Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  “Well this just gets better and better. Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was already knee-deep into this nightmare. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Even if I had been able to reach you, which I wasn’t despite many attempts, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “First, we didn’t know until we verified your information. Second, once we did, we didn’t know if we could trust you. We just couldn’t risk it. Third, all my phones were probably ta—”

  “I don’t understand,” Erika said. “You couldn’t risk what?”

  “Putting you in even more danger than you were in. We wanted to protect you, and we couldn’t risk the connection between Waterboer and Russia leaking.” He placed his palms outward apologetically. “Not intentionally. Not even through you. But it could have leaked. CIA is almost as porous as the White House and Congress. You were already running from Fress. Imagine if Molotok and his psychos had also been chasing you. There’s no way you’d have made it this far.

  “Fress has moles all over the place, but he’s got to be careful too. The Russians in this are different. They work out of Siberia. They pop in and out of the U.S., take people out the way you and I go to the supermarket. They don’t have to be careful, just quick. And again, your knowing about this wouldn’t have helped you in any way.”

  Carlton sank back into the couch. “So we have absolutely no choice. Someone asked for volunteers to step forward and everyone but Erika and I took a step back.”

  “Everyone but you, Erika, and me. It’s not the way I’d plan it, okay, but—”

  “Am I right?”

  Pink sighed. “You are. But it’s not because I or anyone at CIA is paranoid or masochistic, Pat. It’s simply that until the Russian issues are resolved, you’re not safe. Even if Fress is behind bars. If it makes you feel any better, I got stuck in the middle of this, too.”

  “No, it does not make me feel better. You’re CIA. You volunteered for this crap. We’re DOJ lawyers. Getting Fress yes, but hunting for a Russian diamond stockpile? It’s a bit beyond us, don’t you think?” He listened to his own words. He had never expected to say anything like it. For the past ten years he had wanted to stop sitting on the sidelines, to act, to be part of something that made a difference. Now he didn’t want it. He didn’t want it because he was afraid. He had acted tough by refusing Waterboer’s high dollar offer, but now the consequences scared him. He felt like a coward and it disgusted him. He forced himself to shake it off.

  “Okay, Tom. We’re stuck in this. There’s no use bitching about it. It’s just the odds I don’t like. If we go back to D.C., your people won’t allow us to arrest Fress until the Russian issues are resolved. We’ll be out in the open where Fress can find us. If we don’t arrest Fress, we may as well save ammo and shoot ourselves now.”

  “Staying away from trouble is better than looking for it. You’re assuming Fress will find us. I’m not so sure. Regardless, the faster we find the stockpile, the faster we can get rid of Fress. The key is to find the Russian diamonds. Again, I’m sorry you’re in this situation, but I’m—”

  “Not as sorry as we are, Tom.”

  The Atlantic Star was one of two casino yachts reserved for the Star casino’s high rollers. At the cost of $20 million each, many would think them a colossal waste. But MacLean knew different. The yachts were so popular, the highest of the high rollers regularly fought for the opportunity to take the Atlantic Star or Caribbean Star out for a week with thirty of their closest friends, all the while gambling away enough money to generate far more than the lease on each vessel.

  Over two hundred feet long, the Atlantic Star was a monster of a ship. Despite her size, the ship’s revolutionary honeycomb aluminum hull and superstructure were so light that, even at full weight, she displaced a mere three hundred tons, far less than ships half her size. Designed as an advanced technical prototype, the Star possessed the dual qualities of performance and luxury naval architects strived for but rarely attained. Powered by four twelve-cylinder Caterpillar engines, propelled by four quad-blade Lips propellers, and electrified by four Northern Lights generators, the Star could top forty knots, a speed unheard of in her class.

  In contrast to her bulky brethren, the Star sported a teardrop design with nary a mast or rail to defeat its sleek profile. Instead of the tall superstructures of other luxury yachts, the Star’s designers opted for width rather than height. The result was two decks rather than four, a shape that resembled a flying saucer more than a yacht.

  Inside, the Atlantic Star remained true to MacLean’s obsession with the aesthetic. Sandblasted glass, brushed aluminum, and baby blue leather. Requiring a minimum crew of only five, the yacht could sleep up to thirty passengers in fifteen staterooms, nourish them in gastronomic bliss in a palatial dining room with selections from a five-star kitchen and cellar, entertain them in a 360-degree bar, a state-of-the-art casino, movie theater, nightclub, and library, and exercise them in a full gymnasium complete with machine and weight room, racquetball court, jacuzzi, and retractable-roof pool.

  After a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, yogurt, toast, coffee, and orange juice, Erika decided to catch a few more hours of sleep. Carlton and Pink sat silently at the large dining table with Commander Ramey. Pink pored over some of the CD-ROM files he had brought from Langley, rubbed his temples. Canton savored an oily Fuente Opus X torpedo from the Star’s humidor and gazed past the plate glass window that separated the dining room from the frothing black ocean a dozen feet below, observing the first red glow of dawn in the east.

  “I realize this isn’t a simple question, gentlemen, but where are we going?” Ramey asked, sipping a mug of coffee.

  Carlton jabbed his thumb at Pink. “You’d better ask James Bond over here.”

  Pink finished reading his documents for the nth time, put on his eyeglasses, and looked up at the captain. “For the moment, and until we get more data, away from the coast and east. The farther we get away from D.C., the better.”

  Approximately 175 miles southwest of Atlantic City, Scott Fress was wide awake. At a few minutes shy of 6:30 A.M., not even the most severe insomniacs were anywhere near their White House or Old Executive Office Building offices. But Scott Fress was up when the phone rang.

  It wasn’t a coincidence. The days of the White House Chief of Staff were often busier than those of his ward. Fress had to use the darkness of the early morning and late night to conduct the shadow operations that made him wealthy. He didn’t sleep much.

  That’s what pills are for, he reasoned, popping a red oval pill into his mouth and chasing it with hot coffee as he reached for the receiver.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Jones.”

  “Yes.”

  “We tracked the aircraft from Andrews to Atlantic City. It belonged to MacLean. We shot the plane down after it left Atlantic City.”

  “And?”

  Silence.

  “And,” Fress repeated, remaining perfectly calm, not raising his voice.

  “And they reappeared in Atlantic City, but then we lost them. I have no idea how. They—”

  “I do. You’re a fucking moron. But luckily there are a bunch of others to keep you company.”

  “Sir, we had them on the ground, and they...well, they just vanished, sir.”

  “How did they vanish in Atlantic City?”

  Pause. “I have no idea.”

  “It was MacLean’s plane?”

  “Yes sir. His company. MacLean Foods Interna—”

  “What else does MacLean own in Atlantic City besides a plane?”

  “A casino, for starters.”

  “So now you know where they are.”

  “But we don’t—”

  “Carlton is not the only who can be made to vanish.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Find them.”

  He replaced the receiver, stared at the bottle of pills, popped another one in his mouth. It was going to be a long da
y.

  40 CRACKDOWN

  Czas

  Moscow

  11:06 A.M.

  Originally created to spy both on the West and on the Russian people, the KGB’s power had been neutralized by the close of the Cold War until, like a hydra, the secret organ had regrown nearly out of control under Orlov’s KGB-trained predecessor. Following the years of FSB/SVR government leadership until the failed GRU coup that eventually led to Orlov’s election, the president had inflicted a mighty blow to the organization, both financially and governmentally. Its personnel was replaced, its budget sharply reduced, its role narrowed. So it was not an agent of the FSB but an officer of the GRU who led the mid-day raid on the small retail establishment that sold and repaired watches and clocks. The GRU had known for many months that sensitive information was being leaked to foreign powers. The United States, Germany, France, Great Britain, Israel. Only recently had the source of the leak been narrowed to the seemingly innocuous watch shop. The GRU investigations of bank transactions made it quite clear the little store did not live on timepieces alone.

  The GRU team was overworked and had no time to waste on formalities. Two officers dressed in military uniforms entered the store with weapons drawn, handcuffed the two employees, then entered the back room. Watches and other timepieces lay on tables in various states of disassembly. They soon located and accessed a powerful IBM PC in a small cubbyhole behind the repair room.

  “I have it, Major,” announced the junior officer and resident GRU field hacker. “A list of customers.”

  “Ochen harasho, Lieutenant.” Excellent. “Connect it up.”

  “Da.”

  The lieutenant removed a cell phone and wire from his belt pack, connected the wire to a port behind the computer, and hit an automatic dial key on the cellular. Twenty seconds later, the central GRU computer several miles away began a rapid-fire dialogue with the IBM PC. Within two minutes, it resulted in a list of state officials with access to sensitive information from the computer’s customer list. ”Completed, Major.”

  “Let’s take a look.” The major scrolled the list down until he came across the name that he already suspected was there. He removed his own cell phone and dialed.

  “Kovanetz,” a voice on the other end answered tersely.

  “Major Kasparov here, Colonel. It was as you suspected, sir.”

  “Klimov?”

  “Da. Last transaction appears to be...two days ago.”

  “Ochen harasho, Major. Arrest him and begin the interrogation. I will meet you at your office.”

  “Da, tovarish Colonel.”

  Within a few hours, Major Kasparov had uncovered the latest information Klimov had sold to the American CIA. The entire Pyashinev file, including Pyashinev’s note found at the site of the helicopter crash.

  Rossiya, trieti sloi. Nie dopustit im wziat eto.

  Russia, third layer. Must not let them get it.

  41 CRUISE

  Atlantic Star

  Atlantic Ocean

  502 miles east of Atlantic City

  5:33 P.M.

  At least a full decade ahead of the most advanced technology used in commerce, the National Security Agency’s (NSA) electronic hardware, software, and superbly trained staff could listen to nearly any electromagnetic communication on Earth, including through keyword sampling and voiceprint recognition programs that scanned land, radio, and satellite lines—including cellular—and even communications in closed rooms through window vibrations caused by speech or computer keyboard strokes. Through the NSA, therefore, Scott Fress could locate nearly any person he pleased wherever they communicated. For this simple fact, despite the Atlantic Star’s sophisticated communications suite, no one aboard the oceangoing luxury yacht could risk communicating with anyone off the vessel, for fear of detection.

  In addition to the communications blackout, Captain Ramey and his crew operated under the cover that MacLean’s Star casino had graciously provided the Atlantic Star to a high-roller Mexican businessman for a week to compensate for the man’s unfortunate losing streak at the Star’s baccarat tables.

  But despite the electronic silence and clever cover, sooner or later the government’s vast resources would allow the White House Chief of Staff to track and locate Carlton and Erika. It was unavoidable; only a matter of time.

  Unless, Carlton reasoned, Scott Fress abandoned his search. But if nothing else, a lack of tenacity was not one of the Chief of Staff’s shortcomings. The only way Scott Fress would abandon the search would be when he was sure that Carlton and Erika were dead. He paused. When Fress is sure that we’re dead. Carlton stood and walked to the control room.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” Ramey inquired.

  “Fine. But I’d feel much better if you’d just call me Pat.”

  Ramey smiled. “Jack.”

  “Good. Do you think I could take a peek at your nav charts?”

  “By all means, although I think you’d find the library more interesting.” Ramey stated good-naturedly.

  “Hey, I’m Navy. Nothing more interesting to me than reading charts, you know?”

  “Yeah, well I’m ex-Navy and I know you’re full of hot air, but you’re welcome to ’em. They’re in the room back there. All neat and organized.”

  “Thanks. And do you happen to have a current plot of planned trajectories for nearby vessels? Something current?”

  “No, but I’ll get you one.” Ramey picked up the intercom. “XO to the bridge, XO to the bridge please.”

  “Aces, Jack. Thanks.”

  A half hour later, Carlton located a vessel with the trajectory he desired and convinced Ramey to make two communications, one to the vessel and one to MacLean. It was the most cryptic communication he could make, and MacLean might not understand a thing, but it would serve its purpose. That is, there was a small chance that it would serve its purpose. If they were lucky. Very lucky. Still, it was the only thing Carlton could think of. He let Erika know about the plan, but they decided to hold off on informing Pink.

  After a walk around the deck, Carlton knocked on Pink’s locked stateroom door. Pink appeared and squinted with bloodshot eyes into bright sunlight. His face was gaunt, his clothes slept in.

  “Anything yet?”

  “Very little.”

  “Hey, be positive. Very little is better than very nothing.” Carlton followed Pink inside. He sniffed. “Whew! It’s gamey in here.”

  “Smells better than your damn cigars. Anyhow, let me show you what we’ve got so far. Where is Erika?”

  “In the library.”

  “Come on.” Pink grabbed a folder and led Carlton to the ship’s wood-paneled library, where Erika sat on one of the comfortable light blue sofas with her legs folded under her, face buried in a book.

  Located in the center of the vessel, they had chosen the library because it lacked windows or other exterior surfaces that could be tapped by the NSA. Carlton joined Erika on the sofa. Pink sat on a light green armchair opposite a black marble fireplace flickering with flames from real logs well-secured behind a protective glass partition and surrounded by two stories of books.

  Pink cleared his throat. “As we discussed earlier, neither I nor the rest of the Russian analysts at CIA have any idea where the diamonds are. All we know is that a Russian stockpile exists. The Russian government doesn’t even know it exists, much less where it is. Which means our people inside their government haven’t been able to help us. We also discussed that the few clues we do have stink on ice, if you’ll forgive the pun. The good part is that I managed to organize the clues we do have.”

  Pink handed Carlton a sheaf of papers. “Frankly, I don’t think you’ll make much of it. I sure haven’t.”

  “You’ve been looking at that info for a long time. You’re too close to it to be objective anymore. Have some faith in us non-CIA morons.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Just yanking your chain, Tom.” He flashed a smile and ran through the pages. “
Okay. What are we looking at?”

  “One of our agents inside Russian military intelligence, the GRU, got hold of the inventory they made of Leonid Pyashinev’s apartment. Remember, until his disappearance several weeks ago, Pyashinev was the head of the Russian government diamond consortium Komdragmet. Even though officially the Russian government doesn’t know about the diamond stockpile, Pyashinev would have known. He was in thick with the pre-Orlov, pre-Puzhnin, pre-Yeltsin KGB crowd that smuggled the diamonds out of Russia before the Soviet collapse in 1991. The GRU discovered Pyashinev had been working for Waterboer. The last place he was seen before he crashed was Murmansk.”

  “And the inventory?”

  “Nothing. Zilch. That’s the report you’ve got there, with a complete inventory of what they found in his apartment. Pyashinev’s bio. A cryptic note, apparently written by Pyashinev immediately before he died. I’ve been trying to understand it for a week.”

  “You’re going to have to translate,” said Erika.

  “In English, it reads: ’Russia, third layer. Must not let them get it.”

  “Not much of a clue, is it?” Erika said.

  “As I said, the information we have is pretty shabby.”

  “Still, if those were Pyashinev’s last words, they must have some meaning. Maybe we can give you a fresh perspective, spot something an expert like you might overlook. No offense, of course. I don’t want to step on—”

  “No, no. You may as well. Give it a shot. It’ll give me a chance to catch some sleep.”

  The four cups of coffee and half bottle of pills had made Fress progressively more terse. Terse and tense. He grabbed the telephone. “Yes.”

  “Colonel Lin from NSA, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, we picked up a communication from Carlton.”