'A' for Argonaut (29 page)

Thirty-Five

Arlington, Virginia

A
lex 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.

As the plane throttled out, it banked in an arc heading northeast over Boston Harbor’s Pleasure Bay. Maran looked out the window, recalling happier days down there as a child, fishing with his buddies off the old wooden piers, long gone, at Castle Island. Thinking about what lay ahead, he let the newspaper he was reading slip from his lap and dozed off to a fitful sleep.

Thirty-Six

Antwerp

M
aran arrived at the Antwerp’s Deurne airport on the dawn flight. He took a taxi to the Hotel Florida where he registered as “Rodney T. Davis” and picked up the rental waiting for him at the Enterprise desk.

“Just call ahead. Let us know where you intend to drop it off so we can pick it up,” the attendant said.

Maran dialed Sergei on the encrypted Droid smartphone Levine had provided.

“You don’t have much time,” Sergei told him. “We’ve intercepted an e-mail from Vangaler, Boyko’s enforcer. He’s on his way to Antwerp with a Chinese lady named Alberta Chiang. Don’t know where she fits in. They must be on the ground by now. This last shipment is the mother lode. The markets are already reeling. When they lay this cut rate block out there, Wall Street will be in line for food stamps.”

“Where are they getting these diamonds?”

“Big question, but Vangaler’s up to something. Chu and Tolkachevsky are in danger.”

“I’ve got to get to her first.”

“She’s in an apartment in Antwerp registered under the name of Amy Weiwei. Looks like a safe house she already had under the alias. She’s booked in at a hotel where Boyko thinks she’s staying. If we’re right, she’s scammed Boyko and plans to get her kid back. She’s traveling with a Belgian passport under her real name. It’s her. No doubts. Same address, description and age all fit our Amber Chu. Boyko got her the passport to move between Antwerp and Luanda, Angola.

“An address?”

“One-thirty-seven Kipdorp, a small, exclusive apartment house. Across the street from that historic gothic cathedral, St. Jacobskerk.”

“Rubens’ grave.”

“Right. Just up from the River Scheldt on the way to Koningin Astridplein 19, the location of the Diamond Museum.”

“Any more?”

“Not far from the Centraal Railway Station and Pelikaanstraat 78, the Diamond Bourse. Two doors from Tolkie’s operation. She’s in. We called. We apologized for calling the wrong number. She should leave at about four.”

“I’ve got to get to her before she goes to that meet.”

“Vangaler is a demon. They don’t call him ‘Slang’ for nothing.”

Maran’s anxiety was palpable. Amber Chu was the entry key into the netherworld that was Cabinda. He had to get to her before Vangaler and Chiang did.

He left the rental near the hotel and took a taxi through the historic district to the address Sergei had given him.

He snuggled into a
corner of the front door to St. Jacobskerk, diagonally across the street from Amber’s apartment. In his haste, he had forgotten once again to pack a raincoat or umbrella. His skin shivered as he hunkered inside a light jacket. He pulled the Boston Red Sox cap down to just above his eyebrows. Warm rain fell through the blanket of fog. On the street, bells pealed from the city’s surplus of steeples and glockenspiels, a persistently false promise of peace and harmony.

Four P.M.

Still as bright as noon in Boston
, Maran thought.

As he waited for Amber Chu, he recalled a line in one of her e-mails to Tolkachevsky.

“This will be our final meeting. I gamble all, the only way I will ever get my boy back from the Animal.”

The message also made it clear that the plot she was involved in was already advanced enough that it was responsible for the flood of diamonds behind the market crash and that she kept this apartment in Antwerp secret from Boyko.

He reflected on the profile that grew as they researched her. She had impeccable taste, even if outrageous, according to her many false credit card shopping records. She was clearly a shopaholic, charges from the best stores, hotels, and restaurants in London, Rome, and Paris as well as in Luanda, Kinshasa, and Antwerp. Her travels strongly hinted at a career in diamond trading, legal or otherwise. Until he read her message, he was confused.

Why is she teamed up with a criminal like Boyko? Vangaler?

Now he knew.

However, it was only half the equation.

What about Dolitz?

His cell phone vibrated. Sergei.

“Mack. You have no time to spare. E-mails are flying out of Tolkachevsky’s operation. VG and Chiang just left. They’ve beaten Tolkachevsky to a pulp and taken Boyko’s gemstones with them. Tolkachevsky has been taken by ambulance to the hospital. It looks bad.”

The chimes from the bells ceased. Outside, traffic mounted, horns blasted. A large black Volvo slowed in front of the steps to Amber’s baroque edifice. Maran squinted to see through the droplets that ran down the car’s windows. He noted the Asian woman in the passenger seat. A thin white stripe of hair ran back through her black mane. He could just make out a man at the wheel, his head turned to the steps. The man turned to the woman. Maran focused his gaze through the rain-splattered window, past the woman driver.

That face! No! It couldn’t be. Not him. Not here. How?

Maran strained his eyes to their limit. Suspicion faded to certainty. It hit him like a rocket-propelled grenade.

Roelf Diederichs! The black Afrikaner from Mantville’s Boston jewelry store.

The man who shot him in the face.

The Volvo moved on. Maran’s heart pounded. His head spun.

Vertigo!
No! Not now.

He gripped his fists. He reached deep into his psychic reserves, drew on all the military training he had ever had.

“Victoriae!”

It worked. He was in control.

He took a quick inventory of the area, noting a taxi as it turned a corner into the street two-hundred yards away. Several pedestrians walked along the sidewalks. He kept watch.

Five minutes later, the front door of Amber’s building opened. A striking young Afro-Asian woman stepped out, hair piled in an empress-styled updo. On one ear, a Bluetooth earphone. She stepped out and surveyed the street as though she owned it. Maran, nevertheless, could detect the fear in her eyes. Over one arm, she held a matching raincoat and umbrella. In the other, a large, leather suitcase; she was clearly on the move.

Maran moved; he started across the street. The black Volvo raced down the block, into the square, past the cathedral to where the woman now stood at the curb. It swerved in front of the taxi. The driver slammed on the brakes. The car leaped the curb just in front of the woman. The passenger flew out of the car; he grabbed Amber by the elbow. The taxi pulled over. Pedestrians scrambled to escape. Maran heard their screams. He slammed through the dispersing crowd.

“Get in,” the assailant ordered Amber, his snarl triggering Maran’s call-to-action response mechanism.

“Amber Chu!”
Maran yelled. She glanced at him, screamed at her antagonist, pulling out of the sleeve of her coat. Her move left him with a handful of fabric.

“Let me go!”

Diederichs’ face contorted. “You!” he shouted. “Maran!”

The recognition shocked the assailant. Maran was just as shocked at hearing his name. He ran faster, but he was still twenty yards away.

The assailant dropped Amber’s coat. He hesitated as Maran closed the distance between them, his face grimacing. The Asian woman in the car shouted. ‘Get in!” Diederichs grasped at Amber who pulled away. She scrambled back up the steps. He turned and dove back into the Volvo. The car peeled down the street. It disappeared around the corner. He waved for a taxi, one hand still inside his jacket, gripping the handle of the pistol snugly safe in a horizontal, snap-in shoulder holster under his left arm.

“Get in!” he shouted to Amber as the cab pulled to the curb. She hesitated. He grabbed her by the elbow. She struggled, torn between succumbing to this new advance and facing the possibility that Diedrichs would be back. On the street, a crowd was beginning to form, gawking. “Get in, I said!” he repeated, swinging her from the curb into the cab. He threw in her suitcase and jumped in behind her. The driver turned, a look of alarm on his face.

“Allez vite,”
Maran said in a broken accent, “Get going.”

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice distressed. “You bastard. Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t worry. I’m a friend,” Maran answered. “I’ll explain later. We’re going to get Tony back.”

“Tony? What? What do you know about Tony?” she asked with a sudden tremor in her voice. Her eyes arched; her face wrinkled.

Maran ignored her question. “Everything’s going to be all right,” Maran answered to the cabbie instead. He used his own bastardized French and noted the familiar calmness that crept over him every time danger faced him as he muscled it under control.

The cab driver turned again. He asked Amber something in French.

“The Hotel Florida,” he told the driver.

“How do you know about my son? What else do you know about me?”

“If they were friends of yours I’d hate to meet your enemies,” Maran said, sidestepping.

“You just made one. I hope you don’t live to regret it. They weren’t my friends. You don’t know how unfriendly they can be.”

“I can’t wait to find out.”

“He knew you. Who are you?”

“He didn’t know me. I know him. And I know you, Amber. Let’s get out of here. Your luggage? Where were you going?”

“My friend. I was just leaving to meet him. Now I’m afraid for him. I can’t leave him to face them alone.”

“It’s too late, Amber. They already got to Chaim Tolkachevsky. We can’t help him now. Nobody can.”

“Chaim?” She did all she could do not to scream. She looked at Maran.

Tony! How safe can he be now?

She knew the only thing assuring his safety was the stones Tolkachevsky had promised for her to give to dos Sampas.

“The stones are gone,” Maran told her. “The whole packet.”

“What!” she cried. She felt more panicky than she ever imagined she could be. He threw his left arm around her, drew her to his chest, right index finger upright over his lips, indicating silence. He whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m here to help you, Amber. I have friends.” She began to look more reassured, then she pulled back and put her hand on his chest, slipped it under his arm. She felt his ever-present H&K.

“What is this?” she probed, alarmed.

“Insurance. Here, we can talk about that later,” he assured her. He pulled the big diamond given to him by Levine out of his pocket to distract her concern. He handed it to her.

“Ever seen one of these?”

She held it to the light between her black-polished fingernails. He waited.

“It’s one of Chaim’s. Where did you get it?” she gasped, her voice trembling. Tears were starting. Maran drew her close. Put one arm around her. She didn’t withdraw. As hard-boiled as she might be, her vulnerability was obvious. So much was happening around her, so many threats, so much violence, so much uncertainty. Maran knew. He was there also. It was inevitable.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

He regrouped. He told her he was a journalist, on assignment for a story on diamond smugglers. He gave her his “Rodney Davis” investigative journalist calling card.

“So, that’s how I came across a contact who said you would be the best source on the diamond trade in all of Africa.”

“You’re full of shit,” Amber snapped. “A journalist with a gun? Anyway, that man’s name is not Roelf Diederichs, it’s ‘Slang’‌—‌Slang Vangaler. General Slang Vangaler, if you will. Where did you come up with Diederichs?”

He told her of his encounter with him in Boston. His story relieved her. An ally. At least he looked good. Sharp. Sensitive. Smooth as a meadow stream in a Midwest prairie but very tough.

“Let’s put it another way,” he said. “You’re in big trouble. I knew that before whomever he is, General Slang Vangaler, showed up. I’d say it’s been confirmed in boldface, forty-eight-point banner headlines. I also know about Tony. I can help. First, we need a safe place to stay where we can talk, maybe relax, kick back for a day or two. God knows you could use it. We have to figure out what to do next. Your place is obviously no good.”