Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  It was eight in the evening and Trichardt, after a few whiskeys had worked most of the edge off his temper. They all sat at the poolside bar. They had changed and were now dressed in a manner that befitted the Caribbean. Tourists crowded the bar, predominantly from the States and United Kingdom, most obviously affluent: the Caymans were definitely not a holiday destination for the poor. The upmarket hotel ensured a clientele from the higher echelons of society, with the women often young and beautiful, their holiday, and casual wear chosen from the fashion houses of New York and Europe.

  The more elderly usually chose to sit and mix at the tables on the terrace, where they were served by waiters, the music here more sedate and they guaranteed some privacy.

  Trichardt turned to Rockell and Gerber.

  “I believe that the American woman, that Maria Garcia, is here as well. She’s mixed up in this somehow. If they’ve stashed the cash in the bank, then I don’t see van Onselen having done that alone; he would have somebody with him. She’s my best bet.” He paused. “In fact, I think they may have already converted the diamonds to cash - you can’t bank diamonds. That would be the way to secure it. That ensures that we’ll never get it back unless they give it to us,” he growled. Nobody was about to argue.

  “Boss, I may have something,” Gerber said with some apprehension. “When I was looking for the guns I met somebody who I think could help us. He’s a local but seems to be quite a big wheel, but I’m sure it’ll cost.”

  Trichardt turned round to look at the man. Gerber was huge, probably weighing around two hundred and fifty pounds. His face was round, bordering on flabby. He had little hair left; just a few strands of blonde crowned the top of his head although the growth appeared normal along the sides and his ears. He sported a bushy blonde moustache. The arms that stuck out of the sleeves of his beach shirt were as thick as a normal man’s thighs; they also covered with a sheen of blonde hair. His nose was flat and slightly crooked, a legacy of too many fights. His lips were thick. He was not a handsome sight.

  “Fuck the price - just find them. Start doing it now,” Trichardt snarled. Gerber poured the last of his drink down his throat, slid off the stool taking the proffered car keys from Rockell, and walked off through the sand, disappearing into the dark.

  “Rockell, listen up. I want both of them wasted. Do you understand? Whether we do it or we find somebody else to it, I don’t care,” Trichardt said to the younger man.

  “What about the cops? Some of them are British - you don’t fool around with these guys.”

  Trichardt brushed Rockell’s protestations aside. “On this island there’s nothing to link us with them and by the time they find anything out, we’ll be long gone.”

  The next morning Trichardt and his men sat down to an early breakfast. By island standards, it was too early, and the dining room and terrace were deserted. Gerber told them of his attempts to secure the assistance of the Cayman underworld.

  “I was introduced to a Thomas Carruthers,” Gerber said, “an islander who’s as black as coal and is said to be the crime kingpin on the island - drugs, prostitution, and gambling all fall into his domain. It was said that he has a whole damn network on the islands -, people in hotels, taxi-drivers, prostitutes and their pimps. I paid him handsomely, upfront of course, with a promise of more if they find our guys. The word’s now out on the streets.”

  Trichardt nodded his approval. “Right, all we have to do is wait. Act like tourists; find yourselves some women. Hell, that shouldn’t be a problem; there are enough of them around. But when I need you, you better be ready.”

  The warning in his voice was not lost on them.

  Twenty-Two

  It was after ten when I was awakened by a knock on the door. Christ, I thought, could these people not read: I had hung a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door! The knocking persisted. I grabbed a bath towel lying across the end of the bed, wrapped it around me, and walked to the door mumbling under my breath. Irritably I flung the door open, only to be confronted by a smiling Maria, her dark hair cascading down the one side of her face, a pair of fancy aviator sunglasses perched on her nose.

  She wore a pair of shorts that certainly lived up to their name! She was all beautifully tanned legs and shoulders. Well, except that her colourful blouse was tied below her breasts revealing what I thought to be an extraordinary amount of cleavage. I didn’t know where to look.

  “Morning handsome,” she teased with a smile. “You seemed to be appropriately dressed for a bit of fun but I won’t kiss you. God, you’re still asleep, go brush your teeth - I’ll arrange for coffee to be brought up.”

  While she was busy with the phone, I stepped into the shower and then brushed my teeth. The coffee was not long in coming. She poured us both a cup - it was just what I needed.

  “I’m not sure whether I want you or the beach,” Maria said playfully, looking over the rim of her cup at me.

  I waved my hand dismissing her suggestion.

  “Let’s hit the beach now, the wind is bound to start blowing.” The Caymans are slap-bang in the trade winds - it usually blows.

  She agreed. Again, she busied herself on the phone while I dressed. When we passed reception, a bellhop already stood waiting with two large baskets containing everything you would need for a connoisseur’s picnic. Lobster salad, fresh baked rolls, an assortment of cold meats and dessert in plastic containers. In addition, there was a large insulated container packed with beer, wine and a few sodas, all surrounded with ice. They were heavy but the bellhop, with some difficulty, carried them out to Bishop’s car. We left her rental car in the car park.

  Bishop said that he had just the beach spot for us. When I saw it, I had to concede that it truly was a paradise; a wide long beach rimmed by tall palms, white sand, the sea with a fair amount of wave activity, just enough to make a swim in the warm ocean great fun. I asked Bishop to join us

  “No,” he said, “I’d rather to go home for a while. I want to give my wife the windfall before I spend it!”

  ”Okay just be back between three or four,” I laughed. Before he left he produced two beach folding chairs and an umbrella from his car’s trunk.

  Our nearest neighbours on the beach were at least a hundred yards from us - our privacy was virtually complete.

  Bishop had hardly left when Maria stripped down to her bathing costume. It was so brief I looked around to see whether any other bathers were nearby. Presumably, it was a bikini, but I thought it more like one of those kinky outfits porn stars wear in blue movies - pieces of thong and string and three triangular patches of light blue material that barely covered her nipples and her pubic triangle. Like I said, she is tall for a woman, and in this, she was a goddess.

  I had no thoughts for Francine; she was lost in the deepest recesses of my mind.

  Maria spread an enormous beach-towel on the sand and from her bag produced a bottle of suntan lotion, which she handed me, the purpose clear.

  “Rub it on me,” she said lying down on the towel and undoing the string of her costume top.

  I dropped a dollop of the cream on her spine, and she arched her back with a small yelp at the coldness. I proceeded to rub the cream into her skin, moving down to her legs. As my hands moved above her knees they would stray to her inner thighs; she raised her derriere provocatively. Then she turned over and I knelt at her side, my hands working the lotion. She lay facing me with a cheek resting on her hands, staring at my crotch.

  “My God, Peter. What’s happening to you?” she whispered and then giggled.

  “I know!” I croaked aware of my raging erection. “When did you say Bishop would be back?”

  She brushed a hand over my crotch and laughed.

  As predicted, the wind freshened considerably as the afternoon wore on. As its strength intensified, it started to lift the beach sand, blowing this a few inche
s above the surface of the beach. It was uncomfortable, but precisely at three, Bishop appeared.

  “You’re a Godsend,” Maria said wanting to leave the beach for the past hour or so.

  With his assistance, we loaded everything into his Cortina, and then we both slid onto the backseat.

  “Where to, folks?” he said in his Jamaican accent, having to shout over the sound of the oil-drum beat of calypso music which blasted from the car’s speakers.

  “Turn down the bloody sound!” I shouted. I looked at Maria; she mouthed ‘your place’.

  “Take us to my hotel,” I said. Maria took my hand and placed it between her thighs; a promise of what was to come.

  The bellhops took the baskets and box, and Maria and I rapidly climbed the stairs.

  Once inside the room and the door latched, we stripped off our clothes and squeezed into the shower turning the water full on. The cubicle was soon enveloped in steam. We kissed passionately. Soon I was cupping her breasts and kissing her nipples. Her hand slid down to my groin. Not bothering to dry off, we collapsed on the bed. Driven by overwhelming passion and physical attraction we were soon on a wild careering trip that ended in a shuddering, gasping grand finale.

  Afterwards she lay turned towards me, her head cradled in my arm. We were both drenched in a mixture of shower water and perspiration, my lungs drawing in and blowing out air like a blacksmith’s bellows.

  A vision of Francine flashed before me, brief but sufficient to awaken the guilt that now slowly began to permeate my conscience.

  “What are you thinking?” Maria murmured against my chest.

  What could I tell her?

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “I know you lust after me, but do you love her?”

  Every time I was with this woman, I learnt something new. No doubt, her training as an undercover operative had a great deal to do with it, but she was a woman of considerable mental strength, and grim determination when the need arose. She never revealed any weakness, but now I detected some vulnerability. The truly beautiful woman was as complex as we all are when it came to matters of the heart. God, what a bloody snarl-up, I thought.

  Did I love her? I really didn’t know, but I knew that I never wanted to lose her.

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “Do you love me?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know that either, but I know that when you’re not here, I miss you. Christ, you won’t believe me,” I said, “but sometimes I actually ache for you.”

  She giggled. “That sounds more like sex than love to me.” She giggled again.

  “I don’t doubt the sex bit,” I replied with a laugh, then took her in my arms, and kissed her passionately.

  We woke at about seven and decided to have a light dinner in the hotel dining room.

  The meal was a set menu, starting with soup, grilled line fish, a main course consisting of braised beef and then dessert. It was standard fare but exceptionally good, as close to good home cooking as you can get.

  I noticed that Maria was unusually subdued.

  “What’s bugging you?” I asked.

  “Nothing really. Well, that’s not quite true. Trichardt’s still around. We must not to forget that. I know him and I can tell you he’s now so pissed off he’s deadly dangerous.” She paused. “Do you know what I mean when I say dangerous? He wishes us dead! The man’s a psychopath.”

  I nodded. I knew - I had not forgotten the last encounter. However, considering what we’d done to him, calling him a psychopath probably was about right. I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “I would love to move in with you, but that wouldn’t be wise. It’s better I keep to my hotel and we just get together when needed.” I had to agree with that as well. “I’ve got something in my bag that I need to give you,” she whispered quietly across the table.

  I just looked at her. I knew it was a gun.

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” I asked not entirely pleased.

  “Damn right it is!” she said sternly. “And don’t hesitate to use it. I presume you do know how to use it?”

  Again, I nodded. She excused herself: I ordered another round of coffee and two Countreau liqueurs.

  She returned and sat down.

  “Just as I thought - his aircraft is still parked on the apron. He’s still here on the island. He’s looking for us.” I could only assume that she had phoned somebody.

  This did complicate matters. Surely, Trichardt knew that by now we would have the money and diamonds in a safe place where he definitely could not get hold of them. I could only conclude that he was still here in the Caymans to deal with us.

  “Bet your ass,” she snapped. “That’s what’s happening. Let’s be careful.” She emptied her liqueur glass. “I’m leaving right after we finish here. They’ve got an excellent maritime museum in George Town - I’ll meet you there at ten tomorrow morning.”

  I escorted her to the car, we both carefully scrutinizing the car park from end to end as well as the driveway. When certain the coast was clear, she got into the vehicle and handed me an object wrapped in a cloth.

  “Your gun, it’s a Sauer 9mm automatic with a spare magazine, both full.”

  I took it. It wasn’t too heavy. I jammed it into the back of my pants, my floral shirt covering the weapon. I kissed her briefly on the lips.

  “Remember,” she said. ‘Don’t hesitate to shoot!”

  Christ, what was I supposed to do when the Cayman police arrived? The movies always show the shooters getting away before the cops arrive; in reality, I knew the police usually nabbed them. If I shot somebody, what would I say and what excuse would I have for carrying an unlicensed gun? This could only spell serious trouble.

  I made my way back to my room.

  I realized that we had to resolve our problems here on this island. To return to South Africa with Trichardt still in pursuit would be foolish. Once home, he could bring all his ingenuity to bear including the assistance of his contacts in BOSS. I had no idea when Gavin was due to return, but he was to contact Maria as soon as he had arranged his departure and had an idea of his approximate arrival in the Caymans again.

  I could not shake off a feeling of foreboding. There was no doubt in my mind that Trichardt had not finished with us yet. The price paid by de Haes for the diamonds had to be rock bottom, with him surely taking full advantage of the predicament in which he found us. The degree of subterfuge we applied to the transaction; bringing him to the Caymans, the request for the utmost confidence and being aware that he probably was the only buyer approached must have left him convinced that this was not a simple above-board negotiation. There had to be something sinister. Therefore, his ‘take it or leave it’ stance on the transaction.

  Trichardt would have been in a far better position to negotiate a higher price from his regular buyers. The value of the stones was substantial, probably at least another half more than we were paid, if not more. Not for a moment did I believe he would walk away from his loss without the satisfaction of retribution.

  There was also the fact that he and his associates had a reputation to uphold. I doubted whether he was the sole beneficiary in these transactions; he had to have financial connections in the higher echelons of the government and they would not allow others to make fools of them. Yes, the hawks in the South African government were under pressure from the more enlightened members of the governing Nationalist Party, but they still had a stranglehold on the power base. They were the ultimate power in the country - nobody would ever be permitted to forget that.

  The money might be safe but the three of us were not.

  It suddenly dawned on me that Gavin and the two women should not return to the island until the direct threat Trichardt and company posed was removed or they had departed the island.


  Of course, this did not mean we would be able to handle the situation in South Africa any better!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Melville, the hotel manager found himself in a quandary. He had received word through the underground grapevine to be on the lookout for one Peter van Onselen. With the name came a description. He realized immediately that this was the single male guest ensconced in a room on the top floor, the room nearest to the fire escape.

  If Thomas Carruthers was looking for him, he doubted whether this bode well for his guest. Whenever Carruthers was after a man, it was invariably bad news for the individual. And Melville was employed by Carruthers and occasionally dispensed drugs and prostitutes on behalf of Carruthers’s organization. He was paid well for his services and while he may not have taken an oath, it was clearly understood in underworld circles that his total allegiance was automatic. He had no alternative but to report van Onselen’s whereabouts, but he could at least discreetly have a warning whispered in van Onselen’s ear.

  Men’s minds work in strange ways; Melville was not averse to receiving ill-gotten gains but was sufficiently naïve to believe he was a man of conscience.

  Bishop’s Cortina was parked in the rear parking area under a huge tree. He walked over to the car and stood by the open window.

  “Morning, my man. How’s things?” he asked, looking round to see whether he had drawn any other attention.

  Lowering the newspaper, Bishop greeted his friend.

  “Are you still working for that South African?” Melville asked casually.

  “Yep, I’m waiting for him now.”

  “Well, my friend, Carruthers has suddenly taken an interest in his whereabouts. Please..., you never heard this from me. Just mention it to him,” Melville said, seeing the immediate look of concern that crossed Bishop’s face.