Diamonds Are But Stone

by Peter Vollmer

  I slid the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb in the opposite direction to the airport, racking my brains, trying to remember an alternative route back to Eros. I recalled a route north around the city which would allow us to approach from the east, as opposed to the ring road the travelled north to south. The problem was that the airport had only one access road and if Trichardt knew this, all he would need to do was wait at the turnoff to this road.

  Instead of approaching the access road from the north, we approached from the south. I saw the BMW parked just off the road. So did Francine.

  “There it is!” she shouted.

  “Get down,” I said and purposely turned my head away as we drove past. The SUV’s windows were tinted and I hoped they could not see us, but looking in the rear-view mirror, I saw the BMW’s rear tires spurt dust as the car swung onto the asphalt in pursuit.

  I hoped they had no guns. Surely, Trichardt would not risk passing through customs while in possession of firearms. We were now on the ring road, a major six-lane thoroughfare with an island in the middle and a sturdy concrete barrier that stood about waist-high. The motorway was busy with vehicles moving in both directions.

  The BMW followed about a hundred yards behind us, but suddenly accelerated rapidly, moving up until it travelled alongside the Land Cruiser. The passenger window was down. I recognized Trichardt out of the corner of my eye as he waved me down. I ignored him and depressed the gas pedal, the SUV surging ahead. The BMW speeded up to remain abreast of us, with Trichardt a lot more agitated now, both arms out of the window signalling wildly.

  I never looked at him, but stared at the road as if to say, ‘Me, what have I done?’ He then ducked back into the car, where a frantic debate seemed to take place involving much gesticulating. Without warning, the BMW closed the gap between the car; its side impacted with the SUV with a grinding crunch forcing the SUV to lurch towards the roadside barriers. I fought the wheel, trying to push the BMW back, but they had the jump on us and relentlessly pushed us against the barrier, sparks flying and metal screeching.

  I did the only thing I could. I stomped on the brakes. The BMW shot past. I yanked the wheel round and pulled up the handbrake: the car spun a half-circle, blue smoke rising from the tortured screeching tyres, but we were now facing the way we’d come. I released the handbrake and floored the pedal, dodging between the oncoming cars, the air filled with the cacophony of blaring car horns as frightened, and aghast motorists tried to avoid me. I desperately looked for a gap in the barrier so that I could get on the right side of the road. I saw that the BMW had followed suit.

  I found a gap in the concrete barrier barred by a huge yellow plastic net. I jerked the car left and shot through the gap, with part of the net now draped over the bonnet. A glance in the rear view mirror revealed the BMW veering towards the same gap, shooting through it and speeding up in pursuit.

  Ten seconds passed; then a traffic enforcement car, with klaxon and sirens blaring and multiple lights flashing, shot past in the opposite direction. I hoped they had seen the BMW take the gap. I was right, the police car swerved right through the gap and took up pursuit behind the BMW, which immediately slowed down and pulled over. A half-mile further on, I also pulled over quickly and removed the plastic barrier net before resuming our journey to the airport, carefully watching my speed. I did not want to be stopped and delayed by some irate traffic officer!

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I swung into the access road to the airport and saw no sign of anyone keeping a watch for us. Parking the SUV outside the rental company, we removed the suitcase, making sure that we had the correct one, and abandoned the other with its contents of rolled newspaper and medicines. Francine had transferred the top contents of our original bag to that from the bank so that should the customs officer insist on opening it, it would reveal the same medicines and equipment.

  The same officer still sat behind the counter.

  “So, how did your visit go?” he asked, stamping our passports for departure.

  Francine gave him a friendly smile, one of those that made you blink.

  “He wasn’t there so we decided to come back. We’ll try again when we fly back,” she smiled.

  “Are you coming through here again?” he grinned back at her.

  “In a few days, we’re on our way to the States to swap aircraft.”

  “Well, I might see you again,” he gave her his best leer. He didn’t bother to look at the suitcase.

  We boarded quickly and I immediately activated the switch to retract the stairs into the hatch. Seconds later the turbines began to whine as Gavin started the engines.

  I looked out of the window at Trichardt’s Lear jet and saw a man in jeans standing at the foot of the stairway staring at us. I waved to him - a stupid thing to do, but I was so elated that we had outwitted them. Of course, our behaviour now definitely confirmed we had the diamonds, and God knows what would happen next. The man still stared. I couldn’t help myself; I gave him the universal salute, the upwards pointing middle finger.

  Gavin did not wait for me to join him in the cockpit; Liz was still sitting next to him in the right hand seat. He rapidly taxied the aircraft to the designated holding point on the runway and waited impatiently for take-off clearance. Cleared, he swung the aircraft onto the runway and opened the throttles. The turbines wound up to a roar. He released the brakes and the jet leapt forward. Soon we were airborne winging our way across the arid Namib landscape towards the Atlantic Ocean coastline and onto Ile de Sol.

  I had no doubt that Trichardt would follow, but I wondered whether the Lear Jet had sufficient range to make the island without refuelling.

  It was a hellish long flight, mostly at an altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet, the turbines set at economic cruise in order to give us the best range. Most of the flight was during the night, and we all slept or dozed except the pilot. Gavin and I alternated - three hours on, three off.

  Near midday the following day, we approached the Greater Antilles chain, the outer south-eastern border of the Caribbean.

  The refuelling process at Ile de Sol had been a mere formality, done during the early hours of the morning. Within an hour, we were airborne again.

  During the night, Gavin and I had had a lengthy discussion, focussed on Trichardt and the diamonds. We both agreed that Trichardt would have drawn our flight plan from the Lanseria ops centre and established precisely where we were going. I was convinced we had a good start on him and hopefully, could finalise matters with the bank before they arrived. Once the contents of the bag were in the bank there was little he could do. Not that it would mean they would not deal with us, but at least they could not lay their hands on either the money or diamonds.

  Trichardt remained a threat and Gavin and I both knew we would have to come up with something that would make the problem disappear. We were dealing with a Mafioso albeit an African one.

  Shortly after take-off, we had shown the women the contents of the bag. They were both elated and disappointed. The cash brought smiles to their faces, the diamonds did not, and for them these were a let-down.

  “They’re so dull!” Liz said, picking up one of the larger stones and holding it up to the light.

  “Come on doll, use a bit of imagination, that’s because these are still rough - neither cut or polished, but just appreciate the size!” Gavin laughed. “That’s why these can only be sold to certain people - diamond buyers who control the world market.”

  “Okay...“ Liz said nodding her head indicating that she understood but I was not convinced that was the case. The frown had not left her face, she clearly still wondering why these diamonds did not sparkle and shine.

  “Can we use any of this money?” Francine asked.

  “Not yet, we need to discuss this with our other partner. We’ll meet up with her in the Caymans. That’s if we don�
�t meet Trichardt first.”

  The mention of Trichardt silenced everybody.

  Far below us, through the few broken cloud, we saw the island chain that dotted the sea, a deep azure blue. The air was clear and we could see from horizon to horizon this only becoming vague at its outer extremities.

  Suddenly, from his slumped position in the command seat, Gavin sat bolt upright.

  “Christ!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Well, whatever it is it better be good,” I said, my voice surly. We had been throwing ideas around for hours.

  “Man, this is brilliant. When we land, we leave you and the bag on the ground and continue onto the States. That’s what the flight-plan reads anyway. Our stopover on the Caymans is supposed to be solely to refuel - am I right?” he asked excitedly.

  I had to smile, Gavin’s exuberance was catching; and it was a good plan!

  “Trichardt and company won’t even stop over, believing we only refuelled; they’ll go straight on to Wichita.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I retorted, “Look what happened in Windhoek! And they’ve probably seen our flight plan. If I was them I’d follow the same route.”

  “Jab... you might just be right, but hopefully, we would have banked everything by then and you would be nowhere to be found.”

  “I’m going to stay with him,” Francine said.

  “No, you can’t. We just leave one person behind with a wad of money making him as mobile as possible. Shit, Peter has an international commercial pilot’s licence. With enough money, he can go anywhere. All he has to do is hire an aircraft. But he’s got to do it alone - it’ll be easier to disappear.”

  Gavin made it apparent that he was adamant. I had to agree. Francine voiced her dissatisfaction but Gavin never relented, saying that there was just too much at stake. Finally, she accepted his proposal, not that she had any choice; still, for a while thereafter, she pulled a long face. I wondered whether that was because Maria was also expected in the Caymans.

  They say that the Cayman Islands experience more hurricanes than anywhere else in the world. Well, if that is so, it certainly was good weather the day we arrived. It was a beautiful sunny day, and we saw the three islands from many miles away: first Grand Cayman, the largest and then to the right, Little Cayman and Cayman Brac. The smaller islands were separated from Grand Cayman by eighty miles of ocean.

  From a financial point-of-view, the islands are the most incredible place. With a population of no more than fifty thousand, it boasts over two hundred and fifty banks with a combined financial liability of one and a half trillion US dollars. No personal taxes are levied. It is the perfect place through which to launder monies, except those derived from narcotics trafficking. The authorities at least go through the motions of keeping an eye on funds, which they believe to have been derived from narcotics!

  I was in the left-hand seat and contacted Owen Roberts International Airport, who provided landing instructions. We approached from the west, landing in the face of the easterly trade winds. Following instructions from the control tower, we taxied to a corner of the apron where I then shut down the aircraft. We stepped onto the island with a good breeze blowing, the air warm but not hot, the palms bending slightly to the wind, the flags around the airport standing stiff in the breeze - there no doubt this was a holiday-maker’s paradise!

  Now the one pressing concern was whether my luggage would be searched when I proceeded through customs. Leaving it aboard, we disembarked and strolled across the apron to the transit lounge, taking seats in a cafeteria, which gave us a view of the customs checkout counters.

  I had heard that recently, due to pressure from the United States, the Caymans had introduced stricter controls to kerb narcotics trafficking. We kept watched the arrival of a few large airliners, one of which was from Brazil. We were surprised to see that none of the disembarking customers was searched; the customs officials seemed more concerned with the collection of airport and tourist taxes. A true holiday atmosphere prevailed.

  “Well, that solves that,” I said with relief.

  “All right, I’ll confirm our onward flight plan. Peter, will you supervise the refuelling?” Gavin asked.

  I got hold of the fuel company to bring the jet fuel tanker alongside. Gavin returned from flight ops and I collected my baggage, which had been split so our loot was in a smaller suitcase and my personal items in the suitcase that originally contained the cash and diamonds. Briefcases of cash are not considered strange in the Caymans, and no one would lift an eyebrow. Diamonds were the last thing they suspected and anyway, the possession of rough diamonds was not a crime here, so in reality, I was quite safe.

  Mr Trichardt was my only problem and I had no idea where he now was. But to believe he was not in pursuit would be a mistake.

  One consolation was that his aircraft was not on the apron.

  I said goodbye to my friends, reserving a special farewell for Francine, kissing and hugging her, noting her concern. Whether this was because of Trichardt or my impending meeting with Maria I didn’t know, but I hoped she was sufficiently convinced that I would confine myself to business and not matters of the heart or those carnal.

  Chapter Twenty

  I approached customs with a suitcase in one hand and the other dragged behind me on its wheels, hoping that I exuded the required atmosphere of nonchalance to ensure no suspicions were raised. I placed it on the wooden rack next to the counter and produced my British passport and my international pilot’s licence from inside my beige tropical cotton jacket.

  The customs official in a white uniform took my documents. He glanced at my pilot’s licence, which he then slid back to me over the counter.

  Still holding my open passport, he said. “Good afternoon, Mr. van Onselen. Welcome to the Caymans.” He then smiled. “I presume you’re not seeking or have already got employment?”

  “No,” I said and then added, “I’m just taking a break from flying. They’ll pick me up on their way back from the States.” I nodded in the direction of the Citation.

  He gave the aircraft a brief glance. “Have you anything to declare?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  ”Thank you, sir, have a nice stay,” he said dismissing me, and I moved onto the next counter where I paid the required airport and tourist taxes.

  I stepped out of the airport building with an overwhelming feeling of relief and realized that I was perspiring profusely. A number of taxis of all makes, including some London cabs, were lined against the kerb. I approached a British Ford Cortina, the driver popping the trunk in anticipation at my approach. I dropped my two cases into it, and then slid onto the rear passenger seat.

  On the flight from Eros, I had carefully studied a roadmap of Grand Cayman. I was on the lookout for a tourist village that had more than one road of access to ensure that I had multiple escape routes. Trichardt was still foremost in mind.

  I decided on Bodden Town, a small town on the southern coast. It was about five miles from the airport, but at least it had a number of roads leading into it.

  The taxi driver had a caramel brown complexion and spoke English with what I thought was a Jamaican twang. He was clearly of mixed blood and probably one of the inhabitants who could trace his ancestors back to when pirates and exiles from the Spanish Inquisition of the 16th century had sought refuge on the islands.

  To obtain permanent residence on the islands was virtually impossible, as the island’s government only issued work permits after proof was provided of work found. This could not be done while on the island but had to be concluded before you arrived. The permit is restricted to a period of seven years and then there is no rollover policy. The non-citizen then has to leave and will never be allowed to return as a worker. Therefore, almost all citizens come from families with a long history on the i
slands. The government is extremely reluctant to allow any form of immigration. The islands are a virtual paradise - a good reason to keep the population manageable.

  “Where to, boss?” the taxi driver asked.

  “Well, I actually should find myself a car to hire...”

  The driver interrupted me.

  “Don’t you go doing that, my man! For a retainer, I’ll be available all the time. Business is slow at the moment, I’d be helping you, and you’d be helpin’ me,” he said turning around to look at me with a huge grin on his face, flashing a large mouth of brilliant white teeth.

  I contemplated his proposal for a moment.

  He stared at me probably wondering what I could afford and what amount would scare me away.

  “A hundred and fifty a day,” he offered.

  Make it one thirty,” I replied tartly.

  “One forty,” he countered

  “Done,” I agreed. “Now take me to a hotel where I would have more than one road on which to escape.”

  Again, he stared at me in the rear view mirror.

  “Escape, Boss? Escape, you gotta problem?” he asked. “Then I’m your man. But if anything happens and we got’ta play Keystone cops, then it’ll cost more.”

  “No, not cops. There’s some people who don’t like me. If they pitch and we run, I’ll pay handsomely.”

  “You on the run?”

  “Well, yes and no, but not from cops - it’s just a personal thing. As I said, they don’t like me. I know something I shouldn’t.”

  He laughed. “That happens a lot around here, I’ve had that before. Okay, again, where to?”

  “Take me to a good hotel, on the beach with a few escape roads - we don’t want to have only one road to escape on and we must be able to get to the airport quickly Bodden Town would be a good place.”