September 2015
Pretoria, South Africa
Greta Van Horn scrolled through the computer files the GIS expert showed her on his tablet. Eyes narrowing, she asked bluntly, “Are these numbers accurate?”
Doctor Philippe Lindstrom nodded. “The results of the computational analyses are quite remarkable,” he said, his Danish accent a pleasant lilt.
She stared at the displays again. “Anyone else know about this?”
“I’m the only one who has seen these, Ms. Horn. You were the first person I called.”
“Keep it that way. I don’t see any reason to bother Pieter Haas with this until there’s something more substantial.”
“Yes Ms. Horn.”
Greta quickly downloaded the files into her data stick. Pieter had to see this right away. She hurried down the hall to the elevator. Pressing the button, the door opened instantly. It was the only entrance to this part of building. No one knew of the secret research lab one-hundred meters beneath the soaring office complex of the DeVere Mining Group except for members of the board of directors. Ignoring the elevator buttons on the panel, she pulled out a round shaped key and inserted it into the lock at the bottom of the panel. She turned it clockwise. The elevator hummed upward to the chairman’s private office.
DeVere had been the largest diamond company in the world for more than a century. There were younger companies nipping at their heels, especially in North America where new diamond possibilities had reportedly been found in Saskatchewan, Michigan, Wyoming and New Mexico, where DeVere held substantial interests. And now this, she thought, glancing though the papers a second time.
The elevator pinged and stopped. She straightened her conservative dark blue silk suit before hurrying across the hall and entering the closed door without announcing herself.
Pieter Haas was starring out the window at Pretoria. He didn’t turn around. “It must be important, Greta,” he said. “You didn’t knock.” The chairman of the DeVere Mining Group was a thin, well-groomed South African of Boer descent. His family traced their lineage back to the Voortrekkers who had escaped English rule in Cape Town and moved north and east into the Transvaal nearly 200 years ago.
“You’ll want to see this,” Greta answered. She had been in the chairman’s private penthouse many times, but the room never ceased to awe her. The suite was spacious with large picture windows on three sides giving an aerial view of the Magaliesberg Mountains forming a ring-like wall north of South Africa’s third capital. Thick carpet covered the floor. Rare oil paintings of the Great Trek of the Dutch colonists, interspersed with Zulu and Ashanti art and artifacts, adorned the walls.
Haas turned slowly. His pale blue eyes narrowed as she walked across the room and handed him the thick file. “What’s this?”
“Lindstrom, the Danish geologist who you have working with Pete Miami in America, gave it to me.” She handed him the data stick and he downloaded the information into his computer. She waited patiently as he scanned through the files. When his eyes widened, she added quickly, “Lindstrom’s the only one who’s seen this and I made certain you and I are the only ones he’ll speak with about it.”
Haas nodded and strode to his desk. He gestured to Greta to sit down. “Does Doctor Miami suspect anything?”
“Not as far as I know. His drones have been sending us raw data looking for kimberlite signatures in the area of northern New Mexico. Lindstrom’s the one who’s been crunching the numbers.”
“We need to follow up,” Haas said. “Who’s the man we’ve been using to buy land there for the company?”
Greta Van Horn didn’t have to consult her notes. She instantly replied, “Raphael Núnez. He owns the Rio Chama Real Estate Company.”
“Have him ask around. See if he knows anything.”
She nodded, not taking any notes.
Haas smiled his pleasure at Greta Van Horn’s abacus mind. She wasn’t a smasher—too wide in the shoulders and hips, eyes slightly askew on her broad face—but she was precise and never forgot an order, a business contact, or the fine print in any contract. She never left an embarrassing paper trail of emails or memos, and on this project that was essential.
“Anything else, sir?” she asked.
Haas shook his head and watched her leave. Then he returned to the window. A low haze covered the mountain range. It was hot and humid outside. Inside his office the air and temperature were perfectly controlled, yet he could feel stickiness in his armpits. Unbidden into his thoughts came an image of the Samburu shaman he had met nearly forty years ago and the prophecy the strange old man had told him.
Maybe the old man was right.