It was a copy of a recent check written by an ‘L. Churchman’ from the same Bank of Vanuatu account number to the order of ‘Little Rock Savings and Loan,’ in the amount of $1 million.
On top of the page were scrawled the words:
Scott Fress owns this bank
Loud blasts of air shot out from nozzles, jolting Carlton backward in his seat. He stared at the two pages.
Scott Fress? Scott Fress was the White House Chief of Staff. If he owned the bank, L. Churchman had just indirectly paid the White House Chief of Staff $1 million. Nice round number. But who the hell was L. Churchman? Besides the fact Cleveland Metals owned Murfreesboro Mining Corporation, the information did not seem to have any direct bearing on Murfreesboro Mining, MacLean, or Arkansas diamonds.
The only thing he knew was the bank. In the 1980s, Switzerland was the secret offshore place to bank. In the 1990s, after the discovery of Swiss bank accounts belonging to drug lords and to Holocaust victims whose families were denied claims, the Caymans became the banking locus of choice. In the new millennium, little obscure banks in exotic places like Eastern Europe, Africa, and the South Pacific became all the rage, le dernier cri. Vanuatu Atoll was in the South Pacific, previously known as the New Hebrides when it was a British colony. It had ‘offshore’ quite literally written all over it. Whatever these transactions were, they were meant to be secret and as untraceable as possible.
The air nozzles died down with a whine.
Loud honks jerked Carlton’s head up. He stared into the rearview mirror. The impatient owners of dirty cars behind him wanted in. He replaced the papers in his suit pocket with one hand, shifted into drive with the other, and floored the clean Shark out of the car wash with a loud squeal.
Who is L. Churchman? Mazursky had died for this. The answer had to be here.
Driving back to the office, he realized the hirsute postal worker would keep looking through his mail every day until he found Mazursky’s letter. He searched for his cell phone, realized he’d left it in the office. He searched for a pay phone, pulled into the local 7-11 parking lot. He fumbled in his pocket for change, found none. He ran into the small convenience store.
“No change, sir. You have to purchase something,” the clerk informed him smugly in a heavy Middle Eastern accent. They changed workers so often at the store Carlton never got to know the employees.
“I just need to make one call. I buy stuff in here all the time.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We do not make change. That is our policy.”
It was too much for Carlton. “Your policy? Your policy?” He shoved his right hand into his suit pocket, removed his badge, held it an inch away from the man’s face. “Well here’s my policy. United States Department of Justice. Now make change before I inspect this place for federal violations.”
The shocked clerk nervously converted Carlton’s five-dollar bill into change.
“See? Policies can change.” Carlton stormed out, dropped a quarter into the grimy pay phone. For the first time since morning, he realized how cold it was.
“Erika Wassenaar.”
“It’s Pat.”
The voice at the other end was muted by the traffic.
“I said it’s Pat. I’m at a pay phone. Listen. Yes. I saw the paper. Just listen. I can’t talk. Drop whatever you’ve got...Forget that—just listen: I need you to get—listen carefully—I need you to get me a blank envelope from Senator Bigham’s office. I don’t know how. No, I can’t explain. Just please get it. Before five P.M. It’s got to be before five. I’ll find you before then. Then have Henri Monet search for information about Cleveland Metals Inc. and a man named L. Churchman. Got it?”
Carlton stood and stared at the pay phone in a stupor. He felt his heart pump. His head ached. Nausea struck. He trembled as the questions of the week converged with the new facts.
Scott Fress was in this. The government connection finally made sense. If the White House Chief of Staff was involved, it would be easy for him to rally several federal agencies, make honest, hardworking federal employees believe that Mazursky, Osage, and Wenzel were criminals. It also meant Carlton wasn’t fighting a private defendant or a single government agency. He was fighting the White House itself, which for some unknown reason was involved in Arkansas diamonds.
Back at DOJ, Carlton ran down the hallway past his office to the photocopying room. He leaned against the yellowed wall, panting and wheezing, ran his hand through his matted black hair and across his stubbled chin. The jog from the parking garage across Penn Avenue and up to his floor had beaded sweat on his forehead, soaked his already rumpled white shirt. He gulped air, shifted his weight from the wall to one of the two behemoth Xerox machines busy spewing photocopies at a crazed pace. It filled the small room with heat and noise.
A surprised short-haired clerk smiled at him.
“In a bit of a rush today, aren’t you, Pat?”
Carlton jumped. “I didn’t see you. Yeah, I am in a hurry. Mind if I make five or six quick copies?”
“No problem.” She smiled. “You look like a truck just ran over you. Are you... are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just in a hurry. Thanks.”
He removed the wrinkled papers from his pocket, made three sets of copies, turned to the clerk, thanked her again with a nod and smile, then trudged to his office down the dimly lit hail.
Harry Jarvik waited patiently behind Carlton’s desk. “Out for an afternoon stroll, Carlton?”
“One moment, sir. I’ll be right with you.” Shit!
“Carlton, I—”
“Only take a second.” Great. Now on top of this he had to deal with Stalin. He dashed from the office down the hall and found Erika in her office. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Did you get it? The envelope?”
“Sure did. Right here.” Erika beamed. “I guess the male receptionist in Bigham’s office likes redheads.”
Carlton took the top page from the sheaf of papers in his hand, the page with the information about the Waterboer transfer to Cleveland Metals, but not the one about Scott Fress, folded it inside the envelope, licked it shut, addressed it to his home, and handed it back to Erika. “That should throw them.”
“What are you—”
He held up his hand. “Later. Don’t stamp the envelope. Take the Metro to—forget it, take a cab to the Central Post Office next to Union Station. Drop the letter in a mailbox inside the post office. Before five o’clock. It’s got to go out before five. Then go to the Tortilla Coast. I’ll meet you there. Don’t talk to anyone. Understand? No one. Not even DOJ people. Got it?”
She nodded yes.
“Okay.”
Erika turned, started down the hallway.
“Wait!” Carlton grabbed her by the arm. “Take these and give them to Henri in the basement.” He pointed to the floor. “Tell him what I told you and have him meet us at the Coast, too. Now go!”
Carlton walked back to his office to confront Stalin.
“I’m sorry, sir. I had to get something out pronto.”
Jarvik eyed him owl-like through his horn-rimmed glasses. He wasn’t buying. “I see. How professional.”
He reclined in Carlton’s chair. “But what I don’t see is your absence. What are you still doing in D.C.? And what’s all this material on diamonds I see on your desk? I told you to settle that silly case. Now that you’ve settled it, you’re supposed to be on a plane to Hawaii. Why aren’t you on that plane?”
“Sir, I—”
“Yes?”
“Sir, I—”
“I’m waiting, Carlton.”
“I really wish you would send someone else to Hawaii, sir. I have several engagements in town, and besides, why isn’t the local U. S. Attorney’s office handling the case? Why me?”
It was a stupid excuse not to go to Hawaii, but it was all he could think up in his exhausted state. He knew, as always, that he’d find a great excuse later, once he no longer needed it.
He sensed clearly for th
e first time that something in Jarvik’s manner was off. It made him uneasy about divulging any information about the Arkansas diamonds. Something about Jarvik didn’t fit, didn’t feel right. Like how he knew about the USGS survey.
“Why? You want to know why?”
“Sir, it’s just that I—”
“Well, I’ll tell you why. Because the U.S. Attorney’s office in Hawaii doesn’t have anyone with antitrust experience, that’s why. The FBI has built up a great case, and they need an antitrust lawyer to litigate it. Is that good enough for you? And I don’t have to explain my orders to you. I’m your damn boss!”
Listening to the words, Carlton suddenly realized what Jarvik had told him several days ago, and again just now. The FBI. He wanted Carlton to report to the FBI in Hawaii. The FBI had tried to arrest Dan Wenzel. And why couldn’t he do Hawaii’s legal work from here?
Carlton looked down. “I... guess that makes sense.”
“Well, I’m so glad you concur, counselor. Now I want your pathetic white-shoe ass on a plane to Hawaii inside the next twenty-four hours. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, I—”
“Twenty-four hours, Carlton. Got it? Or you’re out of a job. End of story.”
Carlton continued to look at the floor, frustrated by his inability to concoct a viable excuse to prevent his forced exile. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“Good.” Jarvik left, slammed the door.
Carlton knew he could pull out then and there. No one had threatened him yet. No one was aware he knew about Fress—not after Erika mailed the letter to him at home so the postal worker could find it. The only thing they would discover was that Mazursky had sent Carlton information about Cleveland Metals, which did not seem too important. But it was also clear that if there had been two recent murders and so many federal agencies involved, the White House Chief of Staff at its center, something pretty damn secret was happening. Something that had apparently been covered up for more than eighty years. Both his sense of justice and his professional curiosity prevented him from leaving well enough alone. To hell with Stalin. He was going to blow this thing open.
Carlton knew Jarvik’s story about the U.S. Attorney’s (USA) office in Honolulu not having any antitrust experience was unadulterated horse manure. The Hawaii USA’s office had won an antitrust case just last month. It was a small case, but it had made it into the monthly internal department memorandum. Further proof that Jarvik didn’t keep up with developments in his own section, yet another reason for suspicion. Carlton raked his exhausted mind for a solution. How could he get out of the Hawaii assignment? He needed a valid excuse to stay in Washington. A reason Jarvik would accept. It had to be something important.
Important or from high up.
He was still searching when Erika walked into his office less than an hour later, stone serious.
“Lock the door.” He walked to her. “Mazursky mailed me a letter before he was shot,” he whispered. “Cleveland Metals is the link. They’re making payments to a bank owned by Fress.”
“Fress? Who’s Fr—”
He placed a finger on his lips. “Scott Fress. The White House Chief of Staff,” he whispered. “Look at this.” He handed her copies of Mazursky’s letter. “Cleveland Metals wire-transferred twenty million dollars to an account in the South Pacific. Some guy named L. Churchman made a million dollar payment from the same account to an S&L owned by Fress. Cleveland Metals owns Murfreesboro Mining.”
Erika seemed unimpressed by the enormity of what he had just revealed. She just nodded. “That explains a lot, then.”
Now Carlton was incredulous at her calm detachment. “What?”
“I had Henri run the Lexis search you wanted on Cleveland Metals.”
“And?”
“I’ll spare you the corporate maze. Bottom line, Cleveland Metals is a legal U.S. affiliate of Waterboer Mines Limited.”
“Oh, shit.”
“And that Churchman guy? He’s a partner at Fox, Carlyle.”
The phone rang.
“What now?” Carlton mumbled, holding his throbbing head in his hands.
“Hello?”
“It’s Wenzel.”
“Do you want to hear the latest from here first or do you want to start telling me what I’m sure is more bad news from your end?”
“You haven’t heard, then. The Justice Department. Your own agency. It just condemned MacLean’s property in Arkansas.”
“What?”
“I checked around. Justice just condemned the Raymonds’ farm too. The Orders for Immediate Possession have already been issued and recorded. The government now officially owns the properties.”
Carlton responded with silence as he fought to pin down an elusive thought. “The guy who tried to buy Osage’s property before MacLean bought it. The guy at Fox, Carlyle?”
“Yeah?”
“What was his name?”
“Lester Churchman.”
“And how much did he offer for the property?”
“Nineteen million.”
Carlton shook his head. “That’s it, then.” Twenty million transferred to the account. One million transferred to Fress’s bank. That left nineteen million. The price Waterboer offered to buy the land.
“That’s what? What are you talking about?”
He was about to go through the entire series of events, but stopped. Two people had already been murdered, three if one counted Osage’s father in 1932. Wenzel had nearly been framed, perhaps targeted for assassination as well. This information was killing people; Wenzel didn’t need to be involved anymore. The government had purchased MacLean’s land. Against MacLean’s wishes, but it was technically legal.
Carlton knew he’d have to go this alone. Wenzel might be a zealous lawyer for his client, but he wasn’t a law enforcer. Carlton was. He had a responsibility to enforce laws. White collar crime and now, it appeared, violent crime as well. Right now, that meant keeping quiet. “Listen to me, Dan. They took the land and paid for it. Just let it go. Walk away.”
“MacLean wants to—”
“I don’t care what he wants. Just let it go. Walk away. Just exercise client control and convince your client. I’m not kidding.” He hung up, slumped heavily into his chair, emotionally and physically drained. A paper jabbed him from inside his jacket. He reached inside and removed the hard white envelope from Cartier. He ripped it open, slid out a letter and a brochure.
Dear Monsieur Carlton,
It was a pleasure assisting you and the Department of Justice in your research. I have enclosed a brochure about diamonds for your information. Please call me if you have any questions whatsoever.
Sincerely,
Therese de la Pierre
Carlton looked at the accompanying pamphlet. Superposed on a photograph of a mound of sparkling diamonds was the phrase ‘What You Should Know about Diamonds’ in black letters. Below were the words ‘Diamonds Are Beauty’ and ‘Waterboer Mines Limited.’
“Fucking animals. You’re going to pay for this.”
25 IMAGERY
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
3:10 A.M.
Pink stared wearily at the Russian submarine clock on his wall, a reminder of the Cold War and, for him, its romantic mystery. He had always wanted to be part of the CIA’s clandestine service. But like the college youth of the late 1980s who anticipated the wealth of the Decade of Greed with baited breath, only to be disappointed by its rapid closure, the Cold War was won when Pink entered the Agency. Rather than becoming a cold warrior, he had been relegated to analyzing the mess of post-Communist Russia. He still experienced the clandestine service, of course, but only from behind a desk in the Company’s fortress across the Potomac from the capital of the Cold War victor.
The telephone jolted him out of his late night stupor. “Pink.”
“I didn’t expect to find you in the office,” a nervous voice replied.
“Who is this?” Pink demanded, wai
ting for the caller’s information to flash on his computer screen.
“Pat Carlton.”
“Again?”
“You were right about staying away from Waterboer. But I got sucked in anyway. I’m going to make this short. I’ve found information that frankly I wish I hadn’t. They killed the Senate aide, Mazursky. They killed a farmer in Arkansas.” The words streamed out without punctuation.
He was calling from a cellular telephone registered to Lieutenant Carlton, United States Navy Reserves, Pink noted. “Why would they do that? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not without additional information, no. But I have that information. I don’t expect you to take my word for it. Check it yourself.”
“Okay.”
“Take this down. A company called Cleveland Metals Inc. The account number 1-1-3-5-6-7-8-5-4 in the Bank of V-A-N-U-A-T-U. The Little Rock Savings and Loan in Arkansas. The law firm of Fox, Carlyle. The diamond deposits in Murfreesboro, Arkansas.”
Pink finished writing on a memo pad. “I got it. What is it?”
“Waterboer is bribing Scott Fress to prevent billions of dollars of diamonds from being mined in Arkansas. The money trail leads from Cleveland Metals’ account at the Bank of Vanuatu to the S&L. Verify it. And be careful. Like I said, they’ve already murdered two people.”
“Those are enormous allegations.”
“I know I sound like a nutcase. All I ask, as a Justice Department attorney and as a lieutenant in the Naval Reserves, is that you confirm the information. It was hard to get. As I said, two people already died for it. But it should be easy to confirm.”
“I will.”
“Thanks.”
Pink stared at the receiver for several moments, smiled. To think that for a moment he had actually taken this guy seriously. I must really be getting tired. Scott Fress? The White House Chief of Staff? Please. He had real fish to fry.
He crumpled the sheet of notes and tossed it through the miniature basketball hoop in the corner of the office. It dropped into the trash can. He got up to pour himself a fresh lick of java before attacking his assignment for the tenth time.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 17
