Unsafe Harbor (15 page)

My fingers slid across a series of elaborate designs that had been cut, smoothed, and polished, telling the tale of endless herds that had once roamed the African plains. Those same savannas now stood silent and empty. Perhaps it was because all the elephants had been sacrificed on the altar of vanity, fashion, and greed.

My hand lingered on the ivory as though it might reveal a hidden secret: how long this particular elephant had lived
and how it had died. For a moment, I almost thought that I felt a heartbeat.

“I have plenty more ivory, if that’s what you like,” Giancarlo declared, and flung open a closet door.

My breath caught in my throat upon catching sight of the exposed stockpile. Giancarlo’s shelves were jammed with ivory jewelry and statuettes; each piece pale as a dollop of clotted cream.

Trade in ivory had been banned since 1990, after a decade of bloody poaching. Africa’s 1.3 million elephants were systematically gunned down and slaughtered during that time, until less than half their number was left. All the carnage had been carried out for a single purpose: so that hundreds of tons of ivory could be shipped to Hong Kong and Japan to feed a voracious multimillion-dollar industry. Even now, I found it hard to believe that more than a million of these magnificent creatures had been reduced in that time to nothing but trinkets.

Elephants are visible symbols of all that is wild in this world, not resources simply to be cut down like trees. Nor are their tusks commodities to be hacked off and turned into chess sets and billiard balls. The ban may have slowed trade for a while, but black-market demand remained insatiable. And by the look of things, poaching was once again on the rise.

I tried not to shiver as Giancarlo slipped an elegant bracelet onto my wrist. The slender round of ivory felt cold and dead against my skin, all the life of its previous owner having been drained out of it.

The animal that died for this bauble had once swayed through tall savanna grass like a huge sailing ship, its life intertwined with a family unit of mothers, grandmothers, and
aunts, all of whom shared enduring bonds of affection. They lived and played together, cared for one another in sickness and health, and like their human counterparts, were haunted by terrible memories. I’d heard them lift their trunks and rumble, the sound deeper than any church organ, the volume louder than thunder. The sight of all that ivory made me sick.

“I also have earrings and necklaces, along with any number of other articles,” Giancarlo assured me.

While that was clearly true, I didn’t buy that Giamonte was the principle source for these items. He had neither the cunning nor savvy to be a major player, much as he might have wanted to believe. Most likely, he was simply the middle man; a satin-clad conduit with ephemeral ties to the upper echelon of Manhattan society. That was fine, as long as it eventually led to the head honcho.

I continued to gaze in veiled disgust at all the booty in the room. Possession, in and of itself, wasn’t a crime. Rather, I needed to prove that the importer knew he was trafficking in illegal goods. Then he had to be caught in the act. I was betting on the fact that Giancarlo hadn’t the slightest idea concerning such pain-in-the-ass legalities. With that in mind, I slowly began to weave my trap.

“My goodness. Where did you find all of these wonderful treasures?” I asked. “Did you bring them back with you from trips?”

“No. I haven’t much time for extensive travel. I’m far too busy dressing beautiful women, such as yourself,” Giancarlo said flatteringly. “However, I’m fortunate to have found a very good source for shahtoosh and ivory.”

His fortune was about to turn into my field day.

“I have lots of friends in Texas who would kill for these
sorts of things,” I said, taking in the array of carved Buddhas and geishas, fancy napkin rings, and ornate walking sticks.

“Have them contact me and I’ll be happy to sell them whatever they like,” Giancarlo eagerly replied. “Of course in return, you’d have first pick of my designs.”

“How kind,” I said, and coquettishly smiled.

I was impressed that Giancarlo was cocksure of having access to such a steady flow of illegal goods.

“Are you really able to obtain that much stock?” I pried, hoping to whet his appetite. “You know Texans. They like to live large and spend big. I have no doubt that some of my friends would place hefty orders.”

“That’s no problem,” he confirmed. “My supplier is the largest of this kind in the world. He never runs out of ivory.”

How interesting.

“Really? And where do you get everything?” I asked.

“The shawls come from a company in Hong Kong,” Giancarlo disclosed, shrewdly withholding the name of his source.

That information caught me off guard. I’d assumed the stoles were imported from Europe.

“And what about the ivory? Does that come from Hong Kong as well?” I asked, knowing that had to be the case. “I’d love to buy a few large pieces for my home.”

I figured the more I used as bait, the more likely it was that Giancarlo would talk.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he replied, and wrapped himself in a lovely pink stole.

“There’s something I still don’t understand. You said that you have only one source. Does that mean both the shahtoosh and ivory come from the exact same company?” I probed, while playing with the fringe on a shawl.

Perhaps I’d pushed too hard. Giancarlo’s stole fell from his shoulders, his eyes grew wary, and his voice took on a rough edge.

“What’s with all the questions, anyway? What do you want to know for?” he asked, his Italian accent starting to slip.

I pretended not to notice, but worried that I’d overplayed my hand.

“My goodness, Giancarlo. I didn’t mean to upset you. Aunt Muffy would never forgive me, to say nothing of Auntie Barbara. In fact, she asked that I call later this evening and let her know how our visit went. All I meant was that it must make it so much easier for you to keep track of your orders if they all come from the same company,” I said in a trembling voice, as my eyes welled up with tears.

Ha! Let Vinnie try and beat that bit of acting,
I smugly thought to myself.

Giancarlo’s demeanor quickly reverted back to his former charming Tuscan self.

“My dear Rachel. Did you think I was angry with you? Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not. It’s just that all these business questions tend to be so boring.” He kissed each of my fingers, and then began to stroke my hand. “That’s how we creative people are. But I’ll be happy to tell you whatever I can, if it will help to put your mind at rest.”

Maybe so. But that glimpse into Giamonte’s dark side proved enough to keep me on my toes.

“Here’s what I know,” Giancarlo intoned, as if about to break into a lullaby. “My source has ivory shipped from South Africa to Hong Kong, where it’s carved. However, he has businesses in both places. He’s also recently begun sending ivory shipments directly to the U.S.”

I pulled out a tissue, while continuing to sniffle, and gen
tly dabbed at my eyes. “And why would he want to do that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Of course not,” Giancarlo assured me, and held up a powder blue shawl. “By the way, this is definitely your color.”

“Do you really think?” I asked, and allowed him to drape it around me. “I’m sorry. Now, what were you saying again?”

“Oh, yes. Well, he’s apparently decided to set up a carving factory here in New York. That can prove to be quite an advantage for my clientele.”

“How so?” I questioned, wondering what he was getting at.

“Say you decide to order a custom piece of ivory and there’s some kind of problem. I can send it back right away to be fixed. See? Everything is working out perfectly for you and your friends,” Giancarlo explained, as though talking to a child.

That bit of information instantly set my mind awhirl. The fact that ivory was being shipped from South Africa made perfect sense. The country had long been a major smuggling route for everything from drugs and artwork, to forged stocks and bonds over the years. It had also been a portal for ivory. So, why not still? As far as I could tell, the country remained hot, hot, hot when it came to dealing in contraband.

As for setting up a carving factory in New York, that was also totally logical. Once poached ivory slips into a country, and is carved, it becomes that much more difficult to prove illegal. Taken a step further, the U.S. has one of the most active ivory markets in the world. American consumers, both at home and abroad, help to fuel the illicit trade. At times the situation had seemed so futile that I wanted to throw up my hands and scream.

I focused my anger on nailing the law-breaking sucker in front of me.

“Didn’t I read something silly about ivory being illegal?” I nonchalantly questioned.

“Yes. Absolutely ridiculous, isn’t it? What else are tusks good for?” Giancarlo scoffed. “But then so is shahtoosh. Can you believe it? What’s a poor designer to do? To my mind, the fact that they’re taboo only makes them all the more desirable. You know. It gives them that naughty-but-nice feel.”

“So then, it doesn’t bother you at all?” I inquired, curious if he felt any remorse.

“What? That a bunch of elephants and antelopes are killed?” he asked, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh please. Not the least little bit. That’s what they were put on Earth for. To provide those of us who can afford it with beauty and pleasure.”

Funny how we defined those terms so differently. I viewed elephants and chiru as living, breathing creatures that should be allowed to roam freely, while Giamonte saw them as nothing more than high-priced fashion accessories.

“Don’t tell me that you’re secretly one of those animal rights activists. Are you?” Giancarlo playfully teased.

“Actually I’m a Special Agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I revealed.

“Very funny,” he replied with a burst of laughter. “All right. You caught me. I suppose that now I’ll
have
to give you a discount.”

“No, I’m dead serious,” I replied, and pulled out my badge to show him. “I really am an agent.”

Giamonte’s mouth fell open and his complexion turned as pale as ivory. Then he slowly began to gather his wits.

“Does Muffy know of this?” he asked, still not quite certain if I was truly serious.

“She had no idea who I was when she mentioned your name,” I assured him.

“Ha! In that case, this amounts to entrapment,” he exclaimed.

“No. It just means that she never thought to ask,” I informed him.

“Then it must have been that bitch Tiffany Stewart that set me up,” he angrily spewed.

“Why would you say that?” I asked, surprised to hear her name again.

Tiffany was turning out to be quite the pariah within her own community.

“Because that bitch is jealous of me,” he fumed.

“I find that hard to believe,” I replied with a chuckle, taking in the scene.

Giancarlo looked as if he’d been hit by an out-of-control fashion tornado. He stood amidst a shower of shawls in his paisley robe and purple pajama bottoms.

“You find it amusing? She only wishes that she had my business. That skank actually tried to steal my clients away from me,” he nearly screamed.

“And how did she do that? Don’t tell me. One day she decided to become a fashion designer and all your clients took her seriously,” I needled, hoping to obtain more information.

“No. The backstabbing bitch claimed that my shawls weren’t really shahtoosh, but pashmina,” he raged. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. She then had the nerve to announce she was setting up shop in her own living room. It was absolutely pathetic. She’d invite groups of women over and put out these horrid little hors d’oeuvres as if they were all attending some sort of Tupperware party. Tiffany would try to sell them cut-rate shawls in between serving New York State wine and Sara Lee cake.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Believe me. I have spies. Really. They told me. I swear, that woman doesn’t have an ounce of class. Do you know she even had the gall to claim that what few shahtooshes I had came from slaughtered goats, while hers didn’t?” he accused.

“So then, the two of you are competitors,” I concluded.

“Fat chance. Naturally, her shawls were of far inferior quality. My clients aren’t the type that have to shop for bargains. It wasn’t long before they saw through her ruse and came running back to me,” Giancarlo said, and busied himself returning each shawl to its proper place.

“That’s an interesting story. However, all that matters right now is that you’re the one that got caught,” I retorted, and patiently awaited his next move.

“So, what are you going to do? Arrest me?” he asked, with feigned amusement.

“Now there’s a thought,” I remarked.

It would serve him right to let him hang from his own shahtoosh for a while.

“In that case, you’d better have plenty of handcuffs because I’m not the only one in town who’s doing this. Every two-bit divorcée and strapped-for-cash aristocrat is trying to sell shahtooshes from out of their apartments on Fifth and Park Avenues,” he disclosed. “I happen to know of a doctor’s wife, an art director, and a magazine editor that are involved and they’re making damn good money at it, too.”

“Really? How much money are you talking about?” I questioned, curious to know.

“If I talk, will you let me go?” Giancarlo shrewdly asked, positioning himself to negotiate.

“That all depends on how good your information is. Tell me what you know and I’ll see what I can do,” I replied, having no such intention.

“All right then. Scarves will sell for a thousand, good shawls for twenty, and specialty items, like throws, can command up to fifty thousand dollars apiece.”

No wonder these people could afford to live such extravagant lifestyles.

“That sounds intriguing. I bet they also have a better clientele base than you,” I responded, attempting to reel him in.

“Like hell they do,” Giancarlo indignantly replied, neatly taking the bait. “I’ll have you know that my clients include princesses, dowagers, models, actresses, heiresses, and the very best trophy wives. Besides, those shahtoosh parties can get pretty ugly. I heard a fight broke out at the last one that Tiffany threw. Apparently, she didn’t have enough good colors to go around.”