African Ice (46 page)

“Then I've got to go. Samantha came up with an idea that might just work. Talk to you later.” He turned to an inquisitive Samantha Carlson. “I'll tell you in the taxi what's going on. Let's go.”

Kerrigan sat in the business-class passenger's lounge, relaxing now that he had cleared customs and immigration. The ticket agent had been excellent, considering his predicament. The credit card authorization he had initiated from his hotel room an hour earlier had been rejected, leaving him without a ticket. The plane was almost filled, but the agent managed to find him a business-class seat when he produced the cash. Now he was just a few minutes from boarding, and freedom. A sharp prick on the back of his left hand caused him to open his eyes and jerk upright. To his right was Samantha Carlson, and to his left was Travis McNeil. They both clamped their hands over his, holding him tight to the arms of the chair.

“Thinking about leaving, Mr. Kerrigan?” McNeil asked.

“I don't think that's such a good idea,” Samantha added. “Since you're a murdering son of a bitch.”

“Fuck you, Carlson. You've done enough damage. You're not stopping me from getting on that airplane.”

“You're the one who's done the damage. I loved my parents, and a day doesn't go by that I don't think of them. And you killed them. Just like you murdered every person on Cranston Air Flight 111.”

“Not to mention the expeditions you sent into the jungle, knowing full well that you were going to kill them once they found the diamonds,” said Travis.

Kerrigan was twitching slightly, and his sight was blurring. He shook his head to try to clear the cobwebs. McNeil was grasping at his coat. He pulled away, talking loudly to attract the attention of the gate personnel. An airline rep appeared and Kerrigan lurched forward into her arms. He tried to talk, but his speech was slurred, incoherent. The Lufthansa employee looked to Travis and Samantha for help.

“Our uncle is mildly handicapped,” Samantha explained. “If you could help him to his gate and onto the plane, it would be greatly appreciated.

“Of course, miss,” the agent said, grasping Kerrigan and steadying him. She led him toward the row of gates leading to the planes. “Where is your ticket, sir?” Kerrigan managed to pat his chest and the woman removed his ticket from the vest pocket. She looked at it and led him away. “You're at gate forty-one, and they are just starting to board.”

Travis and Samantha watched as the woman led Kerrigan to the plane. They returned through the metal detectors and left the section reserved for ticketed passengers. They threw the business-class tickets they had just purchased in the garbage, went to the main doors and jumped in a cab.

“I hope he enjoys the flight,” she said cheerfully.

“I don't think he'll remember much of it. How much curare did you put on that needle?”

“Quite a bit. He's going to be in a trance for quite a while. Curare is a powerful muscle relaxant. Pretty good idea, eh?”

“Very good.” He gave her a long, loving kiss.

“Remember when I asked you if you'd consider quitting what you do and maybe starting a business?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

“I said yes, and I meant it.”

“Okay, then let's figure out what we should do. You like to dive, right?”

“Scuba?” he asked and she nodded. “Yup, I love to dive.”

“Then we could set up shop somewhere really warm, with white sand beaches and underwater reefs and run a dive shop.”

“But I also like to ski,” he said, frowning insincerely.

“Okay. We'll run a dive shop for five months, and a skiing operation for five months. How does that sound?”

“That's only ten months.”

“We need two just for us.” The taxi pulled into Antwerp and she asked the driver to find a post office. He did, and she deposited a letter and a small package, then rejoined Travis in the backseat.

“You're probably the kind of guy who hates the thought of marriage,” she said.

“I used to. I'm not so sure anymore.” He grinned at her and she knew. He was sure.

The flight attendant gently nudged the passenger in 4B. He had slept for the entire flight and the pilots were just beginning their final approach into the airport. He snorted a couple of times, then opened his eyes. They were unfocused, teary.

“Sir, we're going to be landing soon. You have to put your seat back in an upright position.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Did you say we're almost there?”

“Yes, sir. We're just beginning our final descent right now.”

“I must have slept through the entire flight.”

“You did, sir.”

“That makes buying a business-class ticket seem like a waste,” he said. The attendant smiled.

Patrick Kerrigan handed over the small airline pillow and blanket. He moved his seat back to the proper position and ran his hands over his hair. The attendant reappeared with a glass of water and he accepted it. He took a long drink and relaxed. He had slept well on the flight and felt refreshed. Slowly, however, he began to recall the incident at the Brussels airport. McNeil and Carlson sitting on either side of him. Then nothing. No recollection of anything until now. He shook his head slightly, trying to stir his memory. Something else had happened at the airport. What was it? McNeil's voice, then a pinprick on his hand. His left hand. He looked down at the back of his hand, and balked. Between his second and third knuckles was a tiny red mark.

He began to sweat. The vague memory of McNeil and Carlson was real. They had been at the airport. But what had they wanted? He had made his flight and escaped. They had failed to stop him. His breathing began to slow and he felt the initial adrenaline rush dissipate. He settled back into the first-class seat and closed his eyes. Whatever they had tried, it hadn't worked.

He felt the tires touch down on the runway. He was safe. Safe from the FBI and Interpol, and aside from the CIA mounting a covert operation to return him to the United States, safe from any law enforcement agency. And the chances of the CIA sending in a team on such a high-risk mission was just about zero. It would take time to rebuild his fortune but it could be done. It would be done. He had enough cash with him to get set up in Tunisia and finance a quick trip to Sierra Leone. He still had ties to small mining sites in that hellhole that would move him back to millionaire status within months. And once he was back on his feet financially, he'd take care of Samantha Carlson.

The ground crews attached the bridge to the plane and the flight attendants opened the door. The business-class passengers began to deplane and Kerrigan fell in line. He smiled at the attendant as she thanked the passengers for flying Lufthansa.

“Welcome to Cairo, sir,” she said pleasantly to Kerrigan as he passed.

He stopped dead in his tracks and the passenger behind him almost walked into him. He turned to the attendant. “What did you say?”

“Welcome to Cairo.” She looked puzzled at his expression.

“This flight wasn't to Cairo, it was to Tunisia. What the hell are we doing in Cairo? Was the plane detoured?” He was panicking now.

“Sir, this flight is a regularly scheduled one that flies direct from Brussels to Cairo. If you check your ticket, you'll see—”

Kerrigan watched as the woman spoke to him, her lips moving, telling him his life was over. He staggered back against the flow of passengers and sat down hard in a first-row business-class seat. He looked at the back of his left hand, at the tiny red mark. McNeil and Carlson had been at the airport, all right. They had drugged him and they had switched his ticket. And now he sat on the runway in a city where the police wanted him for murdering two of their men. That bitch.

The passengers finished filing out of the plane and a group of heavily armed police marched through the bridge and encircled his seat. He looked up and saw unabashed hatred in the officers' eyes as they stared down at him.

“Patrick Kerrigan?” one of them asked. He simply nodded. “You are under arrest for the murder of Abdullah Minghas, and complicity in the murder of two Cairo police officers.”

Kerrigan stood up and faced the man. “Do I even get a trial?”

“You have had your trial. You have been found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.” The police officer leaned close to Kerrigan and spat in his face. He whirled Kerrigan around and snapped a pair of handcuffs on him. They were far too tight. He spun the prisoner around to face him again. “We have a very special part of our jail reserved for you. I do not think you will like it.”

Kerrigan put up no resistance as they grabbed him and pushed him roughly through the airport and toward a waiting car. He had lost everything. His position in society, his reputation, his wealth and now his freedom. And she had taken it from him.

“Damn you to hell, Samantha Carlson.”

The sun was bright in his eyes as they shoved him into the car. Then the door closed and the light was gone. It was the last time in his life he would feel the warmth of the sun.

Basil Abercrombie watched the postman turn and climb the stairs to his stoop. The metal flap on his door opened and two letters dropped through, followed by a small package. The flap clicked shut and the postman retreated from the door. Basil set his tea on the table and walked over to the door. He picked up the mail and returned to the couch. He ignored the letters and scanned the package. It was addressed to Abe Lisab. Cute. The return address was some street in Antwerp, Belgium. The person who had packaged it and put it in the post was Samuel Travis. He chuckled lightly as he ripped the wrapping apart and spilled the contents onto the table.

Twelve greenish stones fell to the wooden surface. He sat back, staring at the diamonds. Travis had promised he would repay the few thousand pounds he had borrowed and he had come through. Basil knew that the value of the stones, even on the black market, was in excess of three million pounds. But what was more important was the knowledge that they had pulled it off. They had gone into De Beers and stolen the diamonds back. His little box had worked.

He scooped the rough into a small brown envelope and sealed it. He stood in the middle of his flat and looked about. Somehow, it didn't matter anymore. It wasn't him. He picked up the phone and booked a flight to Barbados. He slipped the diamonds into his pocket and left the flat, locking the door behind him. He dropped the key in the first trash bin he passed and kept walking.

With the money he already had stashed in the bank and the newfound wealth in his pocket, he felt confident of one thing. If Travis could land a babe like Samantha, so could he. And what better place than Barbados?

Mail arrived seldom in Kigali, and overseas mail was a real event. The postman knocked on the door and handdelivered the letter from Belgium directly to Hal and Mauri. Their four children looked on excitedly as Hal opened the letter. He read it aloud.

Dear Hal and Mauri
,

      
Travis and I have had quite the adventure since we last saw you in the Congo. I hope you arrived home safely and had no problems with the soldiers. I know how resourceful you are, Hal, and I'm confident you will be standing in your living room reading this with Mauri and the kids
.

      
Thanks again for your services during the gorilla expedition. We wouldn't have seen so many primates without your expert guidance. You're the best
.

      
You really must try this little hole in the wall we found. It's the last place you would ever think of looking. It's about halfway down the west side of Ridge Street and the front of the shop is covered with shrubs and vines. Very tropical and tough to see. But once you're inside, the menu is unbelievable. I think you'll find it very rewarding
.

      
Say hi to the kids for me
.

      
By the way, Travis and I are getting married
.

All my love
,

Samantha

Hal finished reading and the kids went off to play. Mauri started to prepare lunch and Hal sat in his easy chair. He reread the letter again, smiling as he did. Tomorrow he would leave on an adventure—a very profitable adventure.

The letter was a map. A map to the diamondiferous formation deep in the Ruwenzori Mountains. He would travel to the last target Samantha's expedition had looked at. He knew the exact location. Then he would carefully examine the western ridge for a hole. Once he found the hole, he would find the diamonds. And then things would change. He would pay off every important person he had ever blackmailed. That would ensure his safety. Then he would take the wealth from the vein and slowly distribute it to the needy of Kigali. He would make life so much better for so many.

The last thought he had before he folded up the letter and slipped it into his shirt pocket was that he would buy Mauri a new house, one with running water and a proper bathroom. And bedrooms for the children. He withdrew the letter from his pocket and kissed it lightly.

“Thank you, Doctor Sam,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”