African Ice (40 page)

The transatlantic line was quiet for a few moments, save for the controlled breathing of the New York party. “They are proving to be quite resourceful, Garret.”

“Yes, they are. You're leaving for Antwerp tomorrow morning?”

“Yes. I land at Brussels about six in the evening, Belgian time. Antwerp is less than an hour from Brussels.”

“All right. If you get anything on them, let me know right away. This waiting is starting to piss me off.” He hung up just as he reached the north end of Trafalgar Square. He skirted the National Gallery and headed up one of the numerous side streets leading past Leicester Square into Soho. The area was seedy, and darkened taverns and strip joints littered both sides of the street. He chose a particularly raunchy-looking pub called the Rat and Parrot and left the cool afternoon weather outside.

The bar was exactly what he'd expected. A few tables empty, a few occupied. It was dark and smoky and smelled of stale beer. Every eye in the place was on the stranger as he approached the bar. He ordered a malt whiskey and downed it in one swallow. He asked for the best lager they had on tap and sipped contentedly on it for a few minutes. When he ordered another, he asked the bartender if anyone in the pub could provide him with a few joints and maybe some crack cocaine. He was convincing enough that the man gave a nod to a table near the dartboard. Three men were hunched over their pints, talking in low tones.

“I understand you gentlemen may be able to help me,” Shaw said as he approached them. All three were large, muscular men. Two were black with close-cropped curly hair, the third white with long stringy hair that needed shampoo and water. All three wore long coats.

“What the fuck do you want?” one of the black men asked him. His tone was uncivil, nasty at best.

“Drugs. I'm in from the States and I need something. Crack would be nice.”

“You look like a fucking cop,” the white guy said.

“Well, I tell you what. Why don't all three of you take me out and pat me down? If I'm a cop, you can do me, if not, you can sell me something. How does that sound?”

The three men looked about, nodding and generally agreeing that the proposal sounded okay. One asked, “You got cash?”

Garret pulled out some English pounds and American dollars. “Whichever you prefer.”

They left the dive and returned to the street. One of the two black guys pointed to an alley about halfway up the block. They reached it and turned in. It was narrow and wound in from the main street, cutting off any view passersby might have. They reached a spot bordered on both sides by brick buildings and no windows. A gun appeared in the white guy's hand.

“Okay, stupid, let's have the cash.” He grinned at his buddies as Shaw offered up his money. “Fuck, you are one dumb ass. What makes you think we'd do anything but take your money and cut you up a bit?” Blades in both black men's hands reflected the dim light from the alley. “Stupid fucking Americans.”

“Stupid fucking Brits,” he said, his right hand shooting out and grabbing the wrist that held the pistol. He snapped it, breaking every bone in the lower forearm. With his free hand he wrenched the pistol from the man's hand and leveled it at the two remaining thugs. “Now, what were you saying?” He let go of the wrist and the man dropped to the ground, writhing in the dirt of the alleyway. Shaw kept the gun pointed at one man's head. He cocked the trigger.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with you three? Kill all of you? That would probably make the headlines in those stupid rags you call newspapers. And all those witnesses in the bar. I'm just not sure.”

The man with the gun pointed directly at him spoke, quietly and with newfound respect. “I think we've made a mistake here, sir. We actually meant to give you the proper amount of drugs for your money. We forgot. How about we give you your money back and call it a day?”

“You want to take your friend and leave?” Both men nodded. Garret pretended to think on it for a minute. “Okay. Return the money and get the hell out of here. And don't say a word to anyone. Got it?”

A minute later, he stood in the deserted alley, the gun dangling at his side. That was all he had wanted. Breaking the man's wrist was a cheap price to pay to obtain a gun. He tucked the pistol into his belt and made his way back toward Trafalgar Square and the side street where his rental car was parked. God help McNeil when he found him. One of these six bullets had his name on it.

Monday morning brought showers to London, bringing out the umbrellas and quick tempers. Even the clerk in the grocery store at the end of Basil's block was in a blue mood. She dumped the eggs and bacon into a bag and scarcely acknowledged Samantha and Travis as they paid. They left the store and hurried back to Basil's flat. By the time they arrived, they were both drenched.

“I told you to take the brelly,” their host chided them as they shook off inside his front door. “Now you both smell like wet dog.”

“Now there's something I've never been accused of,” Travis said. “I'll cook up some breakfast if you two want to go over the box again. We should be leaving for Heathrow in about an hour, Sam. Flying into Belgium is international from London and we should be at least an hour or two in advance.”

Samantha listened intently as Basil went back over the operation of the box. He had worked out the last few snags and it was completely operational. She was amazed at the work he had done in such a short time.

“I eliminated the need for drilling holes in the exterior of the box by encasing the liquid cubic zirconia in these corrugated steel pieces that line the inside of the box. Thirteen of fourteen are filled with the zirconia to make the diamonds, the last one has the catalyst to make the liquid solidify.”

“And that catalyst is tinged with green, right?”

“Yes. It will coat the outside of the zirconia with an ultrathin layer that should resemble the natural color of the rough diamonds. A spectrometer could easily note the color differences, but you don't think they'll have tested the originals by the time you get to see them.”

“I'm sure of that. Color is mostly discernable by the naked eye, and the preliminary inspection of the rough doesn't get technical enough to require a spectrometer reading.”

“Okay. All you have to do is take the original diamonds and place them in the padding between the outer and inner boxes. They will create exact molds of their shapes. Then remove the diamonds, close the case and turn this handle the opposite way you would to open it. That releases the liquid cubic zirconia into the molds. Now, this is very important. Once you're sure the molds are filled, release the catalyst and let it set for at least six minutes. Eight would be ideal.”

“What happens if I don't have six minutes?”

“Your fakes will not have hardened. If you open the case too soon and they're not hardened all the way through, they'll crack from the cool air hitting their surface. You cannot open the case until a minimum of six minutes after you inject the catalyst. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Once you've created the fake diamonds, drop them on the table and put the originals back into the molds. You'll have to put each one back in the same mold it formed, so remember the exact order you put them in.”

“Holy shit, this is getting difficult,” she groaned.

“You think stealing twenty-five million dollars in diamonds from a highly guarded room in the diamond head-quarters of the world should be easy?” he asked. “I don't think so.”

Samantha laughed. Basil was right. She would be inside the very heart of De Beers, the company that controlled the diamond flow worldwide. And inside that building was a small locked room where only authorized personnel were allowed. Inside that room was a handful of rough diamonds that were so spectacular, De Beers had agreed to hold an unscheduled sight just for them. Unheard of. And she was going to steal them. Abercrombie's comment
did
put things in perspective.

Travis had breakfast on the table when they were finished. They had just helped Basil clean the dishes when the taxi pulled up. Travis loaded their luggage into the cab and came back in for Samantha. She was talking to Basil, saying good-bye, and he decided one more time to try Davis Perth in America. He dialed the main number to Gem-Star and waited. Finally the answering service picked up. It was four a.m. in New York and the office was not yet open. He asked for Davis Perth and readied to hang up.

“Who's calling, please?” came the unexpected reply.

He had one shot at this, and he wasn't about to screw it up. “It's Senator Watson from Oregon, ma'am. It's imperative I speak with Mr. Perth immediately.”

“One moment, please.” Light music filtered into his ear as he sat waiting, praying that the next voice he would hear would be Davis Perth.

“Senator Watson.” The voice was strong, authoritative. “Davis here. What can I do for you at this hour?”

Travis felt his palm go sweaty and his breath become shallow. On the phone he had the man who could forever sever Kerrigan's ties to the United States. Whatever assets Patrick Kerrigan had inside American borders would be seized or frozen. He would be unable to return home, pending criminal charges that would include killing 229 innocent people on Cranston Air Flight 111. Davis Perth was the man who could make these things happen—if he believed what he was about to hear. Travis took a deep breath and began.

“Mr. Perth, this is not Senator Watson. My name is Travis McNeil and this call concerns Patrick Kerrigan. . . .”

Knightsbridge was bordered by Hyde Park on the north and by some of the most valuable London real estate on the other three sides. It featured a bevy of shops and restaurants catering to the well-heeled crowd that didn't mind spending a small fortune for clothes or lunch. Harrods, the bastion of British department stores, occupied a large chunk of Brompton Road, an appendage that gracefully curved from Knightsbridge toward the Natural History Museum. Set in this upper-end community of gentlemen in top hats and nannies pushing prams was a small restaurant aptly named the Queen's Ransom. A visitor only had to glance at the prices to see where the eatery got its name. Seated at a table for two near the rear was a single American—Garret Shaw.

Halfway through the rack of lamb, his cell phone rang. Every eye in the restaurant turned to view the culprit, the offender who had disobeyed the cardinal rule of the establishment. All cell phones were to be turned off, no exceptions. Shaw ignored the stares and answered the call.

“This is an acquaintance of Patrick Kerrigan,” the voice said. “Am I talking with Mr. Shaw?”

“You are. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Kerrigan knew he would be unable to receive phone calls for part of today and gave me your number in case his cellular telephone went directly to his voice mail. I work in a rather, shall we say, sensitive area, Mr. Shaw. I'd rather not reveal my name or exactly where I work. I would, however, like to pass on some information that I know Mr. Kerrigan would consider important.”

Shaw checked his watch and subtracted the time difference. Kerrigan's flight to Belgium would just be departing JFK. He would be unreachable for seven to eight hours. Two plus two came together quickly and Shaw realized he was speaking with one of Kerrigan's moles. “Go ahead, sir,” he answered.

“Mr. Kerrigan had feelers out for McNeil and Samantha Carlson. Am I talking to the right person about this?”

Garret sat bolt upright in his seat. “Yes, please continue.”

“I just received confirmation that both their passports were entered into the British customs computer less than ten minutes ago. They are boarding a flight for Brussels, leaving Heathrow in fifty-two minutes.”

“You're positive?”

The man assured him he was and gave him the airline name, flight number and terminal. Shaw thanked him and pushed the end button. He grabbed the nearest waiter.

“Get me my bill in less than thirty seconds, or I'm not paying it,” he said, pushing the man toward the front desk. He glared back at every person who continued to stare at him, and eventually they all turned away. His bill arrived and he paid it, almost running from the restaurant to his car. He slammed it into gear and headed for Heathrow. He checked his watch again. Forty-seven minutes. He swerved in and out of traffic, cursing the British for driving on the left. Three times, he swung into the left lane only to get jammed in behind a slow driver. He finally stayed put in the right lane and went with the flow. The traffic was heavy coming around Earl's Court, but thinned out as he hit Kensington High Street and headed west. He kept checking his watch and swearing under his breath. Time was running out. He took the exit ramp onto the A4 and floored it. The motorway was moving well and he began to relax as he edged the speedometer up over eighty.

Finally, Heathrow loomed ahead and he took the short-stay car park lane for Terminal Two. The access road was clear and he accelerated to over seventy miles an hour down the final stretch. The car threatened to leave the pavement as he made the turn into the dropoff area, but he controlled the skid and slid into an open spot. He took nothing with him, but locked the car and slipped the keys in his pocket. If he made the plane, someone would eventually find a bag of clothes and a gun, but since he had rented the car under an assumed name, the trail would lead nowhere. If he missed the plane, he would simply come back and leave.

He leaped over the concrete dividers and sprinted toward Terminal Two. He was scarcely breathing hard as he entered the terminal and glanced around for the Lufthansa counter. He spotted it a hundred yards to the right and again broke into a run. There was no lineup and he approached the first ticket agent, slipping his credit card from his pocket.