Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy

by Nicolas Kublicki

  But Altiplano based his plan on flawed assumptions. One, that enough key voting cardinals would accept such a bribe to influence a papal conclave. Although many religious projects were in dire need of funds and the salaries of the princes of the Church were a pittance, these men had not become priests for pecuniary gain, and in most cases the great influence they wielded served as a counterweight to such low remuneration. Two, that the international flow of diamonds would not be discovered by Instituto per le Opere di Religione (IOR) - the Institute for Works of Religion, commonly known as the Vatican Bank.

  46 PREPARATIONS

  Claire Sailing

  Barents Sea

  530 miles East of Kirkenes, Norway

  2:11 P.M.

  The Claire forged toward the icy port of Murmansk at twenty knots; nearly five 500 miles a day. Most of that time was spent collecting information on the icebreaker Rossiya.

  Together with the numbers and types of boats registered under the name Rossiya, Pink’s downloaded search contained all available information in the CIA database on the ship, including schematics and press articles about the Russian nuclear icebreaker.

  Carlton, Erika, and Pink sifted through the information for hours. DesJardins kept them well-fueled with coffee brewed in his U.S. Navy tradition, black with a pinch of salt and so strong its good-natured brewer swore he once had made a metal spoon float in it. Carlton likened it to jet fuel.

  The first important information they discovered was the Rossiya’s regular route. If all proceeded as planned, the icebreaker would soon depart from Murmansk and power northwesterly, later clearing a safe passage in the thick ice near the North Pole for a Norwegian cruise liner.

  After breaking for another of DesJardins’ sumptuous meals, Erika went to the stateroom to review some of the documents in silence. Carlton and Pink expended their tensions and fears inventorying and assembling the equipment MacLean had airlifted to the Claire by helicopter. They had worked for over six hours when Erika found them in one of the storage holds.

  “I think I figured out where Pyashinev hid the diamonds,” she announced.

  They congregated in the dining room, where the documents were spread out. Commander Ramey joined them.

  “I was reading some of the general information on icebreakers, but there was no mention of the Rossiya except a few cursory lines. Then I found this.”

  She heaved a thick sheaf of printed pages atop a chart and opened it to a dog-eared page. “This article was written in 1990, around the time the Rossiya was built and—”

  Carlton stopped her with a raised hand, turned to Pink. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t 1990 when Russia transferred its diamond stockpile to Waterboer?”

  “Correct.”

  “Further likelihood the diamonds are aboard, then,” Erika underscored. “But listen, that’s not all. This says that the Rossiya was the first Russian icebreaker to have triple hulls.”

  “Triple hulls. Okay. So?” Pink wondered, not seeing any relevant connection.

  “So, I think that’s what the note means. ‘Russia, third layer. Must not let them get it.’ Pyashinev must have been referring to the hull’s third layer.”

  “Makes sense,” Pink agreed.

  “Plus, remember Pyashinev was a boat nut,” Carlton added. “So he would have known about the new triple-hulled icebreaker in 1990.”

  “I hate playing devil’s advocate,” Pink said, “but aren’t we grasping at straws here?”

  “Grasping at straws is better than grasping at air,” Erika responded, slightly frustrated.

  “Maybe,” Carlton admitted to Pink. “But I don’t think so. One clue would be too little—the Rossiya being a boat, for example. But taken together, the name of the boat, the fact that its home port is Murmansk, where Pyashinev last stopped before his meeting with Waterboer, Pyashinev being a boat nut, the fact that the Rossiya was built in 1990, and the triple hull clue; too many clues to disregard the Rossiya.”

  “And if you had to hide that many diamonds, wouldn’t triple hulls be a logical place?” Ramey ventured. “Remember, the diamonds would have to remain secret from everyone. The crew and all those performing inspections and maintenance,” he opined, familiar with the intense maintenance naval vessels require.

  “I suppose,” Pink shrugged, still not convinced, but not having any other plausible conclusions.

  “It’s the best guess we’ve got. You’d make the U.S. Navy proud.” Carlton kissed Erika on the cheek. She blushed immediately.

  “Although...” Ramey’s voice trailed as he thought.

  “What’s that?” Carlton asked.

  “How long is she?”

  “Five hundred feet.”

  “That’s over a 1,000 feet of hulls to inspect,” Ramey calculated, sucking in air. “Not to mention that the ship is over three or four stories tall. It’s going to take a lot of looking.”

  Carlton winced. “Still, at least we know where to start.”

  “Assuming we find her,” Ramey said. “From what you found, the Rossiya travels the area from Murmansk to Franz Josef Land. If she leaves Murmansk on schedule and keeps to her reported route, she’ll be somewhere along here.” He pointed to a 200-mile region marked in red on the chart.

  “That leaves a lot less for us to search than her entire 1,200-mile route,” Carlton said.

  “Luckily more than half of that area is ice-locked,” said Ramey. “She won’t start icebreaking until the cruise ship arrives later in the day. They don’t sail in those waters at night. If all goes according to plan, we should be in position in about fifteen hours.”

  “Which brings me to an important point.” Carlton poured himself another cup of coffee. “We think we’ve figured out where the stockpile is hidden and where the Rossiya is at the moment. And we’re almost there in person. But unless CIA plans to steal the diamonds once we get them—”

  “If we get them,” cautioned Pink.

  “I don’t see any reason not to ask for the Russian government’s help. After all, it’s their mess. But the problem is: who do we contact? Between Russkost and Waterboer, how do we know we’ll be contacting someone who’s clean? And even if we reach someone in their government who’s clean, the information may leak. Then not only will we not prevent Waterboer from getting the diamonds, we’ll be eliminated in the process.”

  “It depends on when Fress finds out,” Pink responded. “If we communicate with the Russian government now and then contact Forbes or Saunders or whoever else right before the Russians send a team, there won’t be enough time for Fress or Waterboer to send anyone.”

  “I know who: Yagoda. Lavrenti Yagoda. Heads up their military intelligence, the GRU. Forbes seems to trust him reasonably well. His name means ’blueberry’ in Russian. Based on what I know of him, Yagoda has more to gain from Orlov and the current leadership than from Russkost. So he’ll probably help us and retrieve the diamonds for Orlov rather than sell us out to Waterboer. Besides, he hates Russkost with a passion.”

  “Okay, then.” Carlton glanced at his watch. “Let’s get the Blueberry out of bed.”

  47 GENERAL

  GRU Headquarters

  Moscow

  11:42 P.M.

  His name was a cruel joke, thought Lavrenti Yagoda. A combination of the first name of Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s murderous head of the NKVD secret police, and the last name of Genrikh Yagoda, one of Beria’s predecessors who carried out the first wave of Stalinist purges in the 1930s. Still, the stern man in his early sixties with close cropped gray hair was not unlucky. Yagoda had risen steadily through the ranks. Now a general, the head of the GRU had a hand in most military secrets and many non-military political ones as well. He drank little, worked hard, obtained results, and, despite turning a blind eye to several small-arms black marketeers to pay for the construction of his dacha, was uncorrupt. More than anything else, Yagoda was loyal. To his country and to his president.

  He reflected on the telephone conversation he had just finished wi
th the CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence’s point man on Russian diamond operations, Pink. For so long, the secret Russian diamond stockpile had been somewhat of an urban legend among the intelligence services. Everyone had heard the rumor, but no one really believed it. Yagoda had serious doubts about its existence even after his initial conversation with Forbes several days ago. But now it appeared the diamond stockpile was not only real, but the Americans knew where it was and were sharing the information with his own government.

  The Amerikanskii, he reflected. The country may have been his political and military rival for a long time, but those who populated the upper levels of the DIA, CIA, and NSA he thought of as old friends. Still, the country across the Atlantic never ceased to amaze him. So rich that its intelligence services didn’t even try to steal a diamond stockpile.

  There was a loud knock at the door. “Da!” Yagoda answered.

  A hard-looking man of forty appeared, breathing hard, impeccably dressed in an olive green GRU uniform. The gold insignia on his shoulder bars identified him as a major. “Major Gerasimov reporting as ordered, tovarish General.” He saluted crisply and replaced his arm by his side only after Yagoda saluted him in return.

  “Yuri Nikolaievitch. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “I came as quickly as possible, tovarish General.”

  Yagoda pointed to a large map of the Northern Russian coast around Murmansk. A red line drawn with a marker pen showed the Rossiya’s trajectory. “Your assessment?”

  “Based on what you’ve told me, tovarish General, the mission could be accomplished with ten men, but twenty would be better. We could field the team with one of the submarines, but speed is more important than stealth. Helicopters would be fastest, but the Rossiya is too far even for our longest range helos. The only other solution is two high-speed patrol boats carrying ten men each, the Kirov and the Omsk. The boats are already here.” He pointed at one of the naval bases in Murmansk. “I have already selected the men.”

  “I leave that to your judgment. How quickly can you secure the Rossiya?”

  “Since this is a purely GRU operation, we can’t use regular navy personnel. The men I need are far from Murmansk, unfortunately. We can all be assembled in Murmansk within ten hours. To make things faster, we will carry our own equipment. Kirov and Omsk will be fueled and ready. I’ve checked the present state of the ice floes. From the time of departure, ETA at the Rossiya should not be more than eight hours. So approximately eighteen hours from the time you give me the word, tovarish General. If the weather doesn’t worsen.”

  “Ochen harasho. There is one more thing you must know before you go, Yuri Nikolaievitch. I am ordering you to secure the Rossiya, but I didn’t tell you why.”

  “It is not my place to quest—”

  Yagoda waved him off. “Are you aware of Leonid Pyashinev’s disappearance?”

  “Da, General. Colonel Kovanetz is investigating his case.”

  “Da. Pyashinev was in charge of the country’s diamond production. He knew many things. One was the location of a diamond stockpile the former KGB and other apparatchiki hid before the collapse in 1991.”

  “I have heard of it, General. But I always thought it was a Cold War rumor.”

  “Yes, so did I. But apparently it isn’t. The American CIA tell us that the stockpile is on the Rossiya. All of our information tells us that they are correct.”

  Gerasimov’s eyes grew wider. “The CIA?”

  “Several of their agents will be on board when you arrive. I don’t have the time to explain the details or the reasons why, but you are not to allow any harm to come to them. Guard the diamonds, but guard the Americans as well. Do you understand? In this matter, they are allies.”

  “They will be safe, tovarish General.”

  “Ochen harasho. Communicate with me as soon as you have secured the Rossiya and confirmed her cargo. I don’t need to tell you how important this mission is to both of our careers, Major.”

  “Da, tovarish General. Spaceba, tovarish General.” Gerasimov saluted, turned on his heel, and exited. He quickly descended the cold stone steps to the front of the massive building and walked to his car. Thick snowflakes fell silently from the black sky. He started his drab Army Lada 4x4 and headed toward the military portion of Sheremetyevo II airport.

  Halfway between headquarters and the airport, he realized he had forgotten to ask the size of the diamond stockpile. His team was not directed to move the diamonds, but circumstances might require it. He had to be prepared for every contingency. He dialed Yagoda’s office, then canceled the call. He probably doesn’t know. He didn’t even know the stockpile existed until recently. Gerasimov dialed another number instead. The Colonel will know. After all, he’s in charge of the Pyashinev investigation. He’s probably got the most information about the stockpile.

  “Kovanetz.”

  “Colonel Kovanetz. This is Major Gerasimov.”

  “Da.”

  “Forgive me for calling you so late, tovarish Colonel, but I need some information that I think you may have.”

  “Information about what?”

  “About the Pyashinev diamond stockpile.”

  48 TRAINING

  Volki Base

  131 miles North of St. Petersburg

  (formerly Leningrad)

  Karelia, Russia

  12:35 A.M.

  Wrapped in a double-breasted olive green military parka and a fur hat, Ulianov listened to the snow as it crunched under his knee-high leather boots. He stared ahead at the forest of birch trees illuminated by brilliant field lamps, covered in recently fallen snow, stopped and fished a Kosmos cigarette out of a crumpled pack, lit it with an aluminum lighter. The scratched metal and faded red enamel star reminded him of the past, when he and his fellow Spetsnaz soldiers assured the protection of Holy Mother Russia.

  Russia was far from holy now, and more like a grandmother. But that would change soon. Until then, he and his Volki would have to wait. He fixed his gaze back on the birch forest, listened to the wind that wound like a sigh through the frozen forest. “So cold, so quiet,” he muttered under his breath, exhaling smoke that crystallized into ice in the glacial air.

  He and his Volki had moved from their base near Molotok’s Siberian dacha to a closed airfield. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, one of the krestnii otets allied to Molotok and Russkost had been in charge of government warehouses. The new government had ejected him from his government post in 1992, but was unable to strip him of his power. Now he used his power to ensure that the Volki had a home here, among air hangars and warehouses converted into barracks. The base was sufficiently deep in the countryside not to attract attention, but its airfield allowed rapid transportation to St. Petersburg, Moscow, and Western Europe via helicopters and jet transports. Obtaining those aircraft had been the assignment of another pro-Russkost krestnii otet, who had caused them to vanish mysteriously from military air bases throughout Russia.

  Ulianov was restless. His Volki would launch a series of operations against Russia’s infrastructure and government over the next several weeks. The different planned operations didn’t bother him. Those were all fixed operations. His men knew their objectives, from and to where they were going, and how they would escape. It was securing and transferring the diamond stockpile that bothered him. It was impossible for him to plan such an operation because he had no idea where the stockpile was or how it was protected, if at all. He had drafted several possible plans, providing different entry and exit strategies for each. Air, water, land. One involved stealing three Royal Navy jets from the Keflavik NATO air base. The already superbly trained Volki rehearsed each of the scenarios again and again, until they could perform their tasks half-asleep. But before any of the strikes against Russian infrastructure and the government could be put into action, his Volki had to locate, take possession, and transfer the diamonds to Waterboer. Absent those events, Russkost and the Volki would have insufficient funds to complete their strik
e. So the former Spetsnaz officer waited. To bleed away the frustration and restlessness, he worked his Volki hard. Preparing, rehearsing, improving their plans, pushing, prodding, and coaxing improved performance.

  A Lada 4x4 in snow camouflage roared over a small hill and slid to a halt near Ulianov. The driver saluted.

  “Tovarish Colonel. You have an urgent telephone call, sir.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He said his name was Kovanetz.”

  “Let’s go.” Ulianov hopped in. “Skorie!” Fast.

  The driver gunned the 4x4 toward the headquarters building. Ulianov jumped out before the vehicle stopped and ran into the communications room. A lieutenant handed him a telephone handset.

  “Ulianov.”

  “It’s Kovanetz.”

  “I know that. What’s the news? Are you encrypted?”

  “No. It doesn’t matter. I know where it is.”

  “Ochen harasho! Where?”

  “I’m encrypting it now. I’ll send it in a few minutes. You’ll have to move fast. You don’t have much time.”

  “How much?”

  “Not more than eighteen hours.”

  Captain Andrei Akronsef was enamored with the sea, and like many of his fellow countrymen, he possessed an equal affinity for the cold. It was natural for the tall, soft-spoken man of forty with thoughtful eyes to combine his two loves and find peace in his country’s small fleet of icebreakers.