Star of Africa (Ben Hope, Book 13) (19 page)

The saga might have ended there, swallowed up into history. But it didn’t, not for Eugene Svalgaard who, picking up the trail so many decades later, was undeterred in his quest to find the lost Star of Africa. In 2004 he bolstered the efforts of the small army of investigators he had working on the case by offering a million-dollar reward for information leading to its whereabouts. He was cautious enough to keep his name out of it, of course, setting up a chain of contacts that couldn’t lead back to him. Some in the specialist diamond world were scandalised; others scoffed; and everyone soon forgot about it as years went by and nothing happened. Even Eugene began to lose hope as his quest seemed to stagnate.

Then, in 2013, a forty-five-year-old Belgian named Marc Redel stepped into the picture, having only then heard through the grapevine of Eugene’s reward. He belonged to a line of jewellers going back to his grandfather, Elias Redel, now deceased, who had been a valuation expert for the Antwerp Diamond Bank from 1936 until his retirement in 1977. It was concerning his late grandfather that Marc Redel had a strange story to tell. He told it, in person to Eugene, on March 4th 2013, in a suite at the Waldorf Towers in New York City, and it went like this:

Old Elias had passed away eight years earlier at the age of ninety-nine, riddled with disease and suffering badly from dementia, though still capable of moments of great lucidity. Marc and his father had been present at the old man’s death-bed in 2005 when, close to eternity and ready to make his final confessions, Elias Redel had revealed to them a secret from his distant past that he had kept locked up and never spoken of until now. He related how, late one afternoon in August 1938 as he walked home from work through the streets of Antwerp, he had been approached by a mysterious Afrikaner who introduced himself as Henrik Cornelius Steenkamp and said he had a business proposition for him. At first unwilling, Redel had let himself be persuaded to go for a drink with the man and hear what he had to say.

Steenkamp had come to the point pretty quickly. Over glasses of Witkap Dubbel beer he claimed to be a one-time adventurer, slave trader and now South African diamond mine owner, with a pressing need to have a certain item valued.

‘That’s what we do at the bank,’ Redel had said. ‘Why not come to us?’ To which Steenkamp had replied that, due to the sensitive nature of the item in question, he wished to conduct the valuation as much under the table and out of reach of government bureaucrats, specifically tax officials, as possible. He was willing to pay a premium for discretion, and had heard through the grapevine that Redel was the best young valuer at the Antwerp Diamond Bank. Would he help?

Elias had sniffed more than a slight tang of illegality here. ‘I’m a valuer, not a fence,’ he’d said. Steenkamp had laughed at that one. ‘I’m not asking you to sell it for me, man. I’m asking you to do your job, privately, just for me, as a special favour. You’ll be well rewarded, hey?’

Steenkamp had laid his money on the table. It was an extremely tempting sum for a recently married man of thirty-two saving up to buy a bigger apartment for his growing family. Elias struggled with his conscience. If he declined the bribe and insisted Steenkamp go through the proper channels, he knew the only real loser in the situation would be him. It was just another diamond, after all. What harm could come of it?

Except that it was very far from being just another diamond. When Steenkamp showed it to him, Elias’s eyes popped. As he lay dying sixty-seven years later, he could still describe it perfectly.

Even before testing to see whether the smooth, flat cleavage face was a match, there was little doubt as to the identity of the rough stone. It was even bigger than its sibling discovered back in 1905. Bigger than a man’s fist, over four thousand carats in weight and absolutely flawless.

An unabashed white supremacist, Steenkamp made no secret of what had happened to the black mine employee who had found the diamond and brought it to him. When Steenkamp had got over his initial shock at the sight of the thing, he’d immediately asked the black digger whether he had told anyone else about this. The answer was ‘No,
bwana
.’ Whereupon Steenkamp had unholstered his Colt New Service and shot the ‘stupid dumb kaffir’ in the head to make sure it stayed that way. Steenkamp laughed as he told the tale. ‘Don’t look so bloody shocked, man. They’re animals, nothing more.’

Elias Redel was a Jew who lived in horror of the rising tide of racial persecution in neighbouring Nazi Germany, and Steenkamp’s hateful tale had shocked him deeply. But then he went ahead and did the very thing that would most haunt him for the rest of his life. He accepted the Afrikaner’s offer and went with the money.

The private valuation took three days to complete. Redel used an exact zircon replica of the original Great Star of Africa to confirm what he already knew: Steenkamp’s 4,322-carat stone was the genuine article. That alone pushed its value through the roof. The figure Redel arrived at, after a great deal of soul-searching, was in the region of thirty-five million dollars.

That equated to a present-day value of just shy of six hundred million dollars. Working out the inflation as he sat listening to Redel in the Waldorf Towers suite, Eugene Svalgaard himself had to swallow hard at such an astronomical figure.

That was the end of Marc Redel’s story, but it was just the start of the next chapter in Eugene’s. Fired with an excitement beyond belief, after paying Redel his million, Eugene had set his investigators back to work. Now that they had a name to chase up and the almost limitless funds to bribe anyone they wanted and find out almost anything, they quickly discovered the trail of the diamond.

Needless to say, it transpired that Henrik Cornelius Steenkamp hadn’t kept it for long after August 1938. Suddenly enriched beyond most people’s wildest dreams, he had sold up his mine and retired to Switzerland, where he managed to duck the war and lived like a hog in the fathouse until his death, a penniless alcoholic, in 1952. The transaction that had made him fabulously rich had taken place in December ’38 after a successful bid at a private, invitation-only specialist diamond auction in Geneva. The buyer, according to the very hard-to-access archive records, had been a sixty-year-old Omani aristocrat named Farouk Al Bu Said. The sum he had paid was a hair-raising $36,795,000, well above Redel’s estimate.

And so the diamond had gone to Oman – and there, as far as anyone could ascertain, it had stayed. Farouk Al Bu Said died in 1964, passing his very considerable worldly goods to his son Feisal. Feisal’s own son, Amir, in turn inherited the bulk of the estate on his father’s death in 1983 and subsequently passed it twenty-five years later to Hussein Al Bu Said, the elder great-grandson of old Farouk.

Throughout that whole time, the diamond remained hidden, and in 2013 it was impossible for Svalgaard’s investigators to tell whether the Al Bu Said dynasty even still owned it, a frustration Eugene found extremely hard to bear. Had those dirty A-rabs auctioned it off on the sly? Eugene disliked and mistrusted all Arabs even more than he hated the Japanese. He only did business with any of them because he had to. By 2015, he had worked himself up into a terrible lather, convinced that the diamond’s trail had once again gone cold.

Then, in June of that year, a miracle had occurred when a specialist diamond agent in Zurich by the name of Levin Fiedelholz, part of Eugene’s extensive secret spy network, called urgently to say that his firm, Fiedelholz and Goldstein, had been approached by Al Bu Said’s ‘people’ with a view to putting a certain high-value item on the market. Fiedelholz himself had been made privy to confidential photographs that left no doubt about what kind of ‘high-value item’ they were talking about. For secrecy’s sake, for now the piece was being referred to only by a catalogue code number, as ‘Stock # 227586’. Reading between the lines, Fiedelholz said, it appeared that Hussein’s real estate empire had suffered some bad investments, and he needed to raise cash to bail himself out. The firm had been instructed to begin the process of trawling around for potential buyers.

Eugene was beside himself with excitement, until he was told the reserve price. Seven hundred million was outrageous, beyond even his means. But, Fiedelholz insisted, Al Bu Said would take a lot of persuading to budge. So began a game of chess that had dragged on for several months, until Hussein Al Bu Said’s business troubles apparently resolved themselves and he suddenly changed his mind about selling at all.

Fuming like a starving dog cheated out of a bone, Eugene had considered his options. They were few, and they were ugly, but he’d come this far. He would not be denied.

In early September, Eugene had put out cautious feelers to facilitate the plan that was brewing in his mind. Two weeks later, those feelers bore fruit in the shape of a professional criminal and soldier of fortune called Lee Pender. They’d only met once, in October, at which meeting Eugene offered Pender five million dollars to obtain the diamond for him, smuggle it out of Oman on board one of his ships and carry it to Mombasa, where Eugene would be waiting. Pender agreed. If the plan necessitated (as Pender put it) ‘pressing the button’ on Al Bu Said, then so be it. Eugene had few qualms on that score. Pender certainly had none whatsoever.

It had all seemed so easy, Eugene now reflected miserably as he paced the living room of the Villa La Cupola suite. Pender had carried out the first phase of the plan perfectly, albeit a little messily when he and his hitters had taken it upon themselves to wipe out the whole family. But Eugene hadn’t thought twice about Najila Al Bu Said and her kids. He could only think of one thing.

Just like he could only think of one thing now.

Where’s my ship? Where’s Lee Pender? Where’s my goddamned diamond?

But for every problem, there was a solution. And as the initial panic began to subside, and Eugene was able to reflect a little more calmly over the situation, possibilities began to dawn on him that made him realise, with a flash of hope burning brightly in his head like a light bulb, that there might be another way to see this.

He picked up the phone and dialled another number, one that few people knew.

When a voice answered, he said, ‘It’s me. Is he there?’

The voice replied, ‘He’s not here.’

‘Get him for me. I have a job for him.’

Eugene waited. Nineteen minutes later, the phone burred and Eugene snatched it up.

‘Bronski,’ said a different voice. Slow, calm, quietly self-assured, infinitely patient. Like the man himself.

‘Listen,’ Eugene said. Bronski listened. And Eugene told him what he wanted him to do.

Something was tap-tap-tapping against Ben’s head. He opened his eyes, and found himself squinting blearily into the black eye of a seagull. He jerked his head up off the hard, uncomfortable surface it was resting on and shooed the gull away. It flapped off on broad wings, low over the water, then looped up high and circled overhead.

Ben eased his aching body into a sitting position and gazed around him. The sun was rising over a calm, flat ocean and rising slowly into the cloudless sky. It was as if the storm had never happened, except for the absence of the ship and the remnants of the slick of wreckage that floated on the water. The only sound was the soft whisper of the ocean and the creaking of the makeshift raft Ben was sitting on.

His recollection of the cyclone was hazy, like half-forgotten snatches of a nightmare that returned to him in flashes. That last towering wave was still vivid in his mind’s eye, and the crush of the water as it crashed down. The pain in his skull was a reminder that he’d whacked his head against something hard as he went under; but after that his memory was blank and there was nothing more until he’d snapped awake, drifting alone on a calm sea under a brightly starlit sky, an arm and a leg still hooked through the piece of deck railing that had somehow become snagged on a half-submerged cargo container and kept him afloat. Just him and the wide open sea and the vast dome of space stretching overhead, its billions of twinkling lights shimmering on the spangled ocean, broken here and there by the bobbing dark rectangles of scores of loose shipping containers that trapped enough air inside their iron shells to keep them afloat, drifting slowly outwards in a spreading circle half a mile or more across. They were a strange, surreal sight. Like floating tombstones, markers for the dead at sea.

At first he’d thought he was the only one to have made it, and his despair almost made him let go and allow the depths to swallow him up, too. Then out of the darkness he’d heard a voice calling his name, pulling him back from the brink.

Jude’s voice.

Ben had powered splashing across fifty metres of cold sea and discovered Jude clinging to another container, submerged up to the neck and treading water. Ben had cried as he held him, and Jude had cried too, though that was something neither of them would talk about for as long as they lived.

Then, through the hours of night that followed, the rest of the survivors had gradually come together. Or what was left of them. Two became four when Jude spotted Lou Gerber’s white, balding head struggling to stay afloat with the dead weight of the injured, semi-conscious Condor dragging him down. Ben and Jude had swum out together to haul them to safety. Then four became seven when, with a triumphant yell, Jeff Dekker pulled himself to stand on the lopsided top of a container far away in the distance, and waved his arms wildly to show that he had Tuesday and Hercules with him.

Seven was as many as they would ever see again.

It had been the longest time before anybody spoke, too stunned for words and too occupied with pulling together what pieces of flotsam they could to build some kind, any kind, of raft. The brightness of the stars enabled them to work, without which the wreckage might all have been dispersed on the ocean current before daybreak. The raft consisted of a makeshift, uneven platform that straddled two waterlogged containers like a catamaran designed by a blind man, lashed together out of anything they could harvest from the floating wreckage and their own clothing – bits of electrical wire and cable, bootlaces, belts. It was fragile and would easily break apart at any hint of the sea becoming rough again, but it was all they had, and they were alive, here and now. What little they had managed to save in the way of materials was bundled carefully at its centre, well clear of the water. No medical supplies, signalling equipment or anything edible had survived. Just seven weary men, one diver’s knife, one submachine gun, one pistol, a water-damaged short-range radio and the tenuous hope that, somehow, they would get through this.

Then, slowly, as they lay spent with nothing left to do except float under the stars, and wait for dawn to break, and pray, and count and recount their dead, they began to share their stories about what had happened.

Hercules had been bringing a jug of hot coffee up to Jeff and Tuesday on the bridge, the ever-present Murphy perched on his shoulder, when the deck crane had swung loose and crashed through the windows, showering them with glass. Then the floor tilted crazily under them as the weight of the toppled crane dragged the ship over, sending them all sprawling just before the freak wave hit and a wall of water surged through the smashed bridge. Hercules had only just managed to keep Murphy alive by stuffing him inside the empty coffee jug. The three had fought and swum their way out in pitch-darkness, only by luck grabbing three life jackets in the fleeting moments before the ship went under.

Lou Gerber had been making for the outer deck, concerned about Jude’s whereabouts after Condor had told him Jude was looking for Ben. Seawater had barrelled through the hatch like a high-pressure hose just as Gerber was opening it to step outside, and almost drowned him. Condor had been less lucky, pummelled head-first against a bulkhead by the force of the water and knocked unconscious. Gerber had grabbed his crewmate by the belt, dragged him bodily up to the next level and the next as the ship tilted over. When the rising torrent of water reached up as far as E Deck and seemed set to swallow up the bridge, Gerber had jumped for it from one of the external walkways, still hanging onto Condor’s belt as the two of them dropped clear over the listing rail and into the fury of the sea. How they’d made it, Gerber would never know.

The rest were presumed lost. Trent and Lang had been resting in their cabins when the ship capsized, and might not even have known what was happening until it was too late. Allen and Lorenz were unaccounted for, too. As for Cherry and Peters down in the engine room, once the
Andromeda
began to go down and the holds and passages below filled with water, there was no possible hope of escape as the bowels of the ship became their tomb. The slow, agonising death they must have suffered down there was too terrible to imagine.

Strangely, nobody asked about Scagnetti.

Dawn ground inch by inch into view, the horizon lightening to a pure gold the likes of which Ben had never seen before, as if the sky had been rinsed clean by the fury of the storm. The huge orb of the sun gradually rose over a sea as calm and flat as the day the
Andromeda
had set off from Salalah.

Ben had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep, until the gull awoke him and he was plucked back to the reality of their predicament. Jude lay curled up close by on the raft, with his legs pulled up well clear of the water in case of sharks. None had been spotted during the night, but Ben expected them to make an appearance sooner or later. Each of the three life jackets that Jeff had salvaged from the sinking ship came equipped with a small flashlight and a tube of shark repellent, which were on standby for the first sign of trouble.

It had taken every bit of persuasion Ben could muster to get Jude to put on one of the life jackets. Gerber was wearing another because he was the oldest, something he was unhappy being reminded of. The third jacket had been allocated to Condor, who was still too weak to swim if anything happened to the raft. Ben had examined his head injury and suspected concussion, as his speech was slurred and he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Gerber was especially worried about him, but there was nothing anyone could do but keep an eye on his condition and hope for the best.

Ben reached over and touched Jude’s shoulder. Jude opened his eyes.

‘You all right?’ Ben asked him.

‘I keep thinking about the others,’ Jude said softly.

‘How’s the hand?’

‘Hurts a little.’

‘Let me see.’ Ben inspected the laceration on Jude’s palm that Scagnetti’s knife had made. It looked worse than it probably was. ‘Keep bathing it with saltwater,’ he advised Jude. ‘Then it won’t get infected.’

Tension was high aboard their makeshift little vessel. Ben could feel it, and it was only a question of time before the stress started getting to them. He wondered who would begin to crack first. Gerber seemed a tough old salt, but he was worn down with fatigue and worry. Hercules was a physically huge and powerful man but, psychologically, Ben sensed a growing strain inside him that threatened to snap if he was pushed much further. Either of them could be the first to lose it.

The only one doing much talking was Murphy, who had recovered from the ordeal of being stuffed into an aluminium coffee jug and now stood perched on the end of the raft, beadily eyeing the gull that was still circling overhead, and breaking out into screeching cries of ‘
Get the fuck out of here! Get the fuck out of here!
’

‘Yeah, right. Wish we could,’ Jeff muttered.

‘Couldn’t you have taught him anything nicer to say?’ Tuesday asked Hercules, frowning. He was trying to get the damaged radio working, and had it all taken apart in his lap, sifting through the pieces.

‘He didn’t get none of it from me,’ Hercules protested.

‘
Eat my shit, motherfucker!
’ squawked the bird.

‘Tell you what,’ Gerber said bitterly. ‘I’d rather be at the bottom of the sea along with the rest of the guys than stuck here having to listen to that feathered sonofabitch.’

Hercules glowered at Gerber and gestured at the waves. ‘Be my guest.’

‘Can’t you shut it up? It’s driving me crazy.’

‘Bro, you already crazy as a road lizard.’

‘Then again, at least we got something to eat, right?’ Gerber said, grinning a nasty grin. ‘Once you get past the beak, there’s gotta be a few scraps of meat on it. You want to pass me that weapon, Jeff?’

‘
Kiss my weenie, butt breath!
’ Murphy screeched, more loudly than ever.

‘Don’t even think about it, man,’ Hercules said to Gerber. ‘I’m serious.’

‘One shot. It won’t know what hit it.’

‘You touch my bird, dude,’ Hercules warned him, ‘you best hitch yo’self a ride on another boat.’

Gerber laughed. ‘You call this a boat? It’s the freakin’ raft of the Medusa. Like the painting.’

Hercules snorted. ‘Painting my ass.’

‘Yeah, painting. That’s what I said.’

‘You got shit for brains, dumbass old geezer. It’s
head
of the Medusa. You know, like snakes for hair and shit. Ever’body knows that.’

‘Yeah, well, you might have seen that in some knuckleheaded movie, but some of us are educated around here. Even this dumbass old geezer.’

Hercules’s face turned to thunder. ‘You sayin’ I ain’t educated?’

‘I’m saying, learn your history. The wreck of the French forty-gun frigate
Medusa
on reefs off the coast of Mauritania in 1810. Bunch of the crew managed to get away on a raft before she went down. Picasso painted it.’

Tuesday looked up from the dismantled pieces of the radio handset. ‘Uh-uh. Not Picasso. The artist was Géricault.’

Gerber stared at him. ‘Jericho? No way. I’m telling you it was fuckin’ Picasso.’

Tuesday shook his head. ‘Théodore Géricault. Painted the
Raft of the Medusa
in 1818. An icon of French Romanticism, though not strictly accurate in its depiction of the historical events.’

‘Listen to m’man there,’ Hercules said, nodding.

Gerber blinked. ‘How in the world would you know that?’

‘I know all kinds of useless crap,’ Tuesday said. ‘Wish I knew how to get this radio working again, though. Think the saltwater’s got to the circuitry.’

‘Did they survive?’ Jude asked.

‘Who?’ Tuesday said.

‘The French sailors of the
Medusa
.’

Tuesday shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean by survived. There were a hundred and fifty men on board the raft to start with. Fifteen were rescued two weeks later. Storms, suicide, fighting and cannibalism took the rest.’

Which ended the squabble between Hercules and Gerber, but put such a damper on the conversation that everyone shut up for a long time and lapsed into their own thoughts. Jude went back to scanning the water for sharks while Ben kept his eyes on the sky and his ears open for sight or sound of an aircraft, in case the coastguard was out patrolling for shipwrecks in the wake of the storm. The
Andromeda
had been out of radio contact a long time. Someone must surely have raised the alarm by now. But the only thing circling in the air was the solitary gull, following the drifting raft in the vain hope of scavenging any scraps of food.

The presence of the gull told Ben that they were within a hundred miles or so of land. Few seabirds would venture out further than that. They were drifting slowly eastwards, judging by the sun, but in these still conditions they were unlikely to cover more than six or eight miles a day, assuming that the raft held together.

The morning wore on. After a long, cold night of shivering in their wet clothes, the heat of the sun was now baking them. Even Murphy became subdued. Ben used the diver’s knife to fashion a makeshift bivouac out of the torn sheet of plastic tarpaulin and a length of wooden pole they’d rescued from the wreckage. Jude and Gerber helped him to move Condor under the shade of the shelter. If the wind came up, as Ben silently prayed it would, the plastic sheet could be hoisted upright to make a sail of sorts that would speed their progress towards landfall.

But if it didn’t, and if nobody came to rescue them, the biggest concern was going to be drinking water. Many yachtsmen carried solar stills and desalinisation kits for treating seawater, in case of emergency. But such luxuries were lacking on board the raft, and unless it rained they were going to have a real problem. Depending on the temperature, an adult could just about survive on as little as two ounces of water a day, which would have been hard enough to provide for one man alone. Multiply that by seven and it became an impossible proposition to keep everyone hydrated, especially as bodies began to swelter under the hot sun.