'A' for Argonaut (48 page)

“After hearing my son’s account of his time with Grigol Boyko, I have been awakened to the value of forgiveness. Living through such a horrible experience has taught me that the way to liberate myself from hatred is to reject it. My forgiveness is liberation; it does not condone nor excuse, but it makes permanent and thoughtful note.

“I forgive Mr. Boyko in order to rise above revenge, not because I absolve him but to affirm the power of human compassion.

“To this end, I dedicate myself to working to end the continuum of hatred and violence. In not bringing about this end, we are all diminished.”

We acknowledge Ms. Chu’s request for compassion. Therefore, we drop the genocide charges and accept Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko’s confession to the crime of persecution, a crime against humanity.

We hereby sentence him to life imprisonment with no possibility for parole in his lifetime.

Sergei handed the document back.

“What they don’t say,” Maran noted, “is that they were embarrassed that they couldn’t succeed in bringing charges against those government officials who are equally as guilty. If they did, they might antagonize Washington. That’s all you can expect from justice today I suppose. Half a loaf.”

“Symbolic,” Sergei observed, always pragmatic.

Maran responded, switching gears. “I still can’t believe how they turned that mine into a synthetic diamond factory. I don’t care how ‘real’ those stones are; they’re still manufactured, synthetic. Can you believe the cutting-edge equipment they had in it,” he said. “A high-pressure, high-temperature, split cylinder multi-anvil hydraulic press made from top secret plans stolen by Alberta Chiang from Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory in partnership with General Diamond Corporation in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. GD’s diamond manufacturing process is still to this day one of the most closely held industrial secrets in the world, capable of achieving fifteen hundred tons of pressure at fifteen hundred degrees Celsius and manufacturing unlimited tons of perfect gemstone diamonds.”

“This whole thing started with industrial espionage? Christ! Alberta Chiang? Why? Boyko’s diamonds?” Sergei asked.

“Disappeared along with her, but that is only the beginning. Turns out she’s in fact Anita Li, the daughter of General Li Shau Yung, Director of the Ministry of Science and Technology for the People’s Republic of China. Before she joined GD, she worked at Livermore as Director of the Diamond Film Research Center. She became one of the most respected high pressure geo-scientists in America,” Maran explained.

“What was she doing there?”

“It’s hard to believe, but she worked her way into being chief assistant to the Director of R&D for the National Ignition Facility.”

“What do they do?”

“They operate Blue Gene/L, the world’s fastest supercomputer.”

“What’s a supercomputer got to do with diamonds?”

“Diamond technology is at the core of laser beam tests at our 192-beam, stadium-sized facility designed to knock out missiles launched from hostile satellites,” Maran said.

“Or launch hostile missiles?”

“Correct. The FBI has indicted her. The indictment is still secret‌—‌stipulates that her theft has cost U.S. taxpayers hundreds of billions of dollars.”

“Where is she?”

“No trace. For now.”

“Strange world,” Sergei shrugged. “America’s open society, its strongest and weakest attribute.”

“Poetic justice. The new Angolan government is using funds from the sale of clean diamonds to open food kitchens and AIDS clinics throughout the country. But you’ve got to admit Boyko’s brilliance in having hired Hope Valentine’s former publicist to deflect his criminal activities onto PFLEC. Too bad we lost dos Sampas,” Maran said. “But his people still carry on their bid for freedom.”

“And KoeffieBloehm?” asked Sergei.

“Cleared.”

“Abe Cone, the mole at the Diamond Dealers Club?”

“Just another soul crippled by twisted politics,” Maran continued. “Waiting trial with Abner Dolitz and the Storekeeper guy from DRAMS. Cone tipped off Dolitz on all the Diamond Dealers Club’s plans. That’s how Sergeant Major Jake Woodruff managed to sandbag me in Alexandria. He also gave up my ‘Rodney Davis’ journalist alias. That’s how they traced me to Belgium or wherever I used the ‘Davis’ credit card from the Diamond Dealers Club.”

“Stash and his gang of intellectual, armchair generals and One-World apologists?”

“Dimwits and unwitting partners. Outside of his loose official connection with Long Bow, they could never prove Stash’s knot to Baltimore’s off-book U.S. arms garage sales. Cleared.”

“So,” Sergei said, looking at Maran standing in the doorway. “Amazing. You can’t make this stuff up, as Imus would say‌—‌‘A for Argonaut’ was campaign code to elect the United States President with Islamist terrorism’s money.”

“Islamist terrorism’s blood diamond money, more precisely.”

Maran grinned, stretched his long legs out on the ottoman and folded his hands behind his head. In front of them, a fire blazed in the large fieldstone fireplace.

In his lap, a page one headline topped the copy of the Boston Herald:

US TO FUND DECISIVE ATTACK ON AIDS IN AFRICA

The article continued on a jump page. Next to it, a box informed readers that the U.N. Secretary-General “condemns in the strongest possible terms the appalling atrocities committed by members of the U.N. peacekeeping forces in the provinces between Cabinda, Angola, and the two Congos.” That article referred to the latest affronts against humanity in the region.

“Things really do change.” Maran laughed. “Bull Luster will love it.”

He recalled Bull’s proverb, “There’re no truths anymore: Only theories, guesses, and dreams.”

I wonder how this story might change it.

Epilogue

T
he cabin had no electricity, no door chimes. The hand-cut boards of the front door led directly to a wraparound porch furnished with Adirondack rocking chairs that overlooked the roiling river. Mack had just gotten up from one of them. His head had been clear for a while; it didn’t hurt anymore. The panic attacks were gone. No more headaches. The pain was gone from his leg. He had taken off his Bose headset, the volume on his Droid was high and he could still hear Toby Keith singing “I Should Have Been a Cowboy” as he set it down on a side table. He took the Parodi out of his mouth, smiled at the sloppy stump that he so relished to chew; he liked the old-fashioned advertising flash on the package:
“Ammazzati … 5 Toscano Style
.” He flipped the unlit stogie into the bushes and headed to go inside to join Sergei for a Scrabble game.

Outside, above the door, a rusty, hand-pull bell rang.

“The IRS,” Maran joked. “Hell. Don’t tell me we’ve been discovered. Soon as it looks like we’re going to make a little money consulting, they’re here.”

Sergei walked across the room to answer the door. Maran took a gulp of his latest coffee concoction: espresso, coconut milk, and guava. Sergei needled him for going uptown.

Amber Chu walked in with Tony in trail. She was dressed in tight black leather shorts and a gold satin halter-top cut deep in the neckline. Outrageous as ever.

He opened his arms to her. She folded against him.

When her tears dried and she had regained her composure, Amber simply said, “Thanks.”

She was talking about Maran’s generous gift for Tony’s school tuition and something more.

“I guess the New York Diamond Dealers Club was happy,” she said. “My country wants me to thank you for helping to get such a gift to fight AIDS in West Africa.” As part of the “New Angola,” President Bombe had appointed her Assistant to the Director of the new U.N. Office of Gender Equality in Cabinda.

Maran looked at Sergei, thought about the poor women at the Café Tabernacle in Bakamba, and knew that they were safe finally as a result of Amber’s indomitable spirit.

The phone rang. Sergei answered.

“For you, Mack.”

It was Ae Sook Maran. He took the phone.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Dennis would be proud.”

His eyes dewed. A grin cracked his face.

Amber Chu stood there, waiting.

About the Author

MICHAEL J. STEDMAN, South Boston born and bred, is a former political columnist, magazine writer, and intelligence consultant to major corporations. Formerly on the New England board of the Association for Intelligence Officers, he has been both a practitioner and critic of the spy world. Stedman, a former U.S. Army Reserve soldier with the 94th Infantry, has served as chairman of the New England Chapter of the Republican Jewish Coalition and President of his local Rotary Club. He lives outside of Boston with his wife. They have three sons, three daughters-in-law, and seven grandchildren, including identical twin boys.