11 Harrowhouse (44 page)

Weaver stood and went to the bucket in the corner. He took it up and drenched his head with water, reviving. There was no towel, but the African heat would quickly dry him.

He glanced through the interior bars to see that Brothers William and Davis were back-to-back sentries in the aisle of the cellblock, and two other Brothers were in the cell opposite, guarding the goods. All were armed with automatics. A contingency of twelve brothers had flown over to help. Four from the Bay area, six from New York, and two from the Midwest. They were upper cadre, dedicated to the end.

It had taken Weaver a day and two nights to convince President Bobu and his cabinet. Bobu, a thin man with a fat man's appetite, would have been easier alone. Prime Minister Moshiba and three appointed advisors had kept turning Bobu's head with selfish alternatives. The prime minister, for example, had been in favor of fast gain, dead set for extorting a huge sum in return for the diamonds. Weaver had persuaded tactfully, careful not to expose the Prime Minister's obvious personal greed and lack of imagination. It was necessary to avoid making an enemy of the man, for the time being.

After many hours of quibbling, the Prime Minister finally conceded part way and took an alternate stand. His compromise suggestion was that they sell the diamonds in large lots at undercutting prices. President Bobu thought that idea sounded reasonable and looked to Weaver for concurrence.

Patiently Weaver induced them further. He plowed their minds with words, planted and nurtured the seed of power beyond their most arrogant dreams. His persuasiveness was aided by the fact that he believed in power and had been the victim of it.

There was greater opportunity, Weaver maintained, in making Mombi appear to be a legitimate diamond-producing nation. Mombi would be to the diamond industry what Kuwait was to oil. Its leaders would be recognized, received, catered to, and even the indirect benefits of such a world position would exceed any short-term monetary gain that might be derived from selling the diamonds as the Prime Minister had suggested. The primary thing, said Weaver, was to make Mombi's sudden good fortune appear authentic. It could be done. The country was well located to make such a diamond discovery plausible. It was not far from Sierra Leone, one of the world's richest fields. In past years there had been some diamonds found in Mombi, and, although they were poor-grade stones suitable only for industrial use, that mineral history would serve as convincing testimony.

Weaver unrolled a map to show them what he proposed they do. He'd come well prepared, had specifically chosen Mombi because that small country was both geographically and politically perfect for his plan. He called attention to the minor mountain range well within Mombi's borders—a few volcanic rises of varying heights called the Zalas, covering an area of about twenty square miles. It was arid land, ideally unpopulated. That entire section could be fenced off and restricted.

The diamonds would be scattered over the Zalas. Then the discovery would be made and officially announced. No outsiders would be allowed in, but government photographs and motion pictures would document and lend credence. Production would begin. Diamonds would be sold in increasing amounts through arrangements between the government of Mombi and the regular channels of international diamond distribution. Appropriately enough, The System, from whence they'd come. The money would flow into Mombi. It was a flawless plan. Didn't they agree?

Bobu, Prime Minister Moshiba, and the advisors exchanged measuring glances.

For a clincher, Weaver put a question to President Bobu. “How much does Mombi now have in its treasury?”

The president looked to one of his advisors, who replied hesitatingly, “Perhaps four hundred thousand dollars.”

“Imagine twelve billion dollars,” said Weaver.

And that did it.

Now, in the prison cell, Weaver strapped on a Smith & Wesson three fifty-seven magnum revolver and slung a bandolier, full and heavy, over his head. He put an arm through the bandolier and shifted it diagonally across his chest. He liked the feel of it.

He was then brought a tray of food that one of the brothers had personally prepared and no one else had touched. Taking no chances. Weaver was hungry but too full of visions of victory to taste what he forked into his mouth.

While he ate he thought of that part of his scheme that he hadn't revealed to the leaders of Mombi. The essential part, actually. He didn't intend to just let the great wealth accumulate and remain in Mombi's treasury as a symbol of power. Nor did he intend to allow the Prime Minister or the others to live high off the money. President Bobu would, of course, enjoy a share, because he was needed as a figurehead. Weaver was positive the president could be easily manipulated, kept content and distracted by such creature comforts as women and food and cars.

Weaver's ultimate goal was to finance the black revolution.

From Mombi's treasury he'd provide his brothers and sisters across the ocean with what they needed to rise up and fight for their color. He remembered himself having had to scrounge hard for enough money to buy a used rifle, and how he'd scrounged even more just to get out a few hundred propaganda newspapers. There wouldn't be any more of that. Not with twelve billion dollars backing them. That was for sure.

He hadn't yet analyzed what specifically could be accomplished with twelve billion dollars. But he'd done some preliminary figuring. He knew that twelve billion was only about one sixth as much as the annual United States military budget. But he reasoned that when all the influence and power of twelve billion dollars was concentrated in one direction for one purpose, without all that white bureaucratic bullshit skimming and waste, it could have the effect of fifty times that amount.

He visualized a quiet, gradual build-up of a secretly armed twenty million blacks, estimated that only four billion dollars would be required to supply every brother and sister in the United States with a rifle and ammunition, grenades, and explosives. That would still leave a balance of eight billion dollars with which to continue the fight.

It was a revolutionary's dream.

It could come true.

But its success, Weaver realized, depended upon secrecy. There could be no doubts, no rumors, certainly no investigations. The diamond discovery had to appear indisputably authentic.

He'd gotten the diamonds out of England without anyone knowing. Diplomatic cargo was the way they'd been classified. No questions. Without divulging anything, he'd been able to pull that off with the cooperation of a high-ranking North African official who was repaying a past favor. Weaver had led him to believe that what he was transporting via this privileged designation were four new, American-made refrigerators, merely to evade paying duty.

Since then Weaver had personally made sure the four large crates hadn't been opened, their supervaluable contents were intact, just as he alone had packed them.

It was absolutely imperative that no one should in any way connect him with the theft from The System. The cause was too important, the stakes too high to chance disclosure by anyone.

Three hours later, a cargo plane strained slowly across the cloudless African night sky. With its bay doors open, it made numerous low altitude passes over and around the Zalas mountain range.

Never, on the face of this earth had there fallen such a precious and potentially violent rain.

CHAPTER 32

T
HEY WERE
in Monaco, staying in a corner suite of the Hotel de Paris.

Maren and Chesser both regarded it as a legitimate honeymoon. However, neither mentioned it as such, because being there was not special enough, really, not a change from their customary life style. They couldn't even enjoy the self-conscious pleasure of making their newlywed status known to the hotel, for they'd often stayed there together before, and it would have been flagrantly tactless of them now suddenly to contradict the hotel's previously accommodating, if not sincere, assumption about their marital status.

They'd been there since midweek. The best of it was the two full days and nights they hadn't left their suite, had loved and loved, regenerated their bodies with long, any-time naps and excessive portions of their most favorite foods, and made more love.

Chesser found himself looking forward to Monday. That would be the ninth, the day of his return to The System. Maren had given in to his attending the sight. She understood the personal satisfaction it would give him. But she had her terms: He would never go to London without her, and he must pick up his packet and sell it as quickly as possible, without even opening it.

He agreed to the latter condition because disagreement then might have caused her to withdraw her compromise altogether. In time he'd convince her that it was necessary for him to be doing something well besides loving her. Also, he could not forget those moments of anguish on the bench beside the lake in Geneva. That experience had hardened Chesser's determination never again to be caught having nothing. As yet he didn't know what that Swiss bank had done with his two hundred thousand fuck-you dollars, but he was sure Massey had something to do with it.

As for now, they had one more night in Monaco. According to their new perspective, it might be the last they'd ever spend there. So they decided to make the most of it.

They dressed for the evening and went to dinner at Le Regent. They ignored acquaintances and focused their attention entirely on one another. They discussed where they should have a house, make a home, and how large it should be. It came to them that the French lawyers might want to sell the place in Chantilly and that prospect delighted them.

After dinner they drove up the winding ribbon of steep road to Laghet, where they visited a small church they'd heard about. The church was a favorite of gamblers, and it remained open at night to facilitate pious incantations for protection against losing. Its feature votive attraction was The Little Black Virgin, a hard wooden statue with a virtuous black face carved and gessoed especially to transmit assurances to those who believed they could, with a bit of divine assistance, beat the odds. No doubt, some winners returned and inserted substantial gratitude into the slotted box that was a permanent fixture at the statue's base.

The Little Black Virgin had been credited with many divine accomplishments, such as miraculous cures, sixteen consecutive wins on black in roulette, and numerous rescues from sudden death.

Maren and Chesser disregarded the worn, velour-covered prayer bench below the statue. They stood for no more than a couple of minutes. Chesser noticed that the black paint had completely flaked off the Virgin's feet, exposing them as chalky white. Also, disconcertingly, its dark, target eyes were out of alignment. Maren dropped a hundred-franc note into the offering box and lighted a candle. Just to do it.

Then they drove back to Monaco.

At that same time Toland and another professional killer named Riker were entering the Hotel de Paris via the rear service entrance. They skirted the bustle of the kitchen and went up the back stairs to the fourth floor, unnoticed.

The hotel corridor was deserted, no sign of the floor waiter or chambermaid. Toland and Riker hesitated long enough to put on gloves and then proceeded down the corridor to suite
numéro quarante
. They unlocked the door with a master key and went in.

They went to work—quietly, efficiently creating the evidence of robbery. With purposeful carelessness they emptied and rummaged through drawers and cases, confiscating every valuable item small enough to be carried away in their pockets. Including the entire contents of Maren's jewelry chest and a thick fold of five-hundred-franc notes found tucked into the toe of one of Chesser's shoes.

By the time they had finished, both rooms of the suite appeared to have been hurriedly ransacked. Only a few additional touches were needed. A lamp on its side on the floor, its shade collapsed, the telephone wires ripped out, a table knocked awry with one of its legs splintered, the bed covers pulled off, a chair turned over, ashtrays thrown and spilled on the carpet.

Signs of struggle.

There would be no struggle, of course.

Chesser and Maren would enter the suite, and when they had closed the door behind them, Toland and Riker, from flanking positions, would shoot them with an immobilizing drug, noiselessly, using special compressed air pistols which accommodated dartlike syringes.

Under the effects of the drug, they would be bound and gagged. And as soon as the drug's effects wore off, Toland would give Chesser the opportunity to reveal where the stolen inventory was hidden. Chesser would be allowed one free hand to write down the information. Massey had no intention of relying on his representative's memory. If Chesser refused, Toland's instructions were to convince him by paying imaginatively crude attention to Maren. Riker was especially good at that, the sort who found sexual amusement in using objects as substitutes for his physical equipment.

Once the information was obtained from Chesser, Toland was to call Massey from a public phone. He was to call again every hour thereafter until Massey confirmed that Chesser had not lied. In all, it was estimated that Massey's people needed no more than three hours to check out the location of the diamonds anywhere in England. After getting the word from Massey, Toland was to rejoin Riker in the suite. Steel-spring garrots would be used. Noiseless, neat. Toland and Riker each carried one in his coat pocket. The simplest sort of lethal device. Merely a very thin woven-steel wire looped back, connected to itself and held cocked by a small but extremely powerful spring. The loop went over the head and around the neck. When the spring was released the loop contracted with tremendous force, strangling.

Toland and Riker had already taken their positions flanking the entrance inside suite
numéro quarante
. Toland, waiting, happened to notice a book on a near table. Book with a strange title that he assumed was Chinese.
I Ching
. Toland thumbed through it, saw it wasn't a story and wondered why the hell anyone would want to use three suit buttons to mark a place.