“We’re lucky to have that,” said Dr. Katenge. “To be honest with you, Mr. Meyer, it’s not a priority. Most of these girls are from rural communities—villages where the RUF arrived one day, maiming and killing and raping—which are now slowly rebuilding.”
Jake wondered guiltily whether his specific diamonds had contributed to this death and destruction, but said nothing.
“Unfortunately, in Muslim culture there is no place for these children born of rape, or their mothers,” said Dr. Katenge. “They’re considered an embarrassment, a shameful reminder of a past that everybody in Sierra Leone wants to forget.”
They were back in her office now, a simple, whitewashed room with a desk, four filing cabinets, and a big hamper of children’s books and teddies stuffed in the corner. Dr. Katenge gestured for Jake to sit in the lone, fraying armchair while she brought her own chair around from the other side of the desk.
“Our main role is community liaison,” she told him. “We train counselors to go back to these villages. We talk to the grandmothers; they’re often the key. If we can get the grandmother to hold a child, just once, that’s often all it takes to forge a bond and break down some of the prejudices keeping these poor girls from their homes.”
Jake looked at her earnestly, uncomfortably conscious of his fifteen-thousand-dollar Rolex burning into his wrist like a brand.
“How can I help?” he asked humbly. “What do you need?”
Dr. Katenge smiled broadly, her straight, white teeth lighting up her pretty, open face. “Everything.”
Jake had never preferred black girls—even in the old days, he’d never taken advantage of the hookers on offer up at the dealer’s mansion—but he thought he could make an exception for Dr. Katenge.
“Lots of the international diamond companies are giving money to Sierra Leone now, but it’s all for show. They want it to go toward something visible, something they can wave in front of their shareholders, like shiny new school buildings or libraries. They’re not interested in small, community projects like ours.”
For the first time, Jake detected a trace of bitterness in her gentle, patient voice.
“These girls don’t need a library, or even an education,” she murmured, shaking her head at the stupidity of the world. “They need their families back.”
“So, what can I do?” asked Jake. “I don’t have millions to give,” he added hastily, thinking of Danny’s disintegrating business and mounting divorce-attorney fees, “but I would like to help.”
“Air-conditioning for the center would cost about five thousand dollars,” she cut to the chase. “Counselors’ wages run to around the same, per year.”
“That’s all?” Jake looked amazed.
“That’s all,” she smiled. “We receive contraceptives free, but we could use more of everything else: antibiotics for the babies, paracetamol, whatever you can get. We need beds, sheets, toys, clothes for the kids. I could go on.”
“That’s OK,” said Jake, looking at his watch. He’d sell it as soon as he got back to the States. “I’ll get you the air-conditioning tomorrow. And I’ll wire you a year’s wages for two more counselors before the end of the month.”
Dr. Katenge looked at him quizzically, as if seeing him properly for the first time.
“Thank you,” she said, shaking his hand. “You’re a good man, Mr. Meyer.”
“Trust me, Dr. Katenge,” Jake laughed. “I’m not.”
She walked him out to the street, past a waiting room full of tired women, all hoping for a meal from the St. Catherine’s drop-in center.
“You know, the most important thing you can do for us,” she told Jake, as he climbed into his rented four-by-four, “is to spread the word in America. The American women who wear diamond rings from Sierra Leone on their fingers? They don’t know what’s happening here. If they knew, they’d help us. They’d help my girls.”
Jake thought about Julia Brookstein and her diamond-obsessed cronies and wasn’t so sure.
“Listen, there’s something I haven’t told you,” he said, his mouth dry with embarrassment. “I’m a diamond dealer myself. I’ve bought stones from here, in the past, from some pretty terrible people. So, if you don’t want my money—”
She stopped him, laying a hand on his arm.
“The past is the past,” she said gently. “We’re very grateful for your money, Mr. Meyer, believe me. Drive safely.”
Back in his room at the Cape Sierra, a complex of beach villas with the dubious reputation as the best hotel in Sierra Leone, Jake peeled off his sweaty clothes and showered before settling down on the bed to check his messages.
There were only four: two from Danny, wanting to know when Jake would be back with the diamonds and how much over the odds he’d had to pay to follow Scarlett’s strict new ethical guidelines, one from his mother, Minty, reminding him to take his malaria tablets, and one from the girl he’d been screwing on and off in LA, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was playing at, disappearing on her like that without so much as a phone call.
“I know it’s difficult, like, with Richard,” she said, her whiney, vacuous voice slicing into the dry, air-conditioned atmosphere like a razor. “But I thought you and I had something special. Guess I was wrong.”
“Guess you were,” said Jake aloud, switching off his phone, but not before deleting her number from his address book. Silly cow. This always happened when he slept with a woman more than twice. They got clingy. He really must stick to his own rules next time.
Opening the minibar, he pulled out a warm Budweiser—nothing in the fridge was cold; the electricity must have gone off again while he was at the orphanage—and drank it, trying to think about the things he’d seen today and block out his disappointment that Scarlett hadn’t bothered to call.
It was her Jimmy Choo thing at the Chateau tonight. She’d done well, putting that together on such short notice. He ought to call, say congratulations, see how things had gone. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, knowing that Magnus would be there, hovering in the background like an overgrown weed, no doubt talking shit about him to Scarlett like he always did.
Recently his innate dislike of Magnus had blossomed into something more sinister, or at least more all-consuming. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he simply didn’t trust the guy. The self-satisfaction would have been bad enough on its own. But the way he had Scarlett running around after him like a puppy, the way he controlled every aspect of their relationship from the geography to the timing…it all smelled faintly fishy to Jake. An expert in infidelity himself, he knew the signs of a fellow cheater: the secrecy, the unpredictable flashes of romance, the righteous indignation when challenged. If Magnus were being faithful to Scarlett, he’d eat his hat. Of course, proving his suspicions was quite another matter.
Closing his eyes, he lay back against the pillow. Stupid bloody Magnus. Within minutes he was asleep, beer bottle still in hand, dreaming about the classroom at St. Catherine’s, machete-wielding rebels, and Scarlett, running naked through the garden of the Chateau Marmont.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BROGAN O’DONNELL SURVEYED the eleven nervous, sycophantic faces around the boardroom table with a feeling of immense well-being.
He had friends—successful, shrewd businessmen—who’d seen their authority over their own companies eroded over the years at the hands of a difficult, headstrong board and determined never to make the same mistake himself. Unlike other CEOs, he wasn’t necessarily looking for the brightest and best at O’Donnell Industries. Why shell out millions of dollars in options and incentives trying to poach some whiz kid with a Harvard MBA out of Goldman Sachs or Morgan Stanley just to have them turn around and try to knife you in the back the second you gave them a chance? Headhunters were always going on about hiring guys who were entrepreneurial and hungry. But Brogan knew how easily a board of eleven hungry guys could turn him into lunch. There was only room for one entrepreneur at O’Donnell, and he was i
t. Give him a bunch of solid, reliable yes-men any day.
Not that any of them had much to complain about. It was November now, which meant year-end bonuses were around the corner, and everyone at the table knew that they’d enjoyed a stellar year. The Yakutia mines were now more profitable than ever, far outstripping the volatile African holdings of most of O’Donnell’s major rivals, and the international diamond markets were as buoyant as Pamela Anderson’s breasts in the Dead Sea.
Without consulting any of them, Brogan had committed 5 percent of the year’s profits—a big chunk of change—to high-profile charity causes in both Africa and Siberia. But if anyone had nursed private doubts over the move, they felt a whole lot better now. In a matter of months, they’d seen the firm’s image shift from that of heartless Yankee plunderer to concerned, responsible global player. And it was all thanks to a few well-placed magazine features and one hugely sympathetic Fox News interview, depicting Brogan as the new caring face of capitalism.
Not only had the shift gone down well with shareholders, but it had bolstered Brogan’s image in the divorce courts too. With Diana unwilling to use pictures of her beaten face as evidence—“I’m sorry,” she told Danny, “but it’s below the belt. He’d never done anything like that before, and that isn’t why I left him”—there was nothing to stop Brogan’s excellent divorce attorney from painting his client as the wronged, innocent party. Anyone attending the hearings would have thought him the most devoted husband on earth, showering his young wife with every conceivable material comfort, undergoing humiliating and painful fertility treatment to provide her with the child she so craved, only to have it thrown back in his face when she ran off into the sunset with a handsome business rival.
That was the part Danny liked most—hearing himself described as Brogan’s rival, when he could barely afford laces for his shoes. It was right up there with Brogan’s claim that he’d never been “physically or emotionally” unfaithful to Diana. But again, without proof (Diana had no pictures or written evidence of his many affairs, and the girls involved had all been paid handsomely for their silence) there wasn’t a lot they could do to stop the PR roller coaster from rebranding the former monster as a latter-day saint.
In fact, of all the things that had gone right this year—O’Donnell’s results, Premiere being named newcomer of the year for their newly opened Cape Town office, the amazing sex he was having with his latest twenty-three-year-old Slovakian girlfriend—it was crushing Diana and Danny in court, and financially, that had given him the most pleasure.
After Diana left him he’d spent a week locked away in Telluride, refusing to speak to anyone, not even Aidan Leach. Winded with shock and grief, terrified by how keenly he felt her loss, for the first time in his adult life he wasn’t sure what to do. Diana had had years to say good-bye to the marriage, watching it unravel like a snagged sweater from her lonely prison on Park Avenue with each endless passing day. But their problems, and her unhappiness, came as a bolt from the blue to Brogan. Every day, he waited for her to return, like a bewildered toddler lost in a supermarket aisle. When she didn’t, he felt the closest he’d ever come to panic, in equal parts frightened and embarrassed by his despair.
In the end Aidan had flown up to Colorado himself, forced his way into the chalet, and demanded that Brogan see him. It was the first and last time that Brogan would submit to another man’s demands. But he knew he needed help—a cool, rational, trustworthy head to do all the things he couldn’t. And Aidan was absolutely that guy. Standing there in his cheap suit, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down grotesquely as he exhorted his boss to get a grip, to get mad, then even, then vengeful against the son of a bitch who’d stolen his wife, instead of lying around in bed sniveling like Howard Hughes, Aidan’s physical ugliness struck Brogan as forcefully as if he’d never laid eyes on the guy before.
It seemed that had been his problem all along: not seeing things that were right in front of his face. But Aidan’s intervention was exactly the jolt he needed. Twenty-four hours later, dressed, shaved, and rested, thanks to the prescription knockout pill Leach had insisted he take, Brogan was boarding his private jet for New York with a single thought on his mind: destroying Danny Meyer.
It had been almost too easy. He hadn’t had to go through any of the time-consuming intimidation he’d used on Scarlett Drummond Murray in London. Danny’s market was New York, Brogan’s backyard, a city where a quiet word from Aidan on his behalf had every jeweler, cutter, and dealer on the street jumping to heel, dropping Danny from their Rolodexes like a burning turd without a backward glance. Having cut his income supply off at the knees and effectively frozen Diana’s funds, Brogan could sit back and leave the rest to his divorce attorney, another contact of Aidan’s and a master at spinning out disputes for so long that the weaker, poorer party got priced out of the game. Last he heard, Danny and Diana were living in borderline penury somewhere in Brooklyn, contemplating decamping to England. That’d show the bitch what life was like without the security blanket of his money.
“Any other business? Or are we done here, gentlemen?”
Mickey O’Connor, the CFO, cast his pale, watery eyes nervously around the table. Once considered a dynamo in the diamond business, three years working for Brogan had transformed him into a nervous wreck, albeit a wealthy one. Pale and weak chinned, the shoulders of his suit jacket permanently dusted with dandruff like powdered sugar on a chocolate cake, Mickey was a mere shadow of his former vibrant self. Brogan’s management style—capriciously alternating praise and scalding public humiliation, the better to keep his execs on their toes—had reduced him to an almost childlike state, scared to open his mouth in his boss’s presence. Even something as simple as concluding a board meeting had the potential to turn into an excruciating, emasculating ordeal, and Brogan’s face today had given nothing away as to his ever-changing mood.
“Uh-uh.”
“Not from me.”
“Don’t think so.”
Happily his colleagues seemed as anxious as he was to bring this thing to a close and retreat to the safety of their big, glass-walled offices, where they could order their secretaries around for a few hours until their balls grew back.
“In that case,” said Mickey, risking a smile, “meeting adjourned.”
Brogan watched them all file out. He contemplated calling Mickey and a couple of the others back at the last minute to rake them over the coals for some invented misdemeanor. They’d all gotten off lightly this afternoon. But he had a date with Natalia tonight—to his own surprise as much as anyone’s, she’d morphed since Diana left him from casual fuck to bona-fide girlfriend—and he wanted time to work out before he saw her.
Outside it was a gray, nondescript winter’s day. The sky was already getting dark, and a stream of toxic drizzle pounded against the floor-to-ceiling windows with relentless monotony. For a flicker of an instant, Brogan felt his stomach churning with nerves at the prospect of returning home to the apartment. Natalia had steadfastly refused to move in with him. Her independence was probably the key factor still holding his interest—that and the naked envy in other men’s eyes when he walked into a restaurant with her on his arm—but her decision left him stuck in a space haunted with memories of Diana and his marriage.
It’d be OK tonight, though. Freddie, his trainer, would be waiting to distract him. And he’d bring Natalia back for sex after dinner, so he wouldn’t have to spend a miserable evening alone.
The last to leave the boardroom, as always, he strolled along the corridor to his own corner office. Outside, Rose, his PA, was taking a rare coffee break, but she hurriedly stuffed the gossip magazine she was reading into a drawer when he approached.
“It’s OK,” he laughed. “You don’t have to hide it. You’re the one person in this office who’s earned a little R & R.”
Nervously, she removed the magazine from the drawer.
“What is this shit, anyway?” Brogan teased her, turning over the copy of Star wi
th amused curiosity. “Brangelina on the Rocks?” He frowned at the sensational headline. “Come on, Rosie! You’re smarter than that.”
“It’s just for fun,” she mumbled, wincing as he flicked through it. For a few pages his wry smile remained fixed. Then abruptly, it vanished, replaced by a knitted brow and a tightening of the lips that she knew spelled trouble.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded. He wasn’t teasing now.
“The newsstand downstairs, sir,” she replied meekly. “In the lobby.”
“I don’t want to see this publication anywhere else in this building. Do you understand me?” He was speaking loudly enough now for every head in the office to turn and stare.
Rose, who knew better than to speak when the boss was venting, merely nodded.
“And you can tell that little Mexican fucker, Rico or whatever the fuck his name is, that he just lost his franchise. If that newsstand isn’t gone by tomorrow morning, I’m calling immigration on his ass.”
Slamming the door of his office, Brogan drew the blinds so that no one could see in and opened the magazine again at the page that had so offended him. The picture itself was small, one shot among six or seven others in an “as seen” spread, where readers mail in their own snaps of celebrities out and about. Even the caption was harmless enough: “Celebrity designer and former model Scarlett Drummond Murray enjoys some down time with Diana O’Donnell and friends.”
The snap was of Scarlett at a beach café in Santa Monica, laughing alongside Diana. Also at the table, but with only their backs in shot, were Jake and Danny Meyer.
Brogan had seen plenty of pictures of Diana and Danny together. Both Aidan and his divorce attorney had insisted on continuing to have them followed and had gone to some lengths to harden Brogan emotionally, forcing him to look at the images and use them to feed his anger. He was also well aware that Scarlett and Jake were now in business together in LA, and that despite his best efforts, Flawless was continuing to thrive. Yet somehow, in all his fevered, jealous imaginings, he hadn’t pictured a scenario in which Diana made up a happy foursome with both the Meyer brothers and that bitch of a girl.
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