African Ice (36 page)

He told anyone who asked that he was an editor for a book publisher with offices in Manhattan. He often carried briefcases jammed with blank paper, and never wore a suit. They believed him. But Shaw was no Ichabod Crane. He was the Headless Horseman. The specter of death that rode about, killing at will. And his world was not limited to Sleepy Hollow and the Old Dutch Church. His world was global. All the resources that modern technology could provide were within his grasp. Any weapon or communication device he wanted was his for the asking. He had the connections, and he had the money. And what he didn't have, Kerrigan did.

Shaw's tenure as a counter-terrorist squad commander had given him access to a vast resource base, but it was Kerrigan's moles inside the CIA and NSA who could ferret out the most discreet information. That, plus his wealth, made Kerrigan a very dangerous man. For seven years, he had taken orders from Kerrigan and the two men had a reasonably trusting relationship. As trusting as can be had, considering the nature of his business. He had seen the vast amounts of money Kerrigan skimmed off the unproductive Gem-Star properties and he wanted a piece of the action. Mostly for the money, but also to be an equal partner and not just a hired gun. But Kerrigan had consistently shut him down, something no other person on the planet dared do. It pissed him off. The thought of killing Kerrigan had passed through his mind numerous times, but he really had no interest in doing it. The thought of ripping him off, however, was intriguing.

Shaw knew Kerrigan had connections to other men similar to himself—men who killed people. And he knew that if he stole from Kerrigan, he would have to kill the man. The CIA and NSA contacts were too good. They could track him no matter where he hid. They would eventually find him, and then the assassins would come. So it all came back to business as usual. Kerrigan gave him a target and he sniffed him out, usually with the help of the moles, and then eliminated the victim. Easy, and very profitable. An idea came to him and he put a call through to Kerrigan's private line.

“Have your men watch Israel for a large diamond or a small quantity of lesser-carat roughs coming onto the market. They may have brought more out with them than you took from Carlson. They may need cash. Credit cards are out of the question. McNeil would never use a credit card when someone is looking for him.”

“Excellent idea,” Kerrigan said. “I'll have my sources get on it. Anything else?”

“Nothing we didn't cover earlier today. I'm heading for Israel tomorrow. Call me on my cell phone when you have something.”

“Okay.”

He replaced the phone in the cradle and poured himself a drink of bourbon. He sipped it slowly, relishing the way it gently burned as it went down. Great bourbon. And a great life. After all, he was about to make more money killing one person than most people could make in a lifetime. Free enterprise. He loved it.

The only obstacle was his adversary. Travis McNeil. This was a man not to be taken lightly. He knew Liam O'Donnell and what O'Donnell had been capable of. The man had survived situations that had buried many others, yet McNeil had taken out him and his entire team. And that was after McNeil had wiped out an entire platoon of crack Congolese troops on their own turf. No, this guy was not be trifled with. When they met, as they would, his strike would be quick and decisive. Travis McNeil would never know what hit him.

Samantha was up before the sun, jogging on the deserted beach as the first rays of dawn poked over the flat expanse of the Mediterranean. The sky lightened as pastel colors merged with the last darkness of night, chasing the stars behind a veil of undulating orange. The sun's crown thrust above the horizon, a beautiful arc of burning amber. Then it rose, quickly, and Samantha looked back to the beach as the intensity began to hurt her eyes. A solitary figure was jogging toward her. He moved with alacrity, every motion of his powerful legs bringing him closer to her. She recognized the silhouette—Travis.

He pulled up a few yards from her and slowed to a walk. She felt the sand between her toes and the new warmth of the sun as he closed the last few feet. He slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close. She could feel his chest moving rhythmically, and his breath felt hot as he kissed her. They remained entwined for a few moments; then he backed off and took her hand. They walked casually back toward the hotel.

“You like to jog in the morning?” he asked her.

“Sometimes. It clears my head, lets me think better.” She paused. “Not every morning, though.”

“That's good, because I hate this shit. Nothing before coffee is my motto.”

“Nothing?” she asked.

He looked like a kid staring at the loaded tree on Christmas morning. “I could make exceptions, shall we say, every day.” She didn't respond, just squeezed his hand and angled for the light surf straying onto the beach. The water slithered across the sand and over their toes, wiping out their footprints. She looked back and frowned.

“Is that what life is like? Once you move on, everything you did in your life is wiped out, forgotten? That's sad.”

“Everyone leaves an impression. Some greater than others. But the people we touch during our lives are our legacy. We live on in them. Our friends, our kids, the people we meet in our business lives. You don't have to be written up in a history text to have been successful in life. Even though you'll most likely be a footnote in lots of geology texts.”

“Is that really important? In the overall scheme of things, what does my proficiency in geology matter?”

“It has to matter. It has to mean something that you're one of the best in the career you chose. Look at your father. He was a very successful man. I'm sure he won awards, wrote articles, published his theses. And you love him and respect him. Your mother, too. She was an extremely accomplished woman. She lives on in you. People who make a positive influence on you are remembered.”

He was right. Society placed a measuring stick on your life, judging you by the degrees you held and the money in your bank account. But what really mattered was how you treated the other people you interacted with over the course of your life. The shoe salesman, the dentist, your corner grocer, your spouse. If each person who touched your life was enriched by it,
that
was success. She stopped walking and hugged him, looking into his eyes.

“Think you can wait fifteen minutes for that first coffee?” she asked.

Two hours later, he set his croissant back on the plate and sipped his coffee. He looked out over the view of Vlicha Bay, thinking about what Samantha had just said. “Okay, I agree that our best plan is to destroy Kerrigan's reputation. But do you think contacting Davis Perth is safe? You don't think the CEO of Gem-Star knows what Kerrigan is up to?”

“It's a guess, but no, I don't think he does. Kerrigan has hidden the past expeditions, including ours, from Gem-Star. If Davis Perth were in the know, he wouldn't have done that. I think we're okay to approach him. The problem is, how? He's always off sailing somewhere. And we can't leave a voice mail.”

“No shit. But we have to find him if we want to discredit Kerrigan. We can talk to Davis Perth and tell him what Kerrigan is up to. That should take care of Kerrigan's job. He'll still be wealthy, but I don't see how we can change that.”

“There's no way. I'm sure he's got money spread all over the planet in numbered accounts, real estate, safety deposit boxes, God knows what else.”

“What about his professional reputation? He deals in precious stones, Sam. That must be a relatively small community.”

“It is, but I have no idea how to make him look bad.” She sat quietly, gently running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup, thinking.

“Aw, this is frustrating,” he said after a minute of silence. “He keeps getting away with murder, and he keeps getting richer. He'll probably take those stones he grabbed from you in Cairo and sell them. What did you say they were worth? Twenty million?”

“Probably closer to twenty-five,” she said, then stopped, her eyes wide. “That's it. That's how we can get him.” She left the balcony and powered up the computer. She logged on and searched for Antwerp, then diamond sights. Seven hits. She checked each one carefully, looking for a sight recently added to the list. She found one, then studied the inventory the sight would offer.

“Bingo. A new sight was added to the Antwerp schedule two days ago. It goes in ten days from now and features forty-one diamonds. Thirty-two stones, eight shapes and one cleavage. It's exactly what he took from us in Cairo, less one shape, one cleavage and four macles. This is definitely Kerrigan. He's selling the diamonds.”

“Okay, that's great. We know where he'll be in ten days, but what can we do about it?”

“I have some contacts in Antwerp,” she answered, her mind racing. “I may be able to get in on this sight.”

“What good will that do?”

“The Diamond Purchasing and Trading Company often invites world-class field geologists to the sights. An additional expert opinion is always welcome. If we can get something put together in the next few days, we may be able to destroy him professionally.”

“How?”

“A member of the World Federation of Diamond Bourses, of which Kerrigan is one, automatically loses his membership if he goes into bankruptcy or attempts to defraud another member at a sight. He's then disbarred and his name is sent worldwide on green slips to every Bourse and Club. That ex-member will never trade in precious stones again.”

“And we can do that to him?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “We need two things. First, I need an invitation to that sight. And my name has to be kept under wraps until the exact moment the sight begins. That way, Kerrigan has no advance notice that I'll be there.”

“He
will
be there, won't he?”

“Oh, yes, he'll be there. We'll be eye to eye.”

“What's the other thing you need?”

“Some hardware. What I plan to do is steal the real diamonds and replace them with fakes. Paste of the highest quality and barely discernable, but paste. We leave with the real stones and he's left with his reputation in ruins.”

“Okay. What do you need to produce the fake diamonds?”

“I'll take my own proportion analyzer, eyepiece and mini-microscope with me. So I'll need a case to keep the equipment in. And the case is how we can duplicate the gems. Here, take a look.” Samantha took a piece of hotel stationery and drew a rough sketch of a case. She noted the dimensions as about four inches high by twelve inches long and nine inches deep. She drew another box inside the first one, about an inch smaller all around. She lightly shaded in the area between the two boxes.

“The larger case is the exterior shell and the inner box will contain the instruments. The shaded space in between is ultra-light rubber padding. Or so they'll think. In reality, the padding will be a special mixture of polymers that can form around objects and then harden once given the correct catalyst. The clasp will not only open the outer case, but if you turn it one more twist, you have access to the padding.” She drew as she spoke, now adding two small holes to both the top and bottom sections of the case. “These holes will provide a means of injecting the catalyst and the liquid zircon.”

“You're going to duplicate the diamonds right at the sight,” he said softly. “You put the originals in the top and bottom compartments, inject the catalyst to form the casts, then pour in the gunk to form the fakes. Unbelievable.”

“You forgot one step. After I form the fake diamonds, I have to coat them with a light greenish colorant so they look exactly like the originals.”

“Will it work?”

“If we can find someone to modify a standard manufacture box in time, yes. If not . . .”

“We're in luck.” He grabbed the phone. “I know exactly the person. This guy can make anything work. Especially if it eventually blows up.” He finished dialing and looked at her. She was just staring at him. “He's a munitions expert,” he explained, “but he can do shit like this. No problem.”

“Where is he?”

“London, England. At least the last time I talked to him . . .” He held up a finger as the line to the European continent connected. “Basil, Travis McNeil. How the hell are you, old boy?”

Samantha listened for a few minutes, then tired as they yapped on about what they'd been up to for the last year. The overall tone was good, though. McNeil was excitedly explaining to his colleague what they needed, and by his tone, Sam was pretty sure this Basil fellow was saying he could do it. She strode onto the balcony and took in the view. The late-morning surf was almost nonexistent, the waves just a ghost of what they could be. Nature could be so calming.

He popped out from the hotel room and gave her the thumbs up. She listened as he detailed exactly how he knew Basil, and why the man was so trustworthy. Travis was talkative and she let him ramble on, inserting an occasional comment to keep things moving. But her mind was elsewhere—in Antwerp. She kept thinking about what lay ahead of them and hoping she hadn't overestimated her abilities. The success of duplicating the diamonds and destroying Kerrigan's reputation fell directly on her shoulders. And it was a heavy burden.

She looked to the sea and breathed in the warm salt air. They were going on the offensive. They were going after Kerrigan, and that was good.

“Watching for a large diamond to hit the Israeli market was a brilliant idea, Garret,” Kerrigan said, giving his assassin the jeweler's name. “He purchased a twenty-eight carat stone four days ago in Rafah, a border town on the Egypt-Israeli line. His shop is on the Jewish side. My NSA man found the connection because he put it on the auction block right after he bought it. Sold it to some other Jewish jeweler in Tel-Aviv.”