Carlton decided sincerity would only aggravate matters. “I'm sorry, sir.”
Jarvik grunted, he pointed a thick finger at the visitor's chair next to Carlton's desk. “Sit down.”
Carlton peeled off his overcoat and scarf, hung them on a battered hat rack. He removed a pile of legal publications from the cracked leather chair and sat. He awaited his sentence, a visitor in his own office.
“Now,” Jarvik sat and reclined, “tell me what you know about diamonds.”
“Diamonds?” Carlton wondered if the question was designed to lead to further humiliation, then decided Jarvik was serious. “I don't know anything about diamonds, sir. Except that they're very expensive.”
“Just as I thought. Most people don't, but Rothenberg loves them.” He referred to the Deputy Assistant Attorney General in charge of DOJ's Antitrust Section. Jarvik's boss. “She's nuts about them, and for some reason, she got it into her mind to prosecute a local mom-and-pop diamond mining outfit in Arkansas for antitrust violations.”
“Diamonds in Arkansas? I though diamonds came from Afri—”
“It's a miniature deposit. A freak of nature, from what the geologists say. Strictly mom and pop. Raymond Mines, the outfit is called. Nuts, if you want my opinion. There's hardly any evidence, but Rothenberg's got this crazy idea the Raymonds accepted money to shut down operations, asked me to make sure it gets followed up. You're the lucky one. I'm taking you off of Global and putting you on Raymond Mines.”
Carlton's jaw dropped. “What?” The word cracked in his throat.
“You heard me.”
Had he been standing, the blow would have knocked him to the ground. “Off Global? Sir, I've been working on Global for six months. I've done all the trial prep. The witnesses. The strategy. The questions on direct and cross. Everything.” He stood, fought to retain his composure. “The trial is in a week. One week, sir. And Global is a corporate maze. Dozens of witnesses. It'll take another attorney weeks to figure out what's going on.” He stood. “I'm going to—”
“Sit down! The case is closed, Carlton. Literally. You're off Global. On Raymond Mines.” He stood, indicating the finality of his ruling. “I'll send down the Raymond Mines file.” He walked to the door, turned. “One more thing. I want you to wrap this up quickly. I know Rothenberg wants it prosecuted, and she's the boss, but Justice has never won a diamond case. Ever. Raymond Mines won't be different. The last thing this Section needs is another embarrassment in the press. Rothenberg or no Rothenberg, you are not to risk Section credibility by taking this to trial. Get a little settlement for show. Move on.”
“Sir, I—”
“Settle!” He shouted, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Then move on. Do I make myself clear?”
Carlton paused, still in shock. “As a diamond, sir.”
“Good.” Jarvik walked out and slammed the door.
Carlton sat for a long moment, trying hard to contain his anger, then walked to the window across the room. The thick glass was stained with the deposits of countless rains. Outside, dark clouds loosed freezing rain onto the red tile roof.
Global Steel. Carlton had come too close to being able to win the case so many others thought unwinnable. With a victory, Carlton would shine, brightly enough to raise the level of cases assigned to him after three years in the trenches, brightly enough to outshine Jarvik. Something Jarvik's pride could not, would not, tolerate. By giving Global to another lawyer right before trial, Jarvik could simultaneously prevent Carlton from shining and blame his unlucky replacement for the loss. Tidy. No matter to Jarvik the real losers would be those harmed by Global Steel Inc.: the American public.
Raised by parents slightly south of middle class and graduating from parochial high school with a perfect GPA and attendance record, Carlton moved from his parents' home in El Centro, California, to attend UCLA. He worked his way through college doing odd jobs on boats in the marina. He worked hard. He had a goal, and he stuck to it. His goal was money. The 1980s, Carlton's formative years, was the Decade of Greed. For him, like so many others, a big salary, a German sports car, and a condo in a coveted zip code were all that mattered. His hard work paid off. He earned a full scholarship to George Washington University law school in D.C. Three grueling years later, he attained his goal: a six-figure job in a top-ten Washington law firm.
But private practice in a D.C. megafirm did not live up to his image. Neither the status of the firm nor the bloated salary made up for its shortcomings. It took only two months for him to christen the firm the ‘Merchants of Pain’ and begin to question his choices. The firm name and money were great, the work unspeakably stressful, tedious, and repetitious. His questioning coincided with a spiritual quest for the faith he'd considered an obstacle to success and abandoned ten years before.
Was this all there was? Had he endured the repeated mental beatings of law school for such meaningless work? Day after dreary day, meaningless memos to faceless clients. Dilatory depositions. Endless research. Scant hours of sleep punctuated by anxiety attacks. The rumors in law school had been true. As clichéd as it sounded, he had traded his life, his health, his soul, for a salary. After three years, Carlton gave up the fat paycheck and made the lateral hop to Justice, hoping law practice there would be different. But at Justice nothing changed except the salary, which was now a pittance.
A soft knock at his door shook him out of his sullen introspection. He turned. “Yeah.”
The rookie lawyer with green eyes peeked through the half-open door. “You okay?”
He tried hard to smile, failed. “No, actually. But thanks for the warning.” He stood and offered his hand. “We've never met. I'm—”
“Patrick Carlton.” Her eyes were smiling now. “I'm Erika Wassenaar.” Carlton was surprised by her strong grip. And by the thumping in his chest.
At five-feet-eight, the young redhead in her mid-twenties was slim but not starved. A first year lawyer, her demeanor suggested a confidence rarely attained without a few years of practice. Her lively eyes shone with curiosity. Professionally dressed in a smart navy blue suit and white blouse, she exuded freshness. She smiled with bright white teeth, slightly crooked, that added a girlish quality to her impish, mischievous charm.
Carlton forced his thoughts to professional matters. “You're new in the department, right?”
“Two weeks. The ink is still wet on my Bar certificate.” She laughed genuinely, like a child.
“Congratulations. That's impressive.” DOJ hired only the elite of law students directly out of school.
“Thanks, Mr. Carlton.”
“Mr. Carlton sounds like my dad's in the room. We're a bit more informal around here. Pat'll do just fine,” he paused. “Wassenaar. Dutch?”
“That's pretty good. Most people can't pin it down.”
“Beginner's luck.” He motioned to a chair. “Grab a seat.”
Erika's gaze wandered over the framed photographs, diplomas, and awards on the office wall. Bar of the Supreme Court of the United States. Federal District Court here, Federal District Court there. Court of Appeals for this and that Circuit. California Bar. District of Columbia Bar. George Washington University National Law Center. University of California at Los Angeles.
“I went to UCLA undergrad,” she said.
“Aces. I could use another Bruin in this Ivy League prison. Where did you go to law school?”
“Pepperdine.”
“We've got a couple good lawyers from there.”
The phone rang. “Excuse me,” Carlton said as he reached for the receiver.
Erika assessed the man facing her. He seemed genuinely friendly, a bit nervous around her, which she found refreshing. Despite black hair worn in a crew cut, his strong nose, intense blue eyes, and angular jaw, Carlton was not exactly handsome. Nor was he particularly fit, brilliant, or wealthy, from what she'd heard. The word at DOJ was he smoked cigars with a vengeance, but never Cubans, because they were illegal. He had a temper, but lost it rarely.
He wore conservative navy blue suits with white shirts to work, always with spit-shined cowboy boots. But the buzz didn't quite get it, didn't point to the intensity she sensed in him.
When he hung up, she pointed to a grainy discolored photograph on the wall, an elderly man and a teenager smiling next to a dusty biplane. “Who's that in the picture?”
“My grandfather and I. He was a crop duster in El Centro back in California. He taught me to fly when I was a kid.”
“You still fly?”
“Not since he passed away. I've moved on to boats,” he announced, picking up a small wooden model of a gray boat with white lettering on its side from the edge of his desk.
She cocked her head. “You're in the Navy?”
“Lieutenant Carlton, Navy Reserves. I skipper this little guy on the Chesapeake two weekends a month. After this morning, I may be doing it full time real soon.”
They chuckled. After a moment of silence, she stood. “I have to go. Please let me know if you need any research. I hope we can work together sometime.”
So did Carlton, and that rang alarm bells. He stood, nearly knocking a pile of documents off the desk in the process. “Thanks again for the warning.”
2 RAID
Mirny Diamond Processing Center
1,300 miles Northeast of Irkutsk
Mirny, Siberian Republic of Yakut-Sakha (formerly Yakutia)
Russian Federation
2:37 A.M.
They approached like wraiths in the searing cold of the black Siberian night.
Without fear.
Without sound.
Without mercy.
Thirty members of the Volki—the Wolves—crept to the entrance of the Mirny diamond processing center on the outskirts of town where the lion's share of Russia's diamond yield was processed. Over ten million carats a year.
Thick fireproof jumpsuits protected the former Red Army's elite Spetsnaz commandos with synthetic fiber mesh. Helmets and breathing apparatus protected their eyes and lungs. They removed the Baigish night vision gear that had washed the darkened compound in an eerie green glow during their approach. Armed with titanium knives and flamethrowers, they now lay flat against the Siberian permafrost and awaited their leader's signal.
Ulianov waved a luminescent stick. One of the commandos responded by squirting a stream of liquid onto the ground. The substance reacted almost instantly with the chemical sprayed over the compound minutes before by gliders, unleashing a firestorm. Flames leapt hundreds of feet into the air. Balls of fire engulfed wood buildings whole. Vehicles exploded. Following Ulianov's second signal, a series of Semtex charges exploded and shattered the armored entrance gate.
Befuddled guards screamed in crazed flight from matchstick barracks. Guards who moments before sat and shivered in their frigid entrance pillbox yelled in short-lived deliria, rolled on the frozen ground, trying to extinguish the flames that tore at their flesh. The Volki stormed past them all.
A pack of six Volki reached the natural gas supply lines elevated above the impenetrable permafrost. Soon, additional Semtex charges exploded, cracking the heavy metal tubes like so much brittle glass, sending their cargo into a fireball hundreds of feet into the glacial air.
Four simultaneous offensives hammered the barracks strategically located at each of the four cardinal points of the compound. Another pack of Volki stood guard at the entrance gate, engulfing escaping guards in fire with flamethrowers.
The Volki splintered the doors of the four barracks with swift kicks, sprayed their prey with inflamed gel from flamethrowers, most members of the half-naked garrison too stunned to react. The maelstrom asphyxiated screams and lives as it devoured oxygen.
Several guards in the barracks valiantly brandished Kalashnikov AKSU-47 submachine guns resting near their cots. Most were immersed in baths of inflamed gel before they could squeeze off a single round at the strangely masked enemy blurred by the turbulent heat. A few courageous young guards in the eastern barracks managed to switch off their safeties, shove their selector levers into full automatic position, and pepper several Volki with a half dozen rounds before they succumbed to the flamethrowers. One of the plastic-encapsulated 5.45 millimeter steel core rounds found its target in the cranium of one of the Volki. His finger muscles contracted, pulling back the flamethrower trigger. Flames enveloped two of his comrades, quickly dissolving the fibers of their mesh suits. They rolled on the ground to extinguish the flames, but their movements ceased before their comrades could drag them clear of the burning structure.
In the western barracks, an alert young officer emptied an entire magazine of nine-millimeter rounds from his Stechkin handgun into an unsuspecting Volki's chest. He slammed another magazine into the gun and was about to continue his attack when another Volki slit his throat from behind. The guards in the other barracks met similar fates.
Although pockets of resistance erupted, the guards were no match for the Volki's training and the element of surprise. The devastating attack was over almost immediately after it began. The Volki reassembled and counted off. They could not allow a single trace of the attack to remain. They recovered all their dead. Although the civilian work force had returned home hours earlier, guards could have sought refuge in the diamond processing and storage buildings. Though it was only a matter of minutes before the compound's flames would decrease sufficiently for the town's emergency teams to enter, the processing and storage structures had to be searched.
Upon Ulianov's signal, twenty Volki rushed into the diamond processing plant. Unlike the cheaply erected barracks, it was constructed of steel-reinforced concrete. Bunkerlike, it was badly charred but unharmed by the searing flames. The Volki split into smaller packs, wound through the maze of corridors. All seemed empty as they neared the pens that held the uncut diamonds. They could see hundreds of thousands of carats of dull white diamond roughs in piles behind armored padlocked fences. Suddenly, the contingent was met with a barrage of rounds from Makarov handguns. Two Volki were killed instantly and fell to the ground. The other three scrambled for cover behind the concrete corner. They threatened the defending guards with bursts from their flamethrowers but could not use them. Doing so would incinerate the room and evidence the attack. One Volki unclipped a small canister from his belt, twisted its top, flung it along the ground at the defending guards, and ran for cover. The two other Volki mimicked their comrade, dragged the injured to safety. Within seconds, the diamond pens filled with a cloud of gas. Unlike their colleagues, the defending guards were unconscious when they were dragged out of the bunker and set aflame. Breathing apparatus firmly in place, the Volki reentered the storage area now free from defending guards. In others less trained and less motivated, the temptation to grab million- dollar handfuls of diamonds would be great. The former Spetsnaz commandos were fanatically disciplined. They left the diamond pens untouched, busied themselves with the removal of the guards' shell casings from the floor. To the Volki's advantage, none of the rounds had lodged in concrete.
Ulianov signaled a full retreat as the wail of sirens pierced the din of the inferno. The Volki sprayed fire on a swath of ground thirty feet wide and retreated over it as a convoy of fire trucks, ambulances, and militia vehicles converged on the Mirny diamond processing compound.
Carrying dead and injured comrades, the Volki jogged to two military personnel trucks a mile distant. As the trucks sped away into the night, headlights off, the commandos peeled off their insulation suits, drank liters of sodium-laced water to counter the massive dehydration suffered during the raid, and changed into Russian military uniforms.
Ulianov looked at his watch. The entire operation had lasted only six minutes.
Perfect. Molotok would be pleased.
At precisely 2:45 A.M. local Mirny time, a United States National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) 8X satellite traveled through the Van Allen radiation belts in orbit dozens of miles above the darkened face of the Earth's Eastern hemisphere. A result of years of Strategic Defense Initiati
ve research and a $1.5 billion development budget, the satellite had evolved from the ‘Keyhole’ KH-12. Unlike its older brother, the twenty-ton 8X provided intricate detail and live digital information return of areas as wide as one thousand miles. More important was that the 8X detected infrared radiation—heat. Each object has a specific temperature colder or warmer than its ambient environment. By measuring relative heat, the satellite could pinpoint nearly any object, even in complete darkness. Because heat signatures did not vanish immediately, the 8X infrared detectors viewed the position of objects even after they had moved.
The 8X could view the past in the black of night.
3 BILLIONAIRE
Castel MacLean
Beverly Hills, California
8:30 A.M.
Maximillian MacLean, billionaire founder and owner of MacLean Inc., a global food concern, swept out of his palatial bedroom, enveloped in a robe of deep blue silk. While generally men of his wealth were passionate only about acquiring yet more wealth and power, MacLean was occupied by an entirely different passion. It was the central focus of his existence, the meaning in his life, the fire in his soul. He was obsessed with it.
Beauty.
Though his name no longer betrayed the fact, Maximilian MacLean had come into the world as the son of Don Giancarlo Innocenti, one of the last of the great American mafia dons, the uomini di rispetto - men of respect. Unlike other dons, who continued to believe the American branch of the Cosa Nostra, its lavish lifestyle and free reign would grow forever, Giancarlo Innocenti had detected the subtle winds of change. Despite the mafia's cooperation with the American government during Operation Underworld in World War II, when in exchange for leniency—and a blind eye to black marketeering—the American Cosa Nostra protected the mafia-controlled American ports against Axis saboteurs, helped the American Army find its way through the Sicilian countryside, and restored post-Mussolini order in the villages, and despite the mafia boom of the early '50s, Innocenti divined the organization's future. Amid the powerful families, his was the lone voice that predicted their fall at the hands of the federal government. As the other dons buried their heads in the sands of Las Vegas, Miami Beach, and Atlantic City, Giancarlo Innocenti prepared for the end.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 2