“Where and what.” It was an order rather than a question.
“Atlantic Ocean, sir. Approximately five hundred miles off the coast of Atlantic City. The communication was to MacLean in Los Angeles, via a ship’s satellite phone. By using two satellites in tandem, our system was able to—”
“Spare me the egghead crap, Lin. These guys are killers. Just get me an encrypted transcript and their present coordinates.”
Fress waited until the email notification icon appeared on his computer screen, opened the electronic envelope, and read the transcript. It made no sense, but the eggheads’ computers had identified the voiceprint as Carlton’s. He punched a familiar telephone number from memory
“Jones here.”
“I’m doing your job for you: Carlton left Atlantic City by boat. He’s about 500 miles out to sea.” He read off the coordinates. “This is your last chance. If you fuck it up this time, I’ll- Well, you know what it’ll mean.”
42 EXECUTIONER
Atlantic Star
Atlantic Ocean
632 miles East of Atlantic City
9:02 PM.
Head of Fress’s covert strike team, Jones had failed his master three times. Or rather, his men had failed. Which was the same thing, as far as Fress was concerned. Once in Carlton’s apartment. A second time on the Wilson Bridge. A third in Atlantic City. This time he’d do the job himself.
Jones was a rogue dropout from a clandestine operations group so secret its members’ identities did not exist, not even in the CIA, DIA, NSA, NRO, and other U.S. secret organ alphabet soup. He had no legal identity, but multiple clandestine identities. This afternoon, he slipped into his facsimile identity as a senior FBI pilot. As such, he routinely flew certain of the Bureau’s aircraft in connection with its war on terror. The ease with which Jones took the Learjet for a simple test and recon mission was frightening.
At New York’s LaGuardia FBI hangar, he simply walked up to the flight coordinator, showed his ID, and asked. He smiled, but not too much. Soon he was on an easterly heading in a Lear U-36A. The needle-nosed aircraft was a basic Lear 36 modified as an anti-shipping missile trainer. The only change Jones had to make was to switch the training missile with a live weapon. One of his men took care of that part of the op.
The full moon illuminated clear patches of the dark ocean below between breaks in the clouds. Three and a half hours later, he sifted through the contacts on his multicolored radar screen, focused on his target, a single green dot one hundred miles due east.
The Atlantic Star.
Just a few minutes.
Unlike its field counterparts, the training jet lacked a system for locking a target into the missile’s brain. He would have to hold his fire until he had visual contact. He only had a single missile, but he did not consider that a problem.
He removed the safety catch from the control switch—the ’pickle’—and waited to come into range.
Jones dropped the Lear below the clouds, lined up for the kill. He was close enough to see the Star’s navigation lights and brightly illuminated superstructure. She was coming up fast. He lined up his Head Up Display with the boat, pressed hard on the pickle.
There was a shudder, a flash, then a bright white plume of smoke as the air-to-sea missile rocketed from under the Lear’s fuselage toward the helpless pleasure vessel. The missile disappeared for several seconds, and Jones began to wonder whether he had missed when the Atlantic Star exploded in a giant fireball that illuminated the calm, black ocean for over five miles. Within minutes, the fire extinguished and the two sections of the vessel’s sleek hull sank below the frigid waters of the Atlantic Ocean as if it had never existed.
43 FRIEND
Castel MacLean
Beverly Hills, California
5:44 P.M.
Max MacLean seldom personally greeted guests to his palatial sandblasted glass and polished aluminum aerie atop Beverly Hills. But Abraham Cohen was family.
MacLean helped Cohen out of the rear seat of the Bentley in which Maxfield had collected the elderly man at his office on Rodeo Drive not more than two miles away. “I’m so happy you came.”
“I’m always happy to see you, Maximilian,” Cohen said, clutching MacLean’s forearm, looking intently into his eyes. “I could have driven, you know. I do still drive. And why all this?” He waved at the two soldati who stood near the front of the marble steps, dressed in black from head to toe, compact Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine guns drawn, eyes alert.
“A lot has happened since we last spoke. Let’s go inside, shall we?” MacLean ushered Cohen through the resplendent entryway and into a small elevator hidden behind an alcove.
Together they ascended to the third floor. MacLean led him into his office, blinds still drawn. “Please have a seat. Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?”
Abraham sighed as he ensconced himself in the supple black leather of one of the Roche Bobois sofas. “Tea would be lovely, thank you. But it looks like you’ve been drinking something stronger.” He picked up one of the empty bottles of Grey Goose from the squat glass block coffee table.
“I’m through with vodka for a while.” MacLean rang Maxfield for tea, sat on the sofa opposite Cohen.
“What the hell is going on, Maximillian? I’ve never seen you like this. Scared. Paranoid. Hung over. What happened? Where is Claire?”
“She’s under guard. Where it’s safe.”
“Under guard? By those goons you have out there?”
“Soldiers of a family loyal to my father.”
“God rest his soul,” Cohen whispered. “I’m sorry, Maximilian, but I don’t understand. How bad can-”
“The people, the interests you warned me about. They killed Dan Wenzel.”
“Daniel? Daniel is dead? Oh my God.”
“It was my fault.”
Cohen looked up, stared at MacLean, puzzled.
“I let him fly to Washington. I knew it was dangerous but he insisted on going. I could have... The plane he was on exploded.”
“My God.”
“I could have stopped him.”
Seeing his distraught friend mentally beating himself up, Cohen raised his hand.
“Could have, would have. We do the best with what we have, Maximillian. So did you. No more, no less.” Abraham sighed, far wearier than curious. “God writes straight with curved lines, Maximillian. If Daniel died, it was God’s will, as difficult as it may be for us to accept.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Did you read about the Senate aide who was killed in Washington?”
“By the drug dealers?”
“Not drug dealers. The same people who killed Dan Wenzel. And an innocent farmer in Arkansas before that. And nearly killed two of my close associates.”
“Why?”
“I decided to mine in Arkansas.”
“I told you to—”
MacLean raised his palms. “I know you did. You were right, and I was wrong. But it happened, and it continues. That’s why I had to ask you to come here. I’m a prisoner in my own house.”
Maxfield opened the door and entered with a silver tray heaped with a Limoges tea and coffee service and homemade cookies and scones.
“Thank you. We’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, thank you very much Maxfield,” Cohen said, giving in to his sweet tooth and retrieving a powdered sugar almond scone from the pile of pastries.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” inquired Maxfield, eyeing the two empty bottles of vodka.
“Please see to it we’re left alone.”
“Yes, sir. I shall, sir.” He bowed slightly and removed the bottles of vodka. Maxfield was nothing if not a stickler for tidiness.
MacLean waited for him to shut the door before continuing. “I’m not going to give you any details. They wouldn’t help you, and they would put you at greater risk.”
“Who would harm me if I knew the deta
ils?”
MacLean stared at the elderly man for a moment before answering. “Waterboer.”
Cohen nodded slowly, in reproach. “So it is Waterboer behind all this.” He replaced the porcelain cup on the table. “I had suspected as much, but was never certain. Max, you’ve got to stop. Whatever it is, you’ve got to stop.”
“It’s too late. It’s not just Waterboer now. The—” He stopped himself. “U.S. government agencies are involved. Foreign governments are involved. Political movements. This monster has a life of its own now.”
Cohen responded to MacLean’s agitated fear with total calm. “It often does and Waterboer invariably wins. Still, the monopoly is predictable. If you get out of the way, you don’t get hurt. Waterboer doesn’t look for vengeance or retribution the way some people do. They’re far too organized and focused on the perpetuation of their diamond monopoly. Stop threatening the monopoly, and Waterboer will stop threatening you. It’s that simple.”
“Simple enough. But like I said, it’s not just Waterboer anymore. Too many others are involved for it just to stop. It’s got to burn itself out.”
“More reason for you to stop.”
MacLean stood. “No. Threats don’t work well with me. If they had just come to me with a simple business deal - here is what we want, here is what we’re willing to pay, here are some rare beautiful diamonds - that I could respect. After looking into their history and business practices, I would probably have agreed, provided the money offered was sufficient. After all, I’ve never been interested in competing with Waterboer in the sale of diamonds, in threatening their monopoly. I’m interested in beauty. Beauty and simple business.”
“So? Make them an offer.”
MacLean shook his head. “No. We’re past that point. Things have gone much too far for offers. If Dan was still alive. If Claire and I weren’t trapped in this palatial prison, hiding from the outside world. If my associates weren’t being hunted. Maybe. But not now. It’s too late now.”
“Then what?” Cohen sighed loudly, obviously exasperated. “Maximillian. You’re not being reasonable. I don’t know if it’s fear or sadness or remorse. Or booze. But you’re being unreasonable.” He leaned forward. ”I advised you to abandon your Arkansas mine. You refused. You received threats. You refused to stop. Wenzel was murdered. Now I’m telling you that you can’t win against Waterboer, and you’re still not listening.”
MacLean stared at the floor, his head in his hands.
“Ah! It’s no use! Why am I even here? You won’t even listen to me!” Cohen stood and paced the shuttered office.
“I am listening, Abraham, but I won’t back down.”
Cohen stopped, turned. “Then why did ask me to come here? What do you want, Maximillian?”
MacLean lifted his unshaven face from his hands and gazed at Cohen’s pale blue eyes. “I want you to tell me how to destroy Waterboer.”
“Destroy Waterboer? Destroy Waterboer?” Cohen touched his temples, shook his head. “You’re meshuggene. Destroy Waterboer? Waterboer survived wars, corporate insurrections, radical political regimes of all stripes, a multitude of restrictive legal structures. Not only survived but prospered.”
“Just hear me out. Please.”
Cohen sat on the edge of the sofa, shaking his head.
“At first I wanted to go against Piet Slythe personally. Hurt him. Hurt his friends. Hurt his family.”
Cohen wagged a finger. “Don’t become what your father worked so hard to protect you against.”
“I was furious, reacting, not thinking. Hurting Slythe personally would only make things worse. And if Slythe were eliminated, someone else would take his place. Waterboer is the diamond trade. The Slythes are Waterboer. Hurt the diamond trade and you hurt Waterboer. Hurt Waterboer and you hurt Slythe.”
“And?”
“I can’t actually destroy Waterboer, I know that. But how can I damage the diamond trade to the extent I hurt Slythe? Big and hard. That’s what I want to know.”
“At least it’s more realistic than wanting to destroy Waterboer.”
“How do I do it, Abraham?”
Cohen poured himself a fresh cup of tea, added some sugar, and stirred the contents. He was a man who thought before speaking. Silence did not intimidate him. He remained silent long enough for MacLean to light, smoke, and crush out a cigarette.
“Many people have tried to destroy Waterboer in the past. All have failed. The key to Waterboer is that it’s a monopoly. The company prevents competition, as you know, by all means available. But because it’s a monopoly, it isn’t equipped to compete. As able as it is to crush competition, it is also extremely susceptible to competition.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Look at Ford. Ford makes cars. Some of its cars are very good. They compete well. People buy that model instead of a similar model made by another car company. But other models aren’t as good. People buy the competition’s models instead. What happens? Ford increases advertising, gives rebates, improves the model. Ford is prepared to compete. Waterboer isn’t. If someone sells a more competitive diamond in high quantity, Waterboer isn’t set up to compete.”
”But Waterboer can’t improve on its product. It sells diamonds. Unless it cuts them better or sells better quality stones, it can’t improve its product.”
“The only way for another company to compete with Waterboer is on price, not on product. But Waterboer can sell its diamonds so cheaply it would make any competing company unprofitable.”
“But if it lowers the price on diamonds so much, wouldn’t it have a difficult time raising prices after it had frozen out the competitor?”
“That’s the weakness. It can never let any other company sell diamonds without some kind of price agreement. Demand would be severely impacted by a drop in price. That’s Waterboer’s Achilles Heel.”
“You lost me again.”
“If someone sold diamonds a little more cheaply than Waterboer, it would hurt Waterboer a little. If someone sold a massive amount of diamonds at dirt-cheap prices over a very short time, it would devastate Waterboer. It’s Waterboer’s greatest fear. That’s why it controls and has always controlled production and the number of diamonds sold so fiercely.”
“You’re talking about dumping. Flooding the market with diamonds. I’ve heard that theory before. Hasn’t that been tried?”
“It’s been discussed many times, yes, but never actually attempted. Before anyone flooded the market, Waterboer made them an offer they couldn’t refuse and bought the mine, or its production, or paid the mine owner not to produce. Or forced the government to ban the mine or repress its owners. Every new mine gets the same treatment.”
“That’s production. What about supply? Are there any stockpiles that could be dumped on the market? That would achieve the same result, wouldn’t it?”
“There are, and it would.”
“Who has them?”
“Waterboer has the largest stockpiles, of course. Except for exceptionally large and flawless diamonds or colored diamonds, diamonds are quite common, so Waterboer sells only a fraction of its production. It can’t shut production down because the mines’ owners couldn’t resist the urge to produce secretly. The rest it stockpiles. In many different locations, to prevent theft. No one knows where exactly.”
“Who else has a stockpile? The United States?”
“Not really. The Department of Defense maintains a strategic diamond reserve for defense purposes. For optics, grinding bits, that sort of thing. And industrial diamonds can be manufactured synthetically now. So the stockpile is small, of industrial quality, not gem quality.
“Russia had a stockpile, but it sold it to Waterboer in 1990. Another example of Waterboer getting scared and paying high prices to prevent anyone from flooding the market. There are rumors Russia didn’t sell its entire stockpile. That the KGB and other hard-liners saw the writing on the wall, realized they would soon be out of power, and hid the remainin
g stockpile. The same rumor also has it that the remaining stockpile contained large quantities of extremely valuable large, colored, and high-quality stones. Anyway, these are rumors only.”
“Still, if the rumors persist, maybe—”
Cohen shook his head. “There are rumors about UFOs, but Washington hasn’t been overrun by aliens with laser beams.”
“Anyone else?”
“The Vatican is rumored to have a diamond stockpile. But the Vatican is so old and secretive that there are rumors about everything involving it. Besides, although the conventional belief is that the Vatican is swimming in riches, it’s true about real estate and art only. The Church is cash poor. Where would it get the kind of money to amass a diamond stockpile? And for what purpose?”
“Anyone else? Any other rumors?”
“Anyone else, no. Any other rumors, yes. King Solomon’s Mines, the Lost City of Eldorado, Atlantis.”
“Any Russian stockpile would be too difficult to tackle without U.S. government juice. The last time I tried to deal with the feds, Dan Wenzel was murdered and I lost a $40 million-dollar jet. Do you know anyone at the Vatican?” He placed his palms forward. “I know, I know. It’s just a rumor. But assume for a moment there is a Vatican stockpile. Do you know anyone inside?”
“I know the cardinal in charge of the Vatican committee for dialogue between Jews and Catholics. I spoke before the committee after my testimony against the Swiss banks. We became friends. I asked him about the rumored stockpile. He laughed. Other than him, your connections in those circles are far better than mine.”
“I know the Archbishop of Los Angeles. He’s a member of the Curia. A powerful one at that. The ’Hollywood Cardinal’, the others call him. But anyone in the Church who would know about a stockpile would have to be much deeper inside. In Rome.”
Cohen eyed him probingly. “You’re not really thinking of going to Rome, are you?”
MacLean smiled. “Rome? I can’t even leave the house to buy the paper. But I do know someone in Italy who—”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 30
