The Devil Plays an Evil Tune E-Book

Nigel Darter

• Herausgeber: M-Y Books ltd
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 460

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

This is a human story of Good verses Evil, of Faith and Courage, of Avarice and Greed, of Love and Dedication, of Trust and Betrayal And above all "The Lust for Diamonds" And so Alex Scott is sent off once again on the trail of Democracy's deadly enemy, The Syndicate who are showing too close an interest in an illegal source of diamonds from Sierra Leone and Angola.

Leseprobe

AN M-Y BOOKS EBOOK

DIAMONDS BEST FRIEND OR FOE? © Copyright 2005Albert Able

The right of Albert Able to be identified as the author of This work has been asserted by him in accordance with the<<br />Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All Rights Reserved No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

Layout, cover & eBook conversion by David Stockman.

 A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781906658342

This book is dedicated as ever to my long-suffering family and friends.

And of course to those who had to die to make the book live!

Albert

INTRODUCTION

The Good Guys

The man upon whose shoulders rests the responsibility of ensuring that good prevails over evil is Alex Scott, the descendant of several generations of fighting men. Alex is tough, very tough: in fact he can kill, without any apparent sign of remorse, yet possesses compassion and understanding where needed. He transferred from the Royal Navy to an elite secret NATO department known as SONIC. Special Operations, National & International Collaboration, dedicated to the often amoral but vital roll of protecting the soft underbelly of Democracy.

SONIC has to fight by the same rules as its enemies, consequently “There are no rules” – just the natural basic animal instincts of survival.

The Bad Guys

The Syndicate, a small group of men with an insatiable appetite for power, is the main enemy. The leader and creator of the group was formerly a high-ranking member of the Diplomatic Corps; a disgraced politician, two dethroned business tycoons and a corrupt lawyer are his co-conspirators. All are consumed with an overwhelming sense of resentment and bitterness, believing the democratic process to have unjustly served them all.

By pooling their collective skills they quickly achieved the benefit and satisfaction of their enormous power, mostly by creating havoc within the financial structure of the Western democratic economies, and making substantial fortunes for themselves in the process. Their appetite for punishing the establishment, as well as the corporate institutions, that had rejected their earlier dreams however, was not so easily sated. Spurred on by the success of their efforts, their inflated egos easily justified more adventurous and devious activities, until they had become one of the most deadly and corrupt of the multitude of underworld organisations. They were not public kudos-seekers; on the contrary, one of their major strengths was their near-total anonymity.

The Leader and his four partners were known as Controllers to the members of the individual cells of four or five other men each one controlled. The members of the cells were given the elevated title Syndicate Executives. They in turn employed Operatives, who were mainly expendable short-term allies, lured into fulfilling the amoral activities of the Syndicate. None of the cells was aware of the others’ existence. In this way near perfect security had been established.

To achieve their objectives, they often forged temporary alliances with Third World governments, terrorist or criminal organisation. They had no scruples and easily corrupted any individual who was deemed to be useful to their cause. Loyalty was their prime requirement; the rewards for success were immense. The price of disloyalty or failure was ruthless – and terminal.

The Opportunists

These are the greedy ones: human parasites with the perfected skill of living off other people’s efforts, or weaknesses. But sometimes there is also the innocent opportunist who happens upon the prize and, Why not? Being in the right place at the right time can be part of life’s good fortune, or otherwise...

*****

THE STORY

This is a human story

of Good verses Evil,

of Faith and Courage,

of Avarice and Greed,

of Love and Dedication,

of Trust and Betrayal

And above all, of Diamonds

THE BEGINNING

The discovery of a body mutilated almost beyond recognition in this region was not necessarily cause for alarm. It was considered more important to dispose of the remains quickly, for the sultry heat of the African continent had an immediate and unsavoury effect on anything that had stopped living.

The man on the slab appeared to be of mixed race; he was naked and bore no obvious identity marks other than a rather messy arm tattoo. He had probably been robbed and battered to death, probably for a few pitiful coins, a camera or some trivial trinket. No-one would ever know. The remains had been taken to the local morgue; perfunctory examination was the norm, and the body would then be hastily buried or cremated, without too much ceremony.

By chance on this occasion a student pathologist, recently arrived from London, was on duty in the pathology theatre. The surgeon in charge immediately saw this as an opportunity to initiate the proud young doctor. “Fresh from college and still a virgin, at least in African pathology dissection terms”, the surgeon chuckled to himself in anticipation.

“Now, this is your chance to rapidly gain some field experience”, was the expression the surgeon in command had used, with a professional smile.

The body was already at an advanced stage of decomposition. Determined to pass the inevitable initiation ceremony, the student went to work on the putrefying remains. Knowing full well that he was being tested, he decided to attack the subject with vigour, believing that it would enhance his performance in this test of skill and experience.

Attempting to ignore the stench of the devastated body before him, he took a deep breath and carved theatrically into the revolting mess. He retched involuntarily as the razor-sharp scalpel cut dispassionately through the taut skin below the abdomen, slicing right into the stomach lining and through the swollen intestine almost simultaneously.

The gush of cold, putrid gore flushed onto his bare arm and trickled down over his gloved hands. Desperately trying to avoid the embarrassment of vomiting into the body, and by turning his head quickly, he directed the acid remains of his lunch towards the stainless steel bucket waiting conveniently at the side of the dissection table. He was only partially successful.

The surgeon laughed loudly – his practised way of fighting his own battle to resist the effect of the familiar corrupt waste before them.

“Well done, son”, he encouraged with genuine understanding. “Here, stand back while I sluice this shit away, eh?” and directed the hose at the mess.

It took the student a few seconds to regain his concentration. Recomposed, he looked up at the face of the surgeon and with a frown said, “For a minute there, I was wishing I’d specialised in operating on the live ones!”

The senior surgeon smiled back. “This kid is going to be all right”, he thought.

The examination revealed that the victim had been severely kicked about the body; he had suffered several broken ribs and severe ruptures to internal organs. Death, however, they deduced, had been caused by repeated severe blows to the head, probably with a heavy piece of timber, like a pickaxe handle.

The examination was all but over when the student noticed the injection marks on both forearms. He added casually to his recorded report: “... and finally, our corpse was a junkie.”  But as he turned to move away, something unusual about the irregular arm tattoos caught his eye; he lifted the arm and looked more closely at the crude artwork. He spoke again for the benefit of the microphone and the inevitable report. “Oh, and finally”, he added quietly, correcting himself almost light-heartedly,” on both arms and on each side of the body are what appear to be tribal scars and tattoos. It may help identify the victim, I suppose”, he said aloud for the benefit of the recording. The scars were quite lumpy and new. Curious, he took a scalpel and carefully sliced around one of the recent wounds.

“Bloody Hell! Just look at this!”  he gasped in dismay.

The senior surgeon was already stripping off his gloves and gown. He called over, “What is it?”

“I think you had better take a look”, the astonished student called back. Balanced on the blade of the scalpel was a blood-smeared cut diamond the size of a man’s fingernail.

Further close examination revealed 25 similar scars on the dead man’s arm and body.

* * * * *

The Boss of SONIC, Special Operations National and International Collaboration, was going quietly and systematically through the daily reports when his telephone rang. He picked it up and listened.

One of his field agents in Angola had seen the report of a supposed diamond smuggler’s body that had been found in a back street somewhere in Luanda. “Apparently he had half a dozen stones grafted to the inside of his arm. Must have been bloody painful!”  the agent said, imagining the pain of cutting into the soft, tender flesh of the arm. “Sounds close to the sort of thing you were asking about the other day.”

“It certainly does”, the Boss replied. “Get the details to me right away – usual route of course. Oh, and thank you.”  He replaced the phone.

Reports of new diamond finds in Angola had been filtering their way to SONIC’s attention. There were also reports of unusual numbers of stones being distributed outside of the official and legal international outlets. It was well known that diamonds were the main financial resource that – sadly – financed the horrific genocidal conflicts still plaguing some of the African nations.

Conflict Diamonds are major political pawns on the troubled continent. The Prime Minister, on behalf of the United Nations, had asked SONIC initially to “take a look at the situation” and report back. “Then if you feel there is anything practical we can do ...”  The final, exact words had been off the record, as usual. “I want you to make lots of smoke and kick as much arse as possible, as and where necessary! But I want the flow of Conflict Diamonds significantly curtailed, and with as much publicity as possible. It’s one thing for politicians to agree to some highly moral foreign policy, but you also have to be seen to be making your best endeavours to comply.”

There were never any records kept of such meetings. The Boss knew the rules; in his experience the best solution, he told his operatives, was to deliver. “You won’t get a pat on the back, but you won’t get a kick up the backside either.”

In this instance the Boss felt absolutely certain that with such big stakes to play, democracy’s deadly enemy, the Syndicate, would not be far away.

He dialled a coded GSM number and set up an auto-message.

Alex Scott answered. The metallic voice of the pre-recorded message simply said: “A meeting, please. The usual place, noon tomorrow.”  The phone beeped several times as Alex punched in his Personal Identification Number to confirm the meeting.

* * * * *

Alex Scott and his ancestors were born on the Channel Island of Jersey. They were a family of fighting men: both his father and grandfather had made the ultimate sacrifice for King and Country in each of the two Great Wars.

 Alex left university, and following the family tradition, joined the Royal Navy. He was recruited by SONIC following a terrorist bomb attack in which two of his colleagues had been brutally killed, and several seriously wounded. He had been extremely lucky, and only suffered minor injuries – sufficient however for the Boss to camouflage his move to SONIC by invaliding him out of the Royal Navy.

SONIC’s activities suited Alex’s maverick personality.

He cringed when faced with bureaucratic nonsense; he liked making direct action decisions – and bucked the system whenever possible.

At fifty years of age, he was lean and fit. His passions were sailing and scuba-diving. He shunned jogging as a boring habit, but was dedicated to a healthy regime usually consisting of twice-weekly marshal arts training sessions, and when not on assignment, briskly walking his dog two or three miles early every morning. “Nature’s way”, he claimed.

He never got used to killing, yet like one of nature’s predators, he was quite capable, when necessary, of dispatching his prey without any outward sign of compassion or remorse. Accustomed to operating mostly on his own, he frequently had to make decisions and act on his own initiative. The enemy was always the same – those who take advantage of the soft underbelly of democracy.

With the cold war between the Allies and the USSR over, the emphasis for SONIC was mostly on upstart foreign political extremists, or any other criminal or terrorist organisation likely to upset the established codes of practice that keep the delicate balance between economic or political war and peace. This is the complicated battlefield on which democracy fights to survive.

Alex’s first wife and three-month-old child had been tragically killed during a freak summer storm. Lightning had struck a large tree, which crashed onto their car, killing them both. Devastated, Alex had thrown his full concentration into the many missions SONIC allocated to him, his way of absorbing the pain. But then some ten years after that dreadful day, he had met “the most attractive and vibrant young lady” he had ever seen, as he frequently described her. He would not at first allow himself to admit it, but he knew that he had fallen instantly in love.

Rosie was exceptionally tall for an Oriental lady, and stunningly beautiful. Her Mother was half Japanese, a quarter Dutch and a quarter Chinese; her father Korean. The grandparents were from Japan and China, and on both sides of the family were members of European extraction as well. She had a veritable cocktail of Oriental and European cultures pumping through her veins, as her beloved Grandmother used to tell her.

Rosie had been at University studying European languages, and planned spending a year in Jersey working with one of the large international banks there. She had travelled to Europe with a college pal for their year of work experience. The bank had rented Alex’s cottage for them.

One sunny weekend, the two young ladies were having a barbecue, cooking some of their favourite oriental dishes. The aroma wafted like a fisherman’s lure into the garden, where Alex was quietly watering the lawn. Hearing the girls chattering away in their own language, he was fascinated by the rapid flow of strange words. Then he noticed the smoke of the barbecue, and suddenly his senses were tantalised by the rich aroma of the spicy food. Without any further ado, he turned off his hose and wandered across to their patio. “I don’t remember anything in the lease about a Chinese restaurant”, he announced with a stern face.

The girls looked up. It was Rosie who replied, her friend instantly coy, more accustomed to the traditional place of the Oriental female.

“Oh! You must have missed the small print, sir. It’s okay every  third Saturday evening, and any Sunday if the landlord is present. Will you join us for lunch?”

Alex had never really noticed her before. Now, suddenly, there she was, standing tall, defiantly erect and smiling, the sun reflecting somehow in her jet-black hair. Their eyes met; it was in that brief magical moment that he knew he was in love. He’d often said it jokingly of pretty girls before when he’d been out with the boys, but this was no joke. As he stood there, momentarily dazed, it took only a second to recover his composure – but Rosie had noticed the flutter in her own breast. “My God!”  she said to herself, “What a beautiful man you are!”

Alex stayed for the barbecue. He didn’t remember much of the meal: he was totally besotted by the amazing woman’s presence. They spent the next few evenings walking on the beach, sitting on the dunes watching the sun go down, and talking endlessly. Their personalities gelled without any effort. Unsurprisingly, quite soon after that momentous meeting, they agreed to move in together.

That had been five years ago. Rosie was known locally as Mrs Scott; in fact most people assumed that they were married. Yet they had never spoken of marriage or children. Sometimes Alex would battle with his conscience: was he being fair to Rosie? But he easily found plausible and entirely chauvinistic reasons why he should discontinue this train of thought.

He owned and operated a yacht brokerage business, and also ran a school for sailing and scuba-diving. He also purported to be a part-time journalist, writing occasional articles for the Jersey Evening Post as well as for other national journals.

Alex’s commercial operations had always proved to be excellent cover for his secret SONIC missions. Delivering a yacht or power-boat, for instance, could easily take several days – even weeks, depending on the ultimate destination. His lifelong friend, Jean Le Main, had been his business manager ever since the company had started. He never asked any questions about Alex’s periodic absences. Jean, who had recently been made a full partner, was quite happy to take full responsibility for running the organisation.

“Such people are the real heroes in this troubled world”, Alex had told the harassed Boss of SONIC one day. “Without these good guys the world would be an impossible place to live in.”

“Yes.”  The Boss looked up with a rare smile. “Thank goodness someone is prepared to stay at home and watch the chickens while you go out and clean up the world!”  He chuckled softly.

* * * * *

Alex took the early morning British-European red-eye from Jersey to Gatwick. This allowed him ample time to make his appointment at midday, as ordered. The meeting place was one of several different locations used in random rotation for clandestine meetings with the Boss. This time it was the Bow Wine Vaults at Bow Church Yard, in the City of London.

The ancient inn was approached over the flagstoned courtyard of the famous Mary-Le-Bow church. At first glance inside the inn, it appears to be quite small; there are, however, as is the case with so many traditional City inns, three floors accessed by a narrow wooden staircase, as well as the basement.

Alex was early. He chose a table near the door, but out of sight of the street. The Boss was nervous of public places; he knew that they provided good security for such meetings, and he did not trust his own offices. He was quite paranoid about the possibility of them being monitored and bugged. Alex smiled to himself, thinking, “The truth is that the Boss simply doesn’t trust anyone. I wonder if that includes me?” At that moment, the Boss appeared. He wore a plain grey raincoat, had a slightly stooped appearance and would certainly be easily lost in a crowd. It was only at close quarters, when you looked into those penetrating steel-grey eyes, that you realised he was a person with great strength of character and determination. Not an easy man to argue with, yet he would usually listen to, and take heed of, common sense.

“Good morning, and thank you as usual for making the trip.”  He held out his hand; the grip was positive and firm.

“Couldn’t have stayed away. It feels a bit like Christmas when I receive your Royal Command. I can’t help wondering what the surprise present is going to be!” Alex responded happily.

The Boss smiled. “I have a mission for you all right, but first – and you should know by now – I can’t talk with a dry throat!”

“Sorry, Boss”, Alex apologised. He moved to the ancient bar, ordered a large gin & tonic for the Boss and a lager top for himself, then paid for the drinks and strolled back to the table. “Here we are.”  Alex placed the glasses on the stained coasters. “One large Gordon’s and Schweppes, okay?”

“Does it come some other way?” the Boss asked lightly. He raised his glass and savoured the sparkling liquid. “Perfect!”  he declared. “Now, down to business. We’ve been receiving reports of unusually large quantities of cut and uncut diamonds reaching the market outside of the normal De Beers-controlled cartel.”  He raised one eyebrow and frowned.

“As you probably know, the diamond industry is going through a time of change.”  He settled more comfortably into his chair. “A new buzzword has arrived in the vocabulary: ‘Conflict Diamonds’ – the name for those stones that come from various African countries where the proceeds are used to fund their tribal wars.”

He looked at his drink, where the ice floated gently with the lemon as he rotated the glass slowly. “There is a risk that diamonds could soon become as non-u as a fur coat. Socially unacceptable, since it’s almost impossible to distinguish between Conflict stones and legitimate ones! The consequences for the economies of Africa and Russia in particular, which depend on the diamonds, could be catastrophic. And that creates a major threat to world economic stability.”  He toyed with the stem of his glass. “De Beers are helping to find a way to clean up the industry, mostly by marking legitimate stones with some sort of secret laser mark. As you know, the worst atrocities have taken place – or are still taking place – in Angola, Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo, and De Beers have stopped trading in gems from these sources. This in itself has created a massive black market in smuggled diamonds.”  He took a sip from the glass and rolled his lips before looking directly into Alex’s eyes. “The Syndicate are suspected of being one of the major players.”  He looked back at his drink. “The diamonds, we think, are being smuggled out of the countries to South Africa, then on the Ukraine and China. Once they have been cut and polished, their origin is almost impossible to identify.”  He sipped his drink absently. “The prospector has his own problem: what to do with his hard-won gems? Threatened with financial disaster, they are easy targets for illegal purchasing proposals.”

The Boss looked Alex squarely in the face. “I’ll warrant that this is where The Syndicate is bound to be playing its role in this tragic affair. Just a couple of days ago, the mutilated body of some poor unfortunate wretch was found in a back street of Luanda. That by itself is not significant; what makes it interesting to us is that he had half a dozen diamonds the size of your fingernail buried in cuts in his forearm and body – and that’s only the ones reported.”

The Boss paused, toyed with the stem of his glass again, but did not drink. “Some of the diamond fields in Angola, under the control of their Government, are still supplying the markets illicitly.”  He continued: “There is one report in particular, however, of a new maverick mining operation, said to have achieved a major yield of diamonds, using a new detection and recovery technique. We believe The Syndicate may have taken control of this very considerable source, and that thousands more carets of diamonds are about to be released onto the black market. We are not yet sure exactly which mine is the culprit. That’s to be part of your job.”

He picked up the glass again and took a large draught. Nodding with satisfaction, he continued. “Our sources in Antwerp have reported an unusual number of high grade diamonds appearing on the street there.”  He looked across at Alex, his brow creased with anxiety. “We have similar reports from New York, Singapore, Hong Kong ... but most recently from Beijing. The Chinese are not saying anything officially – they never do – but the fact is that high-grade diamonds are circulating in great quantities over there. This, my friend, spells only one thing to me: The Syndicate.”  The Boss sat upright in his chair. “Alex, you’re going to have to find that mine, and how the diamonds are being spirited away from the country. Then – close it down!”  He looked at Alex, raising one eyebrow, “And if you can take out a cell or two of Syndicate operatives at the same time, you’ll be doing us all a great favour.”

“That’s quite a tall order, Boss. The diamond mines are spread all over Western Africa – not just in Angola. Any chance of some assistance?”

“Listen, Alex: we sent a man to Angola last year when we were trying to keep tabs on The Syndicate in the area. He spent almost two months ferreting around. He was a new boy, I admit; I think he became a bit obvious. Consequently, there was no result from his enquiries and we had to pull him out before they took him out.”  The Boss looked Alex squarely in the face. “Recently we infiltrated a man into what we believed to be The Syndicate’s courier service to Antwerp and Beijing from West Africa. We have not had any report for over a week now. I am very concerned that his cover may have been compromised.”  He looked towards the door as if he were expecting something to happen, then he looked back. “I am convinced that we may have a Syndicate mole very close to SONIC. There have been too many leaks lately. I do not want to put you at risk by giving you an assistant known to The Syndicate!”  He looked at Alex and smiled. “Working alone, you are the best chance we have.”  He placed a paternal hand on Alex’s arm. “Just remember”, – he faced Alex –”Diamonds, some believe, are even more important than Gold as an international trading commodity. They are small, light and easily traded. If the world market were to be flooded with gemstone diamonds, and at the same time some radical human rights organisation tries to plot a diamond boycott, it could without doubt seriously destabilise some of the more fragile economies. It’s down to us to stop that happening.”  He swallowed the rest of his drink without really noticing it.

“We can never really win with these swine, but like a good gardener, if we work hard and keep the weeds and other vermin at bay, the garden flourishes. If we neglect it, even for a little while, the weeds and pests just reappear out of nowhere and commence their war of attrition on our once carefully cultivated garden.”

He paused, then continued with a sigh. “The high value of diamonds means that there are massive profits to be made. This means that substantial bribes are routinely paid for loyalty. And so Honesty becomes another casualty of war. Anyway”, – he changed to a lighter tone –  “I know that you are only really safe when you operate alone.”  He placed his hand once again on Alex’s arm. “Unless you insist, you’re on your own with this one – at least to start with, okay?”

“Okay, Boss.”  Alex smiled. “I don’t have anything much on my plate this week, so let’s take another swipe at the buggers, eh?”

The Boss shook the offered hand firmly without saying any more. They got up from their table and moved to the door. The Boss looked back at the antique bar and its equally ancient bartender. “Take a last look at this lovely old pub, Alex.”  He shook his head sadly. “It’s about to be lost for ever. I’ve learned it’s to be turned into another one of those trendy wine bars.”  He turned away. “I suppose it’s inevitable.”  He mumbled under his breath: “I’m told it’s called progress.”

Then they moved out into the busy lane, walking in opposite directions, without looking back.

* * * * *

Diamonds are pure crystallised carbon and are the hardest naturally-occurring material known to man. They reflect light like no other substance. An emblem of ritual and ultimate wealth, symbols of love and affection craved by adoring ladies, yet with a vital industrial role to play. An easily circulated trading commodity, they are therefore regarded as one of Earth’s most important, precious and useful minerals.

Sadly, those very qualities have a darker side. Possessing such versatile properties, diamonds naturally beckon greedy and ambitious suitors, prepared to go to any length to secure their seductive allure, promoting daring theft, extortion, and all too frequently, brutal murder.

These addictive tokens are to be found in numerous areas around the globe, Africa being one of the main sources of the highest-quality gemstones. The uncut stones in particular are mainly bought and sold by one mighty company. They have controlled the world markets since the great diamond mines were opened up in South Africa at the end of the 19th century.

Sir Ernest Oppenheimer founded the De Beers corporation at the turn of the century. They are thought to control the marketing of about 75% of the world’s uncut diamonds. It may be a rare example of a cartel that seems to work for everyone’s benefit. Prospectors can therefore concern themselves with finding the precious prize, confident in the knowledge that an eager buyer is waiting for them to succeed.

The majority of diamonds found are of industrial quality, or of a semi-precious standard. Nonetheless, they represent substantial value for the prospector. New regions are constantly being explored and occasionally commercial deposits are discovered. The ultimate prize is for the stones to be of “Large or Fancy Gemstone” quality.

There are two types of natural diamonds: one known as alluvial, extracted from the sea or from ancient riverbeds; the other, Kimberlite, is found in the region of extinct volcanoes. They occur not only in the traditional white, but also various shades of pink and blue.

Angola is recognised as a major source of large, top-grade gemstone diamonds from both sources. Several new diamondiferous Kimberlite deposits have been discovered there recently, following the limited reintroduction of prospecting licences, and the granting of concessions to foreign prospectors.

One such site is in the remote north-east corner of Angola, close to the border with Zaire. Here, a newly-established team of adventurous prospectors was revisiting some previously tested pipes, the exhaust vents of ancient extinct volcanoes. Considered to be uneconomic by the original owners, these concessions had been obtained very cheaply by the new prospectors, who were gambling on their prototype computerised seismic technology to justify their investment. Their space-age detection system allows the prospectors to aim their probe drill directly at their deep and mysterious targets, in much the same way as drilling for oil.

Their confidence in the new technology had been quickly rewarded when they detected with their very first probe significant kimberlitic rock deposits, missed by earlier, less accurate methods. In this instance, and to their complete amazement, the new adventurers had struck a productive sample with a quite shallow probe. The bluish rock was carefully brought to the surface and excitedly examined. The 50kg core of granite hard spoil was emptied onto the concrete floor and crudely broken with lump hammers. The crushed material was sieved carefully; part was removed for chemical analysis and part for geological assessment. The rest was washed into the sieve for physical evidence of the elusive gems.

The sample was found to contain substantially more diamond deposit than the detectors had initially indicated. Amazingly, two large raw stones appeared out of the sludge. They were originally one huge stone, now broken in two at a stress point, probably as a result of the hammering and crushing. Covered with bits of shale and sand, the stones looked nothing like the mind’s vision of a diamond. When the debris had been chipped away, the leader of the group gingerly picked up the two stones. Together they filled the stunned team leader’s hand. They were the largest raw diamonds any of the mesmerised team had ever seen.

“Like bloody cricket balls!”  a dry, excited voice exclaimed.

There was an electrifying tension around the group of eager prospectors. Was this sample a true example of the rest of the deposits at this concession? Once cut, what quality and how many carats would they prove to be?

To establish these essential facts, the samples now had to be sent to the De Beers Buying Station in Luanda for appraisal and valuation. Then, if the quality was good enough, they would be purchased from the prospectors by De Beers, who would either sell them on or retain them as their stock, to hold as market demand dictated.

The team leader, Nick Weston, a big, strong, energetic fellow about 30 years of age, had graduated from Cambridge with a Degree in Geology and Engineering. This had enabled him to channel his energy and training into his lifelong ambition, prospecting for precious minerals. Nick eventually called his ecstatic colleagues together. “Now, everyone just calm down.”  He knew they had to let off steam, but now was the time to bring back some discipline to the situation. “We may have located a mighty hoard, and could be looking at riches beyond any of our wildest dreams. However, there are several very difficult stages to overcome before we can start spending.”  He smiled and paused for breath. “On the other hand, we may have found, by chance, the only two good diamonds in Africa.”  He feigned anguish.

There were a couple of knowing nods, and a nervous laugh or two, but most remained silent. Like the others, Nick was flushed with the exhilaration of the diamond find; he continued nonetheless, his voice surprisingly calm. “What is paramount for everyone here, is to observe the strictest secrecy.”  He looked seriously at each of the gathered men. “We have been through all the theoretical security plans. Now”, he declared triumphantly, “we are actually going to have to implement them.”  He continued even more seriously: “I am sure I don’t have to remind you that this country is like a tinder-box, riddled with political and tribal disputes. The MPLA and UNITA may have a fragile truce, but what we have here will easily sidestep the rules of any truce. Any one of the local officials will be only too pleased to betray our situation to the highest bidder.”  He paused. “So”, he waved a threatening finger at his now calmed and serious audience, “if we are to have any hope of enjoying this good fortune”, he added emphatically, “mouths crab-arse shut, watertight sealed, okay?”

Some of them chuckled, but the rest remained silent. They were all too well aware of the very real dangers that could be waiting for them.

2

International political subversion and all forms of major crime are the special prerogatives of The Syndicate. Discreetly currying favour with the new Chinese regime, which is gradually shrugging off the restrictive shackles of the old totalitarian communist state, The Syndicate are able to offer attractive incentives to eager officials who assist with negotiation contracts for the purchase of their illicit stocks of gold and diamonds. The Chinese administration was well aware of the source of the diamonds but patronised the situation because it suited them. The time would come when The Syndicate would no longer be tolerated. Each party knew this; each party played the dangerous game to suit its own agenda.

Every Syndicate operative was part of a small cell, each of which consisted of five members. Each cell had a Controller. No-one knew who his or her Controller was. All instructions were issued via coded, untraceable telephone calls. The Syndicate’s own security, therefore, was nearly impossible to compromise.

The Syndicate was well represented in the major diamond prospecting areas, with many eager agents alert for news of significant new sources and the opportunity to relieve prospectors of their finds, and of course, the generous reward for their services. No matter how good a mining group’s security was thought to be, information on a significant diamond find would somehow be magically channelled to one or other Syndicate informer.

The Syndicate would usually offer a prospector a joint-venture contract; this guaranteed a market outlet for their wares, an especially attractive proposal in view of the current embargo. Faced therefore with the clear alternatives, many prospectors would eagerly accept such a proposal. Those who refused rarely survived for very long, suffering from fatal industrial accidents or other similar fates.

The Syndicate had a simple philosophy: co-operate and work loyally and you will be well rewarded for success. Those who failed to co-operate or failed to honour commitments were quickly terminated. With such a simplistic and powerful incentive, The Syndicate’s vassals were always eager to prove their worth.

* * * * *

There was an undercurrent of cautious excitement at Nick Weston’s new concession. The first two stones, together with about 20 other smaller, but nonetheless impressive, examples that were subsequently dragged to the surface by the prototype probe, were now ready to be dispatched by road to the Buying Station in Luanda, many hundreds of miles away on the Atlantic coast. The airport at Mucuco was reported to be in rebel hands, and probably unserviceable anyway. The overland route involved a long, tortuous, and potentially dangerous journey over the neglected roads of the remote region, but it was the only choice. Once they had more abundant funding to cover such essential security overheads, the prospectors would build their own airstrip and fly their precious gems directly to Luanda or to other far-flung locations.

Nick elected to send James, the other geologist, and his three toughest drivers. Armed with the samples and a considerable shopping list for fresh stores and equipment, they were excited in anticipation of the adventure ahead. They would take the diesel Land Rover and the battered old Toyota truck with a trailer. The journey over the rough, neglected roads could take five days or more each way.

Nick decided to stay with the rest of the team and continue with more probes. Confirmation of the quality of the diamonds and an assessment of potential yield from the concession were now essential to justify the additional funding needed from their investors, so that they could open up the source commercially.

James and his three drivers pushed their mini-convoy as hard as they could without completely destroying the vehicles or themselves. They arrived in Luanda after just over four days of almost non-stop nerve-jarring driving; a considerable achievement, considering the state of the dilapidated, neglected roads.

With the samples safely delivered to the agency, they had been promised the assessment results by noon the next day. Resigned to having to wait, the crew booked into a modest hotel in the scruffy suburbs, and retired to the neighbouring roadside diner for some much-deserved refreshment. It bore the name Café L’Etoile, a reminder of the country’s old colonial history. The restaurant was not exactly Egon Ronay, but a huge tender steak and chips were all that these starving customers wanted, and that was exactly what they were served, although which species of steak was never revealed. No-one really cared: almost anything would have tasted delicious. Swilled down with several jugs of cool beer, the conversation drifted to speculation on the result of the sample assessment.

Were they all to be rich, or had the probe fooled them? What if the rest of the diamond-bearing ore was barren? What if the stones were of a worthless grade? Surely Nick knew his stuff. Of course he did – they were all going to be mega-rich! And so it went on as the flow of ale lubricated their imaginations. Suddenly, James, in his quietly commanding way, declared, “Quite frankly, I’m now so tired, I don’t give a toss tonight if I’m rich or poor. If I don’t go to bed soon I’ll fall asleep on the table.”  He stood up a little unsteadily.

The others followed without any encouragement.”  You’re absolutely right!”  drawled one of the others. They moved off to their rooms, having agreed to meet for breakfast at 8.30. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

Later that night, the barman dialled his special number. The telephone was connected to an answering machine, as always.”  Marcel at the Café L’Etoile: I wish to talk”, was all he said after the mechanical voice instructed him to start his message. He carefully replaced the receiver. He would have to wait now for his Controller to make contact.”  I think they’ll be pleased with this one”, he mused with an inner smile; he remembered all too clearly the last time he had reported a Private Find. When it had turned out to be a dry run, they had seemed to be very understanding.

“Next time, Marcel, we do hope you will be more careful with your assessment of the target”, his contact admonished, then added in a mildly conciliatory voice”, It would, of course, be even worse if you had missed a real opportunity ...”

Marcel shivered. The point had been all too plainly made. He knew that failure was never an option with these people.

* * * * *

The Exploration Company had been Nick Weston’s brainchild. He had managed to identify several “interesting” locations in Angola, sites originally surveyed by one of the larger corporate diamond companies, then declared uneconomic, and discarded. The authorities, believing that the land was barren, happily took the quite substantial fee for the licence to explore and mine the specific areas. First he obtained licences and options. Next he obtained the option to acquire the land and its mineral rights from the current owners. The capital required for the first two stages – approximately $5 million, was substantial, and way above Nick’s own means. Undaunted, Nick persuaded a number of investors that with the aid of his revolutionary technology and team of skilled adventurers, he would be able to find commercial quantities of diamonds. Once they agreed, however, the investors were cautious, setting rigid conditions to limit their exposure, yet providing for taking the lion’s share if the project succeeded.

“Seems reasonable”, Nick’s partner James observed, as he scanned the contract.

“Seems bloody greedy if you ask me!”  Nick scowled. “But that’s how the commercial world works. One day we’ll have lots of cash and no doubt will be pestered by young hopefuls to fund their pet projects.”  He turned to face James. “I wonder how we’ll react then.”

James smiled. “Let’s make the money first, then worry about what we do with it, eh?”

The first concession was an area of approximately 2,500 square miles. Their second and larger area, about 5,000 square miles, located some 300 miles to the north. They chose to start at the smaller site, simply because it was the easiest to access and required less of their limited seed capital to set up. Nick had always had a hunch that the territory to the north had the better kimberlitic features, but now that he had finally secured funding, he was content to keep the northern territory for a rainy day.

The enormous cost of open cast “chance” digging in this terrain was never going to be a viable option. The reason that he’d been able to convince his investors was his faith in his space-age detection techniques. He had recently helped some colleagues develop the super-sensitive ultrasonic seismic equipment that he was now going to field-test, as he confidently convinced them. Originally designed for use from the air, with a combination of sonic, laser and x-ray technology, the device could survey wide areas at speed and at precise depths, achieving the most astonishing pinpoint accuracy.

Success, however, still meant that investors would have to find additional money to establish civilised living quarters for the team, as well as security, mechanical screening and selection machines in addition to heavy earth-moving equipment, and more transport. The diamonds, perishable supplies and personnel would all have to be transported efficiently by air; a modest airstrip therefore had to be levelled out of the rough terrain. All these would make heavy demands on the capital resources available. Investors, however, are only too pleased to follow the potential success of a viable project, providing the initial results of the analysis confirm the quality favourably.

“Just pray that the report is good! If so, the next stage should be incredibly exciting, not to say profitable, for everyone involved”, Nick had eagerly commanded his team. Everything now depended on the assessor’s findings.

* * * * *

The telephone rang. Marcel, dressed only in his boxer shorts and dozing on his bed, was startled by the sound, even though he had been waiting for the call.

“So what do you have for us this time, Marcel?” the Controller asked coolly.

“I just thought I should report”, Marcel replied quickly, “that we had a gang of prospectors in this evening.”  He was trying to put extra emphasis into the news. “They were celebrating something special, judging by the amount of booze they put away.”  He tried to sound amused and confident, but his Controller remained silent.”  They just couldn’t stop talking about how they were all going to spend their fortunes. I’m pretty sure they were talking about diamonds”, Marcel stammered, now a little nervous.

“That sounds as if it could be very interesting. What else did you learn, my friend?” the  Controller added in a friendly tone.

“I think they are expecting some assay results tomorrow, but I don’t know who is doing the analysis.”  Marcel added quickly: “I presume it’s the De Beers agent but I can’t be sure.”

There was a pause.

“It seems, doesn’t it, Marcel? – that tomorrow you should find out.”  The icy command was not one to be questioned.

“I will call you as soon as I know”, Marcel replied hurriedly.

“I’ll be waiting for the call.”  The Controller replaced the receiver.

Marcel did the same and rolled into his bed, but sleep did not come easily for him that night.

* * * * *

James and his drivers met as planned for breakfast. With their lacklustre expressions, they looked a forlorn lot.

“My head tells me we drank much more than was good for us”, one of the drivers moaned.

The others quietly nodded agreement. There was a No Drinking rule back at the base camp. Last night had been the first alcohol any of them had consumed for over a month. Its effect was apparent in their drawn faces as they ate their breakfasts in near silence.

James pushed his plate away and spoke quietly to the others. “Okay men, so let’s organise ourselves today”, he started. “I’ll take the Land Rover with Harry, and you two take the Toyota and trailer to collect the equipment from the warehouse and the other bits and pieces. Here: I’ve made up a shopping list for fuel and other supplies. You can organise this while Harry and I sort out the agent.”

The two drivers nodded without enthusiasm; one reached out and took the list and an envelope containing a wad of US dollars. “That should cover it all”, James confirmed.

“Okay”, mumbled the driver. “So ... where and at what time will we meet?” he asked more cheerfully, trying to refresh his mood.

“Why don’t we meet back here, at about 1.30?” James proposed, “then if we’ve completed all our errands, we could make an early start. We’re going to need a lot more time for the return trip – with the load Nick’s planned for us.”

It was agreed. They were all very keen to return to the camp to get the next phase of the operation started. The two drivers boarded their Toyota and headed towards the shantytown of ramshackle buildings that passed as a sort of trading estate in that part of the world. 

James and Harry drove into the outskirts of the city. They were not due to see the agent until noon: “the earliest time by which the results of the assay could possibly be available”, the effeminate clerk at the office had told them haughtily. It suited them, however, because it gave them the time to fulfil their secret extra mission on behalf of the group. Nick had decided that it was time to acquire some firearms to beef up their security. Until now, it had been considered by everyone that having firearms at the camp invited as much trouble as it deterred.

There was an uneasy truce between the MPLA and UNITA, but with a Guerrilla or civil war, you can never be quite sure who is who. It was now known that part of the area in which they were working was one of the last strongholds of some of the most notorious UNITA rebels – mostly those who had not accepted the amnesty to integrate back into the government regime. The location, close to the Zaire border, also made it convenient for such groups to make a strategic withdrawal, should this become necessary.

So with potentially dangerous activities moving closer to their site daily, together with the unexpected scale of their strike, Nick reasoned that now was the time to have a little additional insurance.

“Keep it quiet, though. I don’t want the boys or anyone else to know that we have the arms, not yet anyway.”  When James had asked why, Nick had smiled and offered simply, “What you don’t know, you can’t tell, can you?”

James stopped the Range Rover in a cloud of dust. The building seemed to fit the address given to them. It had a plain but reasonably tidy-looking appearance. A sign was propped against the wall near the entrance: “Hardware Store” was scribbled crudely on the weathered plaque.

Harry said cautiously: “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“It makes you wonder ... but it fits, as far as I can see.”  James wrinkled his brow. “Let’s find out what goes on inside, shall we.”

They entered cautiously through the open door. It smelled fusty and after the blinding light of the African sun, it was dark and dingy at first. Gradually their eyes adjusted to the change in light. They found that they were standing in an empty room – well, almost empty – for there was a single chair and a small desk at the far end, facing the door. A long-tailed green lizard darted up the wall behind the desk. It stopped and froze, like an elegant statue, alongside a crack in the flaking plaster. The only moving part of the streamlined body was its tiny tongue, slithering in and out of the open mouth, still tasting the air. There were no obvious goods for sale, or any other sign of life, for that matter.

“You sure you got the right address?” Harry questioned. His voice sounded loud in the empty room.

The lizard, startled by the sound, darted further up the wall and vanished into a protective crevice.

James was about to reply when a man appeared in the doorway through which they had just entered. The noonday sun blazing behind him made it look as if he were surrounded by a halo. It was not possible to see his features.

“Is there something I can do for you?” the featureless figure asked. His voice was European, with a strong Germanic accent.

James, a little startled, at first replied lightly: “Hi, we’ve been directed to this address by Nick Weston. To purchase some goods. Are we in the right place?”

The man walked into the room, a scowl on his face. “Who are you then?” he replied shortly.

“I’m James Wright and this is Harry.”

The man stared at them for a moment. “So what you wanta buy?” he asked casually.

James cleared his throat. “Well, I understand that you are a gunsmith.”

The man was silent for a moment, as if waiting for the effect to register on the tense men. Suddenly he laughed. “It’s the first time I’ve heard such a respectable description of my business. Now listen”, he added more seriously, “first, do you have the agreed cash in US Dollars?”

Relieved, James fumbled in his inside pocket. “Oh yes, of course!”  He extracted the sealed brown envelope.

The man reached forward and snatched it expertly from James’s outstretched hand. He opened it and carefully counted the notes. “Correct”, he announced, relaxing visibly. “Okay then, at least this bit seems to be in order. “He tapped the bundle of money as he moved over and rested his butt on the corner of the desk. “Fortunately Nick radioed a coded message this morning, so I know exactly who you are and what you want. And of course this helps!”  He smiled and shook the bundle of dollars. “But you must understand, these are very difficult and dangerous times. This place is teeming with villains who will kill without any thought, even for something as simple as a bottle of Scotch.”  He raised his bushy eyebrows. “Any type of gun, you should know – for all the obvious reasons – is a particularly valuable bartering chip here, so you’re going to have to be very careful indeed.”

He moved to the front of the desk, taking a piece of paper from one of the open drawers. “Nick gave me the details of your requirements”, he said, looking at the paper. “Does my list agree with yours?” They compared the lists. “Looks right to me”, the man confirmed casually.

James agreed with a nod and glance at Harry. “Yes, ... identical”, James acknowledged.

“Okay. Then I will have the consignment together within a couple of hours, but not for collection here, though. We must agree another meeting place.”  He rubbed his chin in thought.

“We stayed at the Oasis Motel last night. Could we meet there?” James offered.

“Okay. That will have to do. Let’s say 1.30?” the man suggested.

They shook hands in agreement and left the building. James raised his hand to shield his face from the blinding African midday sun as they stepped back into the street. He was grateful somehow to be leaving the “gunsmith” and his dingy room. As they moved towards the Land Rover, James turned to Harry with a look of amazement.

“I’ve just handed over $15,000 to a man I don’t know, in the middle of this treacherous African continent!”  He lowered his hand, his eyes having acclimatised themselves to the light.

Harry laughed. “It’s all a bit James Bond, isn’t it? I sure hope he turns up at 1.30.”

“So do I”, James sighed. “So do I”, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Marcel, who had cautiously followed James and Harry, expecting to be led to one of the assay offices, had been quite surprised when they’d stopped for some time at the address of a well-known arms smuggler, and fully understood the only reason to visit that particular establishment. He waited patiently in the shadows on the opposite side of the street.