Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  “The news is disquieting, tovarish prezidyent.” Kovanetz descended uneasily into his seat. “Director Pyashinev is dead.”

  Orlov was unfazed. “How and where?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Mexico? Now that's a surprise.”

  “With your permission, tovarish prezidyent, I would like to start from the beginning. It will make more sense that way.”

  Orlov nodded.

  “We...interrogated both the director's family and his staff at Komdragmet.”

  Orlov winced at the thought of overturned books, broken glass, smashed porcelain, and a wife and children locked in cold, filthy cells in the Lubyanka prison. Russian leaders could and did rename the secret organs of the Russian state, but whether they were referred to as Okhrana, Cheka, GPU, OGPV, NKVD, NKGB, MGB, KGB, the new FSB/SVR, or its military counterpart, the GRU, their methods remained the same. However, as much as Orlov disliked the GRU, never for a moment did he doubt its efficiency.

  “His family truly had no idea where he was. But through his staff we were able to trace Pyashinev to Murmansk. He drove there himself, from his dacha. He traveled from the Murmansk Military Air Field to the carrier Kuznetzov on a MiG-31 Foxhound. From there he took a Navy helicopter to London, commercial flights to Mexico, then a Cuban military helicopter to Havana. The helicopter crashed in the Yucatan jungle nearly one hundred fifty kilometers west of Cuba. Apparently, there were no survivors.”

  Orlov sat up slowly. “But why all these flights? Pyashinev had a state Tupolev at his disposal. Why would he use a succession of military and commercial aircraft? And why would he go to Cuba, of all places? I can think of few countries as little associated with diamonds as Cuba.”

  “Tovarish prezidyent, we believe that Pyashinev did not want anyone to know that he had left the country.”

  “Come on, Colonel. Pyashinev was no imbecile. He knew we would find out.”

  “Da. It does not make any sense unless Pyashinev thought by the time we discovered he had fled the country, the discovery would no longer matter.”

  Kovanetz was efficient. A brilliant orator he was not. “In Russian, Colonel.”

  “The diamond contract negotiations with Waterboer.”

  “What about them?” Orlov winced, sensing the worst.

  “Pyashinev assumed we would not discover his disappearance until after the contract was renegotiated. By that time, he could return and invent whatever explanation he could think of to explain his absence, and the contract with Waterboer would be already in place.”

  “But why would he?”

  “Sir, we dug into his finances. Pyashinev was bribed by Waterboer.”

  “Solkin sin.” Son of a bitch. Orlov wasn't naive. He understood Russian corruption, which had reached institutionalized status in the 1970s under Leonid Brezhnev. Unlike the de-intellectualization undertaken by Stalin after Lenin's death and the de-Stalinization undertaken by Khrushchev after Stalin's death, Russia had never undergone ‘de-corruptization’ after Brezhnev, mostly because the Communist nomenklatura benefited from it. Orlov had begun a de-corruptization, but doing so was taking much time, mostly because he couldn't afford to piss off the West with the massive executions necessary to eliminate the problem. It was for that reason he made sure significant officials like Pyashinev earned— and actually received—very large salaries and substantial government perks. Unfortunately, Orlov had underestimated Pyashinev's greed. He had suspected Pyashinev of stealing from state coffers, but not of bribery.

  “Waterboer deposited five million dollars in an offshore South Pacific bank account in Pyashinev's name just last week. Russians generally send funds offshore to Cyprus. Pyashinev was being very careful.”

  “My God. He knew everything. The real diamond production figures. The real reserves.”

  “We found his crashed helicopter, tovarish prezidyent. Pyashinev and his pilot were dead.” Kovanetz removed a folded paper from his uniform jacket and handed it to Orlov. “And we also found this.”

  Orlov unfolded the paper, stared at the handwritten words:

  “Rossiya, trieti sloi. Nie dopustit im wziat eto.” Russia, third layer. Must not let them get it. “What the hell does it mean?” Orlov looked up at Kovanetz, confused.

  “I'm afraid we don't know, tovarish prezidyent.”

  Orlov leaned back, pointed to the door. “I suggest you start thinking hard, colonel. You have only one day until the negotiations with Waterboer begin.”

  9 SETTLEMENT

  Main Justice Building

  Washington, D. C.

  1:05 P.M.

  “Pat Carlton.”

  “Mr. Carlton. Jonathan Black.”

  That was quick. Just one day since his previous discussion with the haughty lawyer. “Good afternoon.”

  Black sighed. “I've discussed your settlement proposal,” he paused, obviously waiting for Carlton to speak. He was met by silence. “I have been instructed to accept your offer of $20 million.”

  Once again, Carlton had the wind knocked out of him. “Well, I'm very pleased,” he managed to say several seconds later. “Very pleased. I'll draft our form of settlement agreement and a consent decree and email them to you by the end of the day.”

  “There is one contingency, however, and my client was most adamant on this point.”

  “Yes?”

  “Otherwise there can be no deal.”

  “I'm all ears.”

  “Murfreesboro Mining Corporation will not admit to any liability and will agree to the settlement only—I repeat, only—if the Justice Department agrees not to publicize it.”

  “The consent decree must be approved by the court, Jonathan. It will be a public document.”

  “I understand. But a public document does not have to be publicized.”

  “I'll check with my superiors, but I don't think that should be a problem.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “Thank you.” Carlton replaced the handset in its cradle, fell back into his chair in shock.

  Twenty million. They agreed to $20 million. In just twenty-four hours. For a worthless case. No answer to the complaint. No motion on the pleadings. No motion for failure to state a claim. No motion to strike. No motion for summary judgment. No depositions or document requests or interrogatories. Nothing. A $20 million settlement accepted inside twenty-four hours.

  What is going on?

  Even if DOJ could have won the case, it wasn't worth more than $6 million. Ten tops. And DOJ may not have won. Carlton had dirt for evidence. Jonathan Black would have discovered that if he had waited. Carlton might have understood if it came from a small law firm intimidated by the Justice Department, but not Fox, Carlyle. Those guys ate federal litigators for lunch. He felt a sneaking suspicion that, somehow, he had been had.

  Carlton propped his boots on his desk, gazed up at the yellowed ceiling. The only logical explanation Carlton could think of was that Murfreesboro Mining's bosses were intent on keeping the company out of the press. After all, Black had made the settlement contingent on confidentiality. But that kind of reasoning couldn't apply to this case. Murfreesboro Mining Corporation was an unknown corporation. No one would care.

  He grabbed his DOJ mug, grimaced at the congealed brown contents. As he walked down the corridor to pour himself a fresh mug of government brew, still in shock, he spotted Erika. “Hey, Erika!”

  She turned toward him, and cocked her head. “You okay, Pat?”

  “Yeah, I'm great.” He looked up and down the corridor suspiciously, back at Erika. “You got a couple minutes?”

  “Sure. What's up?”

  He led the way back to his office, ushered her inside, closed the door behind them.

  “What is it?”

  “I need a reality check.” He sat on the edge of his desk, pointed to one of the guest chairs, “Where to start?” He ran his hand over his buzz cut, forced himself to calm down. “Less than a week ago, Gail Rothenberg assigned me what was supposed to be a simple case
. Remember when Stalin was in my office?”

  “Sure.”

  “That's when he pulled me off Global Steel and gave me this new case. U.S. versus Mufreesboro Mining Corporation. I filed a complaint in Arkansas federal court and served the defendants. Twenty-four hours later, just five minutes ago, the defendant agreed to a huge settlement.”

  “Is that. . . is that strange?”

  “That's what I'm trying to figure out. I've never heard of a settlement agreement so fast in a case with so little evidence. First, they had no idea what evidence we had—and we had almost zilch. They didn't bother to go through discovery to find that out. That's particularly strange for Fox, Carlyle. Those guys can tie up a parking ticket in court for years. Second, they agreed to a $20 million settlement, without even really negotiating.”

  “That's more than three times the criminal penalty.”

  Carlton nodded. “I'm impressed you know that. But then if you made it into DOJ straight out of law school, you're sharp enough to cut glass.”

  Erika blushed. “So, congratulations.”

  “No, no. No. Not congratulations. It's weird, don't you see? It's too much, too quickly.” He stood and paced, looking down at his boots, running his hand over his hair.

  “I guess it's weird. But does it really make a difference? I mean, you won big, right? So, congratulations. Plus, it should put you up several notches with Jarvik.”

  He gazed down at the floor, lost in thought. “Which makes it even stranger. Jarvik asked me not to make a big deal out of it, just get a settlement. But twenty million? Within a day of filing the case?”

  “Maybe they wanted to avoid a public fight in court.”

  “I thought of that, too, but twenty million is a boatload of cash to keep yourself out of court. Especially for an unknown company. Merrill Lynch, maybe. But this company is totally unknown. What would they lose by having a courtroom fight? Certainly less than twenty million dollars.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don't know, but I'll tell you one thing. Stalin or no Stalin, I'm going to look into this.”

  10 DEALER

  Via Rodeo Shopping Center

  Rodeo Drive

  Beverly Hills, California

  10:05 A.M.

  MacLean's chauffeured British racing green Bentley Arnage limousine deposited him at the street level of the Via Rodeo Shopping Center in Beverly Hills. He walked past tourists up the playful cobblestone reproduction of a European pedestrian street to a red brick building across from Tiffany & Co.'s display cases of breathtaking diamond jewelry, where men and women pined for the sparkling embodiments of love. Hair combed straight back, wrapped in a tan cashmere Gucci topcoat, dark blue Etro wool scarf, his feet coddled by shiny black Ferragamo cap-toed oxford lace-ups, MacLean looked more like a 1930s movie star than the scion of a multinational corporation. People looked at him oddly. He was confident they thought they should know who he was but didn't.

  The elevator whisked him to the quiet offices of Cohen Diamonds, LLC on the third floor. He gave his name to an attractive receptionist, who whispered it into her headset microphone. A short elderly man with wisps of white hair appeared, greeted him with open arms.

  “Maximillian! Come in. Come in.” The words were heavily accented with Polish intonations, the English flawless.

  “Abe.” He grasped Abraham Cohen's soft wrinkled hand and was pulled into a strong hug. MacLean was glad to feel such energy from a man eighty-five years of age.

  “I am so happy to see you. You look well. Always the dapper gentleman.” His warm smile reached pale blue eyes. “Come, come. Let us make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

  Cohen walked in a slightly hunched posture in short rapid steps. The effect was not unlike that of the stereotype of an eccentric professor. They walked down a short hallway, past several small offices. Men in black suits, white shirts, many of them wearing yarmulkes, looked up curiously from illuminated magnifying lenses, then back down at the sparkling stones before them.

  At the end of the hail, Cohen motioned to a wooden chair in front of a white desk and shut the door behind MacLean. “Please sit down. Would you like some tea? How is Claire?”

  “Yes, thank you. Claire is as wonderful as ever.”

  “She's a wonderful woman.” Cohen radiated an aura of stern authority and deep wisdom. His smiling face and endearing mannerisms masked them only partially. MacLean watched Cohen pour tea. Strangely for a man his age, Cohen did not need eyeglasses. Like his office, he had a style of refined simplicity that indicated a devotion to his work, a refusal to become distracted by useless material adornments. He was dressed in dark gray slacks, a white shirt, the top button unfastened, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A simple black Uniball Micro pen was tucked into his breast pocket. Except for an old Omega watch on his wrist and a simple gold band he still wore despite his wife's death several years ago, Cohen did not wear any jewelry. MacLean's gaze came to rest on a group of black letters and numbers on Cohen's right arm. The tattoo came from Dachau.

  He had seen the tattoo many times before. It never failed to immerse him in sadness. Six million Jews exterminated by the Nazis, along with millions of non-Jewish Poles, Gypsies, homosexuals, physically and mentally disabled, and others. And so many of the present generation do not even know. Or worse: deny.

  In 1945, when the American Army liberated the Dachau concentration camp in Germany, MacLean's father Giancarlo Innocenti was doing his duty as a very young captain in the Army. Giancarlo was proud to fight for his country but was not so stupid as not to use a few favors to get a captain's commission. He realized certain of the prisoners still alive at the camp would die if they did not receive medical attention immediately. And it would be several days before the small army of doctors and nurses could arrive. Against his superiors' orders that the prisoners not be moved until higher authority arrived, Innocenti personally ordered the worst cases airlifted to an Army hospital, where most recuperated. Many others did not. He took a particular interest in the young Abraham Cohen, first noticing him because he was one of the few Poles in the camp. The Nazis generally had murdered Poles at other camps, like Auschwitz. They were the same age. Innocenti later facilitated Cohen's passage to America.

  “May God bless you and your family.” Cohen's warm smile dissolved MacLean's sadness. “I'm happy you're here. Claire comes by to say hello and give me cookies once in a while. Don't tell her but I give them to the office—too much sugar at my age is bad. And you? It's been a long while.”

  “Nearly a year. Right after our honeymoon. It's been so busy.”

  “No need to explain. What about children? Any children on the way?”

  “We're thinking about it.”

  “You should think less and do more.” Cohen chuckled, reclining into his seat. “So, what can I do for you?” He tapped his head with a finger. “Something tells this old mind this is a business matter. Am I right?”

  MacLean smiled. “Nothing gets past you.”

  “Very little.”

  MacLean placed his cup on the desk. “Last week, Dan Wenzel came to me with some rather extraordinary information.”

  MacLean removed a black velvet pouch from his jacket pocket, spilled its contents into his palm, placed them on top of the pouch, and slid it carefully across the desk.

  Cohen silently lifted the pouch and moved it back and forth under an illuminated magnifying glass, observing the three coffee bean-sized rough diamonds tumble from side to side. He looked up at MacLean without raising his head. “Where?”

  “Arkansas.”

  “Murfreesboro? Crater of Diamonds State Park?”

  “Close, but no. Dan bought some land in Arkansas from a local farmer. Afterwards, the farmer showed Dan an old geological map of the area.”

  “How old?”

  “1920s.”

  “U.S. Geological Survey map?”

  “Yes. How did—”

  “Go on.”

  �
�The map shows substantial diamond deposits on the land. Dan didn't believe him, so the farmer showed him those.” He pointed to the diamonds. “We did some testing and decided to start a mining operation.”

  Cohen reclined, looked at MacLean. He tightened his lips and shook his head in serious concern. “No, Maximillian. No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “Diamond dealers are a secretive lot. We are paranoid. By nature, training, and experience. We distrust outsiders. We are open only with our own families. To me, all Innocentis and MacLeans are family. And while you may be a good businessman and like beautiful gems, knowing gems and knowing the gem business are two separate things. We have a saying in the diamond business: 'If you don't know diamonds, know your diamond dealer.' And you and I know each other well, do we not? Like family?”

  “Of course, yes.”

  “You are a rich man. Restaurant chains, an import-export company, food products, hotels.”

  “Yes.”

  “And such a beautiful wife. On the verge of having little MacLeans.”

  “Abe, I—”

  Cohen leaned over his desk and grasped MacLean's hand. “You are like a son to me, you know that.” Cohen stared at MacLean. “I would give you only good advice. The best advice I could give.” He paused and gave MacLean a stern look underscored with concern. “Do you trust me, Maximilian?”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “Then forget about this mine in Arkansas or anywhere else. Keep the land if you want, but drop the project.” Cohen released MacLean's hand. “You don't need the money. Let it go.”

  “But why? I don't understand. All those beautiful diamonds.”