Forbes and Pink stood behind her as she dimmed the lights with pudgy fingers, chewing gum less loudly than usual on account of the DDI’s presence. One of the monitors, on which she and Pink had determined that the Mirny fire had not been an accident, showed a large structure against the black of night. Its outline was traced by the green light of the 8X satellite’s infrared detectors, much like looking through night-vision goggles. The image was a live digital feed from 4,000 miles up. Pink discerned small variations in the structure as the intensity of sources changed over time. Two other monitors showed the area in wider focus at lower magnification.
“I hope they’re targeting the right spot,” Pink said. “Ulianov may have been lying.”
“I heard the interrogation,” Forbes said. “I think he was past his capacity to lie.”
“You heard the interrogation?” Pink asked, stunned. “I told them that we—”
“That we wouldn’t record anything. We didn’t. Listening and recording are two different things. Regardless, I had the information checked out. That house,” he pointed to the main screen, “checks out as Molotok’s dacha. We just didn’t have any way of finding it until Ulianov sang. A helicopter Molotok’s been known to use landed there less than an hour ago. He’s there. Yagoda was only too glad to run this op.”
“Here they come,” Elaine announced, pointing to the wide-angle monitors. Two white blobs moved eastward from the general direction of Murmansk.
“What do you think?” Elaine asked Pink. “Fulcrums?”
“I’d say MiG-31 Foxbats. They’re going supersonic at really low altitude. I don’t think Fulcrums would do that. Probably refueled in flight.”
Forbes nodded silently, duly impressed by Pink’s knowledge.
They moved their gazes to the high-focus monitor as the two jets approached. Almost immediately after the jets raced past the pale green structure, it exploded into a bright white blotch on the screen. Five more explosions followed. The jets banked north and headed home.
After only a single pass of the two Russian Air Force fighters, Molotok was no longer a destabilizing force on the Russian and international political landscape. It would take longer for Yagoda to arrest and eliminate the main krestnii otets who had supported Russkost, but within a week, Russkost would be reduced to an empty shell of anachronistic imperial ideals.
In Moscow, Colonel Kovanetz stepped out of GRU headquarters into the snow. He waved to his driver, who immediately started the Lada staff car and pulled up to the entrance of the building. Kovanetz stepped inside.
“Take me home, Yevgeni,” he said wearily, closing the door and his eyes. “Take me home.” He had not heard a word from either Ulianov or Molotok in some time. His telephone calls had not been returned. The stress of the unknown exhausted him.
The driver did as he was ordered, drove cautiously on the slushy streets of the Russian capital, headed toward Kuntsevo to the west. Twenty minutes later, they reached a wide avenue lined with birch trees leading to several upper-echelon residential developments newly constructed for high-ranking officers. Kovanetz had the proper connections and cash to secure one of the nicer homes. His driver slowed and pulled over.
Kovanetz opened his eyes wearily and noticed they were not home. “Shto? Engine acting up again?” He murmured. “Damn piece of junk.”
The driver turned around to face him. Kovanetz jerked up in his seat when he saw the man’s face. “Who are you? Where is Yevgeni?” He was about to reach for his Makarov pistol when he saw the gun in the driver’s hand. A cylindrical silencer was attached to its muzzle.
“General Yagoda despises traitors.”
The bullet was faster than Kovanetz’s ability to beg for forgiveness.
71 RESEARCH
Main Justice Building
Washington, D. C.
5:58 A.M.
Temporarily released from the Yale safehouse, but still under heavy and thankfully invisible Company guard, Erika and Henri Monet sat in the computer researcher’s basement office, drained. The only clue to the time of day was a cuckoo clock that Monet had picked up as a gag during his most recent ski trip in the French Alps.
They were out of steam, with little to show for their twenty straight hours of computer research of Waterboer’s control of diamond production. After exhausting five diamond-producing African countries, they had moved on to the war-torn country of Angola. They studied links between Waterboer and Angolan diamond production much the same way archaeologists sift through the petrified remains of a past civilization. As for each of the five other countries they dissected, each electronic sample came up empty.
“I don’t know what to try next.” Imitating Carlton, his new role model after learning of the North Sea mission, the unshaven Monet propped shiny Nocona cowboy boots near the geological strata of research on his desk, a Gitane cigarette firmly screwed in the corner of his mouth. “Aucune idée. No idea. We must change our research pattern.”
Lying on her back on the floor, head propped up by a stack of books on diamonds, Erika stared up at the low ceiling. It was yellowed by smoke from countless Gitanes cigarettes, illuminated by a halogen torch lamp in the corner of the room near an overworked laser printer. She unwrapped a protein bar. “I don’t get it,” she mumbled between bites of the bar.
“We must change our—” He removed his feet from the table and sat up. “We’ve been trying to link Waterboer to Africa.”
“Right. And we have. Waterboer controls diamond production just like in the other countries we researched.”
“Exactement. But maybe we shouldn’t be looking at Waterboer’s production control.”
“You’ve lost me again.”
“Ecoutez.” Listen. “MacLean suggested we look at African diamond production to see if there could be another stockpile out there. We’ve been looking at Waterboer’s control of African production, now Angola. But how would Waterboer’s control of African production show a stockpile?”
“Exactly the way we’ve been looking: comparing African production and then sales by Waterboer.”
“But we know that Waterboer buys more diamonds than it sells,” said Monet.
“Right. Hence the stockpiles.”
“But those would be Waterboer stockpiles, not African countries’ stockpiles. We already know Waterboer has its own stockpiles. We need to look at possible stockpiles that Waterboer doesn’t control.”
“Right,” said Erika. “Because what Waterboer is really afraid of is someone else amassing a stockpile.”
“Like the Russians did.”
“So maybe someone else operates a mine in Africa?”
“Or someone else buys an African mine’s production.”
“But we’ve already looked at that. Waterboer buys all of the African production. Even during all the African civil wars. Even though the mines are controlled by two or more sides in civil wars.” She paused momentarily. “Angola’s endured civil war for over twenty years. And according to what we found, right now, Waterboer is buying all of the Angolan production, from both the MPLA and UNITA factions. Everyone knows about that after all those articles on ‘blood diamonds’.”
“Oui. And remember that article we found? It said Churchman convinced the United States Export-Import Bank—now we know it was done through Scott Fress—to finance new technology in the Angolan mines in exchange for an interest payment and the right to market all the stones. They are all sold to Waterboer.”
“But that’s now. Maybe Waterboer wasn’t able to buy all of Angola’s diamond production in the past. Maybe...”
“Maybe someone else bought Angolan diamonds.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds before Monet swiveled toward his computer keyboard and typed new search instructions into the mainframe with his tobacco-stained fingers.
“Angola isn’t the only African country that’s been in civil war in the past ten years,” Erika cautioned.
“Exactement. Which means we must compare. First we m
ust develop a list of diamond-producing countries. Tres facile. Very easy.” A list of countries appeared on the monitor. “Voila. Now a list of African diamond-producing countries involved in civil war and the length of their civil war.” Another list appeared on the screen, shorter than the first. Each entry was followed by a number. “ Voila.”
“Great. Now let’s compare diamond production before and during each country’s civil war.”
Monet typed the instructions. A tiny green LED light flickered while the computer accessed and organized the stored data. Seconds later, columns of numbers filled the screen.
“Let’s see.” Erika leaned toward the screen while Monet scrolled down, row by row. Her heart sank. “There’s no big difference, civil war or no civil war. Diamond production is almost the same.” She pointed a long index finger at the screen. “Here it actually increased. So our theory is—”
“Elle est bonne. Our theory is good. It’s our search that’s bad.” He lit another Gitane nervously and inhaled deeply, tapping the screen with his right index finger. ”We searched for the difference in diamond production before and after a civil war. But production isn’t the key. The key is the amount of purchases by Waterboer.”
“Of course.” She kissed the top of his head from behind his chair. “You’re a genius.”
“Non. It’s simply French Cartesian logic. You know, it was René Descartes who invented analyti—”
“That’s great, Henri. But please, search first, lecture later.”
“Okay, okay.” He pursed his lips while typing the new search parameters. New columns of numbers glowed to life on the screen. Erika bent over the screen and pushed strands of red hair away from her eyes. They squinted at each country’s figures, comparing the number of carats purchased by Waterboer before and during each civil war.
“There!” Erika exclaimed. “Look at that! Waterboer purchased three million carats annually from Angola in the early ’70s, then only two and a half million carats in 1975, when their civil war started. And it pretty much stayed at that amount during the whole twenty years of civil war, until... 1994. Then right back up to over three million carats a year after that, until today.”
“But during all that time, Angola still produced three million carats a year.”
Erika looked down at Monet, who was already ordering the computer to print the list. A long ash teetered on the tip of the Gitane hanging from his lips. She grabbed the warm page from the laser printer as it came out, stared at it.
“Even if Waterboer bought half of Angola’s production from the MPLA and the other half from UNITA during the civil war, it would still have bought about three million carats a year. The drop in purchases by five hundred thousand carats looks like a small drop, but over a period of twenty years, that’s one hell of a stockpile.”
“The Angolan civil war factions would each have sold as many diamonds as they could to finance their war effort, so if Waterboer didn’t buy the five hundred thousand carats, someone else must have.”
“A half a million carats a year for twenty years. That’s ten million carats. Let’s assume half of that went to a variety of small purchasers. That’s still five million carats. How much is the average price?”
“The computer says the average for each Angolan carat is $230. But remember, the two sides wanted cash as fast as possible, how do you say...argent rapide?”
“Fast money?”
“Oui. Fast money. So probably they bought them for less.”
“At a discount. That makes sense. So let’s say $100 per carat, for ten million carats. That’s half a billion dollars.”
Monet whistled. “Who would pay that much money? Who would care so much about diamonds to take a risk like that?”
Erika’s lips constricted in concentration. “Big dealers wouldn’t take the chance. They’d be locked out of the game if the Waterboer boys ever found out. And it’s too big for small purchasers to buy half a million carats a year. Even a large group of them. And a large group would be noticed by Waterboer. And eliminated from the game.”
She stared at the sheet of paper in her hand. “Whoever it is, Carlton’s gotta see this.” She fished the handset from under the ocean of paper on Monet’s desk, slipped on the scrambler Pink had supplied, and dialed the number of the Hotel Hassler in Rome.
72 DINNER
Hotel Hassler
Rome, Italy
6:31 P.M.
Carlton fumbled for the handset in the dark and managed to answer the telephone on its fifth ring. First Erika and Henri with their Angolan theory, now what? How could anyone get any sleep around here? “Hello?”
“Signore Carlton?”
“Yes.” He coughed.
“This is Monsignor Felici. Secretary to Cardinal Benedetti. We met this morning.”
Carlton sat up in the darkness, his head light from jet lag. He had fallen asleep. “Yes, of course Monsignor. What—” He coughed again. Too many Cubans. “What can I do for you?”
“I tried to call you earlier, but there was no answer. His eminence asked me to convey that he would enjoy the honor of your company at dinner this evening. He feels the other guests might be able to help you in your search.”
“Aces. I mean, please inform his eminence I will be happy to attend.”
“His eminence will be pleased. A car will collect you at your hotel at seven.”
The black Mercedes with Vatican SCV plates arrived promptly. It was dark outside. A light dusting of snow underscored the cold Roman winter. The doorman respectfully saluted the automobile before opening the rear door adorned with a small yellow and white Vatican crest. Carlton entered. Cardinal Benedetti was seated under a wool blanket.
“Buona sera.”
“Your Eminence.”
After the car drove off, Benedetti remained silent for a few moments, then looked at his passenger. “You are nervous around me, am I correct? Around all of this.” He motioned to the frozen city beyond the window with a wrinkled hand.
“I am,” Carlton answered frankly. “I’ve never been to Rome before, much less to the Vatican. You’re the first cardinal I’ve ever met.”
“Then we’re even.” He smiled. “You’re the first Justice Department prosecutor I’ve met.” He turned to stare out the window. Not so much at the city that rushed by, but at his past. “That has been my cross since coming to this palatial prison.” His tone was sad, without the morning’s confident diplomatic armor.
“Your Eminence?”
“Everyone is nervous around me. Afraid of the weight of official Church authority I carry like a ball and chain.”
“You have many important responsibilities, Your Eminence. Others are always nervous around important people. But with me, it’s more than that. I was raised by traditional Catholic parents. They were very good, very generous. We were happy, but poor. We couldn’t afford to travel, but I read constantly. About the Church, the saints, the Vatican. All of this is old and new to me. Like meeting a friend for the first time whom I’ve known all my life. It’s so much more impressive than I imagined, seeing it for the first time.”
“Yet you are a government lawyer at the political center of the most powerful country on the globe and in history.”
“That’s true. But if I may be so bold, Your Eminence, I’d rather sit at home watching an old movie with a good cigar than play politics with bureaucratic windbags at Washington receptions. Perhaps it’s my simple upbringing.”
Benedetti’s face creased into a warm smile. “Then you and I are very much alike, Mr. Carlton.”
“Please call me Pat.”
“Ah. The American fondness for first names. In Europe we are so formal sometimes even husbands refer to their wives in the formal tense.” Another smile. “My parents were also poor. Farmers. But they made sure I received a good education in the local Church school. I studied hard, then I fell in love.”
Carlton stared at the cleric.
Benedetti laughed. “No, no. Not with a woman. Wi
th the Church. And with a parish. When I became a priest after the war, I was assigned to a small parish in the Tuscan countryside. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. The parishioners were so simple. So filled with love and humility and happiness, even though they had no money. Nothing but each other and their faith. I celebrated daily mass, heard confessions, performed weddings and baptisms. Funerals. I knew everyone, and everyone knew me. Most were farmers. They invited me to their homes. We would sit on the terrazzas in summer, under the stars, discuss the crops, the rain, local politics. Over bottles of Chianti.” His eyes half closed as he remembered days long past.
“It sounds wonderful. How did you become a cardinal, if I may ask?”
“Before I arrived at my parish, my predecessors ran the parish at a financial loss, always asking the archdiocese for money. I was the first to balance the books, even save enough money to improve our little school. My local bishop was pleased.
“He didn’t have to subsidize the parish anymore. He assigned me to be his secretary. He gave me the opportunity to continue my education. I discovered I was very good with numbers. When I finished my studies, he placed me in the accounting department of the archdiocese. Santa Lucia, you should have seen the mess! Priests are good with souls, but most are terrible with numbers. I reorganized the finances, cut costs, invested some of the leftover money in American stocks. They did very well after the war. Again, one thing led to another. Finally, I am here. A mobile repository of theology and accounting rules. But I will tell you this, Patrick.” He leaned toward Carlton. “I would give it all up to be back in my little stone church in Toscana among the vines and the peasants and bambini playing football.”
Benedetti glanced outside the window as the car passed through the Porta Sant’Anna into Vatican City. “We are almost there. I must tell you about the dinner guests before we arrive.”
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 44
