'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  THIRTY-TWO

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  Alex Pajak, back from the DRC, walked by the Shops at Georgetown Mall and looked into the window at Cherub Antiques, a pricey shop. A spectacular piece on display reminded him he was looking for a rare art deco cocktail shaker. He noted it for a later purchase. He could afford it. He walked a few more blocks and stood outside the Seafarer Restaurant on M Street a few blocks from Stassinopoulis’ gilded age mansion just around the corner from 3307 N Street in Georgetown where President John F. Kennedy was inaugurated in 1961. A man approached, stopped. He wore the crisp light navy-on-white summer uniform with the crossed keys insignia of a Navy Storekeeper, Petty Officer First Class. A brass Navy SEAL trident was pinned on the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. The two men greeted one another.

  “How’s everything at your place?” Pajak asked, referring to the command post where the Storekeeper was stationed by the Pentagon. His current position gave him a wide range of friends in the building and among the three-letter Intelligence or “intel” agents that wandered through its halls.

  “No problems‌—‌yet. But Signals Intel at Security Group Command found a breach at NEBS,” the Storekeeper said.

  “PHALANX?”

  “Someone’s gone to great lengths to punch a hole in our firewalls. They’ve been searching the West Africa sales files.”

  “Maran?”

  “Confirmed.”

  Pajak got right to business. “That’s it,” he drawled. “We have to move.”

  “I wonder. Why not turn him back? Double him. He’s not working alone. Reopen his file; reinstate his status, his pension. Even offer him the contract,” the Storekeeper said.

  “Who should we send?”

  “That liaison from CIA, the black fox?”

  “Utile Nsangou? Before they pulled us out of Angola we used her to support dos Sampas in Cabinda. She’s on contract now. Uses any one of a number of covers, State Department, Treasury, Education,” Pajak said.

  “She’ll know how to handle it.”

  “I hope she’s better than Goodwin. I haven’t heard from him and I suspect the worst.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. The SSI password, encryption codes are compromised. Boyko’s‌—‌and Chu’s‌—‌e-mail files transferred to a computer‌—‌in Boston.”

  “Maran! How much does he know?” Pajak asked.

  “He’s got Amber Chu’s calendar, her Antwerp itinerary for her delivery of Boyko’s big packet of stones to Tolkachevsky.”

  “Maran may be in Boston, he may be right here in Washington. If he gets to Amber Chu before we do‌—‌”

  “He has to be stopped,” the Storekeeper cut in. “We can’t let him get to ‘Plan A.’ He almost made it in his Cabinda raid.”

  “We can use Utile Nsangou to track him down, offer him a deal. One chance. If he doesn’t take it, we’ll purge the threat.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Presqu’ile de Banana

  Amber Chu’s life had descended into the abyss. It was the recent series of horrors, Tony kidnapped and Boyko’s sick demands, that drove her to the desperate measure she was taking: In desperation, she had exploited Tolkachevsky’s trust in order to get the stones she needed to enlist Joseph dos Sampas, leader of PFLEC and Boyko’s opposition in the contorted political morass of West Africa. Dos Sampas’ posh estate was no more than ten or twelve miles from Boyko’s and equally hardened with security barriers. Like opposing diplomats, or officers of the KGB and CIA in the Cold War, observant of protocol, the two VIPs shared the town in peaceful coexistence.

  As Amber pulled up to the address that had been given to her, she looked out over a large parking lot, beautifully paved in oyster shell and rimmed with star jasmine and cypress vines. Beyond the long lot, far below the cliff on which it sat, the sea sparkled in the sunlight.

  Where the hell is this supposed estate?

  Her answer stepped out from a hidden ramp on the far side of the lot. An armed guard pointed her to an underground ramp. Amber drove her rented Volvo through the electronically controlled gate halfway down the ramp to an underground holding pen occupied by a red Lamborghini and at least seven luxury sport sedans. Another security man told her where to park. She got out of the car as delicately as she could, careful not to be provocative when she swung her long legs out. The steel doors of an elevator opened. The man directed her to enter. When the doors opened again, she stepped out into a huge living room-office combination furnished with enough upholstered chairs and sofas to accommodate a small platoon of corporate warriors. Outside the wall-to-wall glass windows, blue water flashed and flickered over an infinity pool that spread out, seemingly endlessly. The entire estate was carved into the cliffside.

  She had toned down for the occasion, but she still made a show in a cream colored silk dress that swirled around her legs when she walked. A diamond and emerald dragonfly pinned a bright blue scarf thrown over one shoulder. The other shoulder was bare. Dos Sampas rose from behind a polished wood desk. Without a word, she took the bag of stones from her purse, dumped them in front of him.

  He smiled. They shook hands. He picked up a handful of the stones.

  “They are the best you can find anywhere in the world,” Amber said. “Take it from me. If I had dumped out a bunch of mixed stones cut in Antwerp and Tel Aviv or Bombay, you couldn’t tell the difference. I can. These are the best.”

  He was silent. “Count them,” Amber said. “One-hundred perfect, cut and polished stones. Up front working capital to get you started. Another hundred when you deliver Tony to me. As a fellow Cabindan freedom activist, I trust you to deliver my son to me.”

  “How much do you and Tolkachevsky skim for yourselves?” dos Sampas asked.

  Aromatic cigarette smoke, cinnamon she guessed, curled up from a butt burning on an ashtray on the table between them. It blended in with the scent of aftershave cologne. She sat in the warlord’s lair in Presqu’ile de Banana, the embarkation point for more than two million slaves throughout the colonial history of the area.

  “Excuse me?” Amber exclaimed.

  “You must skim Boyko’s stones. With the cutter in Antwerp.”

  “What are you talking about?” The accusation threatened the deal. She had to earn this man’s trust. She explained that the only skimming was by Tolkachevsky and that he shared this bag of stones with her as half-payment to rescue her son.

  “Boyko’s in trouble. Vangaler’s taking over. We’ve been watching.”

  “I trust you and I count on you,” Amber told him. “You’ll do right.”

  “Free Cabinda! Integrity in the cause of justice is our only religion.”

  “Your reputation precedes you.” She didn’t believe it. Not that her sentiment was unique to him. She had learned not to trust anyone.

  “Our goal is independence from the Angolan government, from any threats from Boyko’s savages. Our goals still parallel those of your former administration in Washington. Now Jonas Savimbi’s dead, killed in 2002 in a battle by Bombe’s Angolan Army that called him Africa’s Osama bin Laden,” dos Sampas said. “And we’ve got al Qaeda all over the place,” he added.

  Before he was killed by SEAL Team Six, Osama bin Laden and his colleagues and followers wanted a piece of Angola’s action in oil and minerals like diamond and coltan, notably used in the manufacture of electronic capacitors for cell phones, DVD players and computers. Big Oil had discovered huge petroleum deposits off the coast of Cabinda in the early ‘60s. Since independence in 1975, Cabindans had fought an armed struggle for their own state based on the fact that Angola and Cabinda were two separate Portuguese colonies until just before Angola won independence from Portugal. The United States first supported and then withdrew support for Jonas Savimbi’s Angolan anti-communist forces to back Moscow’s Angolan puppet president, Jose Eduardo dos Santos, in order to woo him over from the Left. Savimbi and the Congo’s Lumumba both died after falling afoul of the Cold War’s
Realpolitik; oil was king. It trumped everything else.

  Everything but diamonds.

  Dos Sampas continued. “Boyko used Vangaler’s Ninjas while the U.S. stood by and watched. We carry on in Savimbi’s tradition, enemies of this illegal and repressive Angolan government supported by international criminals, Boyko, Vangaler, and their Ninja savages. This new president, Valentine, is an idiot, a dangerous utopian, unsteady in her misty principles like all other dreamy idealists,” dos Sampas added.

  “I am also Cabindan: ‘Cabinda for Cabindans!’” Amber pledged.

  “Angola has never had a democratic government. Angolan rule has always been dictatorial, enforced on Cabinda for too long. We are a distinct people. Our boundaries are separate from Angola and they should be honored.”

  “Cabindans get no part in their oil reserves,” she agreed. “Our people live in garbage; the corporatists have raped our country while Bombe salts away billions and the oil bosses play golf at Luanda Sul Country Club with the mercenaries who protect their oil fields; they are our oil fields.”

  She knew how corrupt Bombe’s Angolan government was. More than two billion dollars in oil revenues went missing each year. No one was able to prove where it went or who it profited.

  “The oil is controlled by them,” he said. “U.S. policy in Angola and the rest of Africa has always been criminal self-interest. First, it was ‘Remove the Cubans and Marxists from Moscow.’ Now it’s ‘the world needs this oil; we have the equipment, the know-how.’ But everyone knows the true reason: Oil is power.” Dos Sampas could have added that it was now apparent that diamonds could serve as economic and political weapons just as powerfully.

  “I know how it works,” Amber said in an understatement. “Cabindans live off one business, the one they know the best, man-made arms and legs.”

  “I agree,” dos Sampas said. “And I sympathize with your personal plight. A cause worthy of sympathy, Ms. Chu. The foreign oil companies use Vangaler’s SSI Ninjas as paid thugs to protect their workers and to expand into unprotected areas.”

  Dos Sampas studied her. “The U.S. has time after time fortified its claim in Cabinda. Even when in December of 1997, Albright flew in over the Takula Field oil platforms off the Cabindan coast to visit Chevron’s terminal, she made it clear if the U.S. went to war with Iraq over Kuwaiti oil, Cabindan independence would not take precedence over U.S. access to Cabindan oil. Meanwhile, young Cabindans have to move to Luanda to go to a university and our unemployment rate is at a constant 33 percent. The sand on our beaches is black with the stain of petroleum,” he added.

  She knew.

  “Those in control of natural resources have a duty. The corporatists fail to see that. We will help you bring the criminals to their final justice and end the violence. And we’ll rescue your son.”

  “Thank you. I believe you.”

  “Now you must leave and find a safe place until our plan is in place.”

  “I have a safe house in Antwerp.”

  ON THE TRAIN BACK to Cabinda, where she could get the next flight back to Antwerp, Amber’s entire body began to shake. She could feel the vise tighten on her head. She had feelings for Tolkachevsky, known him since childhood. Now she feared for his life. She had to see him before she went into hiding. The noose was closing. Her anxiety didn’t reach the level of panic, she was way beyond that, so it never did. But, she could taste the bile from the grinding grit rising in her stomach. She had to rescue Tony‌—‌and she had to stay free until she did.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Antwerp

  Several blocks down Lange Nieuwstraat at Hoveniersstraat 77, a few doors down from Beurs voor Diamanthandel, the Diamond Bourse of Antwerp, Tolkachevsky stood in his office on the second floor of his factory. Outside, the sun streamed through the window in knife slashes across the tile floor. A broad expanse of windows on his inside office wall gave vantage to his vast field of gem cutters and their benches. He stood at a tall table at the side of the office and examined a large stone through an eyepiece to check its unique flaw.

  “Undetectable,” he complimented his foreman. “They will pass any inspection.”

  Jules Schulem had been with them since Chaim’s father took over the business from his grandfather. He had never seen diamonds like these before nor been involved in such a mass manufacturing operation, but no one in their business asked questions.

  “The stones are secured in the storage vault. They await your release. Four-hundred-thirty-four pounds of them. I don’t know how they’re doing it. All perfect, all from one to five carats,” the foreman observed.

  “Good for business. Let’s not question it,” Schulem said. “We need it after those bastards at KoeffieBloehm threw us out.”

  Tolkachevsky turned away as his assistant left. Minutes later, his secretary stepped in. A tall Chinese woman and a large, black man waited for him. They were from MecaMines. They were in his office lobby right outside his door.

  “They forced their way into the vault,” she informed him.

  Tolkachevsky greeted the couple with an open hand. They ignored it.

  Chiang spoke first. “Mr. Vangaler is Chief of Security for MecaMines. We’re here to inspect the shipment and verify Amber Chu’s delivery.”

  “Mr. Vangaler. I hope your stay in Antwerp will be enjoyable. I’ve arranged for dinner at one of the top restaurants. Specializes in some of our most famous native dishes.”

  “Fuck dinner,” the savage snarled.

  Tolkachevsky stepped back. His eyes widened.

  “Please, please. You can trust me. Here.” He ran to his desk, opened a drawer.

  “Look. Look,” he said. He glanced at the suitcase that Vangaler had placed on the floor. He reached into a drawer in his desk.

  “Stop!” Vangaler shouted. He reached across the desk and grabbed Tolkachevsky’s arm.

  “I have a gift‌—‌one for each of you,” the merchant said.

  Vangaler let go of his arm while Tolkachevsky reached into the drawer and pulled out a suede pouch. He emptied the contents on the desk. Two large, blue diamonds bounced onto the grain of the teak.

  “These are quite different from our MecaMines stones,” he said. “Original Kinsale blues from KoeffieBloehm’s famous Pipe. Prize possessions in my family for eighty years. Accept them. My thanks to you.”

  He picked them up, put them back in the pouch.

  “Where is Amber Chu, Mr. Fuck-you-in-the-ass-Face?” Vangaler answered. He pulled the pouch out of Tolkachevsky’s hand, pocketed the stones.

  The old cutter paused. “She just called. Cancelled at the last minute. Said she’s sick at home. Let me take you to a place with a more congenial ambience. You will love La Pe’rouse. French cuisine. Set on a yacht on Steenplein, floating at the foot of the Suikkerui. You have to taste their waterzooi de poussin.”

  He looked at them.

  “We have business to finish, Mr. Tolkachevsky,” Alberta Chiang said. “You don’t understand. We want Amber Chu.” She turned. Her body swayed, her spiked heels clicked on the floor as she moved out of the room into the hallway.

  As the door closed behind her, Vangaler sprang. His balled fist smashed into the side of Tolkachevsky’s temple. He reached under his jacket, pulled out a key chain and coin container that was clipped to his belt. It had the advantage of appearing to be a travel aid for ready coin access. In reality, it was a deadly weapon. An eight-ounce homemade blackjack made of reinforced silk filled with a roll of coins. The old diamond cutter’s body hit the ground hard; the barbarian yanked him to his feet, threw his limp body into the chair. With the blackjack wrapped in one hand, he picked up the desk lamp and unscrewed the light bulb. Out of his jacket pocket he pulled out a roll of duct tape. He grabbed the terrified old man by the throat, yanked him up and squeezed the thin neck until the mouth went agape. Tolkachevsky’s whitened tongue shot out; he jammed it back with the light bulb, shoving it into Tolkachevsky’s mouth. He taped it shut. Muffled groans forced their way ou
t the sides of the mouth, only serving to arouse the monster even more. The smack of the blackjack reverberated off the office walls. Glass shards from the shattered bulb pierced Tolkachevsky’s cheeks. Inflamed, Vangaler slapped his victim’s head with his blackjack until the blood flowed down over the jeweler’s jacket. Inflicting maximum pain like this, with extreme close-up brutality, appealed to the insane logic behind his warped idea of justice; irrational hatred, fueled by his warped sense of persecution, ruled his psyche.

  Beaten beyond resistance, the old man told them about Amber’s safe house where they could find her.

  Vangaler and Chiang were bonded by evil. He was using her to help take over Boyko’s entire operation, including the mines, a plan that fit right into her own long-term strategy. Once they got rid of Boyko, neither of them were interested in dealing with a highly motivated individual like Amber Chu, nor in caring for her son. They didn’t need her.

  Vangaler rejoined Chiang in the office atrium. He wiped his hands with a linen handkerchief.

  “Let’s eat,” he said, smiling through the carnivorously sharpened teeth.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Arlington, Virginia

  Alex Pajak had just hung up after speaking with Grigol Boyko in Kinshasa. He sat in his office overlooking the Potomac and Arlington National Cemetery. As soon as “Rodney T. Davis,” one of Maran’s two aliases, paid for his airplane ticket to Antwerp, Pajak’s computer printer spit out a report. An Intelligence Community Council link to NBES gave him direct access to the National Airline Industry Association’s Daily Flight Traffic Control System. The System kept real-time track of every airline ticket issued throughout the world.

  Sitting in front of his computer, Pajak knew just which flight Maran was on and its Antwerp ETA by the time Maran pulled his plum-colored rental Sebring through the Callahan Tunnel in Boston. Maran liked that car. It had just enough zip without being too showy. He parked the sedan at Logan Airport’s Central Garage and pulled his reserved ticket at the Delta e-ticket kiosk. He got on the plane to London for a transfer to Antwerp.