“Is Broadmoor a fisherman?”
“Not really. But he’s very creative.”
“Creative at what?”
Posey hesitated for a few moments, straightened some papers on his desk and then stared at Pitt rather sheepishly.
“Mason Broadmoor,” he said finally, “carves totem poles.”
Arthur Dorsett stepped out of the private elevator to his penthouse suite as he did every morning at precisely seven o’clock, like a bull charging into the ring at Seville, huge, menacing, invincible. He was a giant of a man, brawny shoulders brushing the sides of the doorframe as he ducked under the lintel. He had the hairy, muscular build of a professional wrestler. Coarse and wiry sandy hair swirled about his head like a thicket of brambles. His face was ruddy and as fierce as the black eyes that stared from beneath heavy, scraggly brows. He walked with an odd rocking motion, his shoulders dipping up and down like the walking beam of a steam engine.
His skin was rough and tanned by long days in the sun, working in the open mines, driving his miners for higher production, and he could still fill a muck bucket with the best of them. A huge mustache curled downward past the corners of lips that were constantly stretched open like a moray eel’s, revealing teeth yellowed from long years of pipe smoking. He radiated contempt and supreme arrogance. Arthur Dorsett was an empire unto himself who followed no laws but his own.
Dorsett shunned the limelight, a difficult feat with his incredible wealth and the $400 million jewelry trade building he built in Sydney. Paid for without bank loans, out of his own coffers, the Trump Towers-like building housed the offices of diamond brokers, traders and merchants, cutting and faceting laboratories and a polishing factory. Known as a major player among diamond producers, Arthur Dorsett also played a highly secret role behind the scenes of the colored gemstone market.
He strode into the large anteroom, past four secretaries without acknowledging their presence, into an office that was located in the center of the building, with no windows to allow a magnificent panoramic view of modern Sydney sprawling outward from its harbor. Too many men who had been crossed in business deals with Dorsett gladly would have hired a sniper to take him out. He entered through a steel door into an office that was plain, even Spartan, with walls two meters thick. The entire room was one gigantic vault where Dorsett directed the family mining ventures and where he had collected and now displayed the largest and most opulent stones dug from his mines and faceted by his cutting workshops. Hundreds of incredibly beautiful stones were laid out on black velvet in glass cases. It was estimated this one room alone held diamonds worth close to $1.2 billion.
Dorsett didn’t need a millimeter gauge to measure stones and a diamond scale to weigh them, nor a loupe to detect the flaws or dark spots of carbon within. There was no more practiced eye in the business. Of all the incredible diamonds arrayed for his personal satisfaction, he always came and stared down at the largest, most precious and perhaps the most highly prized gem in the world.
It was D-grade flawless with tremendous luster, perfect transparency, strong refraction and a fiery dispersion of light. An overhead light beam excited a burst of radiant fire in an eye-dazzling display of the stone’s violet-rose color. Discovered by a Chinese worker at the Gladiator mine in 1908, it was the largest diamond ever found on the island, originally weighing in at 1130 carats when rough. Cutting reduced it to 620. The stone was double rose-cut in ninety-eight facets to bring out its brilliance. If any diamond ignited the imagination with thoughts of romance and adventure, it was the Dorsett Rose, as Arthur had modestly named it. The value was inestimable. Few even knew of its existence. Dorsett well knew there were a good fifty men somewhere around the world who would dearly love to murder him in order to gain ownership of the stone.
Reluctantly, he turned away and sat down behind his desk, a huge monstrosity built of polished lava rock with mahogany drawers. He pressed a button on a console that alerted his head secretary that he was now in his office.
She came back over the intercom almost immediately. “Your daughters have been waiting nearly an hour.”
Indifferent, Dorsett replied with a voice that was as hard as the diamonds in the room. “Send the little darlin’s in.” Then he sat back to watch the parade, never failing to enjoy the physical and personal differences of his daughters.
Boudicca, a statuesque giantess, strode through the doorway with the self-assurance of a tigress entering an unarmed village. She was dressed in a ribbed-knit cardigan with matching sleeveless tunic and truffle-and-parchment striped pants stuffed inside a pair of calfskin riding boots. Far taller than her sisters, she towered over all but a very few men. Staring up at her Amazon beauty never failed to inspire expressions of awe. Only slightly shorter than her father, she had his black eyes, but more ominous and veiled than fierce. She wore no makeup, and a flood of reddish-blond hair fell to her hips, loose and flowing. Her body was not given to fat but well proportioned. Her expression was half contemptuous, half evil. She easily dominated anyone in her presence except, of course, her father.
Dorsett saw Boudicca as a son he had lost. Over the years he had begrudgingly accepted her secret lifestyle, because all that truly mattered to him was that Boudicca was as strong willed and unyielding as he was.
Deirdre seemed to float into the room, poised and nonchalant, fashionable in a simple but elegant claret wool double-breasted coatdress. Undeniably glamorous, she was not a woman who invented herself. She knew exactly what she was capable of doing. There was no pretense about her. Delicate facial features and supple body aside, she had definite underlying masculine qualities. She and Boudicca dutifully sat down in two of three chairs placed in front of Dorsett’s desk.
Maeve followed her sisters, moving as gracefully as pond reeds in a light breeze, and wearing an indigo plaid wool zip-front shirt with matching skirt over a white ribbed turtleneck. Her long blond hair was soft and glowing, her skin flushed red and her blue eyes blazing with anger. She moved in a straight line between her seated sisters, chin up firmly, staring deeply into her father’s eyes, which reflected intrigue and corruption.
“I want my boys!” she snapped. It was not a plea but a demand.
“Sit down, girl,” her father ordered, picking up a briar pipe and pointing it like a gun.
“No!” she shouted. “You abducted my sons, and I want them back or by God I’ll turn you and these two conniving bitches over to the police, but not before I’ve exposed you all to the news media.”
He looked at her steadily, calmly appraising her defiance. Then he called his secretary over the intercom. “Will you please connect me with Jack Ferguson?” He smiled at Maeve. “You remember Jack, don’t you?”
“That sadistic ape you call your superintendent of mines. What about him?”
“I thought you’d like to know. He’s baby-sitting the twins.”
The anger fled from Maeve’s face and was replaced with alarm. “Not Ferguson?”
“A little discipline never hurt growing boys.”
She started to say something, but the intercom buzzed and Dorsett held up his hand for silence. He spoke through a speakerphone on his desk. “Jack, you there?”
There was the sound of heavy equipment in the background as Ferguson replied over his portable phone. “I’m here.”
“Are the boys nearby?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got them loading muck that’s spilled from the cars.”
“I’d like you to arrange an accident—”
“No!” Maeve screamed. “My God, they’re only six years old. You can’t murder your own grandchildren!” She was horrified to see that Deirdre had an expression of complete indifference on her face, while Boudicca wore a look as cold as a granite tomb.
“I don’t consider those bastards my grandchildren,” Dorsett roared back.
Maeve was overcome with sickening fear. It was a battle she could not win. Her sons were in deadly danger, and she saw clearly that her only hope of saving them wa
s to submit to her father’s will. She was achingly aware of her helplessness. Somehow she had to stall for time until she devised a plan to save her boys. Nothing else mattered. If only she had gotten her plight across to the man from NUMA. He might have thought of a way to help her. But he was thousands of kilometers away.
She sagged into an empty chair, beaten but still defiant, her emotions in upheaval. “What do you want from me?”
Her father relaxed and pushed a button on the phone, ending the call. The deep creases that ran from the corners of his eyes widened. “I should have beaten you when you were young.”
“You did, Daddy dear,” she said, remembering. “Many times.”
“Enough sentiment,” he growled. “I want you to return to the United States and work with their National Underwater & Marine Agency. Watch them carefully. Observe their methods in attempting to discover the cause of the unexplained deaths. If they begin to get close to an answer, do what you can to stall them. Sabotage or murder, whatever it takes. Fail me and those dirty little urchins you whelped in the gutter will surely die. Do well, and they’ll live in wealth.”
“You’re mad,” she gasped, stunned at what she’d heard. “You’d murder your own flesh and blood as if it meant nothing—”
“Oh, but you’re very wrong, dear sister,” Boudicca interrupted. “Twenty billion dollars is far more than nothing.”
“What insane scheme have you hatched?” asked Maeve.
“If you hadn’t run away from us, you’d know,” said Deirdre nastily.
“Daddy is going to collapse the world diamond market,” revealed Boudicca as unruffled as if she were describing a new pair of shoes.
Maeve stared at him. “That’s impossible. De Beers and the rest of the cartel will never permit a drastic fall in the price of diamonds.”
Dorsett seemed to bulk even larger behind his desk. “Despite their usual manipulation of the laws of supply and demand, in another thirty days the collapse will be a reality, when a tidal wave of stones hits the market at prices any child can afford from his or her allowance.”
“Even you can’t dictate the diamond market.”
“You’re dead wrong, Daughter,” said Dorsett smugly. “The overhyped prices on diamonds have traditionally depended on manufactured scarcity. To exploit the myth of diamond rarity, De Beers has propped up the values by buying into new mines in Canada, Australia, Africa, and then stockpiling the production. When Russia opened up their mines in Siberia and filled a five-story warehouse with thousands of tons of stones, De Beers could hardly allow them to flood the market. So they worked out a deal together. De Beers makes billion-dollar trade loans to the new state of Russia and is paid back in diamonds, thus maintaining high prices in the best interests of the producers and dealers. Many are the mines the cartel has purchased, then closed to keep the supply down. The American pipe in the state of Arkansas is a case in point. If mined, it has every potential of becoming one of the world’s leading producers of diamonds. Instead, De Beers bought the property and turned it over to the U.S. Park Service, which only allows tourists to dig around the surface for a small charge.”
“They used the same methods with the owners of mining companies from Tanzania to Brazil,” said Deirdre. “You taught us well, Daddy. We’re all familiar with the behind-the-scenes intrigues of the diamond cartel.”
“I’m not,” snapped Maeve at Dorsett. “I was never interested in the diamond trade.”
“A pity you turned a deaf ear to Daddy’s lectures,” said Boudicca, “It would have been in your best interests to have been more attentive.”
“What has all this to do with causing the market to fall?” asked Maeve. “A collapse in prices would wipe out Dorsett Consolidated Mining too. How could you possibly profit from such a disaster?”
“Better you not know until after the event,” Dorsett said, clamping his stained teeth on the stem of the empty pipe. “Unlike Boudicca and Deirdre, you can’t be trusted to keep silent.”
“Thirty days. That’s your timetable?”
Dorsett sat back, folded his huge hands across his chest and nodded. “I’ve had our mining crews working three shifts, twenty-four hours a day for the past ten years. In another month I will have accumulated a stockpile of over $2 billion worth of stones. With the worldwide economy flat, diamond sales to consumers have temporarily stagnated. All of the enormous sums the cartel has spent in advertising have failed to push sales. If my instincts are right, the market will reach bottom in thirty days before it rebounds. I intend to attack when it’s down.”
“What are you doing in the mines that causes death throughout the ocean?” demanded Maeve.
“About a year ago, my engineers developed a revolutionary excavator using high-energy pulsed ultrasound to carve through the blue clay that contains the major deposits of diamonds. Apparently, the subterranean rock under the islands we mine creates a resonance that channels into the surrounding water. Though a rare event, it occasionally converges with the resonance from our other mining operations, near Siberia, Chile and Canada. The energy intensifies to a level that can kill animals and humans. However unfortunate, I cannot allow these aberrant side effects to throw off my time schedule.”
“Don’t you understand?” pleaded Maeve. “Don’t you care about the sea life and hundreds of people your greed has killed? How many more must die before this madness is satisfied?”
“Only after I have destroyed the diamond market will I stop,” Dorsett said coldly. He turned to Boudicca. “Where is the yacht?”
“I sent it on to Kunghit Island after I debarked in Honolulu and flew home. My chief of security there has informed me that the Canadian Mounties are becoming suspicious. They’ve been flying over the island, taking photographs and asking questions of the nearby inhabitants. With your permission, I would like to rejoin the yacht. Your geophysicists are also predicting another convergence approximately five hundred kilometers west of Seattle. I should be standing by to remove any possible wreckage to frustrate investigation by the American Coast Guard.”
“Take the company jet and return as soon as possible.”
“You know where the deaths will occur next?” Maeve demanded in dismay. “You must warn ships to stay out of the area.”
“Not a practical idea,” Boudicca answered, “letting the world in on our secret. Besides, Daddy’s scientists can only give rough estimates for where and when the sound waves will strike.”
Maeve stared at her sister, her lips slowly tightening. “You had a pretty good idea when you put Deirdre on the Polar Queen to save my life.”
Boudicca laughed. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what she told me.”
“I lied to keep you from informing the NUMA people,” said Deirdre. “Sorry, sister dear, father’s engineers made a slight miscalculation in time. The acoustic plague was estimated to strike the ship three hours earlier...”
“Three hours earlier ...” Maeve murmured as the awful truth slowly dawned on her. “I would have been on the ship.”
“And you would have died with the others,” said Deirdre as if disappointed.
“You meant for me to die!” Maeve gasped, contempt and horror in her expression.
Her father looked at her as if he were examining a stone he’d picked up at his mine. “You turned your back on your sisters and me. To us, you no longer existed. You still don’t.”
A strawberry-red floatplane with Chinook Cargo Carriers painted in white block letters on the side of the fuselage rocked gently in the water beside a refueling dock near the Shearwater Airport in British Columbia. A short, brown-haired man with an unsmiling face, dressed in an old-fashioned leather flight suit, was holding a gas nozzle in one of the wing tanks. He looked down and examined the man who walked casually along the dock, carrying a backpack and a large black case. He was dressed in jeans with a skier’s down vest. A cowboy hat was set square on his head. When the stranger stopped beside the aircraft and looked up, the p
ilot nodded at the widebrimmed hat.
“A Stetson?”
“No, it was custom-shade by Manny Gammage out of Austin, Texas.”
The stranger studied the floatplane. It looked to have been built prior to 1970. “A de Havilland, isn’t she?”
The pilot nodded. “De Havilland Beaver, one of the finest bush planes ever designed.”
“An oldie but goody.”
“Canadian-built in 1967. She’ll lift over four thousand kilograms off a hundred meters of water. Revered as the workhorse of the North. Over a hundred of them are still flying.”
“Don’t see big radial engines much anymore.”
“You a friend of Ed Posey?” the pilot asked abruptly.
“I am,” answered Pitt without introducing himself.
“A bit breezy today.”
“About twenty knots, I should judge.”
“You a flyer?”
“I have a few hours in the air.”
“Malcolm Stokes.”
“Dirk Pitt.”
“I understand you want to fly to Black Water Inlet.”
Pitt nodded. “Ed Posey told me that’s where I could find a totem carver by the name of Mason Broadmoor.”
“I know Mason. His village sits at the lower end of Moresby Island, across the Houston Stewart Channel from Kunghit Island.”
“How long a flight?”
“An hour and a half across Hecate Strait. Should get you there in time for lunch.”
“Sounds good,” said Pitt.
Stokes gestured at the black case. “What you got in there, a trombone?”
“A hydrophone, an instrument for measuring underwater sound.”
Without further discussion, Stokes capped the fuel tank and inserted the nozzle back into the gas pump as Pitt loaded his gear on board. After untying the mooring lines and pushing the plane away from the dock with one foot, Stokes made his way to the cockpit.
“Care to ride up front?” he asked.
Pitt smiled inwardly. He saw no passenger seats in the cargo section. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Shock Wave dp-13 Page 20
