by Robert Cook
“Unfortunately, Torch, I think your services will be required.” Alex began to unlace the shoe of the original gun wielder, the only one he was sure spoke English. As Alex pulled off the man’s shoe, Jerome pulled a tiny propane torch from the nightstand drawer and lit it—the flame a blue hiss in the room.
He leered at the man, and said, “I do believe your hiking days are over, my good man, unless my colleague gets a lot of answers to his questions, right now! A little later, I may interfere with your future love life as well.” Jerome reached to squeeze his own crotch suggestively, and again tried a leer.
The Dutchman began to shake his head furiously, making noises around the tape. Jerome made himself look disappointed. “Shit! I think he’s going to talk before I even get my name written on his foot.” He reached up and jerked the tape from the man’s mouth, taking some skin and all of a small moustache; tiny droplets of blood formed quickly on his upper lip.
The Dutchman was shaking now, barely able to speak. “There has been a mistake. We have made a mistake.”
Alex nodded as he took a small notebook from his pocket and said, “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them fully and completely. I know the answers to some of the questions, and if you get one even a little bit wrong, I’m going to tape you back up and let my friend draw pictures on your foot for a long time, just to convince your colleagues that honesty is advisable, and infinitely more comfortable.”
“What do you want to know?”
Alex went through his questions and confirmed his research on the best and most honest diamond dealers. Guilder had hired the men through the leading local gangster. Alex took down the man’s name and headquarters location. He then sighed and put his notebook away.
“I guess you did okay. We should kill you, but this isn’t our city, and we wouldn’t know quite where to throw the bodies. So, you get to be our messenger boys. Tell your boss that he has pissed us off, mightily. There are only eleven of us, but we know you and you don’t know us. If you pull any more shit like this stunt tonight, we’ll pull this town down around your ears in a noisy and violent fashion so that the cops won’t ever quit hassling you. Our boss is one mean son of a bitch, so he sent us to see if you wanted to be reasonable.”
Cuchulain sighed again, then looked thoughtful for a second. “I’m quite concerned, my good man, that your boss won’t take our boss seriously. That would be inconvenient for us—and extremely unhealthy for you and your colleagues.”
Jerome reached behind his back and came out with a flat black combat knife. It had a six-inch blade, razor edged on one side and serrated on the other. He squatted in front of the small man, cupping and squeezing his crotch with his left hand. “How ‘bout we cut his balls off and mail them to his boss? Or maybe just the left one?”
“We’ll save that for the next time, I think,” Alex said. “But it does give me an idea.” He turned to the man. “We’re sending each of you gents back to your employer with a little memento, since you tried to rob me. Tell him we will try to think of a few things a little more civilized, to act as a more personal message to him from us.”
He drove his left hand into the man’s crotch and squeezed, hard, for fifteen or twenty seconds. The man collapsed to the floor, nearly unconscious, as vomit trickled from his mouth and his bladder released. Alex moved to the others, ripped the tape from their mouth and repeated the routine. The stench began to fill the room. Jerome quickly cut the ankle ties from each of the men, as Alex wiped his hands clean.
They packed up their gear and moved quickly from the room, exited at the back of the hotel, and jumped into Jerome’s rental car. Alex consulted his city map, trying to locate the headquarters building of their recent visitors’ boss. When he found it, they drove off to reconnoiter.
It was an old unattached building. Alex stepped out of the car and into the shadows, as Jerome drove off. It was fifteen minutes before he heard, “In place—piece of cake for the front. No direct views of the sides.” Cuchulain doubled clicked as he moved quickly to the cars out front, checked the license numbers, and reached quickly under each before he moved on. At one, a new Mercedes sedan, he slid under the car for a second, then opened the driver’s door, bent down, and reached beneath the dash. As he moved away from the cars and back into the shadows, he double clicked again.
“Go a half block, the way I took the car. It’s on the left. There are some whiskey bottles on a shelf near where they’re sitting. I think I’ll do those,” Jerome said. Suddenly a front window shattered, followed by the repeated sound of glass breaking every two or three seconds. This went on for fifteen seconds, punctuated by the confused shouts of frightened men, and the sound of running.
Alex ran down the street as the glass first broke. At the car, he paused to throw his bag into the trunk, then jumped in the car and started the engine. Looking out, he saw Jerome rappelling down the side of the four-story building, pushing out twice with his legs from the wall. His rifle, with its sleek scope and long, fat cylindrical silencer, was slung on his back. He pulled the rope through its stay on the roof, then coiled it as it dropped. Jerome ran lightly to the car, threw his gear into the trunk, and jumped in beside Alex. They drove off, the evening finally quiet behind them.
“I do like working against amateurs, my man,” Jerome grinned. “Much healthier.”
“I suspect that we got our point across.” Alex smiled.
It was after nine when the four assailants limped slowly into the old building. They looked at the broken window as they went in, then gaped at the destruction in the room. The smell of whiskey was everywhere, and two men were sweeping broken bottles into a pile.
“Where’s the boss?” the small man groaned.
“He’s in the back,” one sweeper said. “What the hell happened to you guys anyhow?”
They ignored him and limped toward the back room. As they walked in, a man in his late sixties sat quietly, drinking coffee and looking into space. He was dressed formally, with a starched white shirt and small bow tie—blue, with tiny white polka dots. He looked over at them, saw the tiny droplets of blood oozing from the marks over their mouths where the tape had been, and waited.
“We got set up, boss. The two nastiest, politest pros you ever met. It was over so fast that we didn’t even get our hands up. Americans, I think. Boss, I don’t think eight of us would have been enough.”
The old man looked at them for a second. “Why are you limping like that?”
One of the other men spoke up. “Because one of them—the white one—squeezed our balls almost to jelly for jumping him. Jesus Christ, he was strong.
“He wanted us to tell you that they were to be left alone with their business here. There’s supposed to be eleven of them, according to him, who will be pissed off at us if we mess with them any more. He said that since Amsterdam wasn’t his city, he’d rip it down around our ears and have the cops hassling us forever. I’ll tell you, Boss, eleven’s way too many for us. We should get some help from Antwerp or Rotterdam. He said they were going to send you a personal message—more civilized.”
The old man smiled ruefully. “I think they have already been by for a visit. I started my car a few minutes ago. When I hit the starter, an American flag popped up from the dash; it was wired to the starter. Someone shot up the wall of the bar a little earlier, putting one round into each of the bottles at exactly the same height, using a silenced rifle and subsonic rounds. You could put a glass level on the line of the bullet holes.
“I don’t think I’d know where to buy a silenced rifle,” he said thoughtfully.
The old man stood. His voice firmed and he said, “There is nothing for us to win in this one. They are Americans, so they are not trying to establish themselves in our business in Amsterdam. Clearly, we won’t get any diamonds without getting some of our people killed or hurt, and probably attracting the attention of the police to the detriment of our other activities. We are
probably outgunned as well. If you can buy a silenced rifle, you can buy plastique, body armor, fuses, and so on. We will stay away from these people, even if we happen to see them on the streets. We will stay away from our traditional activities in the diamond trade for the time being. You will speak of this to no one. Later, we will discuss these matters with Herr Guilder.” He walked past the shattered glass to his car and drove away.
Amsterdam
The Following Day
AFTER sleeping late, spending a pleasant hour in the gym, and enjoying a fine lunch at the old Grand Amsterdam hotel, Alex and Jerome began to set up again. At 6:00 p.m. Alex walked into the offices of a Herr Joosse. After Alex again provided the diamond, Herr Joosse went through the same routine as had Herr Guilder. He returned the stone to the velvet bag and handed it back to Alex.
“A lovely diamond, Mr. Santayana,” he said. “As a single purchase, it is worth two hundred thousand dollars wholesale, perhaps a little more. If I understand your inventory position correctly from our phone conversation, you have a number of similar stones. That puts you in a more favorable position, and will probably add three to five percent to your realized price, depending on the quality of the stones.”
Bingo! Alex thought to himself. To Joosse he said, “The quality of all my stones is similar. They range in size from one to just over three carats. I have ninety-one of them.”
Joosse leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “That’s quite a fortune, young man. In what form will you expect payment?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars in cash, the remainder wired in dollars to a bank in Switzerland. I will provide instructions to you if we reach a deal.”
Herr Joosse nodded. “When may I see and value the stones? It will take a few hours for me to make you an offer on them.”
“I’d like to do it now, if possible.”
“You’re carrying several million dollars in negotiable diamonds in your pocket? You could be robbed! You must be careful!” Joosse seemed shocked.
“I’m a careful man, Herr Joosse,” Cuchulain said coldly, staring at him. “Can we transact our business this evening, or not?”
“Yes,” Joosse said. “It will go faster if I may call my assistant in, however. He has departed for the evening, and I must ring him at home. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Alex said. “One person only.”
Joosse nodded and picked up the phone and dialed. “Philip, I need you here immediately. Yes. Thank you.”
Alex plucked a second velvet bag from his pocket and dropped it onto the desk. Joosse stood and walked through the door behind him. Cuchulain pulled the Beretta from his ankle holster, spun the silencer from his side pocket onto it, and slipped it into the soft suede holster at the small of his back. He followed Joosse, screwing the tiny earphone into his ear. He double clicked the transmitter.
“I don’t have that window. No one has come into the building. Watch your ass—I’ll watch your back.”
Double click.
The room was long and cluttered, lit by the glare of fluorescence. A long workbench stretched along one stark wall, with vises mounted to it. Small electronic scales were scattered along its length, and square glassine drawer units were stacked against the wall at the back of the workbench. Joosse was reaching inside a cabinet with battered, green, double doors. Cuchulain reached back with his right hand, swinging his jacket clear and resting his hand on his hip, his hand two inches from the butt of the Beretta, the other hand casually stuck into his left trouser pocket. They waited, with Herr Joosse puttering, taking items from cabinets.
“One guy entering the building, in a hurry. Doesn’t walk like a hitter. Walks like a damned penguin.”
Double click.
Herr Joosse turned from a cabinet, holding a scale and several instruments in his hand. He started at the sight of Cuchulain, looming menacingly in the doorway. He walked back toward the office, carrying the scale, an instrument that looked like a miniature microscope, two sets of large tweezers, and a yellow notepad.
“I think we’re ready, Mr. Santayana,” he said as he sat down and arranged the tools on the desk. “Philip should be here soon.”
“I think he’s on his way up,” Alex smiled.
Joosse looked up, startled, and then noticed the earpiece. He smiled, a little ruefully. “I think that you are not only a cautious man, but perhaps a dangerous man as well, Mr. Santayana. My advice seems to be unnecessary.”
“I pose no threat to you, Herr Joosse,” Alex said, as he moved casually to the wall behind the door. “I merely want to transact my business without interference.”
“Try not to upset Philip, if you please,” Joosse said. “He is quite talented and loyal, but easily intimidated. I’m a little older.”
There was a knock at the door, then it opened. A short man walked in; he was narrow at the shoulders and wide at the hips. He started to speak to Herr Joosse, then noticed Cuchulain standing along the wall. Cuchulain smiled and nodded. Philip did walk like a penguin.
“This is Herr Santayana, Philip. He has a rather large transaction for us to sort and price.”
Two hours later, they had finished. Joosse, his aging face showing the strain of the close work and the late hour, looked at the tape on his adding machine, then compared it to the one Philip handed to him. He nodded. “Seventeen million, six hundred, seventy-four thousand US dollars, Mr. Santayana. Do we have a deal?”
“We have a deal. What are the mechanics?” Alex said.
“You may either leave the diamonds with me in a sealed container, with both of us signing over the seal, or you may take them with you, then wait an hour or so while we go over them again. I will have the five hundred thousand in cash delivered in the morning, just after we open at ten.”
Alex nodded and paused, then said, “Let’s put them into an envelope, seal it, and each of us sign across the seal. Then I will take it with me. In the morning, you can take as long as you’d like to recheck the diamonds.”
“Fine. We shall expect you at ten tomorrow morning.” Joosse stood, as Philip stared at him. They bagged the diamonds and put them into a padded envelope, then signed. Alex handed him a small envelope containing instructions.
“I’m moving. Turn right out of the building and hang out near the entrance to the second building on your right,” Jerome said.
Double click.
Cuchulain walked out of the building and turned left, then quickly right. An elderly couple was walking their dog, pausing every few seconds as the dog discovered new opportunities to mark his path. Alex walked casually to the second building, then faded into the shadow of the doorway, still checking the street. He heard a steel door open, then Jerome, wearing a black trench coat, walked from the other side of the building. They moved quickly to the car. Alex slipped into the driver’s seat and started the motor, while Jerome watched the street. Jerome opened his coat and slipped the Heckler and Koch PSG rifle onto the floor of the back seat, then dropped his trench coat over the rifle. As Jerome slipped in, Cuchulain drove briskly to the third of the hotels where Jerome had rented a room for the week, cash in advance, and no questions asked.
“How’d we do?” Jerome asked excitedly.
“A little over fifteen million in the bank,” Alex said. “And five hundred grand in cash for pocket money, plus a bit unsold for a rainy day.”
Jerome whistled through his teeth. “Far fuckin’ out! What’s with the five hundred grand in cash and the unsold shit?”
Cuchulain grinned in the dark. “I got a little greedy and a bit paranoid. I decided that we’ll have enough money after paying taxes that the IRS won’t be able to track another two hundred and fifty apiece if we’re careful. Just keep it in cash. Don’t put it in a bank and don’t go playing the ponies with it. It also struck my always-active paranoia that we can fit a million dollars into a hollowed-out shoe heel if we ever have to run or vanish; that’s four diamonds each from our pile.”
“Fat chance on the ponies and me,” Jero
me snorted. “And I like the paranoia thing. A million bucks in cash takes up a lot of space. Four diamonds in a shoe is a nice, concealable liquid touch. Good one!”
East Coast,
United States Later
ALEX spent the next several years at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, getting a degree first in electrical engineering, then in computer science, spending much of his time studying. With the credits transferred for the courses he had taken on government money at William and Mary and at the University of Virginia while still working for Mac, Alex was able to earn both degrees in less than three years. His grades were so good that his advisor had suggested that an academic career at a prestigious institution was within his reach. Alex was restless, not ready to take a job, not wanting to pursue the PhD his advisor was pushing, and not sure why he felt one way or the other. Earlier, Alex had received a rather formal written invitation, forwarded after close examination at the Farm, to come to England to visit with Lord Archibald Alistair. Alistair was the father of a slain SAS captain with whom Alex had served while on a cross-training assignment with the Britain’s elite SAS in Scotland and again on a later mission. Colin Alistair had befriended Cuchulain before he had died; not many had.
Lord Alistair’s letter came at a good moment, and triggered Alex’s next move. For a time he’d had a sense of something missing from his life. Perhaps, because of having been a “patriotic assassin,” Alex longed to be more thoughtful, to consider the deeper side of things.
After consulting with his CMU advisor and an Egyptian friend on the faculty, and having promises of a handful of decent recommendations, he applied to the program in Arabic studies at Oxford. His grandfather would be delighted. There was much he wanted to think about, with academic guidance. It would be at least three months before he would hear from Oxford. Whatever the decision, Alex wanted to spend most of the waiting time in the desert. He’d get to England sooner or later.