin, fingers light, traced the line from her neck to the small of her back.

  He respected her deep strength, the kind of quiet power that lay dormant until it was needed; then it exploded. He let her take her time, lead the way. She needed that control. He could surmise the sexual abuse she had endured and made sure she knew he would be different. At first, he only caressed her back and arms with a feathery touch. Then, as he began to kiss the most sensitive spots on her arms, neck, breasts, stomach, he let her temperature rise slowly, not pushing too fast, waiting for her silent approval. Then the trust brightened her eyes, ignited a smile. She took control. He needn’t have worried; she became an animal.

  She came. And then she cried.

  “It’s OK, Amber. We’re going to be OK.”

  When it was over, their eyes locked just for a moment, just before they fell asleep with gratification. They were equals, had both given in completely, opened to one another.

  SHE WOKE IN THE middle of the night, watched his chest rise and fall with his breath. Now, she could feel her confidence rise. Nevertheless, doubt still lingered.

  Can I trust him?

  She had so much at stake.

  Her restlessness woke him.

  “I told you I can help. I will,” Maran assured her.

  “I want to believe. But I think you’re full of shit.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a reporter? Way you handled Vangaler? What happened back there in the hotel dining room? A Treasury agent? Who was the woman? CIA?” Her voice rose slightly as she tried to maintain control. “That kind of shit is not called investigative reporting! Whoever heard of a journalist like that? Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?” Her body shook.

  He glared at her and gripped her hand, weighing the impact of what he had to say. He rose to his knees.

  “What do you know, Amber?”

  “Nothing! Just that she was here. What about you? You lied!” She nearly screamed the words.

  “I’m sorry, Amber,” he swore. “It’s not a total lie. A swerve, a half-truth. Everything in my life is masked, shrouded, compartmentalized. Necessity outweighs integrity in every move I make. I wish it were different, believe me! I am on assignment, for an article, a report, a book‌—‌something,” he tripped. “That’s only cover for the real reason I came to Antwerp. I would rather have been up front with you. I couldn’t until I was sure I could.”

  He didn’t believe that the assassins were from the CIA. He told her the truth.

  Amber listened. Maran worked up on the nexus gradually. Told her about his Army career. When he came to Cabinda, she blanched.

  “What?”

  “I remember that.” She reached for him. “How do you do it, Mack? How do you keep on going on? Everything you stood for, fought and got shot for, shit on like the dirt floor under an outhouse pit.”

  He thought about that, about his training to kill, to succeed:

  Victoriae! Concentrate on nothing else. Throw all inhibitions to the wind.

  “That’s just me, the way I turned out. Who knows? Different circumstances, could I have been a Boyko‌—‌or a Vangaler. How do we know how we’re going to turn out?”

  “Don’t say that,” she put her hand over his mouth. “It’s simple.”

  “What?”

  “We’re different. We’re better than that‌—‌you and I.”

  Leaning on one hand, he eased himself down on his side next to her. She bent her head, kissed him on the lips, toying with the hair on his chest. He ran his fingers down the curve of her hip, tracing the smoothness of her skin. It occurred to him that all that was basic in the world could be signified by such gentle touches as they gave one another.

  “I don’t want anything to go wrong, Mack. I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “Tony. So, why Kin?” Maran asked. “Of all the places in all the world you could have picked to operate. Africa’s most dangerous city.”

  “Action. Simple. Why not? After all, Kinshasa has the distinction of being the origin of HIV1; it’s where Muhammad Ali won his title and it’s Command Post Central for scamming diamonds.”

  Maran paused. “We’ll get Tony back. And we’ll get the Animal.”

  First, they had to get to Boston and Alberta Chiang.

  FORTY-SIX

  Knokke-Heist

  They slept in that morning, relaxed till near noon in their room. After a shower and change of clothes, Maran left Amber to go down to the restaurant. She tuned into Jay-Z’s “Show Me What You Got.”

  At the bar, he ordered drinks, a vodka for her and one of his usual coffee concoctions. He sent up a surprise double order of Norwegian King Crab with endive and avocado salad. He was interrupted by the hum of his cell phone.

  Sergei.

  Maran briefed him on his progress. He told his friend he felt like a two-bit huckster.

  Sergei chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’ll make it worth her while.”

  “I hope so. She’s a fine lad
y, Serge.”

  “You’re getting softer than a sneaker full of shit. In the meantime, we’ve picked up some news from the DRC. Vangaler’s been e-mailing Boyko’s major antagonist, Joseph dos Sampas.”

  “PFLEC?” Maran asked.

  “Right. The Free Cabinda rebels, freedom fighters. Looks like he’s after a secret alliance for himself.”

  It hit Maran like a hammer. He had thought of dos Sampas as an ally to get to Boyko and Vangaler, free Tony, and unravel the mystery behind his Cabinda ambush.

  “Let me guess,” he said, recalling Amber’s earlier revelation. “Vangaler conspires with Boyko’s opposition to take over his operation. Then he runs SSI, controls the entire region.”

  “There’s one more wrinkle. Now that the final shipment is ready, Vangaler won’t need Alberta Chiang. He’ll kill her and use dos Sampas to take out Boyko. Then he’ll hit dos Sampas. Winner take all.”

  “We could sit, wait for that to happen. Then we’d only have to close in on Vangaler. There’s only two problems.”

  “What are they?” Sergei asked.

  “Amber and Tony,”

  “And?”

  “He’ll kill them too.”

  BACK UP IN THEIR room on the top floor of the hotel, Maran joined Amber. They were able to relax for the time being, luxuriously safe in a private lair, hidden from the world. Maran, now back in a terry bathrobe, rose from the sofa to turn on the TV. International CNN was announcing new attacks from some Islamist suicide bombers somewhere. He tuned out, shaking his head.

  Just then he heard footsteps outside the room.

  Heavy steps. Two men.

  There was no time to do anything else. Maran grabbed his H&K from the bedside table. He yanked the sheet off the bed, tied it to the window post. Pulling to tighten the knot, he tested the strength of the post. The footsteps were now right outside the door. He climbed out the window and hid the gun behind a lip on the sill freeing both hands to grip the sheet and hang no more than a foot from the edge of the window. In his hands, he could feel the fabric begin to give. All he could think of now was what would happen if the sheet shredded. He couldn’t look down. Vertigo would be fatal. The muscles in his arms bulged with the incredible strain. His fingers burned.