Green Ice

PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF GERALD A. BROWNE

11 Harrowhouse

“Vivid, sophisticated, action-filled.”
—Los Angeles Times

“As imaginative, well-plotted, and well-written a thriller as you’ll ever find … A remarkable book.” —
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

Green Ice

“A cliff-hanger … Sparkling … Entertaining suspense!” —
Cosmopolitan

19 Purchase Street

“A kind of console of our contemporary nightmares at which the author fingers every sinister key … Superb.” —
The New York Times

Stone 588

“No ordinary thriller this, but a story as scintillating as the octahedron crystal on which it focuses … A tingle for the spine on every page.” —
Publishers Weekly

“Entertaining suspense … Heart-stopping … Browne details both the glitter and grime of the diamond market, high society and the underworld … A gem of a thriller.” —
Orlando Sentinel

Hot Siberian

“Beautifully written … Will keep you entranced.” —
The New York Times Book Review

West 47th

“Immensely entertaining.” —
The Washington Post Book World

Green Ice

Gerald A. Browne

FOR BUNKY

1

Hikers.

Nothing more than that from the looks of them. They had bedrolls and backpacks, with canteens and cooking pans dangling behind, clunking. One had on a bright blue sweater. Another wore a yellow, orange, green patterned poncho, known as a
ruana
. They certainly were not trying to go unnoticed.

Five hikers in a line, picking the easiest way down. The slope was so steep they had to traverse back and forth, and it was covered entirely with long grass in neat overlapping layers that seemed to resent being disturbed, retaliated by causing the hikers to slip.

From where they were, the town of Chiquinquirá should have been in sight. Only three miles away. However, an early morning mist lay like a silvery lid over the mountain basin the town occupied. The surrounding Andean peaks and snowfields were decapitated by a high haze. In the clear between the sky mist and the ground haze the hikers felt caught, pressed. There was the urge to give in to the pitch of the slope, to hurry by sliding straight down. Instead, they kept their nerve, patiently zigzagged, and finally, after nearly half an hour, they reached bottom, where the sharp angle of the slope met another similar, forming a wedgelike trough. Easier going then, much less of an incline. The hikers made better time, were encouraged, nearly sure. Chiquinquirá soon. When they got there they would have time to spare. The train to Bogotá wasn’t scheduled until two. They planned to split up, go sightseeing, shop around for religious mementos, relax in a park or at a table at a cantina. Do ordinary things. They wouldn’t be with one another again until Bogotá.

By now the sun had won out over the haze and was burning away the mist. The hikers made shadows which preceded them, evaded their steps, led them on down the mountain trough to a road. Raw dirt, rain-holed and rutted, it just barely qualified as a road, was not even acknowledged on local maps. Created merely by use, it had perhaps once been a route for the Spaniards to and from the mines.

The hikers didn’t intend to take the road. They would cross over and continue more directly down to the town.

They didn’t see the jeep until they were crossing, out in the open. It was parked off to the side, less than a hundred feet away, nearly concealed by bushes. Four soldiers were standing near the jeep, casually, as though waiting. Three of them carried automatic rifles; the other was a Lieutenant.

There was the shout to halt.

The hikers obeyed.

Three of the soldiers walked over to them, took separate positions around. Then the Lieutenant came over. He was taller than any of his men. His uniform was wrinkled and there were wine spots on his shirt, but his Lieutenant bars were polished.

Lieutenant Costas. He appeared indifferent while actually scrutinizing the hikers with experienced eyes.

Three young men, a young woman and an older man. He decided they probably weren’t carrying weapons, although he wasn’t sure about the one wearing the
ruana
.

“What were you doing up there?” Lieutenant Costas asked the older hiker.

“Studying formations.”

“Birds?”

“Soil.”

“For how many days?”

“Ten.”

“You were reported seen up there two weeks ago.”

“Perhaps it really has been that long. It is healthy to lose track of time.”

The Lieutenant agreed. “Show me your identity.”

Papers were handed over. The Lieutenant glanced at a photograph of the man he was facing. He read the accompanying name aloud: “Professor Julio Santos.”

“Yes.”

“Are you related to Senator Santos?”

“He is a cousin.”

“Then, no doubt you had official permission.”

“Yes.”

“In writing.”

“You have my word, Lieutenant, we are an expedition from the university. These are students.” Professor Santos spoke evenly, in a tone that conveyed understanding for a man performing his duty.

The Lieutenant appraised the students. The girl was pretty. They all appeared frightened. From being at gunpoint. That was natural.

“I will be spending some time with my cousin next Sunday,” the Professor said.

Lieutenant Costas yawned without bothering to cover his mouth. He’d gotten up at dawn for this. If it hadn’t been for that imposition, perhaps …

“We must search you,” he said.

Professor Santos continued to be mild-mannered.

“Surely you do not want to cause us to miss the twelve o’clock train to Bogotá.”

“Two o’clock,” the Lieutenant corrected.

Professor Santos removed his backpack. So did the others. They placed the packs together on the ground and moved aside. Two of the soldiers went through the packs. A dutiful, rather than methodical search, although they did feel into the toes of shoes and unroll pairs of socks. They found that most of what the packs contained was food. Soon they had everything strewn about.

The Lieutenant reprimanded them for their carelessness, but possibly that was not really why he was angry.

His temper distracted the men, made them nervous, so they were not as thorough with their search as they could have been. They gathered the hikers’ belongings into a pile and began stuffing them back into the packs.

The Lieutenant told them to forget that, to search the hikers.

Pockets were emptied. Legs were frisked all the way up, also arms, waists, backs and fronts. The girl, too, was searched in that manner. The soldiers took longer with her. Ignoring the protests of Professor Santos and the other hikers, they felt and handled her all over.

At first she just stood there, eyes set, body rigid, allowing it. But then, she reacted, pulled away, and when the soldiers tried to get their hands on her again, she clawed at them.

The Lieutenant wondered why the girl hadn’t struggled at the start. Could it be she’d had a second thought, decided it would be more convincing if she put up a fight?

No matter. Suspicions were worthless. Nothing had been found.

Let them go catch their train.

At that moment a canteen slipped from where it had been precariously placed atop the piled contents of the packs. As it landed on the road it rattled in an unusual way.

The hikers made a move toward their belongings.

Lieutenant Costas snapped at them to stay as they were. He picked up the canteen, shook it.

Something inside.

He unscrewed the cap, inverted the canteen. Water flowed out and through his fingers. Eight green stones dropped into the cup of his hand.

Uncut emeralds. Each about the size of his index finger from first knuckle to tip.

Lieutenant Costas held one up to his right eye, up to the sun, sighted through it, saw a hint of the clear, brilliant green that lay within the rough stone. He approved with a sort of high-pitched humming grunt.

The soldiers were more alert now, rifles up.

The Lieutenant himself searched through everything again. He tore apart a partial loaf of corn bread to find twelve emeralds. A bag of dried prunes—fifteen prunes. Each contained an emerald instead of a pit. Four bars of homemade soap were broken open to reveal emeralds stuck inside. And there were more of the precious stones hidden in the other canteens.

Finally, Lieutenant Costas was satisfied that there were no more emeralds in any of the packs. He ordered the hikers—poachers now—to remove their clothes. They did as told. Their clothes were piled in the middle of the road. The Lieutenant set fire to them. He used rocks to knock the heels from their boots and made sure the boots didn’t have false toe compartments. When the clothes were reduced to ashes, the Lieutenant got a forked stick, which he used to scratch and rake. Flakes of burned fabric were stirred to float up and then down upon him, flecking his back and shoulders. He didn’t notice. He was preoccupied with the pleasure of finding eighteen more uncut emeralds among the ashes. They were hot. He poked them out of the ashes and poured water on them, causing a puff and a sizzle but no steam. He picked them up, placed them with the others he’d collected in his officer’s cap.

The poachers, while they were being more and more exposed, had to stand there naked. They didn’t seem to mind that. Rather than allowing it to humiliate them, they used their nakedness to communicate defiance. They stood straight and still, arms at sides, eyes level. It was more difficult for the girl, of course. She felt shame. But she knew it was better for her to keep still, that any movement, even as slight and innocent as shifting her weight, would only increase the attention the soldiers were already paying her. She covered herself with thoughts of times past in safe, pleasant places. A young man named Miguel.

The poachers thought next they would be questioned. They readied their minds for that. However, Lieutenant Costas walked by them without a word, went and sat alone in the jeep.

He had kept count of the emeralds, believed he knew how many there were: eighty-two. He counted again and was pleased to find he’d been wrong. Eighty-seven. He placed the cap containing the emeralds on the seat next to him. Chewed at his thumbnail to help him think.

These people he’d caught, they were not
esmeralderos
—the sort who spent full time after emeralds, stealing, killing for them. They didn’t have that in their eyes or ways. These people weren’t carrying weapons, not even knives. The moment he’d found the emeralds in the canteen, an
esmeraldero
would have begun bargaining, offering to split with him, then offering all, then trying to bluff his way out of it by claiming there were many more emeralds where these had come from, promising unlimited wealth. No, these people were
novicios
, inexperienced, but not without cleverness. Concealing the stones in the prunes, for example. An
esmeraldero
would never have thought of such a thing. Neither would an
esmeraldero
have hidden stones in a canteen. Such an obvious place he had almost overlooked it today. What were these three young men, and the older man, and the girl? Five together.
Esmeralderos
worked alone or at most in pairs. Because it was difficult enough for one man to trust just one other man when it came to emeralds.

Lieutenant Costas noticed the sooty particles on the shoulders of his shirt. He tried to brush them off, but that smudged them into the fabric, looked dirtier. He was scheduled for a four-day leave starting tomorrow. He would have some shirts made.

As for that older man, the one who claimed he was a professor, no need to worry about him. He was no more a cousin of Senator Santos than he was a mere hiker, Lieutenant Costas thought.

Thought of his choices.

He could place the poachers under arrest, take them in for prosecution. He’d have to turn the evidence, all the emeralds, over to his commanding officer, who, if in a rare honest mood, might see that they were passed on to their legal owner: The Concession.