Green Ice (21 page)

Jab, hook, cross.

A final flurry of all sorts of lefts and rights won him the decision.

He showered and dressed and returned to Lillian’s room.

Exactly as he’d found it, he put back the nine thousand.

15

Air France flight 206 had made its scheduled stop in Caracas and climbed again to thirty-four thousand feet.

Next stop was Lisbon. Then on to Paris.

Wiley was in First Class. No qualms about it this time. Argenti, that is, The Concession, had prepaid $1,893 for the round-trip First-Class fare. Wiley had also drawn an advance of $2,000 against expenses. An excessive amount. He intended to be extravagant but account for every penny.

He had spent most of the afternoon at Número 1 on Calle 1. Argenti had foregone polo practice in order to personally show Wiley around The Concession, see that he was properly indoctrinated. More of an inside look than usual. Probably not what Argenti had in mind at the outset, but he got caught up in the opportunity to nourish his ego off Wiley’s plate. He was delighted when Wiley was overwhelmed.

The first twenty floors of Número 1 were the offices of various commercial companies, both local and foreign.

The next seven floors of Argenti’s building were leased by the Colombian government—for fifty years at fifty thousand per floor. The federal appropriation for the lease had ridden through on an unrelated bill as though it were written in invisible ink. The bureaus of Transportation and Communication put a few unimportant files and people on floors twenty-two and twenty-three. They rattled around up there.

Twenty-eight was occupied. By Rufino Vega, Minister of Defense. There, at his office away from his official office, Vega often conducted business of one sort or another, usually another … redhead.

Senator Robayo enjoyed a spacious place of his own for whatever reason on twenty-nine.

Thirty was the domain of General Botero, luxurious, complete with an electronically equipped fencing room.

Minister of Mines Javier Arias preserved his reputable and pious image by never going near the place. Unlike the others, he did not believe that being there or anything else for that matter could protect his interests.

From the thirty-first floor on up was The Concession.

Its reception area created the impression of a thriving, active major company. However, beyond the island of green-tinted glass that was the reception desk, beyond the expansive backdrop of paneled walnut, were only a dozen clerks and secretaries, and even fewer administrative employees. They didn’t have much to do—nothing to do directly with the operation. They were there for appearance more than anything else, although they didn’t know that.

Directly above, on thirty-two, was where The Concession’s essential business began. The grading department. Emeralds were sorted and evaluated there. In cubicles all along the north side were benches at which sorters sat with ten-power magnifying viewers. Rough stones, one at a time, were held up to special electric-light fixtures that provided a standard brilliant but colorless glow. In that manner the sorters looked past the skin, the natural dull exterior of each stone, to appraise and classify it according to its size, clarity and color.

Color was of first importance. The finest emeralds had what those in the trade called “kelly”: the richest, brightest sort of green.

Twice-weekly shipments of rough stones arrived from Muzo, Chivor, Peñas Blancas and the other mines. They came by armored truck with an escort of federal troops.

Thus the sorters were kept busy.

On the average sixty percent of all stones were classified as
commercial goods
, ordinary quality.

Thirty percent were graded
fine
.

Ten percent were graded
very fine
.

At the close of each day the sorted stones and those yet to be sorted were taken upstairs. Only the most trusted supervisors had ever been up there.

The floor above, thirty-three, was home base for Conduct Section. Presented as a hyperefficient personnel department for The Concession, Conduct Section actually saw to it that whoever got in line stayed in line and whoever got in the way was eliminated. Through its network of informants its computers kept a current dossier on everyone who had anything to do with emeralds. Much of the effectiveness of Conduct Section was a result of the fear it generated merely by existing. Who could know how much it knew? How could anyone be sure who was Section and who wasn’t? Only the most desperate or foolhardy man would risk going against The Concession, considering the penalties and those who imposed them. Conduct Section recruited its men from high and low. Many were outcasts from various dark corners of the international intelligence community. Nearly as many were runaways from organized crime, specialists in violence.

The head of Conduct Section was Joachim Kellerman, a tall, middle-aged East German, gaunt as death, with sunken eyes and cheeks and a bony, upturned nose. A touch of jaundice in his normally gray complexion gave him a greenish cast. He never smiled, not even when he was laughing.

Kellerman got his start in the 1950s as a young man in East Berlin. His game was convincing refugees that he could get them over the wall. For a price. He also got a price from the East German police for telling where and when the attempts would be made. He persuaded the police it would be to their benefit if they built his reputation—exaggerated the success of his crossovers and put him at the top of their capture-or-kill list. For a long while he did excellent business there.

Kellerman was a strategist up from the streets. Intuition had always been his best weapon, and his ability to think abstractly kept him a move ahead. However, what made Kellerman most suitable for his job as head of Conduct Section was something he did not have. Not a trace of it, ever. Compassion.

When interviewing a prospect for the Section, right off and right out Kellerman would ask the man if he had ever killed anyone—not had he been indirectly responsible or taken part but had he himself done it, one-on-one or more. The way the man replied was an important factor in Kellerman’s eyes. A yes was not a prerequisite, not if a no had enough regret in it.

Kellerman reported only to Argenti. Whose combination town apartment and office was on the next floor above.

It was in his office that afternoon that Argenti repeated his offer and told Wiley he would stand by it, although it was too good an offer and he had been impetuous in making it.

“I know zilch about emeralds,” Wiley had said.

“No matter.”

“You’re really paying for the risk?”

“There is little of that.”

“Then what?”

Argenti spoke of the unorthodox way The Concession did business. Clients never came to Bogotá because it was inconvenient, an out-of-the-way place, and dreary, he said. Also, petty annoyances were avoided, such as the red tape of Colombian customs.

“Such as duty charges,” Wiley put in with a knowing edge.

“Duty charges,” Argenti admitted, as though that were nothing. “Anyway, it is best for everyone that we use carriers.”

“You mean couriers,” Wiley corrected.

“No, carriers, we call them carriers.”

“When you first spoke to me about it, you used the term
couriers
.”

“You are mistaken,” Argenti said determinedly.

Wiley was sure he was right, disliked letting it go, felt Argenti was using it, rubbing in his earlier remark about not wanting to be anyone’s messenger boy. There was certainly a positional difference between being a courier and a carrier.

“Did you know that according to legend the emerald was a symbol of chastity which shattered the moment a woman gave in,” Argenti said. “It was also supposed to be good for hemorrhoids.”

“I told you I know nothing about emeralds.”

“That you did.”

Carrier
definitely sounded more like a messenger, Wiley thought, or someone with a catchy disease.

“When the
conquistadores
first came to this country, the Indians told them the way to identify an emerald was to hit it with a hammer because a true emerald would not break. Think of the fortune the Spaniards must have smashed away,” Argenti said.

There was a crystal compote containing Perugina chocolates on the desk, each piece wrapped in soft silver paper. A far cry from Hershey kisses, Wiley thought as he helped himself to two. The candy taste left in his mouth made him want a cigarette. He lighted up. He recalled, almost twenty years back, saying the greatest sure thing would be to get a corner on a cycle of irresistible cravings. For instance, a cigarette, a soft drink, a candy. Smoking the smoke would make you want to drink the drink would make you want to eat the candy would make you want to smoke the smoke …

Argenti got up from his desk, went to stand at the window, his back to Wiley. His customary view was to the northeast, in the general direction of his homeland. He avoided looking directly below, at all those ugly
barrio
structures held together as though cringing at his feet. He would rather pretend they were not there—nor was he. Often his daydreams transported him to the Piazza San Marco in Venice or to other, more intimate favorite places in Florence and Milan.

Somewhat distantly, and with some envy, he told Wiley, “You can leave this afternoon.”

The sooner the better.

Argenti turned abruptly toward him. “Does Lillian know about your going to work?”

“No.”

After a long thought: “There is a certain type of woman who seems to enjoy a man bought and paid for, ready to serve her slightest twitch.” He smiled and then lost it quickly. “But not Lillian.”

“Not her.”

“Why do you suppose it is that Lillian and I have such an affinity?”

Wiley just smoked.

Argenti went around behind Wiley’s chair, paced back and forth. Wiley remained as he was. He could see Argenti’s reflection in the window glass, transparent.

“It is more than money,” Argenti said.

Wiley found that by exhaling smoke slowly he could make Argenti seem all the more a ghost.

“She cares for me, of course. Why else would she be so eager to be here in Bogotá? She has told you how much she cares for me?” Argenti left a space for Wiley’s answer.

Wiley left it blank.

Argenti went on: “Did you know at one time it was believed that a well-placed emerald would cause an immediate and lasting hard-on?” He paused. “Which leads one to wonder about the other claim regarding hemorrhoids.” He’d obviously said it before, expected a laugh, was irritated when he didn’t get one.

Wiley’s mind was elsewhere, brought back by Marie Antoinette.

“Marie Antoinette,” Argenti said, “made a pledge to reward her lover with an emerald each time she was worked up to an exceptional orgasm. She broke her promise in less than a month. Otherwise the better part of the French crown jewels would have belonged to the Duchesse de Polignac.”

“When do I collect my commission?” Wiley asked.

“Not until you’ve completed the carry, when you return with the receipt.”

“Suppose for some reason I don’t make delivery?”

“Don’t?”

“Can’t … for some unavoidable reason … blizzard, train wreck, whatever.”

“In that case, you get nothing.”

“Just want to get things straight.”

“What else?”

“There ought to be a minimum to how much I carry.”

“How much do you suggest?”

It had occurred to Wiley that Argenti might send him out with only a few thousand dollars’ worth just to be rid of him.

“Go ahead, set your minimum.”

“A million, never less,” Wiley said.

“Done.”

At that point they went to the floor above, via a small private elevator in which four passengers would be a squeeze. It was the only way up to thirty-five, the top floor. No other elevator, no stairs.

Up there was a large corner room, with floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was done in white, a hard shiny white, lacquered walls and ceiling, a wall-to-wall white wool rug woven so tight it was almost slick. In the exact center was a heavy glass table, waist height, rectangular, five by nine. On it was a telephone, only the instrument, without cords or any type of connection. The top surface of the table was brightly, evenly illuminated by colorless lights that seemed to be embedded in the glass.

The atmosphere made Wiley uncomfortable. It was like an incomplete surgery. And no visible reason for it. The absolute white exaggerated everything: Wiley’s usual sense of being out of place, the rapidity of his thoughts, the subtle exertion required to breathe, Argenti’s voice babbling on about emeralds again and about himself—Meno Sebastiano Argenti.

Argenti was off to the right, standing before the longest blank wall, facing it squarely as though it offered something to his eyes. He did not touch anything, had nothing in his hands. His gaze alone seemed to cause part of the wall to disappear.

Actually a section of the wall had slid aside swiftly—to reveal a vault about twelve feet square. Same stark white, lighted strongly from above. Along the walls inside the vault were cabinets, wide and white with numerous drawers, shallow drawers, no more than two inches deep.

Argenti reached randomly for a drawer, used only one finger to pull it out.

The drawer contained emeralds.

A layer of emeralds.

Their green better defined against white velour.

They were rough stones, of about five carats each.

Argenti opened another drawer. The stones in that one were slightly larger. Argenti invited Wiley to open a few drawers. He read the question Wiley had in mind. “Fifty to sixty million dollars’ worth here,” he said casually.

Wiley was so engrossed by the sight of such wealth that for a moment he didn’t realize Argenti had left the vault, just left him there with a chance to help himself to a handful. A natural reaction, to feel so tempted. Didn’t mean he was a latent thief, Wiley told himself.

Argenti was calling him.

Wiley went out to find another section of the wall was open. Another vault exposed. It appeared nearly twice as large as the first.