African Ice (41 page)

“I need a first-class seat on Flight 972 to Brussels, please,” he said, watching the woman enter the information into the computer in slow motion.

“That flight departs in eleven minutes, sir. The ticketing is most likely closed.”

“Please check. Quickly.”

“Oh, I'm sure that we stopped ticketing that flight . . . Well, I'll be darned. It hasn't been closed off yet. I have availability in first class or coach, whichever you prefer—”

“First class. No baggage. Just get me the ticket.” He saw the look she gave him and he added, “Please.”

Four minutes later he grasped the ticket and ran for the gate. He reached the bank of metal detectors that separated the general airport population from the ticketed passengers.

A line at least thirty people deep snaked back from the door. He skirted the edge of the line and jumped in front of the first person. He flipped out an American one-hundred-dollar bill and told the man he had three minutes to catch his plane. The man politely let him in, and took the bill.

He walked through the detectors at a satisfactory pace, then broke into a run on the other side. Gate thirty-six was at the far end of the corridor and he dodged passengers and flight crews as he sprinted through the crowded passageway. He reached his gate and handed his ticket to the agent. She looked startled at his lateness, checked the ticket, then turned to check the status of the airplane. Through the window they could both see the retractable sleeve moving back from the doorway.

“I'm sorry, sir, but the flight is already disengaged from the bridge. I'm sure we have a later flight. . . .”

“Get on the radio and ask the pilot to have the bridge reattached, please,” he said, his eyes steel blue and penetrating into her very soul.

She stared at him for a moment, then picked up the two-way radio that fed into the cockpit. She spoke directly to the pilot, then nodded and shut down the radio. “There is no way the pilot can do that, sir. If he does, they will lose their position in the takeoff queue and that will result in a huge delay. He was very firm, sir. I am sorry.”

He stared at her for a minute, then looked out the window. The plane was pushing back, away from the terminal. In a few minutes it would taxi onto the runway, be cleared for takeoff and leave for Brussels. With Travis McNeil and Samantha Carlson on board. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists, mangling his ticket and boarding pass without even noticing. He had been within seconds of getting them—seconds. He finally left the gate and began the return journey back to his car. He stopped at the Lufthansa counter and exchanged the crumpled ticket for a flight departing for Belgium first thing Tuesday morning.

He had been so close. So very close.

The plane jerked slightly as it pushed back from the gate, then rolled smoothly as the ground crew maneuvered it into taxiing position. It turned and taxied onto the apron, taking its proper slot for takeoff. Six minutes later, the wheels left the ground and Lufthansa Flight 972 was en route to Brussels.

Samantha accepted a
London Times
newspaper from the flight attendant, but set it in her lap as she watched London fall away. She recognized the twists in the Thames and found the Parliament buildings and Big Ben before the plane rose into the underbelly of a cloudbank, obscuring her view. She turned to Travis.

“You were on the phone with Davis Perth for quite a while. Do you think he took what you said seriously?”

Travis flipped the tray down and set his paper on it. “I think so,” he said slowly. “He was mighty pissed off at first when he found out I wasn't Senator Watson. Especially since it was four in the morning.”

“How did you know Perth knew Senator Watson, let alone that he'd take a call from the man in the middle of the night?”

“That was easy. His company is active in Oregon and there's a picture in the Gem-Star lobby of Perth and Watson opening a new mine. Anyway, a midnight call from a senator is not one you turn down.”

“I take it he got over the deception.”

“Eventually. He listened to what I had to say. Asked a lot of questions about the Cranston Air thing. That seemed to really get him.”

“No kidding. The guy running his company murders 229 people to keep the value of some diamonds a secret. That would piss me off if I owned the company.”

“Yeah, that's a good point. He had no idea about our expedition and I got the feeling he didn't know about the others either. He wasn't a happy man.”

“But was he mad enough to sic the FBI on Kerrigan?”

“I don't know. We'll have to wait and see.”

The plane had reached cruising altitude, and the flight attendants moved through the cabin, serving drinks. Samantha had a rum and Coke, something she almost never did when flying. Travis settled for coffee, and they sipped on their drinks for a few minutes in silence. Samantha spoke first.

“You ever been to Antwerp?” she asked casually.

“No. Never had a reason to until now. Never stole millions of dollars in rough diamonds. Until now, of course. You're a bad influence.”

“Yeah, right, me. I'm the bad influence. I don't think so.” She laughed. She'd had her share of interesting situations, but nothing like what he had seen in his life. “It's a very different city. Rubens was from Antwerp—painted all of his masterpieces in the city. He built his own home, a beautiful house and garden with a gorgeous courtyard. But the whole city is flat and it rains a lot. Check out the trees when we get there. Every side, not just the north, is covered with moss. I think Antwerp has the least number of sunny days of any European city.”

“It sounds depressing.”

“God, no. It's beautiful. You'll see.”

“And De Beers is there.”

“Oh, yes, Travis. De Beers is there,” she said, envisioning the monolithic company. The heart of the world diamond cartel was in London, but the Antwerp office was crucially important to them. The rough diamonds that poured into Belgium were cut and polished by some of the best craftsmen in the world, then sent ahead to the world market. Antwerp represented a link in De Beers's chain that, if severed, would severely impact the monopoly they held. And at the heart of what held Antwerp out as such a cherished link were the diamond sights. “De Beers is definitely in Antwerp,” she added. “In some ways, De Beers
is
Antwerp.”

Flight 972 landed in Brussels slightly ahead of schedule and they caught an inter-city bus into Antwerp. McNeil didn't want to risk using a credit card for a car rental, even though he was positive Kerrigan's people had already picked up their movements when their passports cleared British and Belgium customs. The bus was actually quite enjoyable, one of the large luxury cruisers usually reserved for longhaul trips. Samantha stared out the window, watching a narrow band of rippled water that paralleled the road as it swept north toward Antwerp. Windmills dotted the fields, their blades rising above the new summer growth. An occasional farm, surrounded by trees in full foliage, broke the monotony of the tidal basin that was northern Belgium. The farmland gave way to houses first, then to the commercial bustle of Antwerp's port. They entered the city from the south, the driver cutting off the Autoweg at Koning Albert Park and slowing as he maneuvered through the slower traffic.

The city was typical European, with narrow cobblestone streets lined with three-story, centuries-old brick buildings. Flemish was the dominant language on the ornate signage that identified businesses and guild houses. Numerous humpback bridges spanned the River Schelde as it snaked its way through the heart of the city, each ancient and sturdy in its stone construction. Houses and shops lined the water-way, and life was in full bustle as their bus pulled into the central station. They asked the driver for directions to a reasonably priced hotel close to the diamond district. He jotted down an address for a mid-range hotel on Appelmansstraat, close to the Andimo Building, home of De Beers's Belgium office. It wasn't far and they opted to walk.

“We must be running out of money,” she said as they cut through a square with a central fountain.

“Actually, no, we're just fine there. I borrowed a few thousand from Basil before we left London. The guy's loaded; he won't miss it.”

“We have to pay him back,” she said. “Somehow.”

“I have an idea,” he said, pointing down Appelmansstraat to number thirty-one. “I'll tell you later.” The Alfa Empire Hotel, complete with a tacky vertical sign and glassed-in lobby, stood out like a sore thumb amidst the restored historical ambience that bordered it on either side. Travis just shrugged his shoulders and headed for the lobby. “Maybe it's better inside.”

It was. The rooms were acceptable and had private baths. It was far from a five-star hotel, and they felt comfortable that Kerrigan wouldn't be sleeping next door. Samantha dragged out the phone book and looked up the main switchboard number for De Beers. She dialed the number, explained who she was, and asked the receptionist if it would be possible to get the names of the current directors. The woman was surprisingly accommodating and read off a few names. Samantha stopped her at the fifth name, Peter Van Housen. She asked to be put through to his local number, and waited as the phone rang. It eventually went to his voice mail, and she hit zero. The recording stopped and a different woman answered.

“Mr. Van Housen's office, Stephanie.”

“Hello, do you speak English?” Samantha asked. Her Flemish was nonexistent.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Mr. Van Housen. Could you put me directly through to him, please?”

“I'm sorry, but that is quite impossible. Mr. Van Housen is on holiday this week. Could I be of some assistance?”

Samantha thought quickly. Peter Van Housen was her ticket to an invitation to Wednesday's sight. She knew the man well from several meetings in different cities over the past five years. He represented De Beers in the capacity of international marketing, and in the course of his daily duties met with geologists, cutters, buyers and competitors on a regular basis. She respected his abilities, and knew that he held her in the same capacity.

“Could you please contact Mr. Van Housen at home and let him know that I'm in Antwerp?” She gave the woman her name.

“That would be highly irregular, Ms. Carlson.” The woman sounded uncertain.

“Please call him. I know Peter well, and I think he'd be very disappointed if he knew I had visited Antwerp and was unable to contact him.”

The secretary capitulated and asked Samantha to hold while she tried the director's home phone number. Two minutes later, she took Sam off hold, apologized profusely for not putting her directly through, and patched the line across to Van Housen's home. It rang twice and a familiar voice picked up.

“Samantha Carlson, is that really you?”

“Hi, Peter. It's me. I just arrived in Antwerp a couple of hours ago and thought I'd look you up. I hope I'm not bothering you by having your office ring you at home.”

“God, no. I would have been furious if they hadn't put you through. Listen, I'm on an international call on the other line. Would you like to pop over and have a drink, maybe dinner?”

“That sounds wonderful. I've got a friend with me, if that's okay?”

“Of course it is. My address is twenty-two Ambiorixlei, in Schoten. Just give the taxi driver the house number and he'll know where it is. See you in an hour?”

She agreed and hung up. She turned to Travis, a grin on her face. “I know this guy pretty well. I'm feeling a lot better about getting an invite to the sight.”

He clutched her close to him and kissed her. He felt the urgency and unabashed desire in her lips as she kissed him back. She slid her hands up and began to unbutton his shirt, then his pants. “Do we have enough time?” he asked quietly.

“The guy's on holiday, Travis. He's at home and expecting us. Where is he going?”

“God, I love your attitude,” he said, working his own magic on her buttons.

Forty minutes later, Samantha hailed one of the many black Mercedes cabs that cruised about the city in search of paying customers and gave the driver the address. He headed north, weaving through the back streets and giving his passengers the scenic route. He spoke some English and tried to point out landmarks and important buildings as they passed. Eventually he merged onto a main thoroughfare to cross the Albert Kanal, then angled east and into Schoten. The upscale neighborhood was anything but European. The houses were huge and surrounded by estate-size lots, covered with mature fir and birch trees. The roads were still cobblestone, but gone was the congestion of the city, replaced by a tranquil country setting. Samantha had to keep reminding herself she was in the heart of a city in the most populated country in Europe.

“What are these houses worth?” Samantha asked the driver.

“If you have to ask, you can't afford them,” the man replied. “Anyone who lives here is either very wealthy, or a foreign national working in Belgium. Or both.”

They turned onto Ambiorixlei and then through the brick-pillared gates of number twenty-two. The house was deep brown, with brick stretching across the exterior of the main floor. Dormers punctuated the steeply sloped roofline and the white trim was freshly painted. The Mercedes rattled ever so slightly as it pulled slowly up the long, sweeping cobblestone drive. They had just come to a stop when the front door opened and a middle-aged man walked out to greet them. He was well-dressed and very fit for his age, his hair still brown with no signs of gray. He clasped Samantha's hand and shook it vigorously. His complexion was pale and looked white against her tanned skin. She greeted him cordially and introduced him to Travis.

“I'm pleased to meet any friend of Samantha's,” Peter Van Housen said warmly as he shook Travis's hand. He insisted on paying the taxi driver and waved them into the house.