“My cutters would be most grateful if a greater proportion of our sights were made up of larger rather than smaller melees, which are the dregs of the diamond trade.”
“You have the only workers capable of turning a profit on the smaller melees,” van Luik said. “However, if India would like its allotment reduced, DSD will do so. China has made inquiry about the melee trade recently. We told them our entire output of rough was allocated at present. Naturally we assured them that we would keep their interest in mind, should the situation change.”
Singh’s face went very dark beneath his stark white turban. Yet when he spoke, his voice was flat and calm. “India has no objection to the kind or quantity of diamonds it will receive in the next three months from DSD.”
“Excellent. Your cooperation will be remembered. Mr. Feinberg, your associates’ requests will be met in full.”
Feinberg nodded.
“Mr. Yarakov, the market for larger gems is just recovering from the disastrous speculation of 1980 and 1981,” van Luik said. “We regret that we can handle no more of your output.”
Yarakov looked angry but didn’t open his mouth.
Van Luik paused, obviously expecting an argument. When none came, he went on to the next prayer. “Mr. Aram, your requests are unreasonable. If we allocated you that many melees, India and the Soviet Union would have little work for their own polishers.”
Van Luik’s dry, soft voice carried easily through the big room, because none of the people moved or muttered among themselves. Even Moshe Aram was quiet. In the 1970s, Israel had cut eighty percent of all melees. But in the early 1980s, Israel had been instrumental in the diamond speculation that had nearly broken DSD’s hold on the diamond market. ConMin hadn’t forgotten. Or forgiven. The cartel had cancelled the valuable sight invitations of 150 diamantaires, thereby gutting the diamond industry in Tel Aviv.
Soviet and Indian markets now received the majority of the melees.
“You will receive thirty-seven point six percent of your melee request,” van Luik continued. “The Soviet Union will receive eighty-nine point eight percent of its request. Those amounts will be evenly divided among the next three sights in London. How you divide it among your diamantaires is, as always, a matter of your own discretion.”
“You have punished us long enough,” Aram said roughly. “We have done as you wished. We have altered our banking regulations and raised the margin requirements on sight boxes. Our cutters can no longer speculate. What more do you want from us, that we tear down Ramat Gan? What gives you the right to bleed the economy of a small, struggling, democratic nation and send our lifeblood to men who persecute Jews in the Soviet Union?”
“DSD trades in diamonds, not ideologies,” van Luik said neutrally, shifting Israel’s prayer to the bottom of the pile as he spoke. “You may, of course, ask for an increase in your allotment at this group’s next advisory meeting.”
“But—”
“The neutrality of DSD is well known,” Nan Faulkner said dryly, cutting off another angry eruption from Aram. “Somehow, both sides in World War Two managed to get their hands on industrial diamonds. Nothing has changed since then.”
Faulkner stubbed out her cigarillo and gave van Luik a level look.
“It’s also well known that what happens in these advisory meetings has a ripple effect that goes far beyond the diamond market,” she said. “You may not consider ideology, but each government represented at this table does. If the Israeli cut stands, I’ll be forced to recommend that our American sight-holders substantially lower their requests.”
Van Luik was surprised, but he didn’t show it. “You may naturally do as you wish. However, in your country the sight-holders are also free to go against your recommendations. In that case DSD would naturally cater to the requests of its most immediate market—your retail jewelers.”
Faulkner’s smile was as cold as the glass of ice water she drained before answering. “Yeah, that’s the problem with a real democracy,” she said, lighting another cigarillo. “But I tell you, it wouldn’t take much effort to raise the taxes on diamonds at each stage—imported rough, loose polished stones, and finally set stones. In a year or two, diamond jewelry would go up in price, say, sixty percent in the American marketplace. Luxuries are just that, babe. Luxuries. If they get too pricey, people go without.”
Van Luik opened his mouth.
Faulkner was quicker. “As for the sentimental trade,” she continued, “lots of Americans would follow Princess Di’s example and have colored gems in their engagement rings, especially if the jewelry manufacturers launched a campaign based on treating your loved one like royalty. At the same time, there might be a grass-roots political movement to boycott apartheid’s diamonds.”
“No aspect of Consolidated Minerals, Inc., has ever supported apartheid,” van Luik said flatly, “and that most definitely includes DSD.”
“Tough shit, babe. People associate diamonds and the diamond cartel with South Africa. Within five years at most, fifty percent of your American market would dry up. Maybe even seventy-five percent.”
Faulkner smoked her cigarillo and said no more. She didn’t have to. U.S. sales accounted for more than a third of all gem transactions in the world—the most profitable third.
“There is always Japan,” van Luik pointed out.
“There sure is,” Faulkner agreed, her voice hearty as she picked up the pitcher of ice water and began to pour. “The U.S. led them into buying diamond engagement rings. We can lead them right out again. That leaves you with half your former world market, which means that every country at this table just took a fifty percent cut in pay. Hardly worth it just to yank Israel’s chain one more time, is it?”
“Remember, Ms. Faulkner, Consolidated Minerals controls more than diamonds.”
“Which is the only reason there hasn’t been a grass-roots campaign against diamonds in the U.S. before now,” Faulkner shot back, setting down the water pitcher with a thump. “You need our diamond markets, and we need your strategic minerals. So let’s cut the bullshit and find a more generous compromise than you’ve suggested so far.”
Van Luik could count his heartbeats in the stabbing pain behind his eyes. He’d warned his superiors that the United States might be difficult if ConMin squeezed Israel too hard. No one had listened.
Now they would have to.
“Perhaps the loss of jobs and foreign exchange in Israel could be compensated for in another way,” van Luik said, looking toward Singh.
“Forget it,” Faulkner said. “Israel doesn’t need any favors at India’s expense. Why not take it out of the Bear’s thick hide? The Soviet share of the melee market has gone up by about ten percent every six months for the last nine years.”
Yarakov turned on Faulkner and spoke before van Luik could. “As a result of recent political changes in our country, the Soviet Union has employment and foreign exchange problems of its own. Your country supports glasnost in the world press, but we still have to pay for American wheat with American dollars.”
“Take your restructuring even further,” Aram suggested in a hard voice. “Incorporate your farms. Then you’d be up to your ass in wheat, just like America.”
“Gentlemen,” van Luik said sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I believe the basis for compromise exists. Russia will continue cutting an increasing proportion of the larger melees, because the Soviet Union does a better job than anyone else for the same money.”
Aram looked unhappy but kept silent. What van Luik said was the truth, no matter how distasteful.
“The Soviet Union will guarantee a good price on melees for Israel’s artisans to fashion into jewelry,” van Luik continued, giving Yarakov an unflinching stare. “In turn, Israel will agree to train a number of Soviet craftsmen in the art of creating luxury jewelry.” He turned toward Nan Faulkner. “Does that seem a satisfactory compromise?”
“Ask Moshe. It’s his country,” Faulkner said, blowing out a pale
stream of smoke. “The United States would have no objection so long as the net result doesn’t hurt Israel’s position within world economies.”
Van Luik nodded and felt a tremor of relief. Faulkner was the key. Her tacit acceptance of the compromise meant that markets rather than ideologies would rule again today.
“Mr. Aram?” Van Luik turned toward the Israeli.
“We would require a twenty-year noncompetition agreement,” Aram said sharply. “We taught the Russians how to cut melees and look what happened. They’re running us out of the market.”
“Five years,” Yarakov said, looking at his blunt hands rather than at Aram.
“Fifteen.”
“Five.”
“Thir—”
“Five!” Yarakov interrupted impatiently. “That is my final offer.”
“That might be your final offer, babe, but can you kill a deal like this without Moscow’s approval?” Faulkner asked. She tipped her glass of water from side to side, making the ice inside click softly. When Yarakov was silent, Faulkner turned to Aram. “How does twelve sound to you?”
Though Faulkner’s voice was casual, there was nothing casual about her suggestion, and Aram knew it. He hesitated, then nodded. Yarakov didn’t look happy either, but he nodded also, sealing the agreement.
“Ms. Faulkner, your requests are disappointingly modest,” van Luik continued.
“So is the market.”
“We disagree. DSD studies indicate an increasing demand for luxury jewelry worldwide. We have added twenty percent to your request. We are confident that the American market will be able to absorb it, particularly with the new advertising campaign American jewelers will be launching soon.”
Faulkner knocked the ash from her cigarillo and looked skeptical.
“The theme of the campaign,” van Luik said, “is ‘The time to show her is now. Give a diamond as important as your love.’ The stress will be on mounted diamonds in excess of one carat.”
Faulkner shook her head, making the high-quality diamond studs in her earlobes glitter. “It will take time for such a campaign to have an effect. Meanwhile, we’ll have expensive diamond jewelry up the gazoo. Give us a year’s grace.”
Van Luik made a note on the paper in front of him. “Three months’ grace, Ms. Faulkner. If your sight-holders don’t like the contents of their parcels, they may, as always, refuse them.”
Faulkner stubbed out her cigarillo and said nothing.
“Are we in agreement?” van Luik asked, looking around the table. There was no dissent. “Mazel und broche.”
There was a muttered chorus of “Mazel und broche.”
Even Nan Faulkner said the traditional words before she shoved back her chair and stalked out of the room, mentally preparing her report for the Secretary of Defense. She was certain of one thing. She would conclude with a bitter truth: Another gem diamond mine was definitely needed.
A mine controlled by the United States, not ConMin.
17
Darwin, Australia
Erin looked up from the remnants of her dinner as Cole approached her. A busy restaurant hummed around her. She barely noticed it. She was watching his lithe walk with an unconscious intensity. It was the same way she listened to his words, looked at his eyes, breathed the air that had touched him….
Last night she’d fallen asleep in his lap with the hard proof of his arousal against her hip. This morning she’d awakened fully dressed and alone in the bed. The intense sexuality that was as much a part of Cole as his intelligence was fully controlled.
The realization still rippled through Erin’s mind at odd moments, rearranging everything in its wake, leaving a feeling that was both peaceful and shimmering with anticipation.
Yet even as the feeling radiated through her, she knew she was reading too much into Cole’s restraint. He wanted her, and he was smart enough to know that pushing her sexually would guarantee that he didn’t get her.
She was edging toward wanting him, and she was smart enough to know the emotional risks involved.
Cole Blackburn didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would let himself be vulnerable to love. She wasn’t the kind to give herself to a man without loving him.
“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She stood and slid her hand into his. “Did you get them?”
“They’re strapped to my waist. I got a room at a different hotel and left our stuff in it.”
“My camera bag?” she asked.
He smiled slightly. “It’s safe in the room. And no, you can’t take pictures yet. No one watching you with a camera would mistake you for a tourist.”
She sighed.
He squeezed her hand. “We’ll rent a car using the new passports and leave tomorrow morning. Once we’re out of the city you can take all the pictures you want.”
“That’s a rash promise. I’m going to hold you to it.”
Laughing, they walked out of the restaurant hand in hand, looking like a couple having a relaxed night on the town. Outside it was warm, humid, and smelled like a city built in a greenhouse.
As they strolled beyond the circle of illumination thrown by a streetlight, they all but disappeared. He was wearing lightweight cotton slacks, shirt, and shoes. All black. Erin was wearing the same. Cole had insisted on dark colors at night and khaki during the day. Since he’d bought everything—including the nylon duffels they were using as luggage—she hadn’t complained. All she had of her former baggage was a single camera bag and the diamonds belted around her waist beneath her clothes.
A breeze stirred vaguely, bringing the scent of the sea.
“Now will you let me go see the Indian Ocean?” she asked.
“Timor Sea, actually.”
“Sold.”
He laughed softly and looked down at the woman who walked so gracefully by his side. She’d been different since she’d fallen asleep in his lap. Her relaxation with him and her gentle verbal teasing only increased his desire. So did the frank approval in her eyes when she watched him.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a way down to the sea over here.”
He led her to an unlighted, zigzagging walkway that tunneled down through lush growth to the nearby water. They were only a few feet from the coarse sand beach when he stopped short, muscled her against the trunk of a tree, and pinned her in place with his body as though they were lovers too impatient to wait for privacy.
After a reflexive instant of fear at being manhandled, Erin relaxed. Cole’s predatory attention wasn’t on her. It was on the path behind them that led back up to Darwin’s sidewalks.
“I thought I heard somebody behind us,” he said very softly against her ear.
With each breath Erin took, the strength and weight of his body broke over her, sending her heart racing. Only a small part of her response was the residue of old terror. Most of it was new desire.
There was just enough light from the waxing moon for her to see the strong tendons in his neck, the black beard stubble that was a shadow beneath his skin, and the deep, steady beat of life in his throat. The pressure of his body was impersonal rather than sexual, protective rather than seductive. She told herself it was better that way.
She lied.
“Come on,” he said in a voice that was barely a thread of sound. “Farther down the beach there’s another way back up to the sidewalk.”
Their shoes made a thick, gritty sound in the coarse sand. To their right the sea lapped, rather than broke, over the beach. Clouds with blurred edges ran like buttermilk over the sky, soaking up moon and stars until nothing remained but a vague haze and a dissolving ripple of moonlight on the water. Where trees overhung the sand, intense shadow flowed out. The densities of light and shadow fascinated Erin. They weren’t like any combination of dark and bright that she’d ever seen.
“Wait here,” Cole said softly. “If you see anyone or anything move ahead of you, yell my name and come running back to me.”
“Wher
e are you going?”
The only answer was the whisper of steel being drawn from the leather sheath he wore at his wrist. Like another shade of darkness he glided back the way they had come. She stared into the night intently, trying to see where Cole had gone.
Hands shot out of the darkness, grabbing her.
Before she had a chance to panic, she was following the self-defense routines that had been drilled into her until they were as much a part of her as her memories of Hans.
The man holding Erin made a triumphant sound that ended in a grunt of pain as her heel connected with his kneecap. He spun aside, hanging on to her with only one hand, grabbing his knee with the other.
She screamed a warning to Cole as she tried to break her attacker’s wrist with the edge of her palm, but he yanked her off balance as he fell. She went down as she’d been trained to do, loosely, rolling instantly to her feet, poised to run, for escape was always the best defense.
The man’s hand shot out and wrapped around her ankle. She kicked him in the face. He bellowed in pain.
Suddenly men were swarming all over her, grabbing at her hands and feet. She used everything she’d ever learned, knowing even as she fought that there were too many men for her to win, that they were too strong, and, worse, some of them were trained in unarmed combat. She’d taken her captor by surprise when she’d defended herself effectively.
The other men had seen what had happened to their friend. They were overwhelming her by sheer weight. Silently, savagely, she fought back. She’d promised herself seven years ago that she would kill or die before any man raped her again.
Suddenly she took a blow to the diaphragm that literally paralyzed her, driving the breath from her body. She barely heard one of her assailants give a high scream of pain in the instant before he reeled away from her and slumped unconscious into the sand. There was another flurry of motion as a man was lifted up and flung away. He landed hard and lay gasping for air.
The three remaining men abandoned Erin and looked around frantically, trying to find the invisible attacker.
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