“Venus and Elvis, take bandit one going ballistic. Senator, follow me in. I’m taking bandit two.”
“I’m on your wing, Smoke,” Senator obeyed.
“Venus copies.”
“Right behind you, Venus,” Elvis added, yanking back hard on his stick, sending his Super Hornet straight up into the dark blue upper atmosphere.
Smoke concentrated hard on his bore centerline targeting system. “Okay, Senator. I’ve got him locked.” He punched the pickle switch. “Mark!”
The Harrier broke hard right and released chaff. The missile exploded, but it destroyed only an aluminum chaff countermeasure. Shaken but undamaged, the Harrier barrel-rolled and rocketed past Senator not more than 500 yards to starboard.
“Target still alive! Target still alive!” Senator shouted. “I’ve got the angle, Smoke.”
“Go to it,” Smoke approved. “I’m off.”
Senator broke off and reversed course. Within ten seconds of suffering over four G’s of acceleration, he switched to ‘bore’, lined the rogue Harrier on his boresight, and fired. He felt the familiar rumble and watched the canopy of the rogue Harrier fly off and the pilot eject seconds before the missile tore through and exploded his aircraft’s rear nozzle.
“Good shot, Senator! Good shot!”
Venus and Elvis continued on the last Harrier’s tail. Already 100 miles away from Smoke and Senator, they outnumbered the bandit Harrier two to one. Venus and Elvis each had launched an AIM-9X at the bandit, but the pilot—whoever he or she was—was good. The pilot had launched chaff countermeasures and broken hard, once to port, a second to starboard exactly at the appropriate time. The missiles detonated against the chaff. The Harrier used the precious seconds of uncertainty to maneuver around and below the two Navy Super Hornets. Loaded down with the diamond pods and without missiles, the pilot was armed only with cannons.
He loosed them on Venus and Elvis, who broke hard left and vertically, respectively, so that one would be able to re-engage the Harrier no matter which Super Hornet the Harrier pursued.
Elvis’ evasive maneuver came too late. Flames erupted from the starboard engine. “I’m hit! I’m shutting engine two down!” Seconds later, the flames and smoke sputtered out as Elvis shut off the fuel flow to the engine. He compensated by increasing power to the port engine.
By the time Elvis reengaged, Venus had reacquired the bandit Harrier, which had performed a 90-degree climb. With icy precision from years of hard training, culminating at Miramar’s ‘Top Gun’ in California before the base was closed and the elite fighter school moved to Fallon, Nevada, she selected the ‘bore’ option, lined the Harrier on her boresight, anticipated the bandit’s vertical evasive maneuver, and thumbed down on her pickle.
The plume of white smoke traced away from her nosecone and arced to port as the AIM-9X tracked its prey with its single-minded electronic eyes and brain. Seconds later, it slammed into the Harrier’s port engine and sent the third and last bandit spinning on a crazed clockwise yaw to its watery grave 20,000 feet below.
“And they say women can’t fly. You okay, Elvis?”
“I’m doing my bit to save the world’s oil supply by flying on one engine. Other than that, no problem.”
“There’s no fuel left to make it back to the Reagan. We’ll have to refuel at Aberdeen.”
“Roger that, Venus.” They joined up, navigated back to Smoke and Senator’s position, and together flew to Aberdeen, shutting off their afterburners to conserve fuel.
“Strike. Strike, this is Interceptor. We are three-for-oh. Bandits are destroyed. We’re heading for Aberdeen to refuel before coming home. Over.”
“Interceptor, this is Strike. Good job, people. See you on deck. Over and out.”
The pods attached to the Harriers’ wings broke open under the intense shock of each aircraft’s collision with the water and released their sparkling cargo. During their slow descent nearly 8,000 feet below the icy swells of the North Sea, a billion dollars’ worth of diamonds carpeted a wide area of the sea bed. Underwater, the clear stones were nearly invisible. Over the next few days, strong underwater currents would spread the gems over a vast area.
Formed by intense volcanic heat and pressure, pushed toward the surface of the Earth, cooled and hardened into pure carbon, exploded, mined, and sorted, cut by Komdragmet diamond cutters, secreted away by the KGB, rediscovered, and stolen, the Russian diamonds had returned to nature.
“I will give you diamonds by the shower.”
—Frankie Goes To Hollywood, “Welcome to the Pleasure Dome”
66 HOMECOMING
USS Seawolf
Entrance to U.S. Navy Submarine Base
Groton, Connecticut
9:14 A.M.
“I don’t know what to say,” grumbled Carlton over the Seawolf’s satellite telephone, groggy from lack of sleep. “Except thank you...for everything.”
“I’m just glad you all made it,” replied MacLean. “If only Dan Wenzel had been so lucky.” He paused. What happened to you after the Claire sank?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to know. Most of it’s classified, anyway. I can tell you one thing, though. The United States and Russia are a heck of a lot safer because of what we were able to do with your help. Unfortunately, Waterboer became stronger, too.”
“I suppose I have to take your word for it. As far as Waterboer, though, I think I found a chink in its armor,” he reflected sadly.
“The flaw in the diamond?”
“I can’t explain over an unsecure line.”
“Please don’t. What’s involved?”
“I left the details with Colonel Saunders. He’ll contact you.”
The ball of ice returned to Carlton’s gut. “Why do I not like the sound of this?”
“It won’t be anywhere as difficult as what you’ve already been through, I imagine. We just need to get some information. From what I think is a friendly source. I can’t go, Carlton. I’m trapped here. You can refuse, but it may be our last chance to hurt Waterboer hard, or at least the last one I know of.”
“I’ll wait to hear from Saunders. But remember, I know where you live.”
“So does the White House Chief of Staff.”
The smell of fresh marine air assaulted Carlton’s senses as he stepped out of the Seawolf’s manhole and onto the anaechoic, sound-proofed tiles of its forward deck.
The crew enjoyed this moment at the end of each cruise. With the privilege and honor of wearing the United States Navy’s twin dolphins on their uniform came the requirement of total silence concerning their cruises. The return from a cruise allowed a large part of the crew to stand on the forward deck and watch their families wave and cheer as the submarine entered the Groton, Connecticut, submarine base. It was an emotional moment for men who did not see their families for periods that often lasted six months.
Forbes had Erika, DesJardins, and Ramey under wraps, so Carlton had no one waiting for him. He enjoyed the crisp sea air on the Seawolf’s deck. It was far warmer than the last time he had been topside, when he had boarded the Pushkin near the Arctic Circle. Despite his exhaustion, he enjoyed basking in the pale light of the winter sun, hearing whoops from welcoming vessels and the cries of seagulls. Pink would have enjoyed being topside but had decided to remain out of public view until after his impending meeting with Randall Forbes.
Several minutes later, Commander Hendricks escorted Carlton off the Seawolf and onto terra firma for the first time in what seemed like weeks. Carlton saluted crisply, then pumped the man’s hand. “Thanks, sir.”
“You betcha, Lieutenant. If you ever want to switch from PT boats to subs, I’ll be glad to sign you up for training.”
He smiled, turned, and walked straight into someone. “Excuse me.” He looked up and saw the smiling face of an African-American man dressed in a light blue Air Force uniform.
“You lost, son?”
“Colonel Saunders? What are you doing here?”
“
You Navy pukes ever learn about saluting?”
“Yes, sir.” Carlton saluted. “Sorry, sir.”
Saunders saluted in return, grinned.
“Where is Erika and when can I see her, sir? MacLean said that you—”
Saunders placed an index finger over his lips. “Come with me.” He turned to a young airman who stood in his shadow. “Airman, take the lieutenant’s bag.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carlton followed Saunders into a waiting Humvee. They drove in silence for five minutes. The airman stopped in front a tired-looking brick building. Saunders led Carlton to the officers’ locker room, handed him a garment bag. “Shower, shave, and change into these.” He looked at his watch. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
Carlton emerged as tired as he had entered but refreshed, comfortably draped in a black cashmere Loro Piana topcoat over a navy blue three-button Brioni suit, pale blue Charvet shirt, solid blue Tino Cosma tie, and spit-shined Prada lace ups. Never before in his life had he worn such expensive clothes. Any remaining doubt about the person responsible for the suit of clothes disappeared as soon as he opened a velvet box containing diamond cufflinks.
MacLean.
For the first time, he understood why the wealthy spent so much on designer clothes. They were warm, soft, and tailor-fit based on measurements MacLean’s people had somehow managed to obtain. The clothes were a welcome relief from the borrowed Seawolf uniform. Still, he felt self-conscious. “These clothes aren’t for people like me. Why couldn’t you have brought me one of my suits?”
“Because they’re part of police evidence, along with everything else in your apartment.”
“Figures. Where is Erika?”
“Safe.”
“I want to see her.”
“You will. But first, you and I are going to take a helicopter ride.”
“To?”
“Dulles Airport.”
“Dulles? Who are we meeting?”
“Not meeting, flying. And not we, you.”
“Where?”
“Rome.”
“Rome? Rome, Italy? As in Sinatra’s coins and fountain?”
“As in Vatican City. Relax. You’ll love Rome. Art. Food.” He turned and stared at Carlton. “Cardinals. Plus you’re traveling first class and your luggage is already checked on board. We can discuss things on the way to Dulles.”
67 BANKER
Vatican Bank
Vatican City State
Rome, Italy
10:17 A.M.
A uniformed member of the Vigilanza police force snapped a crisp salute as the black Mercedes S600 drove past the Porta Sant’Anna. The automobile bore Vatican plates, always stamped with the letters ’S.C.V.’ — Stato Città Vaticano - Vatican City State. A contingent of bright orange and blue-garbed Swiss Guards stood ramrod straight as the car proceeded past their barracks, then past the papal apartments whose resident the Guard had protected for nearly 500 years.
The Mercedes stopped in front of the door of a three-story, tile-roofed building across from the Apostolic Palace. A valet clad in white tie and tails expertly negotiated the frozen steps between two statue-like Vigilanza policemen and opened the rear door with a white-gloved hand.
“Welcome to the Vatican, signore Carlton,” he announced in heavily accented English. “If you will please follow me.”
Carlton shivered as he stepped from the warm car into the frigid cold and followed the valet, who led him through sculpted doors into an ornate hail with gilded baroque accents.
“You are expected. If you will be good enough to wait, I will announce your presence.” The valet left with a curt bow and disappeared up a sweeping staircase.
Carlton paced the hall and did what was so natural in the Vatican. He prayed.
The diminutive geographic size of the Vatican City State 109 acres entirely within Rome was a sharp contrast to the immense power wielded by its sole institution: the Roman Catholic Church. The ancient history, the priceless art and architecture, the arcane traditions and hierarchy of the Vatican had a special ability to place even the most blasé of international diplomats a touch on edge. For Catholics and others as well, the spiritual and moral authority of the Vatican far exceeded its temporal secular power.
The closest Carlton had ever come to Church authority was at his confirmation at age thirteen in the cathedral of San Diego, California, before the local bishop. He was recalling the event—it seemed so far away now—when a tall man dressed in a long black cassock with red buttons and a white clerical collar walked down the steps. He wore thin wire spectacles on the tip of a pointed nose, had a receding, prematurely graying hairline.
“Signore Carlton.” The man smiled the disarming smile of a diplomat. His intonation was melodious, far less accented than the valet’s. “Welcome to the Banco Vaticano. I am Monsignore Felici, secretary to his eminence.” He offered his hand to Carlton, who shook it vigorously.
“Thank you, Monsignor.”
“If you will please follow me, his eminence will see you now.”
“Thank you, Monsignor.”
Felici led him up a marble staircase bordered with sculpted wooden handrails that shone in the light of an Austrian crystal chandelier that seemed to float in mid-air. They proceeded down a long hallway with a curved frescoed ceiling, through an anteroom furnished with red velvet sofas, and came to a halt at a set of gilded doors.
Felici gave a perfunctory knock before swinging the double doors open to reveal a vast office. Veteran visitor to the Capitol and federal agency headquarters though he was, Carlton had never set eyes on anything so magnificent.
Only a white computer prevented Carlton from believing he had stepped into a seventeenth-century time warp. Roughly the size and height of an indoor basketball court, the office was constructed of polished inlaid wood floors, walls that displayed the Renaissance magnificence of Raphael, Titian, and Botticelli set in carved, gilded frames, and curved ceilings adorned with frescoes in pale hues of blue, red, and yellow. Battalions of sculpted sword-wielding angels stared down from each corner of the ceiling, protecting their earthly wards below. Leaded windows, complete with wavy imperfections that evidenced their advanced age, amplified the weak rays of the winter sun. They shone on a massive seventeenth-century silver and rosewood crucifix affixed to a red silk brocade wall at the base of which sat a red velour kneeler.
The splendor of the chamber was matched only by its relative emptiness. At the center of the room sat two chairs and a lone carved-wood and gold Louis XVI desk heavy enough to stop a medieval barbarian on horseback.
A portly figure clad in scarlet and black robes wearing a red zucchetto skullcap atop a thin layer of snowy hair rose from behind the desk and walked toward him. “Patrick Carlton.” He nodded with studied calm. “Welcome to the Vatican, signore. Welcome to the Banco Vaticano. I am Giovanni Cardinal Benedetti.”
As a Catholic, Carlton’s first instinct was to kneel and kiss the man’s ring. He stopped himself, reflecting that he was here in an official capacity and that in this instance - as opposed to a personal meeting - such reverence would be inappropriate.
Americans bow to no one, he reflected. Only to God. He shook the man’s hand instead. “Your Eminence,” he pronounced reverently, unable to restrain a slight bow. Despite the size of the room, there was no echo. Carlton suspected that it had been soundproofed.
“Please, Mr. Carlton. You’ve had a long journey. Let us sit. Some coffee, perhaps?” His words were unhurried without being slow. He gestured to the red velour seats, glanced toward Felici, who waited patiently by the doors. Without waiting for Carlton’s reply, he ordered coffee. “Due espressi per favore, Lucca.”
“Si, Eminenza.” The efficient monsignor bowed and left, closing the doors behind him.
Both men sat, Carlton on the edge of his seat, Benedetti reclining comfortably.
Carlton observed the prince of the Church fingering a heavy gold crucifix suspended around his thick neck. Had Carlton met
the man in another place without his clerical vestments, he would have guessed him to be a retired winemaker or farmer rather than an eligible successor to the throne of Saint Peter. The man’s large size did not seem to hamper his movements. It seemed as though the man’s bulk was due to hard toil during his young years followed by long years without physical exertion, rather than an overindulgence in rich Italian fare. His face seemed oversized in contrast to the wisps of closely cropped hair on his round head. The beginning of a double chin. A pronounced aquiline nose.
The feature that struck Carlton most strongly was Benedetti’s eyes. Unlike the photographs he had seen of members of the Roman Curia, whose eyes often reflected political cunning or arrogance, Benedetti’s brown eyes were watchful, yet warm and unassuming, modest. They looked like eyes that would rather watch the soccer matches of children than the political maneuverings of an arcane financial institution.
Carlton had thought long and hard about how best to broach the topic of diamonds with the cardinal. He knew from his voracious reading of history and politics that the only way to get to the point with a member of the Roman Curia was to do the exact opposite and play the ancient diplomatic art of Romanita. In other words, to hide the ball. But Carlton was an American lawyer, simple and to the point, not used to playing ‘hide the ball’. For him, hiding the ball was synonymous with wasting time.
In fact, the problem was not so much one of approach as one of information. Any meeting between representatives of two foreign powers was a subtle dance between the selective sharing and withholding of information. The quandary lay in that, officially, there had been no U.S. involvement with the Russian diamond stockpile. Officially, Carlton had never boarded the Rossiya. Officially, Carlton had not been aboard the Seawolf. Officially, it had never chased the Pushkin under the Norwegian Sea and forced her to surface. Officially, there had never been— and the U.S. Navy had never destroyed—bandit Sea Harriers carrying the missing Russian diamond stockpile off the Shetland Islands.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 42
