Krueger and the Russian had crossed paths, and swords, for years and Krueger well knew that the Russian was larger than life, a big drinker (though he hated the national beverage of vodka). Also, a food lover. He was presently working away vigorously at his order: the full baby back rib meal, what looked like a kilo of meat, along with mounds of soul food accoutrements.
Krueger picked at the salad he’d ordered. He was in crisis and not the least hungry.
He noted Rostov’s eyes following the ass of the server. She was a tall, solid woman whose skin was the color of perfectly done toast. The Russian, he knew, was largely insatiable in all appetites.
“What did you call me?”
“Call you?”
“When you got in the car?”
Rostov laughed—loud. “I say, ‘kuritsa.’ My little kuritsa. It is hen. A bird. Everybody is kuritsa to me! I might even be kuritsa to someone. I love you, you know, Andrew. You are my brother, you are my father!”
Eyes slipping to and fro around the restaurant, Krueger sighed. “As they say here, take it down a notch.”
“Ha! Yes, yes.” Rostov ripped the meat from a rib with his yellow teeth and chomped it down. An eerie smile filled his face. “First!” He tapped his glass to Krueger’s. “To you, my friend. To you. You are genius. This fucking great plan you have came up with! Genius.”
Krueger’s lips tightened. “Except it didn’t work quite the way I’d hoped.”
We have a problem…
“So,” Rostov asked, lowering his voice, “you working for Nuevo Mundo—New World Mining—Guatemala City.”
He’d know this from the hacking…Goddamn Russians.
Krueger said, “Right. New client. Never worked for them before. You know them?”
“I hear of them, yes, yes.”
“And you’re here for Dobprom, of course?”
This was the Russian quasi-state-owned diamond-mining monopoly based in Moscow. Dobychy: mining. Promyshlennost: industry. It was the biggest diamond-mining and -distribution operation in the world. Rostov was a regular troubleshooter for them.
“Who the fuck else I working for? Look at my shitty clothes, look at my belly fat from eating cheap food. Tell me, kuritsa. New World pay you up-front?”
“Of course. Half.”
“Ach. Never for me. Fuck Marx, Lenin and Stalin!” He winked and washed down a mouthful of ribs with bourbon.
Krueger sighed.
The “fucking great plan”—and the circumstances of these two men’s paths crossing here in New York—had begun some weeks ago, thanks to a curious occurrence.
A contractor—that is, a hired-gun “troubleshooter”—working for New World Mining had contacted Krueger and explained that the famed Manhattan diamantaire Jatin Patel had come into possession of some kimberlite, drilled up by Northeast Geo Industries at its geothermal site in Brooklyn. The analysis showed the rocks were diamond-rich, with very high-quality rough. Now, it was likely that the kimberlite find was a freak occurrence—serpentinite, a related stone, was common in New York, but its diamond-embedded cousin was not.
But if the lode was large and the quality as good as it seemed, and the owner of the land learned of the find, he would license mineral rights to a mining operation, surely an American company. The output could depress the price of diamonds worldwide. And worse, a U.S. diamond mine would have a vast marketing advantage over foreign mines. Why would consumers buy possibly suspect third-world diamonds when U.S. mines were unquestionably ethical? This would be an utter disaster for overseas mines; the United States accounted for more than half the retail diamond purchases in the world, around forty billion dollars’ worth a year.
The contractor had then proposed that New World would pay Andrew Krueger’s company a million dollars for one of its specialties: “downwardly modulating production output.”
In other words: sabotage, threats and bribery, and occasionally worse, to make sure that finds of precious metals, uranium and other valuable ores and gems never saw the light of day. The diamond industry had a long—and violent—history of suppressing production and competition.
The specific plan that the contractor came up with was brilliant: Krueger was to kill Jatin Patel, after getting the names of anyone who knew about the kimberlite find. And kill those individuals too. He’d bribe a Northeast Geo employee to give him access to the site, where he would collect and dispose of as much kimberlite as he could. Then he’d drop explosive charges down some of the shafts and seal them with grout, and plant gas line bombs in buildings nearby. Each C4 charge was timed to detonate just before a gas line blew. This would mimic an earthquake and the resulting conflagration.
The city would close down the site, citing the risk of more quakes. That would be the end of drilling up more kimberlite.
He’d gotten the devices planted fine and then had turned to eliminating anyone who knew about the kimberlite.
Under Krueger’s knife, Jatin Patel gave up Saul Weintraub’s name. But Patel swore no one else knew about the kimberlite. After the man was dead, though, into the shop comes the young man—Vimal Lahori, it turned out—obviously an employee, since he knew the door code. Krueger shot him but he got away. And it was clear he knew about the kimberlite, too, because the bullet had struck a bag of the stuff.
Knowing that the young man would call 911 at any moment, Krueger had tried to figure out what to do. He didn’t have time to go through all of Patel’s papers and learn his identity—a fast search revealed nothing. Then, looking at the white squares of envelopes of diamonds he’d scattered on the floor, to make the police believe the crime was a simple robbery, he had an idea.
He would trick the police themselves into helping him find the boy and anyone else who might know about the kimberlite find.
In his job as a hired gun for the diamond and precious metal industry, Krueger often used identity theft as a tool (just as Rostov had done). He would do the same now.
In Patel’s shop, he’d found an empty diamond envelope and had written on it the names and specifications of four multi-million-dollar diamonds, along with the name of Grace-Cabot, a real South African mining operation. The phone number he wrote down, however, was a burner phone of Terry DeVoer, his business partner in South Africa.
Krueger left the envelope at a work station and, taking the hard drive and its telltale security video with him, fled.
He then called DeVoer in Cape Town to have him change the voicemail announcement on the number to Grace-Cabot and be ready for a call from the police about the stolen rough. He was to play the role of Llewellyn Croft—a real executive with the company. “Croft” would sound shocked about the loss and then send the police to the company’s insurance investigator, a man with experience in tracking down diamonds, a man who could assist them.
Krueger assumed that identity himself: Edward Ackroyd, with the real insurance company of Milbank Assurance, whose identity he’d “borrowed” in the past. Ackroyd, who was about Krueger’s age, was British, former Scotland Yard. And there was no picture of him on the Milbank website. Krueger had had Milbank cards printed up with Ackroyd’s name and that of the insurance company but with one of his own burner phone numbers on it.
Absurd, indeed. The plan could fall apart at any moment. There was a knife-edge chance it might work. Krueger had to take the risk.
His luck had held…for a time. The police believed his fake identity, the C4 charges went off as planned, the fires roasted a few people, the city halted the drilling, he found and killed Saul Weintraub and he was making some headway in finding Patel’s protégé.
But then he’d run smack into a brick wall: Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs, who managed to link the two parts of the plan that absolutely should not have been linked: That the man who’d killed Patel had also been present at the geothermal site. And, even worse, that he was behind faking the earthquakes. He could still recall with dismay how Rhyme had called him into the parlor to describe in perfect detail, thanks to the CCTV
videos, what their suspect was really up to, faking the earthquakes and fires.
It’s Forty-Seven’s plan. It’s why he’s here: planting gas line bombs and C4 charges to mimic earthquakes…
It had taken all Krueger’s willpower to stay calm. He was sure Rhyme would turn to him and say, “I know you’re the one! Arrest him, Amelia!”
But, no. The Ackroyd fiction held. And, thank God, Rhyme and Sachs hadn’t made the leap that the reason for the scheme was sabotaging the diamond lode at the geothermal site. They identified the kimberlite, too, but fortunately it had no particular significance to them.
Of course, then, on top of it all, the unstable, meddling Russian, Vladimir Rostov, blusters his way onto the action.
“All right. So you decide to become my doppleganger and—”
“The fuck is that?”
“A double, you know. You imitated me. You hear me on the phone, talking about the witnesses I have to find, and you decide to help me out.”
“Yeah, yeah. I find this Iranian asshole—Nashim—and he gets me to Vimal’s friend, Kirtan. And he gives up Vimal’s name and girlfriend, Adeela. I am fucking good detective, huh? Columbo!” A shrug. “I got close. But didn’t work. Fuck me.”
Krueger now asked, point-blank, why he’d done it. Dobprom’s goal was the same as New World’s: to keep the diamond lode secret. Why not just let Krueger handle the matter?
Rostov tossed back his bourbon and poked a toothpick Krueger’s way. “Look, my friend. You are not offensed by my saying it, I hope: But this is big fucking deal. What happen, if you fucked up? That kimberlite, oh, is sweet. I am reading assay report. You see carats per ton?” He nodded his head out the window, presumably indicating the geothermal site in Brooklyn. He whispered reverently, “That is Botswana yield.”
Although it varied considerably, the rule in the industry was that on average a mine had to process one hundred to two hundred tons of rock to produce one carat of quality diamond. In the African nation of Botswana, the diamond concentration in ore was ten times higher. The best in the world.
The New York lode was the same.
“I am so very prosti, so very sorry, kuritsa, if you are sad. But we could not take chance. So, cheer up! Here I am come to help you. You are the Batman and I am the Robin! Pat me on back!”
Chapter 52
I’m not making this call. You never heard it. And you’re not reactin’ to it. Anyway, anyhow. Got that?”
Amelia Sachs, standing in the corner of Rhyme’s lab, was listening to the caller. Fred Dellray, special agent with the FBI’s New York office.
“Okay.”
“Is Lincoln nearby?”
The hell was this all about? she wondered.
“Yes.”
Rhyme was across the parlor, speaking with Ron Pulaski.
“Can he hear you?”
“No. Explain.”
“Okay, here’s the deal, and it ain’t so nice, Amelia. I heard through the vine, Lincoln’s under investigation. Ron too. Us. FBI, Eastern District.”
She didn’t move, felt the warmth of shock wash over her. “I see. And why would that be?”
Dellray was the bureau’s expert in undercover ops. The lanky African American was the epitome of subdued, as one would have to be when playing the role of an arms dealer offering to sell munitions to a twitchy neo-Nazi, pointing a Glock his way to aid in the negotiation process. But now, she heard dismay in his voice—a tone she’d never heard before.
“They’ve been helping the defense in the El Halcón case.”
She struggled not to utter any words of shock or disappointment. “And that’s confirmed?”
“Oh, yeah. Pretty boy Hank Bishop, prosecutor going after El Halcón, he’s got all the evidence he needs for an arrest. Both of ’em. Ron and Lincoln.”
She was stunned. “I see.”
Sachs recalled that Ron had been acting secretive lately. He’d gone off on several missions that seemed unrelated to the Unsub 47 case. And there was that visitor the other day, a man who was Hispanic in appearance. Maybe he was one of El Halcón’s aides or lawyers.
“I’m thinking he signed on because there was some funny business with the evidence. Maybe an agent or evidence tech played fast and loose, just to make sure El Halcón got put away good and long. I mean, he is a triple-A-rated shit. I can see Lincoln getting in a knot about that. But…” His voice dipped. “He didn’t go to Bishop or anyone else. He just took on the defense’s case on his own and…fuck, he’s getting paid for it. Bunch o’ money. In the K’s. Makes it look bad.”
Jesus, Rhyme. What the hell have you done?
“It’s going down soon, Amelia. They’ll be in federal detention for a time. Bail’s gonna be a problem because El Halcón’s trial’s goin’ on hot and heavy now, and Bishop doesn’t want anything to fuck up the case until after closing arguments.”
“Even…” She paused, thinking of a word. “Even given his condition?”
“Yep. Medical wing in the detention center. Thom won’t be allowed. Nurses’ll take care of him.”
She glanced toward Rhyme. She could imagine how they’d treat him.
No, this couldn’t be happening…A nightmare.
“So,” Dellray continued, “I’m telling you this but I’m not telling you this. Get a lawyer fast. It might help some. And you and Lon’ll have to take over on Unsub Forty-Seven. I gotta hang up. Good luck, Amelia.”
The line went dead.
Sachs intentionally looked away from Rhyme. Her eyes would clearly reveal how troubled she was.
“Lon?” she called.
Sellitto looked her way. She nodded to the front hall, and he followed her out there.
“What’s up?”
She sighed, took a breath and in a low voice told him about Dellray’s call—that is, the non-call.
The rumpled detective rarely displayed emotion. Now his eyes grew wide and he was momentarily speechless.
“He couldn’t. It’s a mistake.”
“With Bishop?” Sachs asked cynically. “He doesn’t make mistakes.”
“No,” Sellitto muttered. “And taking money? Jesus. I know he charges a fee for his work, but from an asshole like El Halcón? This’s gonna be bad. Even if he beats the case, that’s it for consulting for us. Probably everybody.”
Then Sellitto said, “Okay. Well. Innocent until proven guilty.”
Though one crime he was guilty of, no debate on that: Rhyme hadn’t told her about taking on the assignment for El Halcón’s defense team. This cut her deeply.
Welcome to married life, she thought—even more cynical now.
But Sellitto was right in one sense: Rhyme—and Ron Pulaski too—would need to find an attorney. And, from the urgent tone of Dellray’s call, they needed one immediately.
He said, “I’ve got some names. Ballbusters who’ve represented some high-profile perps I’ve collared. I don’t like ’em, but they’re top-notch. I’ll start calling now.”
Sachs heard some noise in the back of the town house. Pots and pans. Water running.
She sighed. “And I’ll tell Thom.”
* * *
Andrew Krueger sipped his soft drink.
He scowled at Rostov. “All right. Granted Dobprom wanted to make sure nobody learned about the lode. But what the hell was that ‘Promisor’ crap? What, you heard that I used a razor knife and wore a ski mask at Patel’s, and you went out and bought the same things?”
Rostov said proudly, “Of course! I am clever fucker! No?”
“Then going on and on, nobody treats diamonds right? They’re the soul of the earth? You made that girl swallow her ring? Cutting fingers off? What kind of bullshit was that?”
Rostov’s eyes turned savvy. “What kind bullshit? Hm. Bullshit whole world believe! After Promisor arrive, nobody thinking Patel got killed because kimberlite or diamonds is in Brooklyn. CNN says crazy man attacking pretty little fiancées, so has to be true.”
Krueger could hardly argue.<
br />
Then the Russian leaned forward, and he spoke in a low, steady voice. “But, kuritsa, tell me the true word. You know what most diamond companies do: Cut up beautiful stone into pieces of shit for shopping malls. Ruin lovely rough to make little bastard diamonds for girls’ fat fingers.” His eyes grew dark and angry. “A fucking crime.” He waved for another drink and was silent until it arrived. A fast sip. “Yes, yes, Dobprom, my wonderful employer, they sell to dealers like that. They pay my fucking salary. But I bitch about it anyways. And you, my friend? I know you thinking, in that heart of yours, yes, yes, Promisor is right. Make those kur who don’t know diamond from a piece of glass hurt, make them cry.”
Another shot of liquor. “Okay, okay. I am fucked up. Gone to stone. But maybe little part of you crazy like me?”
Andrew Krueger wanted to argue. But he had to admit that Rostov was right on this point too. Diamonds were the most perfect thing on earth. How could you not feel some contempt for those who treated them shabbily?
But he too was on a salary. There was work to be done. He pushed his soda aside and said in a low voice, “Now our problem.”
A scowl from Rostov now. “Yes, yes, they are knowing your earthquakes was fake. But you made it that Greenpeace asshole did everything.”
Krueger said, “Not Greenpeace. One Earth.”
“Ach. They all assholes.”
Once Rhyme and Amelia learned that the earthquakes were sabotage, Krueger needed a fall guy. He had seen the ranting Shapiro at the site and decided to pick him. He’d broken into the man’s house, planted some incriminating material there and, when Shapiro returned, cracked his skull. He’d then called Lincoln Rhyme and said he’d learned that Shapiro was targeting Jatin Patel for cutting compromised diamonds.
Then he’d driven to Palisades Park in Shapiro’s car. After flinging him over the edge, Krueger had taken a bus to the George Washington Bridge transit hub, for a subway trip back to his place.
“So, genius plan guy? What we are going to do?”
Krueger said, “It’s not as bad as it seems. The man at the site who helped me rig the explosions?”
The Cutting Edge Page 31
