Blood Diamonds - [Kamal and Barnea 05]

by By Jon Land

  * * * *

  Blood Diamonds

  [Kamal & Barnea 05]

  By John Land

  Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

  * * * *

  PROLOGUE

  Tongo, Sierra Leone, 2000

  I

  f you’ll follow me, gentlemen,” Colonel Masio Verdoon said to the representatives from Parliament, as they huddled in the thin shade of their truck, “we’ll get started.”

  The six representatives, personally chosen by President Kabbah, followed Verdoon back into the heat of the midday sun. Tongo was located in the Kono region of Sierra Leone, well east of the coastline’s cooling ocean breezes. The representatives walked with Colonel Verdoon up the slight hill through the steamy air, their shoes crunching over pressed gravel and their noses wrinkling at the stench of sun-baked mud rising from the shores of the river beyond. Perspiration darkened their shirts in widening blotches that looked like huge insects clawing their way through the fabric.

  “As you know, we retook the Tongo diamond fields from the Revolutionary United Front over a year ago,” Colonel Verdoon resumed near the crest of the hill. He wore his coarse black hair cropped close to his scalp, his face dappled with scars and his stoutness further exaggerated by a belly that hung over his gun belt. “This, of course, has nearly crippled the rebels’ ability to purchase arms on the black market and has allowed the government to use the profits to make substantial investments in our nation’s infrastructure.”

  The six representatives exchanged frowns. Evidence of such investment remained nearly nonexistent, leading many lawmakers to question the functionality of the once diamond-rich fields. Hence, this tour.

  A trail had been flattened at the top of the hill, angling down toward a narrow ribbon of water. Government soldiers stood at their posts all along the riverbank, overseeing dozens of workers busily dipping large sieves in the water and scooping up whatever they could. The workers shook the sieves to sift out sediment and dirt, then inspected whatever lay trapped by the screen. The toilsome motion had a choreographed flavor to it, as if it formed the steps of some well-practiced, synchronized dance.

  “These are alluvial diamonds, of course, and the method for mining them has remained unchanged for centuries, with a few exceptions.”

  As the tour group approached the river, more workers hurriedly collected the contents of the sieves into wheelbarrows and brought them to a conveyor belt on which the stones and rocks were placed.

  “The conveyor is covered with axle grease,” Verdoon explained. “Rough diamonds, we’ve learned, stick to such grease while regular stones do not.” Verdoon failed to add that this had been learned from the rebels who had mined Tongo far more successfully when it had been in their possession.

  The conveyor belt ferried the stones scooped up from the river to a central location of tables squeezed amidst several high piles of excavated dirt. There, another group of workers, under the even more watchful eye of soldiers, stored the potential diamonds in wooden pails.

  “There have been no incidents here in Tongo since I took over security,” Verdoon said proudly. “We believe the rebels have totally vacated the area, but we have placed mines and traps in the surrounding woods in case they return.”

  Suddenly an uncovered truck packed with men and women clad in tattered shorts and frayed shirts rolled down a service road cut from the surrounding forest. The truck parked at an angle off the steep grade and a pair of soldiers armed with M-16 assault rifles climbed down from the cab.

  “The next shift of workers has arrived,” Colonel Verdoon told the government representatives clustered around him. “Shifts are eight hours long from sunup to sunset.” He checked his watch. “This shift appears to be a little early, but...”

  His voice tailed off as the soldiers herded the workers from the truck, prodding them with the barrels of their M-16s. Near the back several had collapsed from the heat, and the soldiers mounted the truck’s bed to rouse them.

  Verdoon cleared his throat uneasily, hoping to be saved the embarrassment of one or more of the workers being found dead. He actually breathed a brief sigh of relief when they stirred; brief because the motion was too sudden and abrupt. Verdoon squinted into the sun and saw the dark gun barrels being hoisted from beneath the workers and tossed outward to be snatched out of the air by those workers who had already climbed down.

  Rebels! It was the RUF!

  The shooting began as Verdoon struggled to shepherd the government representatives back up the hill to safety. Random and wild, punctuated by piercing screams as the rebels fired across the riverbanks, downing soldiers and workers indiscriminately. The prospecting workers tried to run from the river. The soldiers who could fled into the woods.

  Verdoon drew his pistol, sidestepping up the hill, and fired on the rebels the moment they turned their attention upon him. A pair of the representatives went down screaming. Below, on the riverbank, some rebels whipped machetes from sheaths hidden by their shirts and set off after the workers struggling to flee.

  Blades whistled through the air. Blood leaped upward. The screams bubbled in Verdoon’s ears. He realized he couldn’t swallow, realized his pistol’s slide had locked empty and ejected the magazine in favor of a fresh one only to remember his ceremonial gun belt didn’t hold any extra clips.

  A wave of rebels surged up the hill, their raised machetes fragmenting the sunlight. Verdoon was still trying to shove the last standing representatives over the hill when bloodied blades split the air around him. He sank to his knees and absurdly raised his hands to cover his head.

  Verdoon felt a stinging pain, like ice poking into his flesh, and looked down to see his right arm laying on the dirt. He screamed and gazed up at the tall, lithe figure of a woman looming over him, the machete in her hand soaking the ground with fresh blood.

  “Dragon,” he uttered, recognizing her as the blade rose skyward and then chopped down toward him. “I spit on—”

  A flash exploded before Verdoon’s eyes before he could finish, dragging a sea of red behind it that swallowed the rest of his world.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Chapter 1

  T

  he ancient truck rumbled down the street toward the open warehouse. A bearded Palestinian wearing akeffiyah rose from a chair set in the shade of an adjacent alleyway and stepped to the curb, watching as the truck’s bald tires scraped to a halt atop the rubble-strewn street. None of the residents of the West Bank town of Beit Jala could remember the last time the roads had been cleaned; not since Israeli tanks had left them cracked and broken in a parade-like show of force months before, that was certain.

  The passenger side of the truck faced the warehouse, and a burly man with bulging, hairy forearms leaned out the window.

  “Vasily Anatolyevich at your service, comrade.”

  Anatolyevich extended a meaty hand out the window and grasped the Palestinian’s in a powerful grip that belied his years. He appeared to be between sixty and seventy with a shock of sterling silver hair brushed straight back and light blue eyes that looked strangely joyful. His skin was smooth and unfurrowed, pale except for a spider web of purplish veins that crisscrossed his nose and stretched across his cheeks.

  “Any problems at the checkpoint?” the tall and sinewy Palestinian asked Anatolyevich. Just as his face wasted no expression, his frame carried no extra fat or flesh.

  “I told you, comrade,” Anatolyevich said with a wink and pulled his hand away, “we paid a premium for these papers, one of the advantages of being Israeli citizens. The officers at the checkpoint believe we’re carrying supplies for Gilo,” he added in his thick Russian accent, referri
ng to a nearby Jewish West Bank neighborhood that had been annexed to Jerusalem. “Your name, comrade, I don’t think I—”

  “Abu.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s enough.”

  Anatolyevich smiled again, a bit forced this time. “So long as the payment you brought is enough, eh, comrade?”

  “Once I inspect the goods.” The Palestinian who called himself Abu ruffled a hand through his thick beard. “Inside.”

  With that he gestured to the front of the warehouse where two other Palestinians wearing thin jackets had slid open a large bay.

  Anatolyevich squinted into the dark interior and nodded. “Whatever you say, comrade. We need to hurry, though. I have another appointment I can’t be late for.”

  “Business must be good.”

  Anatolyevich smiled. “Better than ever.”

  The Russian’s driver backed the truck inside the warehouse in a series of fits and jolts. The man who called himself Abu walked beside the passenger window the whole time, as if to act as guide. His two companions slid the bay door closed behind the truck, sealing the large single room from all light except for a few old fixtures dangling from the ceiling, the bulbs of which flickered reluctantly to life. Shafts of sunlight spilled in through some scattered windows and a few rays penetrated the crumbling ceiling as well. Pierced months before by stray shells fired from Israeli helicopter gunships that had strafed the street after Palestinian machine gun fire shattered windows in nearby Gilo.

  Anatolyevich and his driver climbed down from the cab and joined one of the Palestinians at the truck’s rear. Anatolyevich hoisted open the rear hatch to reveal a number of wooden crates and plastic tubular-shaped containers, innocuous save for the Russian markings along the sides.

  “As promised,” Anatolyevich beamed at Abu who had reappeared by his side.

  The Palestinian reached past him and drew one of the crates forward.

  “One hundred and forty-four Kalashnikov assault rifles,” Anatolyevich narrated, as Abu popped the crate open, “packed one dozen per crate. Ammunition included in separate boxes, as requested. I threw in some extra as a sign of good faith.”

  Abu ignored the Russian’s smile and tested the weight of the Kalashnikov. “Freshly oiled,” he noted.

  “And why not, comrade? After all, the guns are brand new. Never fired. Russian military issue, of which there is now extremely little need. Bad for the military of my former country. Good for business.”

  The Palestinian looked up at the arms dealer from where he squatted next to the rifles. “Apparently.”

  The Russian shrugged. “The military’s loss is our gain, eh, comrade? They will never miss something they never had.”

  “What about the rocket launchers?”

  Anatolyevich reached past him into the truck’s cargo bay and yanked one of the plastic containers forward. His bulging stomach pressed against the hold of the truck as he strained against the container’s weight, finally succeeding in bringing it to the edge at the expense of a slight scratch on the face of his gold Rolex watch. It didn’t seem to phase him. Abu watched silently as the Russian peeled back two latches and then popped the container open.

  “This is our latest model,” he proclaimed proudly. “Not even issued to the Russian army yet.” He grinned again. “Shipment has been delayed. Apparently my former government is behind on their payments!”

  The Palestinian happily examined the tubular launcher and the rocket fitted into a tailored slot just beneath it.

  “The Israeli tanks and helicopter gunships have finally met their match, eh comrade?”

  Abu returned his attention to the rocket launcher. “I might want more of these.”

  “As many as you like! Buy ten, I’ll throw in one for free. Business is good. I can afford to be generous.”

  “With the prices you charge, I’m not surprised.”

  “Speaking of prices, comrade ...”

  Abu signaled one of his two subordinates who stripped a tattered rucksack from his back. “In American dollars, as instructed,” he said, as the man handed it to Anatolyevich.

  The Russian held the sack by his side, not bothering to open it.

  “You’re not going to count it?” Abu asked.

  “Later over a vodka, while I go over your new shopping list. You should join me.”

  “Israel’s borders are still closed to us.”

  “Precisely why I brought a bottle with me. I have it in the cab.”

  Anatolyevich started round the truck, brushing past the Palestinian who’d been holding the rucksack full of money. The man’s jacket was pulled back slightly, exposing a pistol held in a shoulder holster. The Russian smiled at him, then at Abu again before climbing back into the cab.

  He reached quickly across the seat, ducking his hand down and scraping it across the floor mat.

  “Looking for this?” the man who called himself Abu asked from the window, holding a submachine gun up for the Russian to see.

  “The vodka, comrade,” the Russian said and forced a smile. “I was reaching for the vodka.”

  “It was in the glove compartment,” the Palestinian said, holding the bottle up in his other hand. “I—”

  “You saw the pistol in Sergeant Khaled’s holster. A Beretta nine-millimeter you recognized as standard issue for the Palestinian police. We used to get them from the Israelis.”

  “You . . .”

  “I am Inspector Bayan Kamal of the Palestinian police.” Ben Kamal laid the bottle of vodka on the warehouse floor. Still holding the submachine gun, he used his free hand to strip off his keffiyah and fake beard. “And you, Vasily Anatolyevich, are under arrest for illegal trafficking in firearms.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 2

  D

  anielle Barnea had been following the man since his arrival in ) Israel the day before. According to his papers, his name was Ranieri and he was traveling on a Swiss passport. Danielle didn’t think he was Swiss; German maybe, perhaps Italian.

  She imagined he switched nationalities as often as names.

  At the airport Ranieri’s two suitcases had been searched in a private security section of Ben-Gurion reserved for diplomats and registered couriers. Danielle noted that he left the section carrying the same two suitcases he had brought in.

  Ranieri had proceeded straight from the airport to a jewelry store called Katz & Katz on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv, just past the sprawling thirty-one-story complex of stores and apartments in Dizengoff Center. He carried the smaller of his two suitcases inside with him. Danielle kept her distance and watched from across the floor as he disappeared into a back room with a curly-haired man she guessed was one of the store’s proprietors, her mind flashing back to the previous morning when she had awoken to find her former special operations commander, Dov Levy, seated in the corner of her bedroom.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, just after she shut off her alarm. “Or should I say Pakad. Chief Inspector.”

  Danielle snapped upright, trying to push the cobwebs from her brain. “General Levy?”

  “I was going to wake you,” Levy said casually, bathed in the dark shadows cast by the drawn blinds. “But then I decided to wait. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Your father’s funeral, I believe.”

  Danielle nodded, keeping the covers pinned to her body.

  “What was that, five years ago now? My God, you haven’t changed a bit.”

  Danielle ruffled a hand through her shoulder-length auburn hair, trying to tease it into shape, suddenly embarrassed by her appearance. She wiped the sleep from her eyes.

  “So sorry to intrude like this,” Dov Levy continued, “but I had to make sure we weren’t seen together.”

  “My security system,” Danielle started.

  “Yes, state of the art. Your locks, too. It’s good to see my old skills haven’t deserted me.” His voice sombered. “I was sorry to hear of your recent dismissal from National Police.”

/>   “Administrative leave,” Danielle corrected, embarrassed by Levy’s knowledge of her misfortune. “I’ve filed a grievance,” she added even more lamely.

  “I wouldn’t expect it to accomplish much with Moshe Baruch in charge. You’re too well known, too accomplished, too much of a threat to him in the high-profile position of a lead investigator. I never liked the bastard. If I was still in the government. . .”

  “You mean, you’re not?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Danielle tried to smile. “I guess that makes two of us, then.”