'A' for Argonaut (16 page)

He pulled out his Droid smartphone, punched in its encryption code, and brought up his e-mail. Sergei’s report leaped out of the screen.

Impossible!

Familiar alarms fired in his head. Memories of the Animal rose like deformed phantoms. Nerves ignited signals, made him squirm. His skin crawled with ants; he scratched until it was raw. His demons were back. He could scream.

No! Not now.

He clenched his fists until the nails bled his palms. He had to force back those memories yet again sending shockwaves through his brain. Hand-to-hand combat in the midst of gunfire, grenades, and rockets had taught him to conquer fear but never to deny it. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes tightly, and tightened his fist around the Droid.

Kill the Animal. Kill the Animal. Kill the AnimaI,
the voice in his mind screamed.

Maran had to remind himself he was in a limo going to a business meeting in Manhattan’s diamond center, the first step in his plan to deliver ultimate, final, and draconian justice to the psychos behind Cabinda.

Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate.

Finally, his will power kicked into place. It grounded him.

He read the report Sergei had prepared as background for his meeting. It had taken Bird only a day to gather the needed information once he implemented the PHALANX system that allowed him access to universal data. Sergei’s analysis stunned him. Even without a military component, the implications of this case were grave. The report analyzed and summarized facts that went right to the heart of the mission, including details of diamond exports out of Antwerp for the preceding year.

Curiously, the number of stones itemized on manifests for import into New York City matched the sudden deluge of exports from Antwerp. Did that mean that
one-hundred percent
of Antwerp’s finished diamonds were going through the New York Club? Or were large numbers of diamonds being shipped around official channels unreported? More striking still, all the stones shared a few notable characteristics. They were all not only large but graded D-perfect, flawless. In addition, the stones all had a blue tint, rarest of the rare; such beauty was said to be found once in every ten million gem-quality stones, suitable for the Maharaja of Jaipur.

The diamond industry was more important than Maran had ever imagined:

“American bridegrooms alone paid out $5.5 billion this year for solitaires produced and merchandised by the KoeffieBloehm cartel. Diamonds are linked to every vital commodity: gold, platinum, copper, cobalt, zinc, oil. Major money center banks hold hundreds of billions of dollars of loans secured by those entwined markets. Hence, if KoeffieBloehm’s diamond pricing floor collapses, it will throw the world into an economic vortex.”

Maran read on, wondering if that was already happening. Smugglers were flooding diamonds out of Angola like water over Victoria Falls. Since 1998, the U.N. had banned countries from buying diamonds that were known to be financing civil strife.

Sergei’s report included a chart from
Beurs voor Diamanthandel,
the Antwerp Diamond bourse. It showed that a huge increase of large cut diamonds were being shipped into Antwerp from Cabinda, Angola, and on to New York City.

“All bourse members are obligated to report the origin and destination of the stones cut in their establishments,” the report stated.

That led to another unexplained wrinkle. Angola’s stones were pebble-sized, called mele’e in the trade. The diamonds concerning the Diamond Board were obviously not from Angola.

Where are they from?
Maran wondered.

Sergei had merged shipper and receiver records from the U.N.’s International Merchandise Trade Oversight Bureau with those from Belgium’s Hoge Raad voor Diamant, the Diamond High Council.

Fearful of a boycott like the one provoked earlier by the anti-fur lobby, the industry had responded to the recent anti-diamond campaign. Activists were demonstrating against the industry over profits from blood diamonds that were being used to arm illegal militiamen and terrorists who were committing the worst mass rapes and massacres in Africa. In response, the industry had adopted the Diamond Kimberly Process Certification Scheme to block the illegal diamonds, which still accounted for five percent of the world market. The industry’s goal was to sever the links between the horror produced by the blood diamonds and the legitimate diamond trade. Confronting Maran in this report was a different question. Whoever was smuggling these diamonds into New York had something new and different, much different.

There had to be a courier.

Who?

The gravity of this mission, went beyond the personal, way beyond. It hit Maran like a hammer.

The New York Diamond Dealers Board
opened in 1931 in a twenty-story, narrow office building at Eleven 47th Street on the corner of Fifth Avenue. Ninety-percent of the diamonds sold in the U.S. came through this establishment, sold through its 2,600 independent business members.

It served New York’s Orthodox Jewish diamond merchants as a bourse, a central, secure diamond market. Most of those merchants were descendants of Holocaust survivors. The clannish secrecy of that world had proved indelible and was quickly evident to any outsider making a visit.

The summer was rapidly coming to an end, but it was broiling in New York. The previous day’s hard rain steamed off the streets. Pulling off his light rain jacket, Maran got out of the Sikh’s limo at Madison Square Garden. He walked several blocks and ducked into the Chrysler Building. At the opposite side of the lobby, he made an abrupt about-face and doubled back. Such precautions were routine. He left through his original entrance and took a roundabout route to his destination.

Forty-Seventh Street flashed like rap star bling in the sunlight. Thick 18-carat yellow gold chains and gleaming solitaires fought a life-or-death battle with the flickering, multi-hued screens of cell phones, digital cameras, iPads, iPods, iPhones, and video cameras. The diamond dealers there boasted that the street had the largest concentration of diamonds and gold jewelry in the world. Someone must have believed it. The City fathers had dubbed it Diamond Way. A 2X4-foot cubic diamond-shaped sign beckoned at each end of the block.

A tall, lean, dark-skinned doorman, with high, cut cheekbones, greeted him in the front entrance hall of the New York Diamond Dealers Club building. He announced Maran’s arrival and slipped a plastic card into a receiver. The bronze art deco elevator door opened and Maran stepped inside. He felt his heart rate accelerate. Up, past the second floor, the third, the fourth. Fear dogged him. It was only a matter of time: Possible death loomed ahead. He wondered: Would he still be as ready as he had been so often before? Or would his control vanish?

When he stepped out of the elevator, his face froze like a poker player. A narrow hallway. One door. Steel. The diamond merchants valued their privacy. The door sported a plate-sized glass diamond plaque. The door cracked open, triggered by the soft buzz of an electronic signal. Inside, the reception area looked like the VIP client lounge in a private Swiss bank. Maran had visited one on Army business once in Zurich. It was the receptionist, however, that tipped him back on his heels. She was a Sabra, a native-born Israeli Jew. Tall, buff, and fawny. She was an ingénue. One of those nice neighborhood girls struggling to balance the tone between tasteful sex appeal and vampishness who were often standard fixtures in reception rooms catering to big money. She looked up. He stood in front of her. He tried not to gawk, to contain his interest. It was fleeting.

“Mr. Maran?”

“That’s right. Early. Is there a private area? Sorry to trouble you; I have a call to make.”

She led him down the hall in the highest heels he had ever seen. Her body moved like silken mist.

“You can use this room,” she said. The voice, like butter in warm maple syrup, soothed. She smiled. Maran watched as she walked away.

Grow up Maran
, he chided himself
.

“Mack Maran, my old
friend!” Mini Eitan greeted him. When Maran entered the office, Mini got up from a chair in front of Levine’s desk. He wore jeans with a white sport shirt. A riot of coarse white chest hair tumbled from his open collar. Though he was still fit, built like a boulder, shoulders round from top to bottom, his short, black hair was sprinkled with gray. Maran put him in his late sixties.

“Mack, Jacques Levine.”

Levine, executive director of the board, sat behind a glass desk etched with the enormous outline of a diamond. He wore a gray herringbone suit with a hint of pink speckle. A large, bright chartreuse bow tie accentuated the muted specks. Maran wondered how this man could be an orthodox Jew. He described the problem. Large, D-perfect diamonds were flooding the U.S. market. Worse, they were selling at enormous discounts.

“Mini says you’re the best there is. That’s good enough for me. You’re hired,” Levine smiled.

“Let’s cut right to the chase.”

Something between apprehension and relief flooded through Maran’s body.

“You think it’s a gang of diamond smugglers?” Maran asked.

“Worse. It’s got to be part of a professionally-led, international terrorist attack. It could crush the diamond and precious metals markets. Who knows where it could go from there?”

“Why? How?” Maran asked.

“We know Middle East militants use African blood diamonds to buy bombs and guns,” Levine explained. “Is there a connection here? We don’t know.”

Maran leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. “I assume you have not shared this with the FBI?”

“If Congress gets wind of it, it’ll be page-one news. Panic. Just what we don’t want.”

“So. You want me to unravel this. Quietly.”

“It’ll be dangerous. That’s why we need you.” It was apparent that Mini was satisfied that Maran would provide the perfectly symbiotic fit. Maran stood, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a cardholder. He handed Levine a business card.

BANG! INC.

BUSINESS ANALYSIS NETWORK GROUP

Corporate Investigations:

Competitive Intelligence to Due Diligence.

Discrete results guaranteed.

Call 800-226-4462 (800-BANG-INC)

“BANG! competitive business intelligence? Good cover,” Levine said. “You’ll need it. The moment whoever’s behind this realizes they’re being tracked, they’ll be looking for you. You’ll be way out there. Alone. We’ll need plausible deniability. You’re familiar with the term, I believe. We can help but only in the deep background‌—‌as a source of information.” Maran had been deployed many times under that rubric. It meant that if a U.S. covert agent was arrested for breaking the criminal laws of any country during a mission, the White House would deny any knowledge of it. The agent would face possible execution‌—‌with no recourse or help.

“This should help,” Levine said, passing him a thick manila packet. It contained the essential tool of any black op. But instead of a wad of cash, a handful of cut diamonds spilled into Maran’s lap.

“We’ll also provide you with credentials, Amex Travelers Checks, and Platinum credit cards under any two legendary I.D.s you want to use. Those should cover any of the most imaginable situations you are likely to encounter. We’ll agree to balance limits when we decide how much you’ll need to get the job done.” It was clear the Board had decided in advance to go to any lengths to stop the diamond scammers.

“We have to get whoever’s behind this. Now.”

“Then what?”

The answer hung. Unspoken.

Seventeen

New York City

L
ike a flash flood, the spell came over Maran in waves that rolled in from a distant place. Pinpoints of sweat pricked his skin. He knew his emotional balance was fragile. He dreaded what might come next.

The Animal! Here.

Maran could almost reach out and choke the pig. Maran’s body quaked. Pain seared his skull. Sweat beaded his face.

The vision evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

“You look like you’ve just been spooked. Are you all right?” Levine asked. “Naomi, please get a cold drink for Mr. Maran.”

Maran steadied his hand. He lifted the crystal tumbler to his lips. The cool spring water helped him concentrate. Levine insisted he sit down.

“It’s nothing,” Maran assured him as he sat. “Just a little vertigo; I probably climbed the steps too fast.”

“Sure,” Levine agreed. “Happens to me.”

They exchanged small talk. Maran’s encrypted cell phone hummed a signal. He excused himself.

The Bird answered.

“What do we know?” Maran asked.

“I’ll let you talk to the degenerate,” The Bird snickered.

“Some new materials technology has given KoeffieBloehm a new way to brand their stones with a microscopic serial number,” Sergei said in his Russian accent.

“What’s that all about?”

“Blood diamonds. Terrorists are laundering cash with them. KoeffieBloehm is distancing itself so they won’t be tainted when this comes to light.”

“Anything else?” Maran asked.