Chapter 34

 

While Dmitry drove Elaine back towards the center of N’Djamena, she called Luna back.

“I’ve got all the data now on flights,” Luna said. Raj’s flight from Chad to Paris would take more than five hours, so the plan was that Luna would fly from Marseille to Charles de Gaulle Airport and be there in person to witness the search herself when Raj stepped off the plane. “There’s a nonstop from Marseille that arrives at CDG at five fifty p.m., which is a half an hour before Raj’s flight arrives, so there should be enough time for me to get to Customs and organize the search.”

“Half an hour...that’s not very much time.” Elaine paused. “Have you gotten in touch with Marie-Anne?” Marie-Anne was the owner of a nursery up the road from her house, in the village of Cabriès, who was always willing to take Ryan and Amelia on short notice. Elaine didn’t want to leave Tony and the kids alone until Raj was apprehended.

“Marie-Anne is onboard,” Luna said.

“Good. Tony can take the night off—you can drop him off when you get to Marseille, he has a ‘friend’ there.”

Dmitry glanced over at Elaine when she said the latter.

“And take my sat-phone with you, in case we need to talk while you’re on the way to the airport. The cell signal is bad along that route. It’s in my desk—”

“Already have it in my pocket, but…” Luna was silent for a few seconds.

“What’s wrong?” Elaine said.

“I’m just thinking, Elaine. Are you absolutely sure that Raj will take the diamonds with him on that flight to Paris?”

“Well, no, I can’t be one hundred percent sure. How could I be?”

“I’m really sticking myself out on a limb here, baby-doll. If we organize a search with the French authorities and he comes up clean—”

“Luna, would you leave ten million euros worth of raw pink diamonds behind in Chad if you were him?”

“Well, that depends, actually. You have to remember that both Cattoretti and Ketchum have dropped out of communication with him, so he might get cold feet. He has no clue what’s going on. After you pass the diamonds to him, he could decide to hide them somewhere in his hotel room, before he even leaves, and then come back for them later on another trip, when he’s sure he’s safe.”

“That’s a possibility,” Elaine admitted.

“If Raj doesn’t have those diamonds on his person or in his carry-on when he steps off that plane and is searched at CDG, we’re royally screwed, Elaine. You, me, and Nick. It’s not just my ass on the line—he’ll destroy all three of us.”

“I understand, but how can we be sure he has the diamonds on him? I was already thinking about that, and I don’t have an answer.”

“Me neither.” Luna paused for a moment. “What are your instincts, baby-doll? That’s what this always comes down to. Do you really think he will take the risk, even if he’s lost contact with Stan and The Cat?”

Elaine thought it over one more time. “Yes I do.”

“Why?”

“Because if he thinks something happened to both of those guys, he’ll probably assume this is the last load of diamonds he’ll ever get out of that mine. This is Raj Malik we’re talking about, Luna. In the end, I’m betting greed will win out.”

 

* * *

Dmitry sped back towards the roundabout. Raj’s plane would be landing in forty minutes, and they didn’t have much time. At the moment they were trying to figure out how to pack the diamonds into the envelope so that the hotel clerks would not know what was inside.

But Elaine had trouble concentrating. She was bothered by the overall plan that they had just worked out.

About the time they reached the Chagoua Roundabout again, Elaine decided to call Luna back.

“Are you still at the house?” Elaine blurted, as soon as she answered.

“No, we all just got in the car, and we’re almost to Cabriès. Why? What’s the matter?”

“Do you have time to go back to our house and pick up my old Secret Service I.D.? It’s in my bottom desk drawer.”

“Why?”

“I’ve decided I’m flying to Paris myself, on the same plane as Raj.”

“You’ve decided what?” Luna said.

“I have to be on that plane with Raj, Luna. You’re right—there are too many things that can go wrong. The worst is that he could get cold feet and decide to ditch the diamonds on the plane at the last minute. He could hide them under his seat, in the overhead compartment, in the lavatory. If he does that, there’ll be no way to concretely prove he’s the smuggler—he’s way too smart to leave fingerprints. We can’t let that happen, Luna. There’s too much at stake. We have to nail him.”

Luna was quiet for a few seconds. “And what if he sees you?”

“He won’t—I’m going to disguise myself. I already have an outfit that will make me look African.”

Luna chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, baby-doll, but you don’t look the least bit African.”

“Middle-Eastern, I meant. I can use makeup on my face, hands, and feet, and wear a black wig.”

“I don’t know, Elaine...”

“There are other issues—what if your flight is delayed and you can’t make it to the gate before Raj’s plane lands? Thirty minutes is cutting it too close.”

“How would we communicate?”

“Sat-phones work on planes. Did you bring Nick’s?”

“Yeah, I have it with me.” Luna was silent for a moment. “You just want to be there for the collar, don’t you, Elaine? That’s really what this is about, isn’t it?”

“No. Well, yes, of course I want to be there for the collar, but that’s not the reason. I need to be on that plane to make sure nothing goes wrong, to stack the odds as much in our favor as possible. And be there when he’s searched, too. I’ve got those fake Kimberley Certificates with me now, remember—they can be used as evidence if necessary. We both need to be there, together, Luna.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that.”

Elaine was a little surprised that Luna gave in so easily. “So, do you have time to go back and get my I.D.?”

“I don’t have to go back—I already have it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Luna chuckled in her deep voice.

“I don’t understand.”

“I figured you’d end up making this decision, Elaine. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know you.”

 

 

* * *

Elaine asked Dmitry to stop on the roundabout. Now she had to scramble to buy the few extra items she needed to disguise herself. She’d seen a clothing stall selling wigs, but they were every color but black. The woman who ran it pulled a cheap black one out from under the counter that would do—only a little of the hair would show around the wrap. She quickly bought some makeup for dark skin and a few more pieces of costume jewelry of the type that local Chadian women wore, and was back in the SUV in less than five minutes.

She also bought Dmitry a new shirt and pair of slacks, so that he would look halfway presentable when he went inside the hotel to drop off the package. As he took off his old tattered, bloody shirt to change into the new one, Elaine noticed the bullet scar on his shoulder from several years ago. She had given it to him the day she’d first met him, when he’d helped her outrun the Russian mafia in his little Lada and had insisted she shoot him superficially in the flesh above his shoulder so that he could tell the gangsters that she had forced him to help her.

As Dmitry unfolded the new shirt, bare-chested, she tried not to look at the macabre-looking tattoo that he claimed to have drawn on himself.

Then she noticed that recent bullet wound in his upper arm—it seemed to be seeping blood.

“Wait, let me put some tape on that,” Elaine said, and grabbed the roll of duct tape off the back seat.

 

* * *

When they reached The Mobutu Plaza, Elaine told Dmitry to park in the farthest possible parking space from the lobby, but where they could still clearly see the driveway and front entrance. She knew that Raj’s flight had touched down on time—she had used the sat-phone’s Internet to check the Air France flight status website. She estimated that Raj would arrive at the hotel in about thirty minutes.

Dmitry had come up with a brilliant idea about how to pack the diamonds into the envelope they would leave for Raj. He would hide them inside Elaine’s burner phone and charger box. As soon as he parked, he opened Stan’s tool kit and started removing all the electronic guts from both pieces so that only the plastic cases and the display remained.

“I’m going inside to get my suitcases and an envelope we can use,” Elaine said, opening the door. “Sit tight.”

The trip to the hotel lobby would also give her a chance to check things out, and see who was working at the reception desk. She also needed her luggage, especially her carry-on. She planned on taking her Sig Sauer on the plane in the latter. Dmitry had brought the weapon from France along with the toilet kit that disguised it. Once on the plane, she could take the toilet kit into the lavatory and reassemble the gun so she would be armed when she got off and the French Customs officials confronted Raj.

Her clothes were so dirty she’d wrapped the colorful rabott around herself to venture into the hotel lobby, and she made use of another “luxurious” item she’d picked up at the roundabout—an umbrella. It was still drizzling outside.

 

* * *

Elaine returned from the lobby about five minutes later, wheeling her two suitcases behind her, hugging the empty bubble pack envelope under her arm, which she had bought in the business center. The hotel seemed quiet this morning, with only one middle-aged man on duty at the front desk.

Dmitry was just finishing packing the diamonds into the empty phone and the charger, but he could not get the phone case closed—there were too many stones to fit inside.

With Elaine nervously glancing at her watch, the Russian tried taking out all the diamonds and repacking them several times, more efficiently. But no matter how he arranged them, they wouldn’t all fit. Two or three were always left over.

“How much these worth?” he said, as he rearranged them in the phone case for about the fifth time.

“About ten million euros,” Elaine said.

“Nichevo sebye,” he muttered, which translated to something like “Unbelievable.”

Elaine watched as he slipped the smaller stones into the remaining crevices between the bigger ones, trying to be more space-efficient. It was like working a puzzle. One that could not quite be solved.

“Hurry,” she said, glancing at her watch again. Twenty minutes. “We don’t have much time left.”

Finally, the Russian managed to get the case back together, but the phone case would not quite close all the way, there was still a slight space in the interface between the two pieces of plastic.

“Bleen!” He angrily plucked out one of the smallest pink rocks, and then snapped the case cleanly shut.

“Just keep that one for yourself,” Elaine said.

Dmitry frowned at her, holding the small, glittering raw diamond between this fingers. “You make joke, da?”

“Not at all. You have to be paid for your work, Dmitry. Keep it and sell it when you get home.”

He let out a little gasp, and quickly handed it to her. “I could not take it.”

“Yes you can.” She grabbed his big hand and put the diamond in his palm, wrapping his fingers around it. “It’s yours—you deserve it.”

“Bozhe moi,” he muttered.

“Just be careful how you get rid of it. Maybe take a trip to Ukraine—”

“I know how sell,” he said.

I’ll bet you do, Elaine thought, as she watched him slip the little diamond into his pocket. She was troubled again by the expansive, sinister tattoo on his chest. She really didn’t want to believe that he was in the Russia mafia, or had ever been a member, but she didn’t want to confront him about it, either.

Dmitry used superglue to hold the two cases together, applying a thin line all around the interfaces. While Dmitry held the case closed, Elaine blew on it, the smell of glue filling the air.

The seconds ticked by, Elaine watching the hotel entrance, expecting Raj to pull up in a taxi at any second. They were cutting it too close.

“I think they’re dry enough,” she said. She opened the bubble-pack envelope, slipped the phone and charger into it, and then carefully sealed it.

“Maybe we close with duck tape?”

“No, that might make the clerk more tempted to open it, to see what’s inside.”

Handing it to Dmitry, she said, “I sure hope Raj falls for this.”

“Me, too,” the Russian said. He opened his door.

“Break a leg,” Elaine said.

Dmitry chuckled. “Spacebo.”

 

 

* * *

A couple of minutes later, Dmitry entered the hotel’s elegant lobby, the priceless envelope in his sweaty hand. The establishment was even swankier than the five-star where he’d spent his first night in Chad—the lobby was graced with majestic marble pillars, classical oil paintings, and a winding, carpeted staircase with gold railings.

As he walked across the polished marble floor towards the reception desk, he felt more than a little nervous—there was always some unpleasant surprise in store for him at these fancy Czar-palaces, usually some strange question from the clerk that he wouldn’t understand and would make him feel like an ill-cultured durak. But this time, the stakes were much higher than merely feeling like a fool—if he made a serious mistake, it would blow Janet’s entire plan and make all the stress and suffering they’d both endured on this dangerous journey a complete waste of time.

In fact, as he approached the desk, he found that not only his hands, but his entire body had broken out in a sweat. He could feel warm beads of it running down his back and arms.

“Good afternoon, Monsieur,” the clerk said, smiling cordially. Somehow, the pudgy, middle aged African already knew that Dmitry was a foreigner and did not speak French. His eyes cut down to Dmitry’s new shirt and slacks—both items were a size or two too small.

“I must leave this for Mister Vinod Patel,” Dmitry said, setting the package on the desk. “He have reservation for this hotel, will be arriving today.”

The clerk glanced down at the package a little warily, Dmitry thought, then turned to his computer screen. He typed something on the keyboard.

“Oui...Mister Patel will indeed arrive this morning.” He looked back at Dmitry, then at the lumpy package again, but did not pick it up. It did look rather suspicious now, sitting there in the bright light of the hotel lobby, so thick and irregular-looking. Janet was right about the duct tape—that would have made it appear even more dubious.

“It is only mobile phone,” Dmitry said, smiling. He picked it up and set it back down to show it was harmless. “He leave it behind last time he coming to Chad.”

“I see.” The clerk finally picked it up and discretely felt the contents.

Dmitry glanced down...to his horror, he saw a drop of blood right beneath him on the desktop. Despite the duct tape, the gunshot graze in his upper arm was still bleeding—it wasn’t just sweat.

“Is something wrong?” the clerk said.

“N—no,” he said, and casually placed his hand down on the desktop, covering the drop of blood. He was so rattled that he’d almost said Nyet. “Maybe you can leave message for Mister Patel?”

“Of course.” The clerk retrieved a pink message pad and motioned to a pen on a stand that faced Dmitry.

“Maybe you can write message for me?”

The clerk frowned, looking suspicious again. “Why?”

Dmitry gave a sheepish smile. “My English not so good...”

“I understand,” the clerk said, a little condescendingly, Dmitry thought. The man turned the pad around and picked up the pen. “What message would you like to leave, Monsieur?”

“Please write him: ‘Stanley say you left your phone and cannot meet with you today. Sorry’.”

“Stan Lee..?”

“No, Stanley. One name.”

The clerk started writing out the message in neat block letters. While he did this, Dmitry firmly rubbed the palm of his hand back and forth across the drop of blood on the counter, hoping he had wiped it all off.

The clerk turned the message pad his way. “Is that correct?”

Dmitry read it over, ignoring the perspiration running into his eyes, moving his lips in an attempt to look illiterate. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Not at all,” the clerk said, again acting a little snobbishly, Dmitry thought.

He watched the man tape the message slip to the outside of the envelope. He held his right forearm firmly against his side, hoping no more blood would drip down his wrist.

“Is there anything else?” the clerk said.

“No. Thank you very much.” Dmitry forced a smile and turned away. As he did so, his heart gave a sharp thump—he caught sight of another drop of blood on the marble floor, right where he had been standing, but he had already taken a step away.

He thought it best to simply get the hell out of there.

He walked out of the door and across the parking lot, moving as fast as he could without looking like he was fleeing. When he climbed back into the SUV, he was still holding his arm tightly to his side.

“Well?” Elaine said, and then she saw how stiffly he was holding his arm. “What’s the matter?”

“My arm bleeding!” he said, showing her.

“Oh god...did the clerk see?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I sure, but also was blood drop on the floor by front desk.”

Elaine nervously gazed across the parking lot, at the hotel lobby. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter—it could be from anyone, someone with a paper cut or a bloody nose.”

“I hope so,” Dmitry said.

“Let’s put some duct tape on that wound—that’s all we have left as a dressing.”

 

* * *

Only five minutes later, Raj Malik pulled up to the hotel in a taxi.

He had not had a pleasant trip so far. It seemed that both Stanley Ketchum and Giorgio Cattoretti had dropped out of communication. Neither one of them were answering their sat-phones, which were apparently either turned off or “out of service range.” He hoped that it was just a coincidence. Lately, he had started doubting Cattoretti’s true intentions, afraid that maybe he and Elaine and Stanley Ketchum were all working against him now, and he would end up with nothing.

The clerk smiled as Raj approached the front desk.

“Ah, Bonjour, Monsieur Patel! Bienvenue à Tchad encore!”

Raj nodded politely. “Merci.”

The clerk printed out the registration form and placed it on the counter, facing Raj, and switched to English, knowing that Raj preferred that language. “I have you in Room Six Twelve, with a view of the pool, as you always prefer.”

“Thank you so much,” Raj said, signing the form.

Just as he took the key folder, the clerk unlocked a drawer, pulled it open, and handed Raj a rather heavy package. “This was dropped off for you just a few minutes ago.”

“Oh?” Raj glanced uneasily around the ornate lobby—there wasn’t a soul in sight.

“I believe it eez a mobile phone,” the clerk explained, nodding to the package. There was a pink message slip taped to the front.

Raj picked up the package, reading the note. He nodded as if he remembered forgetting the phone somewhere and was pleased to have it back.

Mobile phone? he thought, taken aback. What the hell was going on? His initial reaction was that his worst fear was valid, that Cattoretti was trying to screw him some way.

Doing his best to stay calm, he tucked the package under his arm.

The clerk said, “Would you like help with your luggage, Monsieur?”

“No thank you. I just have one.” He smiled casually at the clerk. “Short trip this time.”

“Enjoy your stay with us, Monsieur.”

Raj reached down to take hold of the carry-on handle, he stopped short—there was a little smear of red on the floor—he had apparently stepped in it. He looked more closely at it.

“Is something wrong?” the clerk asked.

“There’s some blood on the floor.”

The clerk frowned and leaned over the desk to look, but Raj was already scanning the rest of the floor, especially in the direction of the entrance, to see if there was any more.

The clerk picked up the phone and called someone in housekeeping to come clean it up.

Raj walked through the lobby towards the elevator, his mind racing—had the person who dropped off the package been bleeding, for god’s sake?

As soon as Raj pulled his carry-on bag onto the elevator, pressed the “6” button, and the doors closed, he glanced around the ceiling to make sure there were no cameras. He then looked more closely at the envelope to see if there was any blood on it, but he didn’t see any. He squeezed it with both hands. There actually did seem to be a phone of some kind inside of it. As he probed with his fingers, he could feel the body, a charger box, and coiled power cable inside.

With growing anxiety, Raj wondered if this was some kind of trick that Cattoretti was trying to pull at the eleventh hour? Would there be a note inside the envelope telling him to call a number for instructions, or some such bullshit? Or maybe Stan had been injured? Or taken hostage? Who knew?

By the time the elevator doors opened and he rolled his suitcase along the lushly carpeted hallway towards his room, he was perspiring, feeling like a caged animal. His first impulse was to turn around and leave Chad as fast as possible. Things had gone terribly wrong, he was sure of it.

As soon as he was safely inside the room and had dead bolted the door, he stepped over to the desk and carefully opened the envelope, his hands shaking a little bit.

He pulled out the cell phone and charger, expecting to find a note with instructions of some sort.

But there was no note.

He spread the phone and charger out on the desk, then shook the envelope out, and felt inside of it.

Nothing.

He yanked the message slip off the envelope and looked at the back of it, but there was nothing more written there. He turned it back over and read it again. STANLEY SAID YOU LEFT YOUR PHONE AND CANNOT MEET WITH YOU TODAY. SORRY.

Stanley? Raj thought. Ketchum never referred to himself as Stanley. He again wondered if Ketchum had been taken prisoner by someone, held hostage—his life in exchange for the location of the mine?

Raj pushed the power button on the phone—maybe he would get a call as soon as he turned it on, or there would be a text message with instructions.

He pushed the button a few more times and then held it down.

Nothing happened—the display remained blank.

The damn battery must be dead, he thought, and then he glanced at the charger. Yes—that must be why it was included with the phone, he reasoned.

He connected the charger and bent down to the wall socket to plug in the other end, then held the power button down and watched the display.

Still nothing!

“Goddamn it,” he muttered to himself, frowning at the phone, then glancing uneasily around the walls of the hotel room. What the hell was going on here? This stupid phone didn’t even work!

Raj stood there for a moment, staring at the dormant device, and then weighed it in his hand...hold on, the thing felt heavy.

Then the idea finally occurred to him.

Could the diamonds be inside the phone, and maybe the charger, too?

He tried to open the phone’s back panel, where the battery and SIM card were accessed, but it wouldn’t budge—the door to the compartment was frozen, as if glued in place.

Yes, it was glued in place. He could not only see the glue running along the space in the plastic, but he thought he could smell it, too.

Raj set the phone on the desk and pulled his keys out of his pocket, then grabbed the phone again. He carefully ran the sharp edge of his house key around the edge of the battery compartment door a few times, cutting through the thin layer of glue. He finally sliced through enough to pry one end of the door up to see inside.

The instant he caught a glimpse of the precious pink rocks, he smiled.

 

 

 

* * *

Twenty minutes later, with the seconds ticking by, Raj was sitting on the edge of a chair in the hotel suite, an empty vodka bottle from the minibar in his hand.

To take the diamonds to Belgium, or not?

That was the question that weighed on his mind, and that dilemma was as heavy as a load of bricks.

The pink rocks were spread out on the desk, in a pile, next to the empty phone and charger cases. Ten million dollars worth of raw pink diamonds.

Was he going to simply leave ten million dollars sitting on the table, so to speak?

That would be a truly cowardly thing to do.

He rose and pulled another little vodka bottle from the minibar and killed it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, trying to calm down.

Once again, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and, once again, dialed Cattoretti’s sat-phone number, and then, after a moment, Stanley Ketchum’s sat-phone number.

Both phones were either “turned off or out of service range.”

What the hell happened? he thought. He shakily ran his hand through his hair, trying to think clearly—his anxiety was making it difficult. The last word he had gotten from Cattoretti was to go ahead and take the diamonds to Belgium, as usual, and unload them—Cattoretti said he would keep tabs on Elaine and stop her from going after him when she arrived in N’Djamena.

And the last time he’d talked to Ketchum was to set up the meeting today...but instead of showing up, he had sent some mysterious messenger with the diamonds packed into a mobile phone.

Why?

He looked back at the note.

STANLEY SAID YOU LEFT YOUR PHONE AND CANNOT MEET WITH YOU TODAY. SORRY.

And that smear of blood on the lobby floor. What did it all mean?

Raj was tempted to go back down to the lobby and grill the clerk about what the delivery man looked like, but he could not afford to create any suspicion, it was simply too dangerous. He had a well-established identity as a mild-mannered French cotton importer—he couldn’t go asking questions about a mysterious man who delivered a lumpy package for him and had maybe left drops of blood behind.

A lot of different explanations for the overall situation went through Raj’s head. The worst case scenario, the one that really made his blood run cold, was that Elaine Brogan had somehow managed to track down Giorgio Cattoretti, figured out the overall plan, killed him, and then had killed Stan, too. She might have packed the diamonds in the phone and paid some random N’Djamena man to deliver it, hoping Raj would take them to Belgium so she could have him searched and arrested the moment his plane touched down on European soil.

But that explanation was far-fetched. Elaine Brogan was good, but not that good.

The more likely explanations were much less complicated and more believable. He was a believer in the philosophical principle known as Occam’s Razor: the simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Cattoretti’s sat-phone might have simply had a dead battery—there was no electricity at the fake black site, after all. Stan’s phone could have a dead battery or be malfunctioning, too.

But that would be a coincidence.

Raj paced up and down the hotel suite, his stress level rising even higher, and all at once he realized there was a good middle-ground solution. He didn’t have to take the diamonds to Belgium now, and he didn’t have to dump them, either! He could hide the diamonds right here in the room, somewhere in the suite, and then come back and get them at some later date, if things had indeed gone tits up. It wouldn’t be difficult to arrange to have the same room when he made a new reservation. If it wasn’t available on one date, he would simply choose another, and then he would come back and pick up the rocks.

Inspired by this idea, he went into the bathroom, looked around underneath the sink, and then stepped back into the living room and lifted the easy chair, inspecting the upholstery, to try to find the best hiding place. There were lots of possibilities.

But after scoping the entire suite and finding several good hiding places, he still could not decide what to do.

He sat back down at the desk, twisted the cap off another vodka bottle and downed it, gazing at the assortment of pink stones spread out across the desktop in front of him.

Am I really going to hide ten million dollars worth of raw diamonds inside this hotel suite and hope they will be still here when I come back in a month or two?

He glanced at his watch. His flight out of here left in less than two hours, and he had to take a taxi back to the airport, and go through Security and Customs and Passport Control...

Which left him all of ten minutes to make a decision.