Carlton punched a five digit internal DOJ extension and waited.
“Library.”
“Donna? Hi. It’s Pat Carlton.”
“Hi, Pat. Hey, thanks for your note, but I need those books and periodicals back, you know. Even a man as charming as you can’t just—”
“Okay, okay. Listen. I just need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Thanks. Would you check Martindale Hubbell for an attorney named Perry Trask?” The national directory listed nearly every practicing lawyer in the United States by individual name, firm, city, and state. He told Donna he didn’t have a firm or state or city. He could have Googled her, but in a flash of paranoia, did not want to take the risk that Stalin might be monitoring his Internet searches. “Sorry. I know I’m a pain, but you librarians love challenges, right? Plus, you’re the research maven. This should be a walk in the park for you.”
“Sure, feed my ego.” She laughed. “I’ll buzz you back.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and dialed another internal number.
“Henri Monet speaking.” The Frenchman’s accent was as heavy as the battery of DOJ computers under his care.
“Henri. Pat Carlton.”
“Ah, Monsieur Carlton. Comment ça va? How are you doing?”
“Fine. Listen, do you have some time for a little project?”
“Non,” Henri replied unequivocally. “But for you, of course, I will make an exception. What do you need?”
“Merci. I’m looking for something that’s not supposed to exist.” One had to challenge the quirky Frenchman’s talents to interest him.
“Ah! My specialité. And what is this thing that does not exist?”
“A diamond mine.”
“A diamond mine?” Henri repeated with a Gallic overload of emotion.
“In Arkansas.”
“I did not know there were diamonds in Arkansas, Monsieur Carlton.”
“Neither did I, but apparently, there are. Or were at one time.” Carlton explained the rumor about the mine in Murfreesboro Nicholas Waterboer supposedly shut down in the 1920s. Carlton hoped it might provide a link between Murfreesboro Mining and MacLean’s venture, whether it existed now or had existed at any time in the past. “I’ll drop off a geological survey I have.”
“Très bien. I will call you immédiatement when I find something.”
“Merci, Henri.”
The handset had barely made contact with its cradle when a voice boomed behind Carlton.
“Carlton!”
Carlton jerked in his seat, seconds away from a coronary. He did not have to look at the outline in the doorway to know it was Stalin.
“Sir?” Blotches of light appeared in Carlton’s vision as he stood to face his boss.
Jarvik stretched his short frame to full height in front of Carlton’s desk. His unusually friendly smile only reinforced Carlton’s unease.
“Carlton. I never thought I’d say it, but congratulations on a job well done. You settled quickly, high, and discreetly. Good show.” Jarvik offered his hand across the desk. Confused, Carlton shook it. Never before had he received praise from Jarvik.
“Thank you, sir.” The pleasure he might have felt, he experienced as suspicion.
“You’re welcome. Sit down, Carlton. Sit down.” Jarvik sat in the guest chair. “Since you performed so brilliantly on Murfreesboro Mining, I have a reward for you. I’m assigning you a case in Hawaii.” He beamed as though he had just handed Carlton the Keys to the Kingdom.
“Hawaii?”
“That’s right. Ever hear of the Kobayashi Corporation?”
“Who hasn’t?”
Jarvik’s smile grew to never-before-observed proportions. Carlton feared that the man’s lips might split.
“We’ve gotten word that Kobayashi has been engaged in some pretty major antitrust violations in Hawaii. High profile stuff. This could be very big for you, Carlton. Very big. Far more important than Global Steel.” He paused. “You see? I deliver on my promises. I told you you’d get a better assignment if you did well. Pleased?” Eyebrows arched, he awaited waves of gratitude.
The case was exactly the type of assignment Carlton had wanted. Like Global Steel, it carried meaning and impact. A Japanese company that committed antitrust violations meant high-powered opposing counsel and real challenge. Hawaii. Far away from the dark, arid winter cold of Washington. Only a couple weeks ago, Carlton would have jumped at the opportunity, but now he felt annoyance rather than joy. Carlton’s real duty was to stay in Washington.
“What’s the matter, Carlton, don’t you like Hawaii?”
“Well...yes, sir.”
“Or is it too close to the hoi-polloi? Not white shoe enough for you? Is that it?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“My God, Carlton, I don’t understand you. A week ago you were bitching and moaning about Global Steel. Now I assign you to a case bigger and better than Global, in Hawaii of all places, and you look like I sentenced you to hard labor in Siberia. What’s the matter with you?”
“I just ... I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m just a little tired today.” He forced a smile. “Hawaii will be terrific. Thank you.”
“That’s better. Pick up the files on Kobayashi in the research department and fly out to Honolulu first thing. Report directly to the FBI office. They’ll fill you in. You can use a government apartment there as a bonus. Ever been there? Right on the beach. The travel office has all your paperwork. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jarvik nodded and walked to the door. Before stepping into the hallway, he turned and stared at Carlton. “By the way, I wouldn’t take old geological surveys too seriously if I were you. Very unreliable.” Jarvik smiled. “Just some friendly advice.”
Ice crept up Carlton’s spine.
How did he know about Wenzel’s geological survey?
“Pat Carlton.”
“Pat, it’s Donna.” She waited for recognition. “From the library?”
“Right. Sorry, I—”
“How soon they forget. Anyhow, I found the info on that Perry Trask lawyer.”
“Aces!”
She recited a telephone number with a 212 area code. Manhattan.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the name of the law firm, would you?”
“It’s Fox, Carlyle, Ashton, Chase, Whitfield & Whyte. ”
Son of a bitch. The ice returned to his spine.
“You want the address?”
The phone rang almost as soon as he hung up. “Pat? Dan Wenzel. The plot thickens. I just received an offer to buy MacLean’s land in Arkansas. An outrageous amount of money from an outrageously aggressive lawyer.”
“And?”
“MacLean refused, of course, not after all the trouble we’ve had with the government and the fake greenies. The lawyer had a heck of a difficult time taking no for an answer. Very aggressive.”
“Let me take a guess. He was from Fox, Carlyle. In Manhattan.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ll call you back.”
Thicker and thicker. As much as Carlton wanted to avoid involving another agency, maybe it was time to see what CIA knew. Or at least what it would be willing to tell DOJ. What was the man’s name? Pink? Yeah. Ironic for a guy at CIA.
It took a while for Carlton to negotiate the telephonic barriers. Luckily, DOJ dissolved most of them.
“Tom Pink.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pink. My name is Pat Carlton. I’m an attorney in DOJ’s Antitrust Division.”
“Good afternoon.”
“I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. I was informed you’re an expert on Waterboer Mines Limited.” Just enough nervous silence resulted for Carlton to know he had struck a nerve.
“Whoever told you that greatly overestimated my knowledge of Waterboer, I’m afraid.” Carlton knew his unlisted office telephone number flashed on Pink’s computer screen, together with the words “Department
of Justice, Washington D.C.,” confirming he was for real. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure. I’m involved in a lawsuit involving diamonds. Diamonds mined here in the U.S.” Carlton was not about to risk giving detailed information after his conversation with Jarvik, even to CIA. “Almost immediately after I filed suit, I received a settlement offer that was very big from a virtually unknown corporation that must of course remain nameless.”
“Where is the mine?”
“I’d rather not get into that right now.”
“What makes you think that there is a connection with Waterboer?”
“If the settlement wasn’t strange enough, I also received word from an unrelated party who recently acquired diamond-bearing land near my defendant’s property. Before his client started mining, he received strange calls—threats, really—to stop mining. The same law firm represents both my defendant and one of the groups trying to stop the diamond mining. Too much of a coincidence. Since I know Waterboer tries to prevent diamond mining they don’t control, I became suspicious that Waterboer—”
“Fox, Carlyle?”
It was Carlton’s turn for a moment of nervous silence. “How did you know?”
“Fox, Carlyle is Waterboer’s principal law firm in the United States.”
“But Waterboer isn’t allowed to conduct business in the United States.”
“Not directly and not legally. But it does have interests in U.S. affiliates, through legal processes I’m sure you understand far better than I do. And believe me, those interests are well-guarded by Fox, Carlyle. Have you determined that one of Waterboer’s affiliates is involved in your two cases?”
“I’m pretty sure.” Fox, Carlyle hadn’t revealed the identity of the company that wanted to buy MacLean’s land, but Carlton was relatively certain it was somehow linked to Waterboer.
“I see.” Pink paused. “May I suggest something, Mr. Carlton? If I were you, I would forget about it and move on. You said you got a large settlement. That case is settled. As much pressure as Waterboer places on the other party not to mine diamonds—if it is Waterboer—there is nothing that Waterboer can legally do to stop them from mining.”
Carlton hadn’t told him about the different federal agencies and still didn’t feel comfortable doing so.
“So there really is no reason,” Pink continued, “for you to hypothesize or delve into the possibility of Waterboer’s involvement.”
“Perhaps, but I’d like to know—”
“Trust me, Mr. Carlton. You don’t. I don’t know how much you know about Waterboer, but nothing about it is pretty. Piet Slythe, the present head of Waterboer, packaged and sugar-coated for the press, has an army of thugs that operates without risk of retribution from law enforcement. As an antitrust lawyer, I realize you must be focused on Waterboer’s illegal monopolistic activities. But I assure you, monopoly is a tiny offense compared to other things Waterboer’s involved in. It’s always been a ruthless company—supported the Nazis and the Soviets in the past. But with new diamond mines coming on line every few months, it’s gotten even worse. They’re a sick bunch. Their only goal is controlling diamonds. Believe me, if you don’t have to get involved with these people, don’t.”
Carlton probed with silence.
“I feel bad pushing you off your path, especially since we’re both feds on the same side, but trust me, it’s for your own good.”
“Thanks for your candor. I appreciate it.”
“You betcha. Have a good one.”
Carlton hung up, wondering if the warning had been well intentioned or if he had been royally hosed by yet another acronym in the thickening alphabet soup of federal agencies. Pink sounded friendly enough, but with the other federal agencies ganging up on MacLean, Pink’s refusal didn’t sit well with Carlton.
15 MONOPOLY
Johannesburg
Republic of South Africa
7:47 A.M.
The midsummer December sun beat down from a cloudless azure sky on the silver Jaguar XJ16L Sovereign as it sped from the posh residential district to Waterboer’s stone-faced fortress in the business district of South Africa’s financial and industrial capital. The two escort cars fell back only when the armored Jag passed through the steel-reinforced concrete entrance gate and disappeared into the underground parking structure.
The stretch Jag came to a halt opposite an open elevator door and a uniformed guard brandishing a Boer BXP submachine gun. The man’s darting eyes and stance indicated preparation to use his weapon. The corporation took no chances with the Jag’s passenger.
Two armed bodyguards emerged from the sedan, one from the front passenger door, the other from the opposite rear door. The elevator door slid shut as soon as the tall passenger and his cocker spaniel puppy were safely inside. It reopened several seconds later, thirteen floors up, onto an office suite furnished with Victorian antiques and handwoven scarlet wool throw rugs on glossy hardwood floors. Polished gold letters above a wide hallway entrance heralded the corporation: WATERBOER MINES LIMITED.
Underneath was the company’s trademark slogan: Diamonds Are Beauty.
On each side of the hallway entrance stood plexiglass cases illuminated by recessed spotlights. One protected an octahedronal, 120-carat champagne-colored diamond rough as it had emerged from Waterboer’s first mine. The stone seemed to glow from within as if endowed with magical powers. The other case enclosed a flawless D-color 205-carat brilliant-cut diamond whose 291 facets had required eight months of painstaking cleaving, cutting, and polishing in Antwerp to cast its kaleidoscopic shards of fire. Beside each display case stood a man dressed in a conservatively styled business suit, black oxfords, white shirt, and tie. They could have passed as corporate executives or barristers except for the butts of Heckler & Koch P7s protruding from brown leather shoulder holsters that shone from years of use.
Piet Slythe cradled his puppy Kimberley in his left arm, dismissed the guard with a friendly wave of his right hand. He walked through the wood-paneled hallway, past the desks of two middle-aged secretaries. “Good morning, ladies.”
A balding man in his late forties with odd-colored eyes - one black, one blue - opened a heavy carved door at the end of the hallway. “Good morning, sir.” He bowed slightly.
“Morning, Ian.” Slythe grinned, stopped and placed his hand on his personal assistant’s shoulder. “How was Freddy’s rugby match yesterday?” He sniffed.
“They won. Thank you, sir. Two games from the Cup.”
“I won’t miss that one.”
“You honor us, sir.”
Slythe bent down, set Kimberley on a red velvet pillow near his desk, walked to a gleaming sterling silver tea tray and poured himself a cup. He breathed deeply, admired the view from his office. “Beautiful day, isn’t it, Ian?”
“Most definitely, sir.”
The seventy-five year old patriarch of the Slythe clan, ruler of Waterboer Mines Limited, was almost always in good spirits. Endowed with an IQ off the charts and a photographic memory, he had been educated at Harrow, then ‘read’ geology at Oxford, as the British termed taking a major. He quickly grew bored and paid greater attention to more stimulating pursuits—legal at first, then mostly illegal—than dusty old rocks. Accustomed to enormous wealth and influence since childhood, Slythe quickly assumed the corporate reins after his father’s passing at an early age.
With perfectly styled gray hair, dressed in a pink Dunhill shirt, glen plaid Burberry slacks, and black John Lobb moccasins, he would have looked at home in any English manor. In his position, Slythe was, however, far more than a simple landed English lord. Waterboer Mines Limited controlled 95 percent of the world diamond trade, and as Slythe ruled Waterboer with an iron grip, he de facto controlled the world diamond trade. Enormous power for one man. The responsibility, stress, and pressure were equally enormous, but Slythe almost always appeared as cool as the cucumbers he fancied in his very British tea sandwiches. Bu
t stress has to come out somehow. In Slythe, it came out in psychologically deviant ways.
Slythe’s office suite reflected the character of the man. Each surface was perfectly dusted and polished to a deep luster. A series of six impressionist landscapes from the master hand of Jacob Hendrick Pierneef hung on the walls.
Ian Witsrand waited for his master, for Slythe was no less, to seat himself behind his massive desk before sitting in an armchair across the desk. His oddly colored right blue eye twitched ever so slightly.
“So. Down to business. What news this morning?” He sniffed. Born of years of cocaine use, the respiratory reflex had become more than a nervous tick.
“Lester’s people settled with the American Justice Ministry.”
Slythe flashed perfect white teeth. “Smashing. Thank God for our dear Lester Churchman. How much?”
“Twenty million.” Ian’s Afrikaaner accent betrayed his far more informal education.
“A large sum. But still a bargain.”
Ian hesitated momentarily. “I’m afraid there’s more, sir. A wealthy American by the name of MacLean recently purchased land near the Raymond Mine. The farmer who sold it to him apparently knew about the diamond deposits and told him. Somehow he also got hold of the original 1920s geology report. Lester discovered MacLean intends to begin a diamond mining operation.”
For the first time that morning, concern pulled at Slythe’s tan face. He sniffed. “Are the two related? The Raymond Mine and this ... what’s his name?”
“MacLean, sir. Apparently not. But Lester isn’t taking any chances. He’s already contacted some of our people and organized a coalition of government agencies and environmentalists against MacLean’s proposed mine.”
Slythe leaned over the oak table, the smile now a scowl. “Tell Lester to make this problem disappear. Fast and whatever the cost. The idiot. He should never have allowed the sale to happen in the first place. What is he doing? He’s supposed to be buying everything in that area.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 10
