“According to Lester, the land wasn’t for sale publicly.”
“Nothing can be discovered in Arkansas! Not a single tiny, low-grade stone! Can you imagine the disaster if the Americans knew the true size of the deposit? They would mine it and we’d never be able to stanch the flow of stones from there. Waterboer and the family have kept it hidden for nearly a hundred twenty years and I won’t let them get one over on the family now.”
“Yes, sir.”
He flashed another smile, sniffed again. “While you’re at it, make Harry Weinberg disappear. I’ve always liked Harry—friends at school and all that kind of thing—but he made another substantial diamond purchase outside Waterboer channels. He knew the rules. Set an example, and do it publicly.”
“With pleasure.”
Despite his generally pleasant demeanor, brilliance, vast wealth, and his family’s near-dictatorial control of the world diamond trade since the discovery of diamonds at Kimberley in the late 1800s, Slythe was convinced governments, political groups, even Waterboer’s most trusted diamond dealers, like Weinberg, were involved in an ongoing conspiracy to destroy Waterboer’s and the Slythe clan’s control of the diamond trade. To Slythe, diamonds were more than a 120-year-old family global business, they were a religion; the Slythe family its high priests. Many who knew of Slythe’s stress and cocaine habit hypothesized their combination induced his paranoia, others that his paranoia was a byproduct of his intellectual brilliance. Whatever the cause, his paranoia was real.
“Publicly, not personally.” He lifted his index finger in warning. “You are not to go to the United States, Ian. We can’t risk having you take one step on their land. Send Ulianov or another of Molotok’s goons. We need to curry favor with them; they need money. Pay them well. They’ll be happy with the assignment.”
Disappointment lined Ian’s face. “Yes, sir.”
“Speaking of our Siberian crazy, what news about Molotok?” Again, he sniffed.
“Everything is in place, sir. Our man at CIA classified the Siberian fire at Mirny as a natural gas explosion. And as Molotok assured us, Molotok’s man was appointed as commander of the new garrison to replace Marshall Ogarkov. They should be starting deliveries again inside the week.”
“Smashing. Anything else? I’m getting bored already.”
“Your meeting with Riebeeck later today, and don’t forget you’re opening the new wing of the children’s hospital this afternoon, meeting with a local black women’s business group after that.”
At precisely 2:00 P.M., an unmarked Bell 230 twin-turbine helicopter bearing the name ‘OFS Realty’ swooped down from the clear blue South African sky, unfolded its landing gear, and crouched onto the roof of a small building in Kimberley, the capital of the South African diamond mining industry in the Orange Free State. Slythe and a bodyguard emerged and walked down a dark stairway into a hallway of empty offices. The building was advertised for sale by OFS Realty, as it had been for the past twenty years. Although it appeared unused and dilapidated, the building was, in fact, electronically guarded around the clock and effectively sound-proofed. Slythe used it for sensitive discussions and clandestine meetings when Waterboer’s corporate headquarters would draw unwanted attention.
In one of the abandoned offices, a portly man in his forties removed a cheap cigar from between stained teeth. His tangled hair became one with a thick, unkempt beard. His rumpled powder-blue suit was a full size too small for his considerable girth and contrasted sharply with muddy jodhpur boots. Wim Voerwold was more comfortable in paramilitary khakis than business attire. In truth, he had changed into the suit at the last minute, not wanting to attract attention.
Despite his appearance, he managed to exude the overconfidence he derived from his leadership of thousands of white supremacist Afrikaaner Volksfront troops. Out of sheer megalomania, Voerwold had adopted the name of Jan van Riebeeck, the shipwrecked Dutch sailor who first proposed that the Dutch East India Company occupy the Cape region in 1649, twenty-nine years after an English captain failed to convince the dull English crown to do the same. Based on his five years’ previous military service in the South African forces, he had appointed himself to the rank of general.
Riebeeck tried hard to maintain his composure. This meeting could propel him to the forefront of South African politics, or it could consign him to imprisonment and, far worse, that ignominious group of failed revolutionaries.
“Mr. Slythe. It is a great honor.” Riebeeck announced with a deep Afrikaaner accent.
Slythe shook his hand vigorously. “The honor is mine, General. But if you don’t mind, let us make this a rapid meeting. I would rather avoid suspicion from the government.”
“The government,” Riebeeck hacked. “Those kaffir vultures are too stupid to suspect anything.”
The mostly peaceful transition from white to black rule orchestrated by the first democratically elected black government of Nelson Mandela in 1994 after decades of unspeakable humiliation and violence suffered at the hands of the apartheid government had not opened the hearts of the Afrikaaner Volksfront. They continued to claim title to the land in the Orange Free State. The elections of 1994 had been but a setback to the group, which had managed to garner only a few seats in the 400 member legislative assembly, even less in the succeeding elections. Since then, they had used every means available to regroup and train as a fighting force. The mounting corruption, sloth, patronage, and disorganization of the new Boiko administration had pushed more whites into the Volksfront camp. But before it could take action, the Volksfront needed more weapons, more mercenaries. And weapons and mercenaries were expensive.
“I am afraid I do not share your confidence, General. But be that as it may, I have come to offer you my proposal personally.”
Riebeeck could not help himself from breaking into an anticipatory grin. Slythe had refused to tell him the nature of his proposal when he had arranged their clandestine meeting, but whatever it was, Riebeeck was certain if it involved Waterboer, it involved money. A lot of money.
“I know the Volksfront will soon demand possession and control of the Afrikaaner homeland in the Orange Free State.”
“Your information is excellent, sir. We have a legitimate claim to this land by virtue of the British crown’s recognition of Afrikaaner farms in 1848 and in 1854. We had hoped the kaffir government would recognize our rightful claim, but they are too drunk with their power. Their power over us. Us! The Boers who built this country with our own sweat and blood. We have no choice but to fight for our land. We have done it before. We are not afraid to die for our country, Mr. Slythe.”
“As you say, General. Our land is in danger, and that means Waterboer is in danger. The two are inextricably tied as one. Under pressure from the Americans using economic aid as an incentive, as usual, Boiko is on the verge of passing sweeping antitrust legislation. The black American president has him convinced more blacks can be employed in the mining industry if Waterboer is split into myriad companies. He is right, of course. But it would destroy Waterboer. I cannot allow—we cannot allow—the irreplaceable Waterboer monopoly to be destroyed by antitrust laws of the childish black government.” Slythe emphasized race at each turn because of the rage he knew it sparked in his interlocutor.
“The Volksfront will never allow harm to come to Waterboer. It is the bedrock of our Afrikaaner homeland.” Riebeeck paused, shifted his wet cigar to the other side of his mouth. “What do you propose?”
“To pay.”
Riebeeck cocked his head. “Pay whom? Pay the government? But it’s—”
“No, General. Pay the Volksfront. The Volksfront needs money if it is to reclaim the Orange Free State. For weapons, soldiers, supplies, propaganda. The world does not readily or kindly take to separatism. Especially not white separatism, as you know only too well. It will take money. A lot of money, and money is something Waterboer has a great deal of.”
“Do you mean—”
“I propose to finance t
he Volksfront’s efforts.”
Riebeeck’s cigar nearly fell to the ground as his mouth dropped open in shock. He quickly recovered. “What would be wanted in exchange?” Waterboer had always practiced apartheid in its mines, even though it denounced the practice publicly, but it had never been a supporter of the Volksfront. “You are a powerful man, Mr. Slythe. Waterboer is a powerful company. Can’t you pressure the government? Your family has done so successfully many times in the past. Why finance us?”
Slythe stared hard at the grubby self-important militia leader. A caricature, he was nonetheless necessary to Waterboer’s future. Slythe closeted condescension. “There was a time when Waterboer could. When the Slythes could. My father and grandfather could. I cannot. Not since the blacks have the vote. No matter how corrupt Boiko’s administration has become, he himself is not. Some people simply cannot be bought. Boiko is legislating ideology, not pragmatism.
“For our financing of your efforts, there are two conditions. First.” Slythe raised a finger. “Volksfront troops will protect the Waterboer diamond mines from government and civilian attacks and will not disrupt operations. Second.” He raised another finger. “There will be no antitrust legislation in the Orange Free State once the Volksfront takes over. Kill all the kaffirs you want, but these two requirements are absolute.”
“Those are large demands.”
“They are non-negotiable.”
“How much do you propose to pay the Volksfront in exchange for its generosity?”
“Ten percent of Orange Free State diamond production within the Volksfront’s protection. Once a month. In American dollars deposited in the banks of your choice outside South Africa and England.”
Riebeeck paused, weighing pro and con. The proposal was far more advantageous than he’d hoped. Without the funds, the Volksfront could not possibly wage its secessionist campaign. Now, the secession could - would - move from theory to practice. Even the method of payments itself would facilitate the purchase of weapons and influence.
“The Volksfront is prepared to protect the Waterboer mines from the kaffirs, but that kind of protection will draw many troops away from the fighting, where they will be sorely needed. And the protection of the Waterboer monopoly will require many payoffs in the Afrikaaner camp.” He paused. “Fifteen percent.” Riebeeck seemed almost apologetic. Slythe was elated by the low counter proposal, but he hid his pleasure, squinted at the Volksfront leader.
“You are certain, General? Not 20 or 30 percent? Or will a reevaluation of your figures come later? I do not take kindly to renegotiation.”
“No.” Riebeeck feigned insult, “I am a man of my word, Mr. Slythe. Some in the Volksfront will want to ask for a greater share than 15 percent, but anything greater than 15 percent would be extortion. Extortion is not what the Volksfront wishes from the Waterboer diamond mines, the glory of the Orange Free State. Fifteen percent it is and 15 percent it will remain.”
“Very well then. We have an agreement. The first payment will be made today, in this account, so you can purchase what you need.” He handed Riebeeck a typed piece of paper. “The second payment will only be made once your forces have begun their attack and secured the mines.”
Riebeeck did not hide his joy. Tears welled in his eyes. He placed a meaty hand on Slythe’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you realize the importance of Waterboer’s contribution. Finally, after 150 years, the Volksfront will finally be able to make the Orange Free State into the independent nation it always should have been.”
Slythe tolerated Riebeeck’s hand and placed his own hand on the man’s shoulder. “We are trusting you not only with our heritage, but with our preeminence in the world diamond market, General. Let’s hope you can keep it independent.”
He flashed a smile, glanced at his watch. It wouldn’t do to arrive late for the opening of the new children’s hospital wing.
16 NATIONALIST
Vladivostok
Primorskaia
Russian Federation
3:02 P.M.
The change was as abrupt as it was swift. The collapse of Soviet Communism and the dissolution of the Soviet Union marked the end of ideological repression, police-state intrusions, organized atheism, and government-controlled social, economic, and geographic mobility. Initially greeted as gifts from heaven, the reforms that followed, then stopped, then started again in earnest under Orlov ushered in myriad requirements, and therefore, myriad problems. Rule of law. Competition. Taxes. Risk. A work ethic. Democratic participation. Accountability. Instability.
Once the maritime gem in the Soviet crown, within a few years after the Soviet collapse, Vladivostok disintegrated into a corrupt, impoverished town controlled by the krestnii otets, the Russian mafiya’s godfathers. The massive Soviet Pacific fleet that once had projected Soviet naval power from its home port of Vladivostok into the Pacific and the South China Sea rusted with disuse. Legions of sailors, aviators, and other soldiers were laid off, the records of their service to the motherland - the rodina - filed away on mimeographed sheets, slid into forgotten folders, stored in moldering wood cabinets, locked in abandoned basements. Those who remained in the military were paid subsistence wages—when they were paid at all. Forced to survive without government assistance, many had no choice but to sell their services and weapons to the highest bidder, often terrorist sponsoring countries.
Corruption became institutionalized. Smuggling was not only tolerated but actively encouraged. The value of the ruble plunged to such depths that Amerikanskii dollars became the only form of acceptable tender. Roads were not maintained. Public buildings peeled and crumbled in disrepair. Public transportation was cannibalized for spare parts. Despite the growing economy under Orlov, many harsh reforms still had several years to run before the economic pain would pass.
In Vladivostok, as in many other cities in the Russian Federation, the people - the narod - were in utter despair. They had waited too long. Since the tsar, under Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Brezhnev, Andropov, Chernenko, Gorbachev, then under the so-called reformers, the narod had been told to wait. To be patient. To endure just a little longer. To bear the pain like good Russians. But the narod had had enough. Enough patience. Enough pain. Although willing to suffer more painfully and longer than almost any other people in the world, the Russian narod were fed up. They wanted action, not promises. They craved a real Russian leader, a man with a grip of steel. One who would yank Russia out of the quagmire into which she had been sinking since Peter the Great. One who would destroy the evil outside forces that strangled the rodina. An ardent patriarch to comfort the narod. A hammer to pound a former empire, a former global superpower, back into Holy Mother Russia.
It was with this in mind that Yevgeni Vilinovsky made his way through the Vladivostok fish market. No one knew Vilinovsky by his real name. They knew him as Molotok, the ‘Hammer’. Like Stalin - ‘Steel’ - Molotok was a name to which the narod responded. He was a giant of a man. Tall, muscular, like a hardened stevedore who lifted superhuman weights, performed backbreaking work, and devoured red meat, potatoes, bread, and vodka. His long black hair waved back and forth in the brisk wind. He wore a thick black mustache. His veined, red nose was testament to his taste for the national beverage. He dressed in simple peasant clothes—coarse dark wool pants tucked into heavy leather boots, a fur-lined, rough leather coat.
Molotok’s origins were a mystery. He seemed simply to have always existed, as if he had emerged whole from the primal scream of the Russian soul; from the fertile earth of the Russian countryside; from the mystical depths of the Russian spirit. There was a sense of dark mysticism about this man with the smoldering black eyes, reminiscent of Rasputin. Though most Russians were familiar with Molotok’s Russkost party - ‘Russianness’ - few had seen its leader. He was not visible like other politicians, who danced like puppets and whores before television cameras. Molotok appeared and disappeared, each time voicing the pain of the narod in a way that no one else could. Many of the suf
fering, impatient, longing Russian people believed Molotok had been unleashed by the wild and desolate vastness of Siberia to reclaim the very soul of Holy Mother Russia from its domestic and foreign enemies.
On this gray afternoon, Molotok stood on a crude wooden table identical to others laden with fresh fruits of the sea. Behind him, the rusting pale blue hulls of the once-mighty Pacific fleet lay still.
“Skyward soar the whirling demons,” Molotok’s voice boomed.
“Shrouded by the falling snow.
“And their plaintive, awful howling,
“Fills my heart with dread and woe.”
The immortal words of Alexander Pushkin resonated through speakers placed around the makeshift market by his local Russkost supporters. People immediately recognized the words of their beloved poet. Who is this giant man who quotes Pushkin?
No visible aides. No bodyguards. No tailored suit. No eyeglasses. No Zil or Chaika or Mercedes limousine. It could not be a politician. Could it be him?
“What to do?
“We have lost our way.
“From afar, the Demon cries out,
“He is leading the way!"
The familiar words, this huge man’s hypnotic plaintiveness drew people to the marketplace like fire sucked in oxygen.
“I love Russia!
“I love the Russian people!
“I love the Russian countryside!
“I love the Russian forests and snow and ice and plains!
“I love the Russian spirit!
“I love the Russian soul!”
Molotok paused.
“But where is Russia? Russia has disappeared! Where is the Russia we knew? The Russia of strength and warmth? The Russia who cared for us, fed us, clothed us, educated us? The motherland. The rodina!”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 11
