African Ice (42 page)

The home was furnished with a masculine hand, the furniture dark leather with silver studs on its arms. The heavy tables were highly polished. Coats of arms decorated one wall of the foyer and original oils graced the formal living room. Van Housen motioned for them to be seated. The leather was soft and warm to the touch.

“I noticed a brass plaque on one of the brick pillars in front of the house,” Travis said, interested. “It said Villa T'luipeerd. What exactly does that mean?”

“All the houses in this area have names,”Van Housen said, relaxing in an armchair. “This one is Leopard Villa.”

“It makes that look a little out of place,” Samantha said, pointing at a stuffed beaver tucked away in the far corner of the room.

“Ah, my beaver. I bought this house from an executive with General Motors. He and his wife were Canadian. I made the mistake of telling them I liked it and when they left Belgium, they left me the beaver. It does make an interesting conversation piece.”

Samantha nodded. She was interested in how Peter had ended up in Antwerp, and the next half an hour was spent tracing his movements for the past year or two. Finally, Van Housen asked Samantha what had brought them to Antwerp.

“We're just taking some time to see a bit of Europe,” she said. “Antwerp seemed like a nice place to visit. And . . . I noticed De Beers has a sight set for Wednesday morning. Now that would be interesting to sit in on.”

“Are you kidding?” Van Housen sat upright in his chair. “It would be an honor to have you at the sight, Sam. We don't get enough field geologists in Antwerp. Too many cutters and polishers, and not enough gatherers. Do you really want to take it in?”

“Absolutely.”

He reached for the phone that sat on the table next to his chair. “Then consider it done.” He began to dial.

“Peter, do me a favor?”

“Anything, Sam.”

“Just tell your people that a geologist will be attending. Don't use my name.” When he looked bewildered, she went on to explain. “Diamonds might be a girl's best friend, but the business is still run predominantly by men. Sometimes guys get their shorts in a knot when a woman is peeking over their shoulder. But once I'm face to face with them, it's usually okay.”

He finished dialing. “As you wish, Sam.” Someone answered and Van Housen spoke in fluent Flemish. He was on the line for a minute, then hung up. “That's arranged. Now, how about some dinner?”

It was well after nine in the evening when they finally poured themselves into a cab and headed back to their hotel. Peter Van Housen had been the consummate host, entertaining them with stories and plying them with food and liquor. The truth be known, both of them were fairly smashed when they left. They fell into bed together and Travis was asleep within seconds, leaving Samantha alone with her thoughts. And the one thought that kept recurring to her was that she was going to get her chance at Kerrigan. One chance, and only one.

But could she pull it off?

Patrick Kerrigan deplaned in Brussels, hailed a cab and stretched out in the backseat. He gave the driver his hotel name in Antwerp and watched the man's expression light up. Brussels cabbies liked nothing better than fares to Antwerp—they were a license to print money. It was bordering on dusk and Kerrigan had lost all of Monday to the flight and time difference. He hadn't slept at all on the plane and drifted off intermittently as his ride cruised through the Belgian countryside. He woke as they entered Antwerp, and twenty minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the city's only fivestar accommodation, the Radisson SAS Park Lane Hotel.

His room was reserved and the desk clerk had a message for him from a Mr. Shaw when he checked in. He settled into the suite, then called Garret on the number his hired killer had left. It was prefixed with a London area code.

Shaw answered immediately. “Hello, Patrick. McNeil and Carlson are in Belgium.”

“What?” Kerrigan was stunned. “Where in Belgium, and when did they get here?”

“They flew into Brussels this afternoon. Probably arrived about three o'clock or so.”

“They flew into Brussels? What the hell are they up to?”

“No idea. I missed getting on the plane by seconds. One of your moles called from Washington. They couldn't contact you, so they tried me.”

“Shit. My guess is they're coming to Antwerp. But why?”

“Maybe the diamonds you got from them in Cairo were not all they had. They could be in Antwerp to dump off some rough to a cutter.”

“Perhaps,” Kerrigan said slowly, “but I don't think so. No, they're up to something.”

“I'm on the next flight from London. It leaves tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, you know where I'm staying. I'll see you when you get here.” He hung up and paced the room.

Samantha Carlson was a major fucking headache. A headache that refused to go away. And with McNeil in tow, she was dangerous. All this two days before the private sight he had arranged at De Beers. He briefly contemplated whether the two could be connected, then discarded the idea. De Beers had set the sight at his request and had arranged for two Saudi princes as potential buyers for the entire lot, but his name had not been associated at any time. There was no way Carlson could have linked him to the sight. Of that he was positive.

Room service arrived with fresh coffee and pastries. He poured some coffee into the fine china that accompanied the urn and stirred in some cream. He watched as the cream dissipated in the coffee, lightening the color. The world was a bit like that, he thought. Every person who was added into the mix changed things a bit, altered the original. Some more so than others. And some in very distinct ways. He had committed some actions that could be construed as atrocities. Bringing down Cranston Air Flight 111 was horrific, but necessary. Killing the geologists didn't bother him in the least. They had been hired to perform a specific task, and when they double-crossed him by keeping the location of the diamonds secret, he had no choice. Eliminating people who stood in his way wasn't a major concern to him, nor was it the highlight of his life.

But Samantha Carlson was different. Killing her was going to be fun. A simple death was too good. He would make her suffer, torture her until she screamed to be put down, like a wounded dog. But even then he would refuse. He would make the pain linger until he was satisfied she had suffered enough. Then, and only then, would he kill her.

Perhaps her trip to Antwerp was a blessing in disguise. She was close by and Shaw was on his way in from London. They would slip up somehow, and Shaw would pounce. Once McNeil was out of the way, she would be helpless. His pulse quickened as a surreal vision of Samantha Carlson at his mercy ran through his mind.

Soon, he thought. Very soon.

Tuesday dawned clear in Antwerp, a rarity in a city that generally languished under cloud cover. The parks were jammed with families, the squares bustled with activity and the sidewalk cafes did a robust business. Antwerp worshipped the sun on the few days it chose to show itself. Travis and Samantha were caught up in the adrenaline and spent some of the day outside their hotel room, touring and taking in the city's history. Being spotted by Kerrigan was a concern and they kept a low profile, spending most of the time in the back of a cab. Belgian chocolate, world-famous for its rich texture and taste, was plentiful and Samantha tried a few different stores. They found a quaint restaurant specializing in mussels and opted for an early dinner.

The conversation varied, but consistently came back to Kerrigan and what would happen tomorrow morning. The sight was to begin at ten o'clock and Samantha was set to arrive only a couple of minutes before ten. She would meet both the seller and the buyers, then have an opportunity to grade the diamonds before the buyer's agents made an offer. It would be precisely ten o'clock when she locked eyes with Patrick Kerrigan.

“You going to be okay?” Travis asked, finishing off the last of his mussels and ordering another Stella Artois.

“Don't worry about me. Just make sure you're there to take the case after I come out of the room.”

“I know, take the case and casually get the hell out of there—with the diamonds. If the security's as tight as you think it is, they'll search it on the way out. But I don't think they'll find the section where the diamonds will be hidden. Basil's work is absolute perfection.”

“I just hope Basil's little contraption works. If it doesn't, I'll look like a complete idiot. Worst-case scenario lands me in jail for attempted theft.”

“You'll do fine, Sam. You're a woman of many talents.”

“Theft was never high on my list.”

“If you get the diamonds and replace them with the cubic zirconia, Kerrigan is finished. He'll never trade in precious stones again.”

“Travis.” She looked at the table as she spoke, afraid to make eye contact in case he gave her the wrong answer. “After this is over, would you consider getting out of this lunatic line of work you're in? I've got more than enough money. Not just to live on, but for us to start a business or something. You know, something not so dangerous.”

He reached across the table and cupped his hand under her chin. He gently lifted it and her eyes met his. He smiled. “Yes” was all he said.

They paid their bill and left the restaurant. They were close enough to the hotel to walk, and with twilight setting in, Travis thought they would be safe without taking a cab. The walk was refreshing and half an hour later they locked and bolted the hotel-room door. Samantha checked out Basil's box for the final time and Travis powered up the computer and logged on to the Internet. Sam had already programmed a proxy into the machine, effectively blocking it from sniffers. Travis opened and closed a few web sites and was getting bored when he had an idea. Learn more about geology. He pulled up the American Institute of Professional Geologists and began to poke around. Eventually he made his way to the awards section. He noted that every year, the AIPG selected a member who was without peer and awarded him or her with a silver-plated geologist's hammer. He scrolled back, reading the brief bios of the recipients over the past few years. He hit 1994 and stopped in his tracks. David Samuel Carlson had been the board's unanimous choice that year for his selfless devotion to the discipline. Samantha's father.

“Hey, look at this,” Travis said. “Check out the 1994 winner of the AIPG fellow of the year.”

Samantha set the box on the table and sauntered over. She leaned on his shoulders and read off the winners until she hit 1994. “My dad won it that year. I knew they'd picked him once but I didn't know what year. David Samuel Carlson,” she read off the screen. “He always hated David, much preferred Sam.”

“Not your average trophy. The winner gets a silver hammer.” Samantha stared at the screen. What had he said? The winner gets a silver hammer. Her knees went weak and she collapsed to the floor. He turned quickly in his chair, then was on his knees helping her up. His lips were moving, asking her if she was okay. Some part of her brain sent a reply—she needed water. He picked her up and set her on the couch, then hurried off to find some. He returned a few seconds later. She drank deeply, almost trancelike. He was close, staring at her, talking to her. She cut him off, asked him a question.

“What was the name of the hotel we stayed at in Butembo?”

“The Queen Anne. Why?”

“Could you do me a favor and get the telephone number for the hotel?” He just stared at her. “Please,” she added. He dialed the international directory, and after a few minutes jotted a number down on the pad of paper beside the phone. He held it up for her to see. “Dial it, please.” He nodded and handed her the phone as he dialed the number.

“What's wrong, Sam?” he asked quietly.

“Let me make this call first, Travis.” She held up her finger. Someone in Butembo had picked up. “Could I speak with Martine Abouda, please?” A few moments of silence. “Hello, Martine, this is Samantha Carlson. Do you remember me? I stayed at your hotel a few weeks ago.” She was silent as he confirmed that he knew who she was. “Martine, when I introduced myself to you I remember you said something rather odd to me. You said that I don't look like Sam Carlson. Why did you say that?”

He watched the remaining color drain from her face as she listened to the answer. “Could you please check your records and see exactly when Mr. Carlson stayed at your hotel.” Again, silence as the man dug up the old records. “I see. Thank you very much.” She hung up. Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she stared ahead at nothing.

“What's going on?” he asked, moving beside her and holding her. She was shaking.

“When we were in the Congo, in Butembo, the manager of the hotel said I didn't look like Sam Carlson. He said that because he had already met Sam Carlson. My father had stayed at the hotel.”

“What? When?”

“Just over two years ago. Two years and three months, minus a couple of days. Dad stayed at the Queen Anne before heading into the Ruwenzori.”

“What are you saying?”

“The hammer. The geologist's hammer we found at the foot of the diamond formation. D.S.C–1994. It never clicked until now, because Dad never called himself David. But that hammer, the one we found in the Congo, was given to my father by the AIPG in 1994. And my father stayed at the Queen Anne just before he died. Travis, Kerrigan sent another expedition to the Congo, one that we didn't know about. And my father was in charge of it.”

“Oh, my God,” he whispered softly. “After your father finished with the expedition, he met your mother in Morocco. They were killed in a plane crash taking off from Casablanca.”

“That bastard,” she seethed. Gone was the timid woman with the tears. In her place was a woman consumed with anger. She stood up, the room whirling. Her arms lashed out, smashing the lamp and a vase. She grabbed the phone and hurled it at the wall. It missed the window and bounced off the painted stone, pieces flying about the room. Travis grabbed her and held her close. Her fists were clenched, her eyes afire, her lips contorted into a vicious sneer.