African Ice (3 page)

The town's water came from a central pond, dirty and contaminated. Shady characters lurked everywhere, and the value of human life was measured by how many carats one carried. A lucky day of searching could translate into a death sentence. People didn't walk upright or make eye contact. They hunched over, their eyes ever glued to the soft dirt that held the promise of glittering riches.

Everything in a constant state of turmoil—that was life in the diamond-producing areas of Africa. And now they wanted her to go back. But not to excavate for the industrial diamonds that littered the area. They wanted her to leave any vestige of civilization behind, and venture into the Ruwenzori Mountains—an area that made Mbuji-Mayi look like a five-star resort town. The northern reaches of the Congo were untamed. It was madness to think of entering the virgin jungle, let alone leading an expedition into the uncharted wilderness.

She finished her jog and walked briskly back to her apartment. Nothing seemed the same as yesterday. The city was ugly, the people unfriendly. The aromas from the corner pretzel stand didn't tempt her, and she only wanted her coffee for the caffeine.

She stood on the balcony overlooking the park, and wondered what had happened to the first team of geologists Gem-Star had sent in. They had disappeared in the heart of the Congo. That usually meant the missing persons were dead. It wasn't a forgiving country, and the exploration crew would have had access to radios and satellite telephones. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she knew they had not survived.

A million dollars would be a nice paycheck, but she didn't need it. There were plenty of contract jobs out there if she wanted them, and few would be as dangerous as this one. But something inside her was drawing her into the waiting mystery. And geology, at the best of times, was a mystery.

It was this aspect of geology that had attracted her to the profession, not her father's involvement, as many people thought. She remembered her university instructor in first-year geology, holding up a strangely shaped object as he lectured. Draw it, he told them. Draw it from six different perspectives. If you couldn't do it, quit the course. It took her a quarter of the time the next fastest student took. And her drawings were flawless. Thinking in three dimensions was second nature to her.

She knew that her mind worked as it should to be successful in the field. She could envision any structure, no matter how deep beneath the earth's surface it lay. She recognized the trapping mechanisms for oil and gas, and the “pipes” that often held diamonds. She was a natural, and she excelled. It didn't hurt that she was almost without fear, and would tackle anything that got in her way. It was this part of her nature that landed her the most dangerous jobs on the market. Like this one. But still, she had reservations. She knew virtually nothing about Kerrigan or Gem-Star. It was time to find out.

Samantha backed away from the balcony and entered her apartment. She flipped through her Rolodex and found the name she wanted. She dialed the local number and waited. Seven rings, then eight, and still she waited. She knew her colleague hated voice mail and would not pick up until at least twelve rings—plenty of time to weed out the garbage calls. She had counted the start of the thirteenth ring when it stopped and a man's voice answered.

“Hello.” The tone was civil, but curt.

“Farid, it's Samantha. How are you?”

“I'm well.” The voice changed, warmer now. “What can I do for my favorite geologist?”

“I need some information on a guy I met yesterday. Patrick Kerrigan. He works for a mining company called Gem-Star.”

“Kerrigan rings a bell, Sam,” the man answered slowly, as if trying to retrieve a byte of data from his computer like mind. “Something to do with a divorce. Scandal on the social pages. Give me an hour and I'll be back to you.” He hung up.

Sam replaced the phone and poured a fresh cup of coffee, adding a touch of cream and one sugar. Farid Virgi was the one man she couldn't live without, a private investigator who could open any door or pry information from the most closely watched file. She had no idea how he did it and she didn't care. He got results, and
that
she cared about. Samantha Carlson was not a person who entered into contracts with unknown parties. Farid would get the info on Kerrigan and the company he worked for, and she would make her decision accordingly.

Forty minutes later the phone rang. She checked the call display. It was Farid. “That was quick,” she said. “What did you find out?”

“All your inquiries should be this simple,” he said lightly. “Gem-Star is a private company, owned entirely by the Perth family. Nathaniel Perth founded the company eighty-two years ago and built it into a midsize operation heavy on new exploration in virgin areas. Difficult and tricky, but this guy was a risk taker. When he handed the reigns down to his son, Reginald, thirty-six years ago, the company was valued at just over fifty million. It turned out that Reginald was even more astute than his dad.”

“How so?” she asked, intrigued.

“Reginald had the same frontier spirit as his father, but took things one step further. He saw that federal grants were available to American exploration companies, and he learned how to open government coffers. Business boomed, and by the time he retired eight years ago, Gem-Star had an estimated worth in excess of one hundred seventy-five million. Then things changed.”

“Let me guess. Reginald's son took over and screwed things up.”

“Right and wrong. Davis Perth, Reginald's oldest boy,
did
take over at the helm, but he certainly didn't screw the pooch. He didn't want to have hands-on control like his father and grandfather, so he hired Patrick Kerrigan. Davis Perth enjoys yachting and spends half his life at sea, unreachable. So the responsibility of running Gem-Star lies directly with Kerrigan. And I
was
right about him, he did suffer through a nasty divorce about a year after joining Gem-Star. His wife, ex-wife I should say, took him to the cleaners. She raped and pillaged every penny he'd saved. There are more than a few entries in the social pages on the split up.”

“He seems to be doing just fine now,” Sam said.

“Yes, he does. His estimated net worth is about sixty million.”

“What? How the hell does a guy get cleaned out, then rebuild a personal fortune like that over seven years?”

“Creative financing, shrewd investing, and a lot of questionable entries on his tax return. He's got a secondary source of income, but I have no idea what it is. He certainly didn't replenish his investment nest egg from the salary Gem-Star pays him.”

“So he's dipping into something, somewhere,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Embezzling from the firm?”

“Doubtful. The company would have noticed. Gem-Star is legit, and word is it has been since ol' Nathaniel started it. Kerrigan's got a sideline somewhere.”

“Is Gem-Star still profitable under Davis Perth?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Farid said. “That's Arabic for yes, by the way.”

“Thanks for the interpretation.”

“Welcome. Gem-Star is actually doing very well. They seem to concentrate on major plays and carry the ball from exploration right through to exploitation. The only reason they're not a household name is that they're private. And very low-key.”

“Thanks. Send the bill to my apartment. And courier it if you want to get paid inside three months. I may be heading out of town.”

“Done,” he said, then added, “Take care, Sam. I get the feeling that there's more to Patrick Kerrigan than shows up on his file.”

“Okay, Farid. Just for you, I'll be careful.” She hung up.

She finished her coffee, checked her watch and placed a call to Gem-Star. The receptionist answered and forwarded her call to Kerrigan immediately. He picked up on the third ring.

“You've hired yourself a geologist, Patrick,” she informed him. “On certain conditions. How about we meet at your office at ten o'clock and go over them?” He agreed. “And please invite our talkative friend from yesterday—Travis.”

Samantha arrived at ten minutes past the hour. New York traffic was impossible to predict. The receptionist ushered her into a conference room on the same side of the building as Kerrigan's office. The view was a carbon copy of the previous day. She stared at the expanse of buildings that lay beneath her until she heard the door open. She turned to see Kerrigan and Travis McNeil file into the room.

“Samantha,” Kerrigan said, this time without offering to shake hands. “Please have a seat. I've asked Travis to sit in on the meeting, as you requested.”

“That's good, because it's Travis I want to talk to,” she responded. Kerrigan looked slightly taken aback. “You said it yourself, Patrick. This is the guy who's going to keep me alive. I'd like to find out how he's going to manage that.”

Kerrigan relaxed and cocked his head, nodding in agreement. “I understand. Tell her whatever she wants to know,” he added.

“I'll try.” Travis turned to face her. “Ask away.”

She scrutinized the man before beginning. He was older than her by a few years, probably close to forty. His eyes had tiny crow's feet, and he constantly squinted, a conditioned reflex from searching the surroundings for danger. His hair was deep brown, wavy and thick. When he smiled, which was rarely, his teeth were even and white, contrasting with the deep brown of his tanned skin. He was an inch or two taller than her, which put him right at six feet. He was relaxed in the chair, but she could tell there was a great deal of strength and agility in his frame. She liked what she saw.

“Your background. Where are you from, what's your military experience, and have you ever led an expedition like this in the past?”

“San Antonio, Texas. I was born in Houston, but moved to San Antonio when I was ten. I did some undergraduate work in the sciences, but dropped out after two years. It didn't suit my tastes.”

“The sciences?”

“No, school. I liked physics, and chemistry was okay, but I hated biology, zoology, and all that stuff. Hated it. Anyway, I left after two years and joined the Navy. They stationed me in Little Creek, Virginia.”

“SEAL?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am, Navy SEAL,” he responded.

“Team Six,” she muttered. “Where the action is.”

“Correct again. I spent six years operating with Team Six.”

“And now you're for hire? Mercenary, bodyguard, that sort of thing?”

McNeil's stare hardened as she spoke. “Babysitter would be more like it,” he said, between clenched teeth. “And no, I've never led a mining expedition before.”

“What armaments are you taking into the Congo?”

“We've detailed a list that will give us flexibility under differing conditions. We'll take in a few Remington 12/26 modified 12 gauges, and some Remington Vent Rib Rangers are good for close-in jungle stuff. I prefer Smith & Wesson handguns. We've got a few AirLite Titanium M337s, and a couple of the new model that Smith & Wesson and Walther cooperated on—the SW 99.40. And a Daisy 600.”

“You're taking a sniper rifle?” Sam asked. “I can understand the shotguns and the revolvers, but the Daisy 600 is a sniper rifle. What do you need that for?”

“I used to be a Boy Scout, Ms. Carlson. You know their motto.” He tried not to show it, but he was surprised and impressed by her knowledge of guns.

Samantha turned to Kerrigan. “Mr. McNeil seems to know what he's doing. If the rest of his team are equally qualified, they're quite acceptable.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “I'll need a spectrometer. The one that can perform laser ablation to determine trace elements. And I'll need a copy of that report you got from the RCMP.”

“I'll have photocopies of the file made up for you.” He paused for a moment. “Are you sure you need a spectrometer? It'll take some doing to get one away from the Canadian police.”

“I need that machine to test the trace elements in any diamonds we find near Butembo. If the tests match, we'll know we're onto the same vein of the diamonds in your safe. If they don't, we've missed it. And we have to be careful, because there could be alluvial diamonds kicking around. I want to be sure we have it before I send the location back through the GPS systems.”

Kerrigan nodded in agreement. “Good point. I'll get on it. Anything else?”

“What is the possibility of getting a helicopter to recon the mountains east of Butembo?” she asked. “Can we charter one to fly overhead and take a few aerial shots?”

“I suppose, but it's dense jungle. You can't see anything but treetops.”

“The canopy can tell stories,” she said. “If you can confirm a chopper is available, I'd also like a BritPix. It's a camera you can attach to an aircraft that gives you 360-degree spherical imaging. If we can arrange for the surface scans to be transmitted to us on the ground, I can use various filters to look for differences in the vegetation. It will be useful in establishing the existence of a pipe.”

“What's a pipe?” Travis asked.

She smiled. The ex-SEAL didn't know everything. “It's a geological term for an outcrop of denser rock that hasn't eroded over the millennia at the same rate at the surrounding rocks. It may not stick up high enough to see above the rainforest canopy, but the vegetation that grows on it may vary enough to see the difference. It's a long shot, but it'll give us an area to start in, rather than just combing the area in a grid.”

“Who's the manufacturer?” Kerrigan asked.

“Britannia 2000 Limited. The company's head office is in Berkshire, U.K. There's been a lot of talk around the industry about this machine. We think it has incredible potential for exactly this purpose. It's fairly new; they just began production a couple of years ago.”

“That could take some time, Sam,” Kerrigan said, writing down the information she gave him.