African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  He smiled. “Patrick,” he said. “Please call me Patrick.”

  “Samantha. Or Sam. Your preference,” she responded.

  Kerrigan rose from his chair and moved to the windows that looked out over Manhattan. “We’re looking for diamonds. We have a few preliminary scouting reports that indicated there could be good potential for high-quality gemstones in the region. We sent in a team about four months ago, but that didn’t yield anything. I think we need a fresh perspective.”

  “What country are we dealing with?” Samantha asked.

  “Democratic Republic of Congo,” Kerrigan replied.

  Sam Carlson simply stared at the man. “DROC. Nice place.” Her tone was sarcastic.

  “You know it?”

  “I wrote my master’s thesis on alluvial diamonds in Sierra Leone, and my doctorate on industrial diamonds in the Congo. I know both countries well.” She stood up and walked to the window, peering down on Manhattan as she continued.

  “The Democratic Republic of Congo is a wealth of industrial-grade diamonds. The rocks that end up in engagement rings don’t come from the Congolese mines. They come from Sierra Leone, South Africa, Brazil, Canada, and a dozen other countries. But not the Congo. Kananga is a major center near the mines, but the town of Mbuji-Mayi, about ninety miles east, is the hot spot. For industrial diamonds, not commercial grade. And diamond miners have overrun

  Mbuji-Mayi since the 1950s. So if you want my opinion, you don’t need a geologist, Mr. Kerrigan, you need a thousand Africans with shovels.”

  Kerrigan held up his hand to stop her. “I know you have a great deal of knowledge about the Congo,” he said. “But our target is not the alluvial diamonds that scavengers have dug for over the past fifty years. And we’re definitely not looking for industrial-grade diamonds. We’re looking at a diamondiferous formation to the north, in the Ruwenzori Mountains.” Sam started to speak, and Kerrigan stopped her once again. “I know it’s been tried before, and the core samples came up empty, but I think we have further proof that such a vein may exist.”

  “What kind of proof?” Samantha asked, interested but skeptical.

  Kerrigan strode across the room and slid a painting to the side, revealing a wall safe. He entered a combination, opened the safe, and pulled out a small bag and an envelope. “ These were taken from the vein, at a depth of sixty-two feet.” He handed four dull greenish rocks to her.

  Sam motioned to the magnifier on Kerrigan’s desk, and he nodded. She placed the stones under the scope one at a time, carefully studying them. She lifted her head. “They have all the characteristics of Sierra Leone diamonds. But you say they were found in northeast Congo.” He nodded again. “I need a specific test to be sure they aren’t simply Sierra Leone diamonds.”

  “You’re referring to the laser ablation method the Canadian RCMP have been working on?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “Laser ablation inductively coupled plasma mass spectrometry,” she said.

  “Done,” Kerrigan responded, holding the legal-sized envelope up in his left hand. “We sent the samples to the RCMP about a month ago, and got the results back last week. Have a look.”

  Carlson took the envelope and let its contents drop onto the coffee table. She quickly sorted through the analysis, concentrating on the trace elements found in the diamonds. “Ninety-nine point nine five pure carbon, as expected. Point zero five trace elements. Trace elements not found in the mangrove swamps of Sierra Leone.” She paused for a moment. “You’re positive these are from the Congo?”

  “Absolutely. Our team reported back a position close to Butembo, but they weren’t precise with their coordinates. We have an idea within about seventy square miles where they were, but it’s impossible to pinpoint any closer.”

  “You’re familiar with the terrain around Butembo?” Sam asked, and Kerrigan nodded. “Sticky, sweaty jungle, teeming with every kind of poisonous creature God ever created. Rugged cliffs, hundred-foot waterfalls, dense underbrush, and local tribesmen who would just as soon kill you as say hello.”

  “It has its moments.”

  “Not to mention the current political situation. It’s a mess over there right now.”

  “Agreed. And that’s why we’re paying so handsomely. We’re offering one million dollars up front, and an additional five million if you can locate the vein and get that information back to us.”

  “You mean if I live long enough,” she said quietly. Kerrigan didn’t respond to her statement. “It’s been four years since I was in the Congo, and I have no desire to go back. It’s corrupt, and it’s dangerous.” She took a sip from her tea, then set it on the end table. It was cold. “How does he figure into all this?” she asked, gesturing at the man who had sat quietly through the meeting.

  “Travis will keep you alive while you explore. He’s assembled an elite team of men who are well skilled in protecting people from—other people. The snakes you have to watch out for yourself.”

  “When do you propose to send the expedition?” she asked.

  “Almost immediately. Travis has been acquiring the necessary supplies, and the team is just about ready. Any instruments you require will, of course, be supplied.”

  “And how long do you think it’ll take to unearth the vein?”

  “That depends on you, Ms. Carlson.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “ Why me? Why offer me the job?”

  “Like I said, Ms. Carlson, your reputation precedes you. You are one of the most knowledgeable geologists in the world on the Democratic Republic of Congo. You’re resourceful, and you’ve demonstrated many times a commodity very valuable to this expedition.”

  “And that is?”

  “Your ability to stay alive.”

  Samantha Carlson rose from her chair and extended her hand to Kerrigan. She offered the same to Travis McNeil. “You don’t talk much, do you?” she asked as they locked grips.

  “Not today,” he responded.

  She unclasped his hand and walked to the door. She opened it, then turned back to face Kerrigan. “I’ll let you know one way or the other by tomorrow.” He nodded. “One more question,” she continued. “What happened to the last team you sent in?”

  “They disappeared,” Kerrigan answered.

  “Before they could pinpoint the location of the vein?” she asked, and he nodded. “That’s most unfortunate. For them and for you.” She closed the door behind her as she left.

  TWO

  Samantha took the same route for her jog she did every morning, but New York had changed overnight. It seemed constricting and crowded. Her mind had shifted gears, and she found herself thinking of Africa. She remembered the landscape of the Congo near Kananga and Mbuji-Mayi, pockmarked by hundreds of thousands of holes dug into the earth in the hope of finding diamonds. The carnage digging inflicted on the surface was the bane of alluvial stones. And the town of Mbuji-Mayi was the center of this madness.

  Mbuji-Mayi. The place was a shit hole. At least that was her recollection of four years ago. It was a harsh region, with steep rifts and valleys that overran the area. In the valleys the soil was porous, and tunnels commingled under the mass of corrugated metal shacks that served as houses. The extent of the tunneling was so severe that it wasn’t uncommon for a section of hovels to just disappear into a hole. Sometimes, not too many people died.

  The town’s water came from a central pond, dirty and contaminated. Shady characters lurked everywhere, and the value of human life was measured by how many carats one carried. A lucky day of searching could translate into a death sentence. People didn’t walk upright or make eye contact. They hunched over, their eyes ever glued to the soft dirt that held the promise of glittering riches.

  Everything in a constant state of turmoil—that was life in the diamond-producing areas of Africa. And now they wanted her to go back. But not to excavate for the industrial diamonds that littered the area. They wanted her to leave any vestige of civilization behind,
and venture into the Ruwenzori Mountains—an area that made Mbuji-Mayi look like a five-star resort town. The northern reaches of the Congo were untamed. It was madness to think of entering the virgin jungle, let alone leading an expedition into the uncharted wilderness.

  She finished her jog and walked briskly back to her apartment. Nothing seemed the same as yesterday. The city was ugly, the people unfriendly. The aromas from the corner pretzel stand didn’t tempt her, and she only wanted her coffee for the caffeine.

  She stood on the balcony overlooking the park, and wondered what had happened to the first team of geologists Gem-Star had sent in. They had disappeared in the heart of the Congo. That usually meant the missing persons were dead. It wasn’t a forgiving country, and the exploration crew would have had access to radios and satellite telephones. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she knew they had not survived.

  A million dollars would be a nice paycheck, but she didn’t need it. There were plenty of contract jobs out there if she wanted them, and few would be as dangerous as this one. But something inside her was drawing her into the waiting mystery. And geology, at the best of times, was a mystery.

  It was this aspect of geology that had attracted her to the profession, not her father’s involvement, as many people thought. She remembered her university instructor in first-year geology, holding up a strangely shaped object as he lectured. Draw it, he told them. Draw it from six different perspectives. If you couldn’t do it, quit the course. It took her a quarter of the time the next fastest student took. And her drawings were flawless. Thinking in three dimensions was second nature to her.

  She knew that her mind worked as it should to be successful in the field. She could envision any structure, no matter how deep beneath the earth’s surface it lay. She recognized the trapping mechanisms for oil and gas, and the “pipes” that often held diamonds. She was a natural, and she excelled. It didn’t hurt that she was almost without fear, and would tackle anything that got in her way. It was this part of her nature that landed her the most dangerous jobs on the market. Like this one. But still, she had reservations. She knew virtually nothing about Kerrigan or Gem-Star. It was time to find out.

  Samantha backed away from the balcony and entered her apartment. She flipped through her Rolodex and found the name she wanted. She dialed the local number and waited. Seven rings, then eight, and still she waited. She knew her colleague hated voice mail and would not pick up until at least twelve rings—plenty of time to weed out the garbage calls. She had counted the start of the thirteenth ring when it stopped and a man’s voice answered.

  “Hello.” The tone was civil, but curt.

  “Farid, it’s Samantha. How are you?”

  “I’m well.” The voice changed, warmer now. “What can I do for my favorite geologist?”

  “I need some information on a guy I met yesterday. Patrick Kerrigan. He works for a mining company called Gem-Star.”

  “Kerrigan rings a bell, Sam,” the man answered slowly, as if trying to retrieve a byte of data from his computer like mind. “Something to do with a divorce. Scandal on the social pages. Give me an hour and I’ll be back to you.” He hung up.

  Sam replaced the phone and poured a fresh cup of coffee, adding a touch of cream and one sugar. Farid Virgi was the one man she couldn’t live without, a private investigator who could open any door or pry information from the most closely watched file. She had no idea how he did it and she didn’t care. He got results, and that she cared about. Samantha Carlson was not a person who entered into contracts with unknown parties. Farid would get the info on Kerrigan and the company he worked for, and she would make her decision accordingly.

  Forty minutes later the phone rang. She checked the call display. It was Farid. “That was quick,” she said. “What did you find out?”

  “All your inquiries should be this simple,” he said lightly. “Gem-Star is a private company, owned entirely by the Perth family. Nathaniel Perth founded the company eighty-two years ago and built it into a midsize operation heavy on new exploration in virgin areas. Difficult and tricky, but this guy was a risk taker. When he handed the reigns down to his son, Reginald, thirty-six years ago, the company was valued at just over fifty million. It turned out that Reginald was even more astute than his dad.”

  “How so?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Reginald had the same frontier spirit as his father, but took things one step further. He saw that federal grants were available to American exploration companies, and he learned how to open government coffers. Business boomed, and by the time he retired eight years ago, Gem-Star had an estimated worth in excess of one hundred seventy-five million. Then things changed.”

  “Let me guess. Reginald’s son took over and screwed things up.”

  “Right and wrong. Davis Perth, Reginald’s oldest boy, did take over at the helm, but he certainly didn’t screw the pooch. He didn’t want to have hands-on control like his father and grandfather, so he hired Patrick Kerrigan. Davis Perth enjoys yachting and spends half his life at sea, unreachable. So the responsibility of running Gem-Star lies directly with Kerrigan. And I was right about him, he did suffer through a nasty divorce about a year after joining Gem-Star. His wife, ex-wife I should say, took him to the cleaners. She raped and pillaged every penny he’d saved. There are more than a few entries in the social pages on the split up.”

  “He seems to be doing just fine now,” Sam said.

  “Yes, he does. His estimated net worth is about sixty million.”

  “What? How the hell does a guy get cleaned out, then rebuild a personal fortune like that over seven years?”

  “Creative financing, shrewd investing, and a lot of questionable entries on his tax return. He’s got a secondary source of income, but I have no idea what it is. He certainly didn’t replenish his investment nest egg from the salary Gem-Star pays him.”

  “So he’s dipping into something, somewhere,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Embezzling from the firm?”

  “Doubtful. The company would have noticed. Gem-Star is legit, and word is it has been since ol’ Nathaniel started it. Kerrigan’s got a sideline somewhere.”

  “Is Gem-Star still profitable under Davis Perth?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” Farid said. “That’s Arabic for yes, by the way.”

  “Thanks for the interpretation.”

  “Welcome. Gem-Star is actually doing very well. They seem to concentrate on major plays and carry the ball from exploration right through to exploitation. The only reason they’re not a household name is that they’re private. And very low-key.”

  “Thanks. Send the bill to my apartment. And courier it if you want to get paid inside three months. I may be heading out of town.”

  “Done,” he said, then added, “Take care, Sam. I get the feeling that there’s more to Patrick Kerrigan than shows up on his file.”

  “Okay, Farid. Just for you, I’ll be careful.” She hung up.

  She finished her coffee, checked her watch and placed a call to Gem-Star. The receptionist answered and forwarded her call to Kerrigan immediately. He picked up on the third ring.

  “You’ve hired yourself a geologist, Patrick,” she informed him. “On certain conditions. How about we meet at your office at ten o’clock and go over them?” He agreed. “And please invite our talkative friend from yesterday—Travis.”

  Samantha arrived at ten minutes past the hour. New York traffic was impossible to predict. The receptionist ushered her into a conference room on the same side of the building as Kerrigan’s office. The view was a carbon copy of the previous day. She stared at the expanse of buildings that lay beneath her until she heard the door open. She turned to see Kerrigan and Travis McNeil file into the room.

  “Samantha,” Kerrigan said, this time without offering to shake hands. “Please have a seat. I’ve asked Travis to sit in on the meeting, as you requested.”

  “That’s good, because it’s Travis I want to talk to,” she responded. Kerri
gan looked slightly taken aback. “You said it yourself, Patrick. This is the guy who’s going to keep me alive. I’d like to find out how he’s going to manage that.”

  Kerrigan relaxed and cocked his head, nodding in agreement. “I understand. Tell her whatever she wants to know,” he added.

  “I’ll try.” Travis turned to face her. “Ask away.”

  She scrutinized the man before beginning. He was older than her by a few years, probably close to forty. His eyes had tiny crow’s feet, and he constantly squinted, a conditioned reflex from searching the surroundings for danger. His hair was deep brown, wavy and thick. When he smiled, which was rarely, his teeth were even and white, contrasting with the deep brown of his tanned skin. He was an inch or two taller than her, which put him right at six feet. He was relaxed in the chair, but she could tell there was a great deal of strength and agility in his frame. She liked what she saw.

  “Your background. Where are you from, what’s your military experience, and have you ever led an expedition like this in the past?”

  “San Antonio, Texas. I was born in Houston, but moved to San Antonio when I was ten. I did some undergraduate work in the sciences, but dropped out after two years. It didn’t suit my tastes.”

  “The sciences?”

  “No, school. I liked physics, and chemistry was okay, but I hated biology, zoology, and all that stuff. Hated it. Anyway, I left after two years and joined the Navy. They stationed me in Little Creek, Virginia.”

  “SEAL?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, Navy SEAL,” he responded.

  “Team Six,” she muttered. “Where the action is.”

  “Correct again. I spent six years operating with Team Six.”

  “And now you’re for hire? Mercenary, bodyguard, that sort of thing?”

  McNeil’s stare hardened as she spoke. “Babysitter would be more like it,” he said, between clenched teeth. “And no, I’ve never led a mining expedition before.”