Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  How long would it take for them to disappear, she wondered, rubbing her aching wounds tenderly. None of her customers would pay her looking like that, certainly not her mafiya clients from Tsarskoye Oxota—Tsar’s Hunt—the restaurant where she met them.

  Regaining her composure, she tried to hide the marks with makeup, fearing the militia would pick her up in the lobby. Heavy makeup masked enough for a quick getaway from the hotel. She wanted to run out the door, but she had not yet fulfilled her mission. She had wanted to give him the message last night, but he had not allowed her to speak. Only to scream. She stared up at the ceiling, fished inside her bag for a cigarette and a match. Her half-conscious mind strained to devise a solution to her problem as she tore the wrapper off of a fresh package of Marlboros. If she didn’t deliver the message, Ulianov would be displeased. She didn’t know what he’d do, but she was sure it would be worse than what Slythe had done. He might even kill her.

  She shuddered again, opened a matchbook from Most, the Moscow nightclub of the moment, struck a match. As she took a long drag, an idea dawned on her. She quickly removed a pen from her bag, cupped the matchbook in the crook of her soft hand. Frantically, shaking, she scrawled the exact message Ulianov had given her on the inside of the matchbook cover.

  If anyone is watching, they will think I left him my phone number.

  She crushed out her unfinished cigarette, stood, placed the matchbook in Slythe’s vest pocket, and turned back toward the bed.

  She spat on Slythe, turned off the lights, and escaped through the doorway.

  27 MESSENGER

  Old Post Office Building

  Washington, D. C.

  11:41 A.M.

  Washington, D.C., was no longer its merely unpleasant self. The city was now deadly. Carlton knew he had to get out of Dodge City. Osage and Mazursky were gone. If he stayed, he’d probably be next.

  Wrapped down to his boots in a long black overcoat, he walked across the street from Main Justice to the food court in the Old Post Office Building, one block from the White House.

  The sickly aroma of a dozen open restaurants inside the warm shopping center made him queasy. Lunchgoers were already queued like cattle near stalls that offered everything from falafels to hamburgers. Most were DOJ and FBI employees who longed to be out of their marble fortresses, if only for an hour.

  Food was the last thing on his mind. The combination of stress, insomnia, and government coffee had made his nerves raw, turned his stomach sour. A travel office had recently opened on the ground floor of the shopping center. Carlton often lingered in front of its small window, where large color photographs depicted inviting tropical and snowy destinations. Today he was not going there to escape from government work. He was going there to escape from the government.

  Carlton stepped onto the escalator. On the ground floor, he turned right, made his way toward the small travel office.

  “Excuse me?” A man’s voice sounded in Carlton’s ear. He jerked around nervously to see who it was, bumped into a dark-haired man dressed in khaki pants, a thick sweater, comfortable walking shoes. An expensive Japanese camera was strapped around his neck, a fanny pack tied around his waist. Tourist.

  The man stared at him from smiling blue eyes. “Excuse me, sir,” the man repeated in a heavy cockney accent. “Could you tell me how to get to the White ’ouse? The missus wanted to shop around ’ere and we got lost.”

  Carlton smiled. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was telling visitors how to get around his beloved capital. At least there were some normal people left in this world. “Sure thing.” He gave the man directions.

  “You Yanks are so friendly.” The man grinned. “Much obliged.”

  “Don’t mention it. Enjoy Washington.”

  Carlton resumed his walk toward the travel office. He nearly reached the small shop when he felt something in his pocket. Something he did not remember being there earlier. He reached into his pocket, removed a small manila envelope. The envelope was sealed, not addressed. He ripped open the flap, removed the contents: a key and a photograph of a mound of sparkling diamonds.

  The ball of heat smoldered in his gut again.

  Beneath the photograph were scrawled a few handwritten lines.

  500 one-carat brilliant-cut D-colored SI diamonds. The real ones are in a vault at your bank. Use the enclosed key. We appreciate your cooperation. You have a lovely associate.

  Carlton looked inside the envelope. He had missed something. Another photograph. A recent snapshot of Erika, it looked as if it had been taken with a high-powered zoom lens. His heart froze. An inscription under the photo read:

  Erika Wassenaar (1975—?)

  Holy Mother of God.

  The British tourist—the man posing as a British tourist—must have placed it in his pocket. He turned, scanned the wide spaces of the shopping center. The man had disappeared.

  Carlton bolted up the escalator, pushed his way past lunchgoers who hurled insults at him. By the time he reached the next floor, it was clear he would never find the man.

  They were threatening Erika! In a flash of emotion, he realized not only how much he cared for her, but that he was no longer willing to hide it. The fact they were threatening her enraged him far more than the threat to his own life. He thought about scribbling an expletive over the photograph of the diamonds and looked at the mound of brilliant stones.

  He did not know the value of the 500 D-colored SI diamonds purportedly in the bank vault, but after the discussion with de la Pierre at Cartier, he knew they would be upward of $5 million. More money than he would make in all his life. Tax free.

  He could retire from law, buy a house, never have to work again. He would be safe, without fear of being followed or killed. It was tempting.

  He wavered for only an instant.

  If Waterboer and Fress and Churchman had performed the most minute amount of research on him, they would never have attempted the ploy. They would have realized it would insult him. Enrage him.

  He ran back across the street to his office, wrote a reply on the back of the glossy photograph of the diamonds.

  Bribe rejected. May God have mercy on your souls.

  He resealed the envelope, key and all, addressed it to Lester Churchman, Esq. at Fox, Carlyle, Ashton, Chase, Whitfield & Whyte in New York, and placed it in his outgoing mail tray.

  He checked his messages a final time, hoping for a call from Pink.

  No luck.

  He walked to the door of his office, turned and stared at the cluttered desk, the stacks of books, the green banker’s lamp, the grimy windows.

  “So long.” Maybe forever.

  28 ALLIANCE

  Molotok Dacha, Aldan River

  Republic of Yakut-Sakha (formerly Yakutia), Siberia

  Russian Federation

  8:04 P.M.

  An unrelenting glacial wind whipped through the arid Siberian taiga. Day after day, night after night it howled. Through the boreal forests, across the vast open deserts of ice, through the small villages of huts and traditional yurt dwellings. For thousands of years, it had followed the same winter path, mindless of obstacles. On such days, the brutal taiga offered nothing but wind and cold and loneliness.

  In contrast to the sub-zero cold outside, steam rose from the hot water banya in Molotok’s lavishly appointed dacha, hundreds of miles from the nearest human outpost. Molotok whipped his barrel torso with a leafy birch branch to stimulate circulation, inhaling the strong aroma of the leaves. He rested his immense frame on the ceramic ledge and removed a bottle of one hundred-proof Stolichnaya vodka from a large silver urn filled with ice and uncut diamonds. He took a long pull of the clear potato alcohol, wiped his thick mustache, and passed the bottle to Ulianov. “Yet another contribution of Holy Mother Russia to world civilization.”

  The fact that vodka had originated in Poland and not Russia would have infuriated the rabid nationalist.

  The superbly fit Ulianov grabbed the bottle from his mas
ter, took a short sip. “Da. Nothing like a good Russian banya and vodka to relax the muscles and build up a hearty appetite.”

  Molotok slapped a giant hand on Ulianov’s back. He grabbed a handful of uncut diamonds from the Mirny mine, let them drop back into the silver urn, gazing at the translucent stones. “So much wealth in such small stones. So much power.”

  “Da.”

  “We owe much of it to you and your Volki. Compromising Pyashinev with Waterboer. The raid on Mirny. Assassinating Marshal Ogarkov. Ochen harasho. Your use of fire instead of artillery was excellent. The satellites must have thought it was a natural gas fire. They will never suspect a raid.” Molotok slapped Ulianov’s back anew. “Ochen harasho.”

  “Spaceba.”

  He took the bottle from Ulianov and drained it. “But power is worthless unless it is used.” His voice was hoarse. The result of too many loud speeches and Kosmos cigarettes. “How did the first shipment of diamonds go?”

  “Just as planned, and the deployment of a new garrison proceeded perfectly. Hand-picked to ensure loyalty to Marshal Aleksakov, who was ordered to take Ogarkov’s place after his untimely death.” Ulianov smiled. “Aleksakov’s men loaded the diamonds on one of our trucks before the artificial diamonds were loaded on the truck from Komdragmet. As always, the geologist from Komdragmet sampled some of the diamonds, and pronounced them genuine without a flinch.”

  “Why not? He’s well paid. And the South African? Has he paid us?” He groaned.

  “Da. Waterboer’s man in Vladivostok approved the diamonds while we counted his money and left port with 250,000 carats. One hundred dollars per carat. $25 million.” Ulianov looked at his Red Army watch, a souvenir from his many missions in Afghanistan in the 1980’s. “The next shipment from Mirny is in one month. Another $25 million. At least we don’t have to rely on the contract hits in the United States to run Russkost anymore.”

  “One hundred dollars per carat,” Molotok whispered hoarsely. “So cheap! That South African bastard is raping Russia’s natural resources.”

  “Patience, Molotok. Patience. We will raise the price later. When we control the entire region. The flow of money is sufficient for the moment. The Mirny mine produces 250,000 carats a month. That’s $300 million a year. That’s not a small—”

  “We don’t have a year,” he snapped back, then calmed himself. “But the $30 million we already have is sufficient to purchase a first load of American rockets.”

  “Still, it is not enough to launch our campaign. We must find the missing diamond stockpile. Kovanetz better find it soon.”

  “Soon, my friend. Soon.”

  Ulianov nodded. He had served as a colonel in the elite Spetsnaz and been a faithful Communist Party member since he was old enough to attend the Octobrist rallies for small children. In his forty-five years, his loyalty had never wavered. But it was a loyalty to the Soviet state, not to the Party. The collapse of Communism had little effect on Ulianov. It was the dissolution of the Soviet Empire in 1991 that struck like a dagger to his soul. The wound had never healed. Rudderless, without a goal, the new masters of Russia had ‘retired’ him. Placed him on ‘indefinite leave’. To Ulianov, the breakup of the Soviet Empire was more than an historical cataclysm. It was a personal humiliation. But rather than lie down in defeat and dwell on past glories like so many others, Ulianov found a way to restore his passion from the ashes of its defeat.

  Ironically, the lifelong Communist went into business. In the United States, his choice of trade would euphemistically have been described as a ‘family’ enterprise. Similar to the hundreds of groups that leeched every imaginable Russian enterprise, public and private, Ulianov and a dozen of his Spetsnaz commandos became part of the new Russian mafiya. Not the big mafiya, the former Communist managers and directors—the apparatchiki—the oligarchs who still ran most of the economy and government, but the street mafiya. Ulianov wasn’t strong enough to compete with the apparatchiki. Not in the beginning.

  To the corrupt and underfinanced police, to the hordes of other small mafiya groups, Ulianov’s men became known as the Volki—the Wolves. The Volki’s unofficial growth would have put most entrepreneurs to shame. Quick, efficient, deadly, the Volki made full use of the military version of the vertushka network of Russian supply quartermasters, inventory supervisors, longshoremen, motorpool directors, telephone managers, state bankers, hotel managers, pilots. The vertushka was ubiquitous and invisible. Properly used, it supported a veritable shadow government.

  Unlike the tens of thousands of drunken, drug addicted, petty mafiya thugs who ran unofficial Russia without true legal identity, dependent only on the greedy whims of their former apparatchik bosses, the Volki operated as a disciplined, organized force. There was a studied, rational business plan to their operations. At first, it involved only armament and ordnance, the easiest commodities for army officers to obtain, transport, and sell, most often to terrorist nations and groups. Later, the operation diversified. The Volki began to sell almost everything stored in army depots. Then in other government depots. After several years, their operations grew to the level of the apparatchiki and included many more lucrative businesses. Extortion, bribery, smuggling, prostitution, narcotics. Banking, real estate, technology, media. The Volki smuggled Russian artifacts, precious metals, weapons, chemicals, and enriched rare earth minerals for nuclear weapons construction to the highest bidder, regardless of national or political provenance. China and Iran were their best customers by far, particularly for missile and nuclear technology. The Volki amassed funds received for hired ‘hits’ on businessmen, bankers, politicians, and mafia dons throughout the world, particularly in the United States and other Western countries, where the old Sicilian mafia had mostly gone corporate and rarely dirtied their hands with such work.

  After several years, Ulianov and his Volki had amassed sufficient wealth to set their sights on their true objective, the resurrection of Holy Mother Russia. But the Volki could not achieve their goal alone. Revolutions were accomplished by an elite group through force, but they needed a charismatic leader. The Volki needed a forceful ally with a popular following. Ulianov had long scrutinized the Russian political landscape for such an ally. In an ocean of corrupt jellyfish, he had encountered one particularly impressive shark. The nationalist who called himself the ‘Hammer’ and imagined himself as the reincarnation of Josef Vissarionovich Stalin.

  Cautiously and slowly, Ulianov developed a tenuous relationship with the rough, outspoken Molotok. It began as a single business venture. For two years, Ulianov and Molotok danced a cautious dance. Ulianov demonstrated his resourcefulness and honesty to Molotok. He had not stolen. Had not charged outrageous prices. Had not raised prices unexpectedly. Had not double-crossed. Those were the trademarks of the other childlike mafiya groups, which Ulianov avoided carefully. For his part, Molotok proved himself worthy of Ulianov’s trust, not only through their business dealings—Molotok paid on time and never renegotiated—but through his fiery lust for Russian power and glory. As it was in the old days, Molotok said, under Peter the Great. Under Stalin.

  Ulianov first waded cautiously, then was sucked in and engulfed in Molotok’s fiery nationalist rhetoric. Rather than the reverse, it was Molotok who assimilated Ulianov into his organization. Where Ulianov had searched for an ally, he found a master.

  “Now let us feast.” Molotok lifted his massive frame from the bath and grabbed a thick towel from a cedar rack. Ulianov’s disciplined muscular body followed. “Our guests should all be here by now.”

  He slapped Ulianov on the back once again. The first two slaps had left a red welt on the athletic former colonel. He did not complain and followed Molotok’s hulking form into the dressing room. When they had dressed, Molotok led the way to a private reception room, richly decorated with oil paintings hung on polished pine above chairs covered with sable skins. The paintings depicted the construction of the Trans-Siberian railroad. The fire that roared in the corner provided the only light.
As the two men entered the room, a figure in unmarked army fatigues stood from one of the chairs.

  “Marshal Aleksakov,” Ulianov said. As if still in official service to the rodina, he saluted the newly promoted marshal in command of the Eastern Ground Forces and the Mirny garrison. The wiry marshal returned the salute, smiled.

  Molotok grasped the man’s hand in his giant paw. “It was good of you to come, Marshal. Intelligent of you not to dress in uniform.” He tapped his index finger against his hairy head.

  “Thank you, Molotok. It is I who must thank you for your hospitality.”

  “Not at all, my friend. Not at all. We are allies.” He gestured theatrically. “What is mine is yours.”

  “Spaceba.”

  “I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done, Marshal. Without you, Russkost would never have been able to exercise its control over the diamonds at Mirny to fund its campaign for the rodina.”

  Aleksakov was thankful his two hosts could not discern his beet-red blush from the compliments, a result of the man’s willful, albeit unconscious, participation in Molotok’s personality cult, which the Siberian bear developed tirelessly.

  “The Mirny diamonds are the centerpiece of our campaign for Holy Mother Russia. I only wish I could show my gratitude more eloquently.” Molotok’s face broke into a well-practiced smile.

  “Being at your side in the great campaign is gratitude enough, Molotok,” Aleksakov said.

  “Spaceba, spaceba.” Molotok performed a quick bow, then turned to Ulianov, who had not yet relaxed from his military stance before the Marshal, a carryover from his life in the military. “Come, tovarishi. Let us meet our allies.” Molotok led the small procession down a narrow corridor into the largest room in the dacha.