African Ice (2 page)

Samantha opened her eyes, feeling the wet tears, and blinked away the moisture. The park was blurry for a few moments, then it came back into focus. She turned away and reentered the apartment.

The coffee was still reasonably fresh, and she poured one more cup. She sat on the edge of the couch and looked at the number she had taken from her voice mail. She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Good morning, Gem-Star,” a pleasant voice answered.

“Good morning. Could you put me through to Patrick Kerrigan, please?”

“Certainly. Whom should I say is calling?”

“Samantha Carlson.”

The line switched over to Muzak for a few moments, then Kerrigan's unmistakable baritone voice came on. “Ms. Carlson, thank you for returning my call.”

“No problem, Mr. Kerrigan. Except that I have no idea who you are, or what you may want with me.”

“That's understandable, Ms. Carlson. Have you heard of Gem-Star?”

“No, can't say I have.”

“We're a mining company, specializing in gemstones. Diamonds, rubies, sapphires, that kind of thing. And we need a geologist. Would you be interested in meeting with us?”

Sam Carlson took a moment before answering. She was currently without a contract, but financially, she didn't need to work another day in her life. Then again, not working was boring. “It depends on what you're offering, Mr. Kerrigan,” she replied.

“Our offices are in Manhattan. And I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, if you'd like to drop by. Shall we say, one-thirty this afternoon?”

At precisely one-twenty, Samantha Carlson stepped off the elevator onto the sixty-third floor of Gem-Star's building, and into a world of opulence. Cultured Italian marble tiles graced the floors, and original oils hung throughout the foyer of the multinational company. Comfortable leather chairs and couches paired with teak tables furnished the room. The tones were muted teal, and a small waterfall tucked into a feature wall gurgled as the water softly fell onto the rocks.

Sam Carlson took it all in, and stopped at the rocks in the waterfall. She moved closer and almost gasped. Embedded in the stone were small greenish rocks—uncut diamonds. She bent over, admiring the naturalness of the display. A voice drifted over to her from behind, and she turned to face the speaker.

It was a man in his early fifties, and of obvious wealth. His hair was well groomed and dark, with a slight graying about the temples. She wondered if the gray was natural or dyed for the effect. His suit was Armani, his tie silk. But it was the charismatic air about the man that told the uneducated of his position in society.

“You must be Samantha Carlson,” he was saying. “Only a geologist would see more than some drab rocks and a waterfall.”

“You mean the diamonds?” she asked, and he nodded. She extended her hand and he shook it. His grip was firm, but she caught the slight twitch in his eye as he felt the strength in her grip. That happened a lot. Between the gym and working in the field, she had extreme upper-body strength for her size and gender.

“I'm Patrick Kerrigan.” He smiled and motioned past the reception desk toward the hallway. She followed him as he started into the labyrinth of offices.

“Do you always meet your appointments in the lobby?” she asked, curious.

“Almost never,” he responded, and waved her into a corner office, shutting the door behind them. “But your reputation precedes you. Plus”—he smiled—“I just happened to be walking by the reception area when you arrived. Please, sit down.” He pointed to a cluster of wing-back chairs by the windows. As she moved toward them, she noticed the top of a head barely protruding above the back of the nearest chair. She came alongside the chair, and a man rose to greet her.

“Samantha Carlson, this is Travis McNeil. Travis, Samantha.” Carlson made the introductions, and the two strangers shook hands. “He's involved in our latest venture—the one for which we'd like to have you as geologist. I'm getting ahead of myself, Ms. Carlson. Please make yourself comfortable, and I'll start from the beginning.”

An employee carrying a tray with light snacks and drinks entered from another door. Samantha took the opportunity to study Kerrigan's office, as he looked over the tray. It was a man's office—heavy in texture and style. The floors were hardwood, with Persian rugs thrown about almost randomly. Numerous statues and large carvings dominated the furnishings. It was an eclectic mixture, and very worldly. She was impressed.

“You like my collection?” Kerrigan caught her surveying the room. She nodded. “I brought back one souvenir from each country I traveled to. Currently, there are one hundred thirty-three different figures in this room, some of them priceless, some of them quite worthless.”

“It's quite the collection, Mr. Kerrigan. I especially like the trinket you retrieved from Kenya.” She stole a quick glance at the ivory statue tucked back in a far corner. “I'm sure that came out before the ban went on.”

Patrick Kerrigan pursed his lips and eyed his visitor as if seeing her for the first time. She interested him.

He knew her background from the file his company had compiled. Born thirty-two years ago in Boston, she had followed her father's footsteps into geology. She had completed her undergraduate degree in Boston, but shifted to New York to attend Columbia University for her master's and Ph.D. Samantha Carlson had excelled in a field dominated by men. Times had changed over the past twenty years, and her gender had made great strides into the field, but the top geologists worldwide were all men, with one exception: her.

She showed no fear, and took on the toughest assignments under the most dangerous conditions. And she consistently came out on top. She successfully negotiated a multimillion-dollar drilling contract with the Russian government after she discovered huge oil reserves in the desolation of Siberia. The Amazon basin had yielded a substantial find of tourmaline, and she had hammered out a working arrangement between her employer and the Brazilian government. Her latest venture was in the Canadian arctic, where she was unable to save the drilling rig, but kept seventy-eight men from certain death by ordering their evacuation.

She was attractive, Kerrigan decided, but not from a strictly feminine view. Her features were more chiseled than soft, her body tensile and wiry, not spongy. He was surprised she wore her hair so long, but it suited her. But of all her features, it was her eyes that awed him. It wasn't just their color, a shade of teal that danced between green and blue. They had an intensity that told of a quick and alert mind behind them, a mind with a thirst for knowledge. Her eyes probed the person she looked at, gnawing into his soul and taking more from him than the words he spoke. To call Samantha Carlson interesting was an understatement.

He smiled. “Patrick,” he said. “Please call me Patrick.”

“Samantha. Or Sam. Your preference,” she responded.

Kerrigan rose from his chair and moved to the windows that looked out over Manhattan. “We're looking for diamonds. We have a few preliminary scouting reports that indicated there could be good potential for high-quality gemstones in the region. We sent in a team about four months ago, but that didn't yield anything. I think we need a fresh perspective.”

“What country are we dealing with?” Samantha asked.

“Democratic Republic of Congo,” Kerrigan replied.

Sam Carlson simply stared at the man. “DROC. Nice place.” Her tone was sarcastic.

“You know it?”

“I wrote my master's thesis on alluvial diamonds in Sierra Leone, and my doctorate on industrial diamonds in the Congo. I know both countries well.” She stood up and walked to the window, peering down on Manhattan as she continued.

“The Democratic Republic of Congo is a wealth of industrial-grade diamonds. The rocks that end up in engagement rings don't come from the Congolese mines. They come from Sierra Leone, South Africa, Brazil, Canada, and a dozen other countries. But not the Congo. Kananga is a major center near the mines, but the town of Mbuji-Mayi, about ninety miles east, is the hot spot. For industrial diamonds, not commercial grade. And diamond miners have overrun

Mbuji-Mayi since the 1950s. So if you want my opinion, you don't need a geologist, Mr. Kerrigan, you need a thousand Africans with shovels.”

Kerrigan held up his hand to stop her. “I know you have a great deal of knowledge about the Congo,” he said. “But our target is not the alluvial diamonds that scavengers have dug for over the past fifty years. And we're definitely not looking for industrial-grade diamonds. We're looking at a diamondiferous formation to the north, in the Ruwenzori Mountains.” Sam started to speak, and Kerrigan stopped her once again. “I know it's been tried before, and the core samples came up empty, but I think we have further proof that such a vein may exist.”

“What kind of proof?” Samantha asked, interested but skeptical.

Kerrigan strode across the room and slid a painting to the side, revealing a wall safe. He entered a combination, opened the safe, and pulled out a small bag and an envelope. “ These were taken from the vein, at a depth of sixty-two feet.” He handed four dull greenish rocks to her.

Sam motioned to the magnifier on Kerrigan's desk, and he nodded. She placed the stones under the scope one at a time, carefully studying them. She lifted her head. “They have all the characteristics of Sierra Leone diamonds. But you say they were found in northeast Congo.” He nodded again. “I need a specific test to be sure they aren't simply Sierra Leone diamonds.”

“You're referring to the laser ablation method the Canadian RCMP have been working on?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Laser ablation inductively coupled plasma mass spectrometry,” she said.

“Done,” Kerrigan responded, holding the legal-sized envelope up in his left hand. “We sent the samples to the RCMP about a month ago, and got the results back last week. Have a look.”

Carlson took the envelope and let its contents drop onto the coffee table. She quickly sorted through the analysis, concentrating on the trace elements found in the diamonds. “Ninety-nine point nine five pure carbon, as expected. Point zero five trace elements. Trace elements not found in the mangrove swamps of Sierra Leone.” She paused for a moment. “You're positive these are from the Congo?”

“Absolutely. Our team reported back a position close to Butembo, but they weren't precise with their coordinates. We have an idea within about seventy square miles where they were, but it's impossible to pinpoint any closer.”

“You're familiar with the terrain around Butembo?” Sam asked, and Kerrigan nodded. “Sticky, sweaty jungle, teeming with every kind of poisonous creature God ever created. Rugged cliffs, hundred-foot waterfalls, dense underbrush, and local tribesmen who would just as soon kill you as say hello.”

“It has its moments.”

“Not to mention the current political situation. It's a mess over there right now.”

“Agreed. And that's why we're paying so handsomely. We're offering one million dollars up front, and an additional five million if you can locate the vein and get that information back to us.”

“You mean if I live long enough,” she said quietly. Kerrigan didn't respond to her statement. “It's been four years since I was in the Congo, and I have no desire to go back. It's corrupt, and it's dangerous.” She took a sip from her tea, then set it on the end table. It was cold. “How does
he
figure into all this?” she asked, gesturing at the man who had sat quietly through the meeting.

“Travis will keep you alive while you explore. He's assembled an elite team of men who are well skilled in protecting people from—other people. The snakes you have to watch out for yourself.”

“When do you propose to send the expedition?” she asked.

“Almost immediately. Travis has been acquiring the necessary supplies, and the team is just about ready. Any instruments you require will, of course, be supplied.”

“And how long do you think it'll take to unearth the vein?”

“That depends on you, Ms. Carlson.”

“Okay,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “ Why me? Why offer me the job?”

“Like I said, Ms. Carlson, your reputation precedes you. You are one of the most knowledgeable geologists in the world on the Democratic Republic of Congo. You're resourceful, and you've demonstrated many times a commodity very valuable to this expedition.”

“And that is?”

“Your ability to stay alive.”

Samantha Carlson rose from her chair and extended her hand to Kerrigan. She offered the same to Travis McNeil. “You don't talk much, do you?” she asked as they locked grips.

“Not today,” he responded.

She unclasped his hand and walked to the door. She opened it, then turned back to face Kerrigan. “I'll let you know one way or the other by tomorrow.” He nodded. “One more question,” she continued. “What happened to the last team you sent in?”

“They disappeared,” Kerrigan answered.

“Before they could pinpoint the location of the vein?” she asked, and he nodded. “That's most unfortunate. For them
and
for you.” She closed the door behind her as she left.

Samantha took the same route for her jog she did every morning, but New York had changed overnight. It seemed constricting and crowded. Her mind had shifted gears, and she found herself thinking of Africa. She remembered the landscape of the Congo near Kananga and Mbuji-Mayi, pockmarked by hundreds of thousands of holes dug into the earth in the hope of finding diamonds. The carnage digging inflicted on the surface was the bane of alluvial stones. And the town of Mbuji-Mayi was the center of this madness.

Mbuji-Mayi. The place was a shit hole. At least that was her recollection of four years ago. It was a harsh region, with steep rifts and valleys that overran the area. In the valleys the soil was porous, and tunnels commingled under the mass of corrugated metal shacks that served as houses. The extent of the tunneling was so severe that it wasn't uncommon for a section of hovels to just disappear into a hole. Sometimes, not too many people died.