Hot Ice, page 10
‘You were saying…’ Rowan prompts her.
‘Let’s not forget Mohsen Sheik,’ she improvises. ‘His daughter’s kidnapping tells us something. My view is that Sienna is being held hostage to force her father to purchase the more inferior grades of blood diamonds.’
‘Why him?’
‘Because India is the only market for tiny, lowgrade rough diamonds. They are polished and exported to brighten cheap jewellery. In the past these roughs had industrial uses, but nowadays the industry uses synthetic diamonds. Indian workshops provide the only market for this socalled diamond waste. Mohsen Sheik controls most of the country’s polishing workshops…he supplies them with roughs and exports the polished stones.’
Rowan glances sharply at her. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘At school I shared a dormitory with his daughter. By the way…I meant to ask you…the police should have this information. Shall I…?’
Rowan was scribbling in his notebook. ‘Write it down and give it to Mary. I’ll pass it on. It’ll save you time. All police collaboration normally goes through me, unless they specifically want to see you. Anything else I should know?’
‘Well, yes, there is something. I didn’t mention that I cabled our Bombay office. I asked them to send us a review of Jewelrex Company’s past weeks’ cash transactions, and that we’re looking for large cash payments.’
Rowan stands for a while with his back turned, as if deep in thought. ‘Good thinking Chris, but be careful. I know I should relinquish the investigation, but it’s at government level, so I’m reluctant to throw in the towel. At least not right now.’
‘I won’t let you,’ Chris whispers to herself as she stands up and makes for the door. ‘It might help me to know who our clients are.’
‘Believe it or not, it’s the Republic of Congo. They feel they’re suffering from unfair prejudice. They want the facts before they appeal.’ Chris tries not to show how startled she feels. ‘Dave Marais claims to be deputising for our client.’
‘Yes. He’s acting for this government in an advisory capacity.’
She sighs with relief. ‘Then I’ll be getting along.’
Rowan sends one of his rare, twisted smiles her way. ‘Keep away from Moses Freeman. That’s an order.’
As Chris hurries back to her office she considers her options. Despite Rowan’s advice, her top priority is Freeman, but it might be wiser to do without Jean’s help in booking a flight to New York. Chris hasn’t yet decided whether or not she can trust her. The last thing she wants is Rowan breathing down her neck again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chris closes her office door and calls her travel agent. Fortunately there’s a cancellation on the six a.m. flight the next day. She has only just replaced the receiver when Dave bursts in unannounced. Jean follows hard behind him looking flustered.
‘It’s all right, Jean. This is Dave Marais from Trans-Africa. David, meet Jean, no longer a disembodied voice on the telephone.’
‘Damn woman wouldn’t let me in,’ David grumbles the moment the door closes behind her.
‘Guests are supposed to sit in our conference room where they get coffee or tea with biscuits…even lunch if the kitchen is warned in advance.’
Dave ignores her. ‘I can’t believe what happened to Ben. It’s a bloody nightmare.’
So he knows. The word has got around fast. Chris nods, unable to speak for a few seconds.
Suddenly Chris feels Dave’s hand pressing hers. She looks up, startled by the gesture and by the strangely intent look in his eyes. She stares at his hand. He has long, strong brown fingers and there are thick blond hairs around his wrist. This would be great if she felt the need for a masculine shoulder to lean on, but she doesn’t. She sets about extricating her fingers.
‘I feel useless and frustrated,’ Dave is saying in a husky voice. ‘Ben was a close friend…one of the best. This investigation…well, let’s say it’s dangerous…best left to the police. There’s too much money involved. I want you out of here. I can’t let you come to any harm, Chris. I think you know how I feel about you. Women always know.’
Chris stems her irritation and persuades herself that Dave means well. He’s a man you can trust, even if his views are a little passé. A tough, reliable, clever man and for reasons which she doesn’t understand, he seems to be trying to impress her. He’s probably pushing fifty, but he’s sexy, suntanned, lean and athletic, but she’s not paid to waste time in office hours. She decides to cut short his visit.
‘You’re wasting your valuable time, Dave. I’m not leaving. I’ve just had the same argument with Rowan.’
‘Do you see yourself as some sort of a bionic woman? Invincible perhaps?’ He subjects Chris to a keen, searching appraisal, from her feet to her hair. It’s disconcerting and Chris guesses that his intention is to throw her off guard. She doesn’t bother to answer.
‘Look here, Chris. I understand that you crave adventure enough to throw up a brilliant career, but don’t you think this detection work is beneath you…with your brains?’ He smiles indulgently.
What can she say? You have a flattering turn of phrase, David, but I’m not falling for it. Or…I owe it to Ben and Sienna. Or how about…mind your own bloody business, Dave. Wisely she says nothing at all, which doesn’t phase David because clearly he has other matters on his mind.
‘Come clean, Chris. You haven’t found out a damn thing, have you?’
‘Too true,’ she replies with a brittle smile.
‘So what have you been up to? You’ve been out of the office for days.’
Chris glances sharply at him. ‘I’ve been doing the rounds of retailers…getting to know the marketing side of the diamond business.’
‘Anyone helping you?’
‘Not really. I took your advice and pretended to be writing a book on diamonds.’
‘Have the police contacted you?’
‘No. Why should they? I was in London.’
‘But I expect you know who Ben saw in New York. He must have told you.’ He glances anxiously at her.
‘No. Unfortunately not. No doubt his sister will send his notes back to us when the police return them to her.’
‘That could take some time.’ Dave looks up from studying her desk. His large, grey eyes scan her cautiously. ‘Do you reckon you’re any nearer to finding the culprits?’
‘No, but you’ve just joined the list of suspects, David.’ She laughs at his studied indifference.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘All these questions.’
He stands, as if deep in thought. How on earth is she going to get rid of him? ‘I have another appointment, Dave, and a great deal of work to do,’ she says gently.
‘Listen,’ she adds hastily noticing his hurt expression. ‘I appreciate your concern. OK, so you’re a bit chauvinistic. Out of tune with the times, I would say. It’s your colonial upbringing that’s to blame, but you care and I thank you for that.’
At last she’s got through to him. He grabs her arm and gives her a slight shake.
‘Don’t be frivolous. This isn’t a frivolous matter. Listen to me, for God’s sake. Hear me! You’re like a little buck in the forest, still wet behind the ears and stumbling around in the dark. These masterminds are putting away millions in Swiss banks. Their transactions are almost impossible to trace, but just suppose you do discover one of the laundering routes…they’d put out your light…just like that…just like they did to Ben.’
Suddenly she’s grasped in a bear-like hug that almost knocks the wind out of her.
‘I can’t allow you to get hurt. You’ve got to give up this business.’
‘Dave…please…this is my office.’
He pushes her away and strides out without saying goodbye.
So what was that all that about, she wonders after he’s gone. He didn’t ask her out to dinner after all.
It was past eleven before she managed to see Rowan again.
‘Mr Marais has been on to me. He wants me to replace you with a man.’
‘Dave’s the ultimate male chauvinist pig,’ she snarls.
Rowan looks embarrassed. ‘I told him we’d be open to a sex discrimination claim.’
‘Good for you. Listen, Rowan, I need to check on one of Prince Husam’s African ventures, namely the diamond cutting workshops in Liberia. Husam has shed a lot of cash there. Seven workshops are supposed to have been set up and there should be large cash payments for wages, for instance, office expenses and so on. I need to know if these workshops really exist, or if they cover for his cash payments, which could really be for buying blood diamonds. Do we – or does our head office – have a man in Liberia?’
‘There’s a team nearby investigating an oil scam,’ Rowan replies without hesitation. ‘I can ask them to look into it.’
‘Thanks. Here are the details.’ She lays her memo on his desk.
‘It may take a couple of days.’
‘Sure.’
Jean waylays her in the passage. ‘The public relations officer of the diamond trading organisation has only just called to ask why we haven’t replied to their invitation to a diamond exhibition. I told them we didn’t receive one, so they’ve sent one round by hand. Diamonds through the ages. All the nobs in the diamond world will be there. Plus, four top fashion houses are combining with a number of European jewellery designers to show jewels and gowns in a fashion show. What shall I tell them?’
‘When is it?’
‘It’s tonight, I’m afraid.’
Just as well or she’d have some explaining to do.
‘Tell them I’ll be there. Thanks Jean. I wonder how they know we’re into diamonds? Oh, by the way, I’ve been waiting for a call from Bombay. Did it come while I was talking to Rowan?’
‘Not since I’ve been here.’
‘Please call our Bombay branch and tell them I’m waiting for a reply.’
‘Will do.’
‘I’m going to be busy in the IT room for a couple of hours. You can put through my calls.’
‘Will do.’
As usual, Janice is tied up with some mysterious task which suits Chris perfectly. It’s simple to hack into Husam’s home PC. She has all his details. She runs through recent ‘Sent mail’ and finds a note written to Moses Freeman about half an hour after she left the apartment that morning.
Be advised that Ben Searle is a partner and director of the London branch of an American financial investigation company. (FI Inc.). They are currently investigating diamond laundering. For the time being, I’m cancelling all future diamond purchases. I’ll keep in touch on this matter
Prince Husam Ibn al-Faisal.
The full title. Wow! What on earth is the connection between these two men? Is it quite as altruistic as Husam would have her believe? She sits deep in thought, leaning back on the chair rest, gazing at the ceiling. Husam claims that he has established seven workshops in Liberia to create the kernel of a diamond cutting industry. Lately he has sent two and half million dollars to Freeman. So Freeman must be running the show.
‘You need help?’ Janice’s words cut short her train of thoughts.
‘Thanks, but no. I’m just thinking of what I should say.’
‘Fine.’ Janice was soon clicking away at the keyboard.
After some thought, Chris types in the email address of Moses Freeman used by Husam and, using the prince’s PC as a base, types the following message.
To: Moses Freeman. Be advised that my PA, Christine Winters, will be arriving in New York tomorrow evening on my instructions. She’ll contact you soonest in order to relate a certain message which I cannot trust to the Internet. At this stage we had better communicate via Winters. Our commercial arrangement is too sensitive to be broadcast to those with ultra-modern technology.
Prince Husam Ibn al-Faisal.
‘Oh…beautiful! Beautiful! Beautiful!’ Chris manages a faint smile, despite her sadness.
‘What is it?’ Janice pushes her screen glasses up over her head and stretches.
‘I’ve had a sudden brainwave…well, part one of a brainwave. Part two will have to come a little later. Perhaps tonight. I’m going to a boring diamond show.’
‘Good luck.’ Janice gets back to the screen.
Checking her ‘In Box’, Chris finds a reply from their Bombay office. She has time to write a note to Rowan.
MEMO TO ROWAN METCALF
Investigator: Chris Winters
I’ve just received this email (copy below) from our Bombay office. Their managing partner requires your authority to put a man into the plant.
Large parcels of roughs recently purchased by Jewelrex Ltd are keeping Mohsen Sheik’s staff on overtime. Two days after Sienna Sheik was kidnapped, Mohsen transferred a total of twenty million dollars to a Geneva bank from various bank accounts in Surat and Bombay, held in his and his brothers’ names. We feel sure that any ‘unusual’ cash withdrawals or payments would be ex-Switzerland for confidentiality.
Recent analysis of some of the roughs procured and brought to us by our informer shows that they were mined in Angola.
We are continuing our investigation into this matter.
Back in her office, Chris hums to herself as she deals with the mail and locks away her files. She decides to send a request for an interview with Mohsen Sheik, but she won’t hold her breath for a reply because he’s probably being watched.
Well, that’s that. There isn’t much more she can do in that direction. It’s up to him now. Chris glances at her watch. Lunchtime. She could do with a walk in the park to clear her head. It’s a habit she’s picked up from Husam. She buys a brisket sandwich and a bottle of water and dines on a bench in St James’s Park, before walking around the lake. Some of the leaves are turning gold, she notices with a pang of regret. Surely this is too early. She watches the ducks squabbling over bread thrown by a little girl and wishes she’d brought some with her.
It is then that her tears come…inexplicably and without warning. An image of Ben appears in her mind’s eye: Ben with his caring smile, the way his face lit up when he made a smart quip, the way he ruffled his hair when he sorted out his thoughts. If only she’d spent more time with him. If only he hadn’t gone to the States. She should have stayed the night and cared for him while she had the chance. All those tears that she hadn’t been able to shed when she heard the news surge up from some unknown depths of her mind. It is as if Ben is sitting there beside her. ‘Ben…oh, Ben…’ she sobs. Blinded by tears she stumbles over a clump of grass and makes her way to a nearby bench. Aware of being surreptitiously watched, she dries her eyes, fumbles in her bag for sunglasses and moves on.
‘I shall miss you, Ben,’ she whispers. Abruptly she decides to cheer herself up by shopping for a cocktail dress. She has absolutely nothing suitable to wear to tonight’s diamond show.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The weather has changed. The balmy late summer heatwave that has hung around for days has given way to a brisk north wind. Chris’ life, too, has been touched by cold reality. She feels disturbed and vaguely frightened, but of what? She pulls up the collar of her coat and snuggles into a corner of the taxi, gazing through the window at a moving scene that’s racing her into a hazardous future. She should go backwards…to the security of a safe job where there were no unknowns and danger had never been encountered. Suddenly London’s streets, once loved, seem shadowy and scary. Why would anyone want to kill Ben…or follow her? But there’s that damned white Ford Fiesta sneaking down the road behind them. Or is it? It could be any white car.
‘Pull yourself together or quit the job, Chris,’ she remonstrates. Perhaps she over-estimated her own courage when she took on the investigation.
The taxi pulls up outside the Goldsmith’s Hall in Foster Lane, and Chris hurries inside. Handing her coat to the attendant, she suffers a momentary qualm. She’s wearing a halter neck dress of pleated red muslin with frills from the bust to the hem which shimmer and shake with every movement. The dress has cost her a month’s salary and she had thought she looked good until she bumped into Mum on the way out.
Mum was explicit. ‘Where’s your castanets, Chris?’
‘You’re so funny, Mum.’ This is her standard answer. Don’t get offended. Turn the whole thing into a joke. Mum’s interest in fashion terminated in the Eighties. A little black dress reaching from her knees to her collar bone, with a pearl necklace and a scarf, is Mum’s perennial outfit for an evening out.
An attendant offers her a glass of champagne, but she chooses orange juice…she’s on duty, isn’t she…and steps softly forward. She hardly recognises the hall, it’s so full of glitter, with shimmering curtains and soft lights along the catwalk. The music is almost drowned by excited chatter. She’s rubbing shoulders with the celebrity classes: Chris recognises two pop stars, a film star, a model and a famous footballer’s wife. Discreetly dressed, middle-aged matrons wearing gorgeous diamond pendants, bracelets and earrings…one even sporting a tiara…sway through the crowd. Moments later a heavy hand falls on her shoulder.
She flinches, then pulls herself together. Turning, she gazes into Husam’s expressive eyes. He’s pleased to see her, but furious because he’s pleased, and embarrassed because a remarkably beautiful girl is clinging to his arm. Trophy girlfriend, Chris decides, feeling thoroughly spiteful. Husam whispers to his companion. She gives Chris a haughty glance before disappearing into the crowd.
‘Come with me.’ He links his arm through hers and leads her through throngs of chattering socialites to a showcase of Arabian jewellery. Chris gapes and gasps and longs to own just one exquisite piece. Perhaps her longing shows, for two bear-like guards lounging behind the exhibit move closer to overwhelm her with their belligerence.
‘Most of this was designed for Middle-Eastern potentates from the sixteenth century onwards,’ Husam murmurs with satisfaction, pulling her closer to him. ‘Every piece is a work of art and priceless, but seldom seen. The entire collection was brought over solely for the exhibition. Those damned sultans keep it hidden in their vaults. All these works of art, designed to adorn lovely women such as yourself, lie hidden from view in palace cellars.’
