Trevor snorted. “You know who she is, right?”
“Mrs. DeLuca?” When Trevor nodded, Ham said, “Grampa said she was Mafia, right?”
“The Pacelli Family,” Trevor went on. “Francesca DeLuca is one of the few Chicago families who can trace their lineage from Rothstein straight to Capone.”
“Really.” Ham rocked back.
Trevor’s lips thinned to a smirk. “Her father was Tony Pacelli. Silver-tongued Tony, they called him. In the Fifties he could have gone to Vegas with Bugsy or Cuba with Lansky. He chose Lansky and ended up running a big resort in Havana. He and his family barely got out in ’59. Over the years Pacelli rebuilt the family business in gambling, narcotics, hooking. Legitimate businesses, too. The daughter is head of the Family now.”
Ham’s eyebrows rose sky-high. “You’re telling me a woman heads up an Outfit family?”
“Why not? They’re in every other industry.”
“But—but…” Ham sputtered. “The Mob?”
“Her husband was a jerk. They say she offed him when her father made her the don. Or donna, I guess we should say. ”
“No shit.”
“No shit,” Trevor said. “No Mafioso, man or woman, can afford to look weak. So in case you were wondering, that’s who you’re working for. I’d advise you not to forget it.”
“You’re working for her too.”
“Nick asked you to be the liaison.”
Ham expected Trevor to add “thankfully,” but he didn’t. Trevor was white bread, a WASP from Connecticut. Ham came from Italian stock on his mother’s side, and while his family wasn’t connected, he saw things differently. Part of it was the Mob’s history. Dirt-poor Sicilian peasants, oppressed by the rich, came to the New World and within a generation, prospered. How could you not respect them, at least a little? Despite their tactics, which ranged from brutal to foolhardy, theirs was an ethnic Horatio Alger story.
Part of it, too, he knew, was his youth. Gen X and Y’ers were both casual and cynical. They took it for granted that corruption was rife, and they didn’t have the same idealism their parents did. Practical and flexible, they didn’t want to cleanse the system. They wanted to profit from it.
Ham leaned forward. “Well, I guess she couldn’t be any worse than a governor or two, could she? And, unlike the politicians who hired us in the past, she’ll probably pay her bills.”
“We can hope. In the meantime, I know a guy who can tell you more about African mining operations.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ham called Trevor’s contact at the Canada National Bank in Toronto. Over the years Canadian financiers had carved out a special expertise in mining and energy resources. Unlike the U.S., Canada hadn’t soured on shale oil and tar sands, and they were interested in moving oil through their pipelines. They were also on the lookout for the next best mineral that would capture the investment world’s attention. And one of the only places in the world that still brimmed with opportunity was Africa. Trevor had met Tom Corcoran at a conference in Florida a few months earlier, and they’d exchanged business cards over martinis, he told Ham.
“Tom Corcoran’s office.”
Ham introduced himself and explained he was calling at the suggestion of his boss, George Trevor. “I’m an analyst in natural resources and I’d like to pick his brain.”
The receptionist said that Mr. Corcoran was out until late afternoon but she’d give him the message. Toronto was an hour ahead of Chicago, so Ham said he’d be in his office for a while.
He was about to pack up and head out to buy steaks for his dinner with Luisa when his outside line burred.
“Hamilton Snower?”
“Yes?”
“Tom Corcoran. You called?” He spoke with a clipped British accent.
“Thanks for calling back. My boss George Trevor said he met you in Marco Island a few months ago and recommended I get in touch.”
“Trevor, Trevor…”
“He’s a VP with Nicholas Financial in Chicago,” Ham said.
“Yes, of course.” Corcoran’s tone sounded cool and artificial. “Well then, what can I do for you?”
“A client of ours is interested in potentially investing in a mine in Angola. George says you’re an expert in mining and I’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Happy to help. Where in Angola is this mine?”
“It’s in the northeastern part of the country.”
“Near the Congo border.”
“Yes. In fact it’s supposedly near a town that’s very close to the border.”
“What town is that?” Corcoran asked.
“Dundo.”
There was a momentary pause. “I know Dundo,” he said.
Ham’s pulse sped up. “What can you tell me about it?”
Corcoran chuckled. “It’s trying to become civilized. For about three blocks. They have a hotel. But that’s a cover. You can’t really call it a city. The place is wild.”
“In what way?”
“You need to remember in that part of the world, borders are—shall we say—porous. There is usually a tug of war. More than one, actually. Especially when minerals are concerned. It makes for a dangerous situation. There’s still quite a lot of fighting.”
“What are they fighting over?”
“What do you know about that part of the world?”
“I know there is supposed to be gold there. And diamonds, of course. Copper. A little quartz. That’s about it. That’s why I’m calling.”
“You’re working with old data, my friend. Diamonds are considerably less desirable since the conflict diamonds mess blew up. Gold is too expensive and unpredictable, and the other minerals you mentioned aren’t worth the investment. There’s only one substance everyone wants.”
“What’s that?” Ham asked.
“Coltan. It’s short for columbite–tantalite. Ever heard of it?”
“Sure. It’s mined in the Congo.”
“So they say. You know what it’s used for, right?”
“Something to do with computers.”
“Lad, you need to bone up on your intel. Coltan does not simply have something to do with computers. It has everything to do with them. Laptops, cell phones. DVD players. Game systems. Computers. Pagers. Pretty much any electronic product on the market.”
Ham leaned back. “I didn’t know.”
“Most people don’t,” Corcoran said. “Coltan is an essential ingredient in electronic capacitors. It holds a strong electrical charge for a long time. Which makes it ideal to control the current inside all those miniature circuit boards. It can be recycled, but, as you can probably imagine, demand for it has exploded. Companies like Sony and Nokia will do anything for a stable supply of the stuff.”
“Wow.” Ham knew he sounded like a rube, but this was news to him.
“Yes, wow. And the problem is, there isn’t very much of it. In fact, it’s extremely rare, except in the Congo. Which means whoever has the coltan has the power. It’s why rebel militias in the Congo, who are backed by Rwanda and Uganda by the way, as well as multi-national corporations, are tripping all over each other to get it. The rebels, incidentally, are the same bloody bastards who exploited the diamond market fifteen years ago. They’re back now, and there’s smuggling. Child labor. Pillage and rape. Not to mention what’s happened to the environment.”
“But that’s the Congo,” Ham said. “Right?”
“Ah. But what country borders the Congo?”
“Are you saying there are deposits of coltan in Angola?”
“Now that’s the big question, isn’t it?” Corcoran chuckled again. “I know people who would like nothing more than to find a supply of coltan a good distance from the exploitation and the fighting.”
“So if someone had a map of an area near Dundo, they might be looking for coltan?”
Ham heard the man clear his throat.
Shit. He was sure he wasn’t supposed to mention the
map. Mrs. DeLuca had demanded strict confidentiality. He smacked himself on his forehead. Had he blown it?
But Corcoran went on as if it hadn’t registered.
“Well, they don’t call it black gold for nothing.” Corcoran paused. “Now, time for you to tell why you’ve been interrogating me.”
“I told you. We have a client who may have an interest in exploring the area but they want more information.”
“I see.” Ham knew Corcoran wouldn’t ask who the client was, and he didn’t. “Well, tell them it’s dicey. Not only because of the rebels but also because of the rival companies trying to edge each other out. Even the Chinese are dipping their toes into the market. There’s no question it is enormously lucrative, but I’d advise waiting until things are more settled. If they don’t know what they’re doing, your client could lose his entire investment.”
“I get it. And thank you, Mr. Corcoran. I appreciate your time.”
“Glad to help. Tell Trevor I send my best.”
• • •
Tom Corcoran only vaguely remembered George Trevor, and he didn’t have a clue who Ham Snower was, but the mention of Dundo and a map triggered an alarm. He looked at his watch. It was after seven in Boston, but he had his client’s cell. His biggest client, the guy was CEO of a company whose volume of investment business with the bank had helped Tom get promoted to VP. Of course, the company wasn’t doing so well these days; then again, who was?
But that’s not what was on Tom Corcoran’s mind. The CEO had said if he ever heard anything about a map in Northern Angola near a tiny little fucked-up place called Dundo, he should call right away.
Corcoran picked up the phone.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
David Schaffer hung up the phone after talking to Tom Corcoran. He tried to curb his emotion. He’d had plenty of leads before that turned out to be zilch, so until he could check it out, he couldn’t afford to let himself get excited. Still, he couldn’t resist a little daydreaming. He’d been trying to track down the map for years. And each year he didn’t find it made it more valuable. Not because he wanted it and couldn’t get it. Coltan was one of the most valuable substances in the world today.
He went downstairs for dinner. As his wife, Carol, poured him a glass of Cabernet, he smiled. It was a rare event.
“Good news?” Carol asked.
“Maybe.”
“Well, that’s nice.” She went back into the kitchen to get their meal. As he heard her opening and closing the refrigerator, he realized they’d reached the state of détente of couples who should never have married. There was no overt aggression, no hostility towards each other. They shared mostly—indifference. Which wasn’t unusual. At least for David.
He hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but it was better than stainless steel. He was the only child of upwardly mobile parents: his mother a doctor, his father an insurance executive. By the time he was six, he’d become king of the household, and used his position to manipulate his parents. “Boundaries” were not words in the Schaffer family vocabulary, and David was given everything he wanted, mostly to ease his mother’s guilt for not being home during the day.
Still, he was a shy child, and slow to develop social skills. At one point his mother thought he might have Asperger’s, but the kid shrink she took him to said he was lonely and needed to socialize.
As he grew up, though, David preferred to be home and by himself for one important reason. When his babysitter was on the phone or watching soaps, which was almost all the time, he had the opportunity to go through his parents’ possessions. He was twelve when he found out his father had a mistress on the side; fourteen when he figured out the combination of the wall safe in their bedroom. And on the day his mother accidentally left her cell phone at home he learned she had a significant prescription drug addiction.
David never used the secrets he’d uncovered, but they made him realize that information was power, and he vowed to always have the right information. In high school, he wasn’t a bully, but he always seemed to have dirt on the other kids. Most didn’t like him much, but figured it was safer to keep him close than to make him an enemy.
After four unremarkable years in college, David decided to build a career in electronics. He was no Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg. David didn’t have their vision or ambition. The best place for him, he figured, would be to copy what others built.
By the mid-eighties he’d convinced his parents to take a second mortgage on the house so they could underwrite his business: a company that would manufacture components for all the electronic devices that were turning from drawing board dreams into reality. It turned out he had a good head for business, and within five years, Schaffer Electronics turned a profit.
His most important task was to acquire a steady supply of raw materials, and David scoured the world for vendors. When he started the company, he needed plastics that were both light and heat resistant to house electronic components. By the nineties, however, the market had changed. Smaller, more portable devices like cell phones, game systems, and laptops dominated, and David expanded into electronic capacitors, essential components for the new power supplies. And for those he needed a supplier who could sell him coltan at a reasonable price.
David found that company in Macedonian Metals, a huge conglomerate headquartered in Delaware. As usual, David did his due diligence before he approached them. He had plenty of resources at his disposal, mostly former intelligence operatives who were now infiltrating the corporate world to ferret out information about a company’s competitors, suppliers, and strategic partners.
Through them David discovered that Macedonian was using child labor in Africa to work the coltan mines. Through them David also found out Macedonian was supplying African rebels who were mining the stuff with arms so they could overthrow whatever government happened to be in power. Armed with his intel, he approached Macedonian executives and managed to snag a contract for coltan at a very attractive price.
It was an astute move, but David knew it wouldn’t last. He was at the mercy of a huge company that could jack up their prices at any time. He needed a stable supply, preferably his own, if he was to become a major player.
His break came from a retired CIA official who was doing corporate espionage. David had hired him to find out where more coltan could be found. The man told him about one of his former CIA buddies named Walters who knew about a map of a mine in Angola that supposedly held the key to the future. David had his guy get in touch with Walters to find out what the substance in the mine was.
When he learned it was coltan, David rejoiced. This could be his salvation. If David could control the mine, there would be no limit to his fortune. He would get contracts from Motorola, Apple, and Sony. At the very least, he would no longer be dependent on Macedonian. He decided to underwrite an operation to get the map.
Then all hell broke loose. The map, which pointed to a shithole outpost called Dundo, apparently belonged to a Cuban who had become an asset to the agency. But Walters, who had run the asset, was unexpectedly gunned down in Havana, and the map—as well as the asset—disappeared. To make matters worse, as he’d feared, the price of coltan spiked, increasing almost six hundred percent in less than a year. Everyone was going after the stuff, including the Chinese. Schaffer’s profits tanked, and the future of the company was suddenly in jeopardy.
Because it was the one thing he couldn’t have, it became the only thing worth having. Over the next twenty years, David downsized his company, laid off employees, and made do with a meager—but overpriced—supply of coltan from Macedonian. But he continued to obsess over the map. It became his holy grail, a beacon obscured, luring him with salvation.
Over the years he commissioned satellite photos of Angola, put out feelers to the intelligence and financial communities, and sifted through reports from geologists and analysts. He never entertained the notion of failure. He had no doubt that he would eventually locate the map, mine the t
erritory, and reap the rewards.
So when his banker Tom Corcoran called, David knew this was his chance.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Luisa’s kiss was still on Ham’s lips twenty-four hours later. All day his thoughts had been full of her. What her skin would feel like. How her nipples would feel between his fingers. How he would feel when he entered her.
So, after his conversation with Tom Corcoran, he raced up to Evanston on the El to buy steaks, potatoes, salad fixings, and two bottles of Merlot. Luisa arrived promptly at seven, and he turned out a damn good dinner, if he said so himself. They made their way through one of the bottles of Merlot and halfway through the second before she waved off the bottle.
“I can’t eat or drink another thing,” she said. “This was incredible.”
Ham smiled and led her into the living room. He put on Dave Brubeck—he was a jazz lover—and they lounged feet to feet on his suede-cloth sofa. After an hour he inched across to her side and kissed her, more deeply than their kiss last night. She responded, and within a few minutes, they were in his bedroom, and he no longer had to imagine what she felt like.
Afterwards, curled up together, they talked. She told him about Jed.
“What are you going to do?”
“Break up with him tomorrow. Unless… you don’t want me to.”
“Are you kidding?” He gathered her close. Her hair smelled like cinnamon and honey. Sultry, not flowery.
“Consider it done.” She gave him a solemn look.
He kissed her softly, and fluffed up two pillows. He slid one behind her head, the other behind his. “I’ve been doing work on the map. I talked to a guy today who seems to think the mine might be coltan.”
“What’s that?”
He explained.
Luisa brightened. “A pot of gold!”
[2012] Havana Lost Page 28
