Hot Ice (11 page)

Then she pulls herself together and steps towards the glass. For a long moment they stand stock still, staring at each other. He’s tall, thin, and darkskinned, with straight black hair, a long, angular face and a prominent nose. He smiles and puts up one hand, as if to hold off any reaction, but his smile is more frightening than his scowl as he backs away towards the gate. And then he’s gone.

He hadn’t looked like a thug. Quite the reverse. Could he be al-Qaeda? And with Ben murdered, had they turned their attention to her? Thoughts of her mother’s safety almost persuade Chris to call the police, but he’s gone now and Ben had told her to avoid calling them, if at all possible.

Chris checks the windows and the locks and goes back to bed. There’s no point in trying to sleep now. She’ll sleep on the plane. She tries to read a novel, but it’s hard to concentrate as the night’s events keep surging into her mind. Finally she puts the book away and jots down all the relevant details of
her investigation so far. She can’t see a pattern, but there must be one. She’s stumped for ideas, but she can’t give up now, there’s too much at stake.

‘I’ll get there,’ she murmurs. But the intriguing question remains: how can she out-fox this clever bunch of crooks?

A man is waving a placard bearing her name. Could that be Jon? If so, she can see why Sharon married him. He’s a Hollywood version of an ancient Pharaoh and appealing enough if you like florid looks. He looks cheerful, despite Ben’s death. A young woman leans over the railing beside him looking grave and trying to smile with pitiful intensity. The strong family features, so right for Ben, make his sister look like a witch. Right now her eyes are puffy with dark crescents beneath them. Chris waves and walks towards them.

Sharon clasps Chris across the barrier and kisses her on both cheeks, enveloping her in an aura of perfume and costly cosmetics. ‘Charges against Jonathan have been dropped. He’s in the clear. We heard this morning. Ben did that for us,’ she says tearfully.

‘I’m so glad, Sharon. And I’m sorry for your loss.
I haven’t been at FI long, but I was very fond of Ben.’

‘Ben was murdered because of what he did for us. Oh God! I’ll never forgive Jon. Never!’ Her body begins to shake as she sobs into a handful of tissues.

Sharon’s emotional greeting throws Chris off balance, but Jon steps forward and hugs her as if she were family.

‘They were very close,’ he whispers. ‘I’m in the dog house over this business. We haven’t spoken for days.’

He takes hold of her trolley while Sharon grabs her arm. Feeling manhandled, Chris allows herself to be steered out of the airport and into an alien environment where it is still morning and the mood is bitter. Chris wishes she wasn’t staying with the family, but when she called to tell them she’d be in New York, Sharon had all but exploded.

‘Visit…convenient…what sort of talk is this? You’ll stay here. Whatever we can do will be too little.’

The motorway is snarled up for the first ten minutes, but once Jon steers his Volvo XC-90 onto the highway to New Jersey, they speed south to Teaneck without interruption. Nevertheless it is a painful drive, punctuated by Sharon’s sobs as she looks straight ahead, her swollen face set and controlled, her eyes brave and condemning.

‘Did Ben tell you of our role in this nasty
business?’ Chris asks, attempting to alleviate some of the tension. ‘We’re investigating diamond laundering. That’s why I’m here.’

‘The crafty bastard never said a word about that.’ Jon breaks off as another point occurs to him. ‘So it’s possible that Ben’s murder has nothing to do with me?’ His trauma is lightening, Chris can see from the set of his shoulders.

‘My guess is that Ben was murdered because he knew too much, or he stumbled upon something relevant, perhaps when he was seeing Freeman.’

Jon swerves suddenly and steers on to the highway’s shoulder. He brakes and covers his face with his hands.

‘Not guilty,’ he says quietly. ‘You hear that, Sharon. Not fucking guilty.’ He rests his head against the steering wheel. After a long silence, he straightens up.

Chris has not yet shaken off her own
heebie-jeebies.
It takes a while to trust her voice not to waver.

‘Jon, tell me, do the FBI have any idea where Moses Freeman is staying? Have you let them know how you and Freeman used to arrange your meetings?’

‘Good God! Did Ben tell you? No. Absolutely not. I’m out of that mess. I want to stay out of it.’

‘But then how will they pick him up?’

Jon doesn’t answer.

‘So what happened exactly?’

‘It was like this…’ Jon begins, as he manoeuvres himself into the fast lane. ‘It was around seven p.m. That right Sharon? It was around seven, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Perhaps even a little later.’

Suddenly they are talking to each other. Chris sighs with relief.

‘A man came to the door wearing a cabby’s uniform. He had a note from Freeman telling Ben he would take him to someone who knew all there was to know about diamond laundering.’

‘I didn’t like the look of him,’ Sharon interrupts.

‘What’s a cab driver supposed to look like? You tell me. They’re mainly immigrants from all over…Cuba, Albania, Israel even. The note said that Ben should bring a thousand dollars in cash. I think that’s what clinched the matter in Ben’s mind. Paying for information was something he knew all about. Otherwise, well, maybe he wouldn’t have gone so willingly. He followed the driver in his hired car. He was going to go straight on to the airport afterwards.’

‘We never saw him again.’ Sharon gives a small, anguished cry. ‘Not until I had to go and identify his body.’

They sit in silence, engulfed in their gloomy thoughts. Jon slows down in a wide, leafy road in Teaneck, where the houses are costly, yet the locals have managed to hang on to a village-green atmosphere. Next minute they are driving through
wrought-iron gates towards a rambling bungalow, set behind a neat garden, where children’s play apparatus fills most of the lawn.

Two children run towards the fence and a woman in a striped uniform gets up heavily and walks to the gate. One of them, a toddler with dark hair and eyes, and a marked resemblance to Jon, runs towards them and hangs on to Sharon’s legs. A thin, pretty girl of about six smiles shyly at Chris.

‘Welcome to our home, Chris.’ Sharon gives her another hug and she is drawn into the house. ‘Meet Ruth and Barry. And this is Bridget, our Nanny.’ Bridget gives a broad, mirthless grin, grabs Barry and strides down the passage.

Chris nods and smiles. ‘Two children. How wonderful.’

‘There’s another on the way.’ Sharon flushes deeply.

‘I envy you.’

Sharon looks dubious. ‘Surely not you. Ben told us you’re the ultimate, successful career woman.’

Her words are strangely unnerving. Chris is brought face to face with her perennial problem: whether to compromise and settle for her best option for the sake of raising a family, or whether to wait and hope that chance will bring her ideal man to her door. At times, in despair, she seriously considers becoming a single parent.

‘So what’s it like being at home as a full-time mother. Ben told me you were a copywriter at a top
London agency. Do you miss the buzz?’

‘Sometimes. Mother-hood is a full-time job, but at times I get lonely. Kids are lovely, but you can’t have a conversation with them, at least not yet,’ she confides. ‘But I happen to believe that my children need a proper home until they reach ten. The plan is that I start writing, but I never have a moment to spare.’

As if sensing her longing, Sharon changes the subject. ‘Perhaps you’d like a snack…or breakfast?’

‘I couldn’t eat. Do forgive me. I had lunch on the plane.’

‘I expect you’ll want to sleep this afternoon, otherwise you’ll get jet lag. By the time we sit down to dinner it’s two a.m. in London.’

‘I have to go out on an errand for Rowan.’ She glances at her watch to hide her face. She hates lying, but if she tells Sharon that she’s going to see Freeman she knows Sharon will freak out. ‘I’ll see you later.’

The taxi arrives promptly at eleven, but Sharon waylays Chris as she reaches the front door.

‘You’re going to see that Freeman guy, aren’t you?’ she whispers. ‘If you know where to find him, it’s your duty to tell the police. Freeman’s lethal, Chris. He lured Ben to his death. Please don’t do this.’

Chris interrupts her. ‘If I find Freeman I’ll tell the police at once. Promise. But my duty to Ben is to
solve this case.’ She breaks off wondering why guilt always switches her into a fighting mode.

‘You’re mad. What drives you like this?’

‘Myself,’ Chris mouths quietly as she gets into the taxi. She should have lied. Now Sharon will worry all afternoon.

Trying to switch off and relax, she leans back to admire the neat homes and open gardens. Eventually the lush, middle-class prosperity comes to an abrupt halt. They move off the highway and Chris finds herself in an alien world where skinny youths with predatory eyes hang around in groups, jeering at each other. The taxi weaves through rows of shabby rooming houses where the streets provide a playground for the local kids. Humidity is high, and even the air seems polluted.

‘This is it, Ma’am.’ The driver brakes in front of a shabby house in a row of similar buildings. The youths cluster around them.

‘Do you want to get out here? You sure you’ve got the right place?’

‘Yes. Thanks. Can you wait?’

‘Here’s my card. Call me when you’re through. If I’m busy I’ll pass you back to the office.’

Waves of electrical shocks are running up and down her spine as she mounts the steps. The door is locked, but there are dozens of name plates, some so dusty you can hardly read them. ‘
Jasmen, for all enquiries
,’ she finds at last. She’s having second thoughts about going in there, but the taxi is
moving away. The boys are watching her curiously. There’s only one way to go and that’s onwards. She presses her finger on the grimy bell.

‘Who’s there?’ The woman’s voice is deep and slightly foreign.

‘Mrs Jasmen?’ she calls. ‘I’d like to see your brother, Moses Freeman. He’s expecting me. I’m Chris Winters.’

‘You’d better come in. Ground floor, first door on the left. Shut the front door properly. This place is full of rogues.’

Chris walks inside and closes the door carefully behind her. Standing alone in the gloomy hall, she fights off a moment of panic. She should have called the police and given them Freeman’s address. It’s madness to come here. The hall is dark, the air fetid and her stomach is contracting with painful spasms. Steeling herself she pushes open the door and steps forward into a shadowy hall, lit by a dim light-bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. A single door faces her. No one opens it, so she pushes it wide and stands blinking in the sudden light and relative opulence.

As the door closes behind her, Chris takes a deep breath and recovers her poise. Briefly she scans the polished wooden floors, zany woven rugs, tribal masks, two good paintings of African wildlife…all the evidence of a comfortable lifestyle and a dollop of homesickness. Mrs Jasmen appears to own the
house and from the door plaques it seems that she leases apartments. Presumably the house purchase was financed by Freeman’s diamond profits.

‘Jesus,’ she whispers, as the door opposite swings open.

There is nothing welcoming about the woman towering in the doorway. Wearing four-inch heels and a bulky turban, she is well on the way to six-foot-six – a massive figure of a woman with a skin so dark she might be Ethiopian. A jewelled crucifix on a heavy gold chain hanging around her neck gives no sense of comfort, for her fierce eyes blaze with hostility.

Have they found out that she is not from Husam at all? Chris feels deadly cold, but then she notices beads of perspiration gathering on the woman’s forehead. She, too, is afraid. Presumably, they have something to hide from Husam, which might give her the edge over them. She decides to harp on finances.

‘How did you find us? Prince Husam does not have our address.’

‘He must have made it his business to get it, for he gave it to me,’ Chris retorts.

She makes a quick decision. ‘Mrs Jasmen, I’m merely a messenger. Prince Husam has a number of questions and instructions which I must put to your brother, Moses Freeman. I also bring some information from the prince.’

Jasmen bites her lip. ‘We are very private people.
We don’t expect folks to come knocking on our door. My brother won’t be pleased about this.’ Her surreptitious glance at the door through which she has just entered, tells Chris that Freeman is out there listening.

‘Prince Husam informed you of my coming visit. Mr Freeman needs to hear the information I have for him. It’s vital for his safety.’

Her voice sounds normal, which is comforting. Only she can hear her heart knocking against her ribs. She tries to slow her breathing. There isn’t much she can do about her dry lips.

When Moses Freeman enters the room, Chris flinches and her fear almost gives her away. Hearing her panting breath, she attempts to breathe normally, but it’s not easy. Freeman is scanning her with a mistrustful expression. He suspects! Even worse is his sinister appearance. Freeman is a beanpole of a man, taller than his sister and his grey top hat increases his height. He’s dressed for a funeral…hers, perhaps.

Apart from his long jacket and striped tailored trousers, his hands are cluttered with several large rings, which she guesses are worn as
knuckle-dusters
rather than for decorative purposes. Heavy gold chains hang around his neck. Freeman’s complexion is like his sister’s, sooty black, but his eyes are disturbing, for his near-black irises float like beach balls in a silt-stained estuary. Murderers’ eyes, Chris decides, but on second thoughts malaria and hepatitis are probably responsible. His grim
appearance is heightened by his droopy black moustache and the deep lines around his nose and lips. Fiftyish, Chris reckons. Despite his age, he looks a tough and dangerous man.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Winters. Did you have a good journey?’ The sound of his voice, so unexpectedly high-pitched, brings goose-pimples to her arms.

‘Thank you, yes,’ she says, entering a world of unreality. For a moment she almost believes her role. She has so many roles…for Freeman, for Husam, for Jim…now why had she thought of Jim? Freeman ushers her to a chair and sends his sister to make coffee.

‘So Husam has chosen a beautiful woman to be his emissary. These Arabs…’ He leans over her and leers suggestively. His laugh reveals tobacco-stained teeth.

Bastard! Freeman has riled her, but she will fight him obliquely, she decides there and then.

‘Apart from being a lawyer, I also oversee the prince’s finances. I’m here to report back on how the prince’s investment of two and a half million dollars is being utilised. Naturally I need to examine your projected cash flow to determine the cost of each new job created…the prince is waiting for these statistics.’

‘He said nothing of this to me.’ Freeman, who is clearly frightened, takes out a handkerchief and wipes his damp forehead. ‘It’s far too early for this kind of exercise.’

‘It’s normal business procedure.’ Chris savours her revenge.

‘Let me tell you about my dream. I see the day when the sidewalks of our Monrovian streets will be littered with simple workshops, like the diamond quarter of Surat. I see a future where entire families will sit crouched over their wheels, polishing our country’s diamonds, working their way out of poverty and Third World status.’ His eyes become glazed as his voice rings with conviction.

He’s told this story often enough, but he’s reaching the climax, she senses after a few minutes. As for the glow in his eyes…is it missionary zeal or fury?

She decides to placate him. ‘Prince Husam is very excited about your dream.’

‘No longer a dream since the prince got involved.’

Is that the only connection between them? Is Freeman just another tool for Husam to refashion his beloved Africa? No wonder he warned Freeman about their investigation. For some reason, this pleases her. But where does Husam’s security officer, Jim Stark, fit in?

‘Those greedy mining magnates maintain that Africans have no talent for cutting and polishing diamonds,’ Freeman is saying. ‘But I say that it is a learned skill, so give the tribesmen the chance to learn it. The prince agrees with me.’

‘Yet you also sell blood diamonds in the States.’

Freeman battles to conceal his shock. Obviously he keeps his vocations in separate compartments.

‘I have to live, Miss Winters.’

She watches a trickle of sweat weave its crooked path down his cheek.

‘I have twelve workshops established in Monrovia. Naturally I’ve used a great deal of my own money.’

‘I don’t understand why Prince Husam feels it’s imperative to use conflict diamonds. You offered him some excellent diamond pipes which could be purchased at a good price, or so he told me, yet he feels that the bottom might fall out of the market. Why is that?’

Freeman shrugs and laughs. ‘There are vast new finds in Canada, my dear. You must know that. Meanwhile, we’re both doing what we can to help Mother Africa.’

Is he for real? Chris stirs impatiently and moves to another angle.

‘You must understand that these confidences can’t be voiced over the Internet.’ She glances at him, but his face is expressionless.

‘Prince Husam is being pressurised by agents of al-Qaeda to assist them with their diamond laundering network. He wants to know if you are being pressurised, too.’

Freeman laughs with genuine amusement.

‘In my opinion, Bin Laden has franchised his
Islamic revolution copying American business methods.’

‘You mean like fried chicken?’

‘Exactly. He’s produced a recipe which encourages and inspires every fragmented Islamic group with a gripe. Their diamond laundering is localised and small scale compared with…’ Tantalisingly, he breaks off.

‘Compared with whom, Mr Freeman?’

Freeman’s eyes glitter uneasily. Once again his grey handkerchief makes its appearance.

‘Every wall has ears, they have agents all over Africa. Make sure that Prince Husam doesn’t to come up against these people. That would be a dangerous mistake which could cost him dearly.’ Freeman’s voice is hardly more than a whisper.

‘Is that a threat, Mr Freeman?’

He glances sharply at her. ‘No, of course not. Prince Husam is my benefactor. Please believe me, I know very little about this criminal organisation except that they are dangerous.’

‘That’s strange! Prince Husam told me that you know all there is to know about diamond laundering.’

‘That’s not true…’

He breaks off as his sister walks in bearing coffee and a ledger which she lays on the table. The rustle of fabric sounds so loud in the silence. Chris notes the warning glances passing between them as she opens the ledger. Then Jasmen sways out of the room.

‘Just copy whatever you like.’ He sounds furious. ‘Do you have paper?’

She nods and opens her briefcase. The silence becomes more ominous as Chris examines the figures. Ten workshops have been set up on the outskirts of Monrovia employing fifty people, forty of which are learning to polish diamonds. Soon she becomes so involved that she hardly hears Freeman get up and leave the room. Shortly afterwards she hears Freeman’s voice bellowing from the room next door. He’s demanding to speak to Prince Husam.

‘Oh God!’ Her fear is acting like a winch, tightening her joints and hurting her neck. Should she get out now. Minutes later, Freeman returns looking grim. ‘I called Prince Husam. I’m concerned at his interest in the laundering network.’

She shudders and tries to hide this. Has he noticed?

‘Unfortunately he’s away.’

She exhales silently while Freeman sits and carefully refolds the neat line in his trousers. He admires his shoes and straightens his cuffs.

‘Prince Husam asked for more information about the current laundering routes.’

He gives a funny little mock bow. ‘I’ll do my best.’ Adding: ‘Perhaps you’d like to take notes.’

‘About sixty per cent of the high-quality gems mined in Sierra Leone are smuggled to the Middle
East by Lebanese immigrants living in Liberia. It’s the same story in every diamond producing country in Africa. Only geography and idealism change. Arab fundamentalists launder diamonds to buy arms for creating unrest in the Middle East. The Russians launder diamonds to set themselves up in the West. Various states support their civil wars with diamonds. Many of the best cutters in Europe sell forged certificates, but that’s too costly for
run-of-
the-mill diamonds. Everyone has an axe to grind. Marketing diamonds is a dirty business.’ He leans back, looking smug. ‘Many of them are idealists working for a cause. Those who do it for profit only are the dirtiest of all.’

‘And who are they?’

Freeman seemed to be working himself up into a temper. Flecks of white show on his fleshy lips. ‘I can’t answer your question. Let’s move on. Would you believe me if I told you that campaign donors to the current US Bush administration have interests in Liberian diamonds. Could that be why the US government sent troops to Liberia recently!’ He goes on at length about the Americans.

Chris decides to cut Freeman’s rhetoric. ‘Besides the Russian Mafia, the Lebanese, al-Qaeda, and various independent terrorist groups, who else is laundering diamonds?’

‘I’ve told you all I know.’

‘You aren’t being straight with me. You’re protecting someone, or some organisation, perhaps
because you’re terrified of them, or maybe you’re one of them.’

Freeman makes an obvious effort to stay cool. ‘Miss Winters, you mentioned a certain warning…’

‘Yes. Of course…you sold illicit diamonds to Jonathan Bronstein and he was caught and banned by the Kimberly Process. His brother-in-law, Ben Searle, flew over from London to see you, to get a certificate of origin for the diamonds. You were successful and Bronstein is off the hook…’

‘How did the prince get this information?’ Suddenly he’s looking ugly. Has he guessed who she is?

‘Two nights ago Searle was found hanging under a bridge. He was last seen by his family when a stranger, claiming to be your driver, brought a note requesting that Searle should come with him to meet you. He said you had information for him.’

Freeman leans back blaspheming furiously in some foreign tongue.

‘Wait!’ She raises her hand. ‘The police have opened a murder docket and they are looking for you. Naturally, Prince Husam wants your side of the story. He suggests you leave the States at once.’

Freeman turns pale. His eyes are haggard. It’s not a pretty sight.

‘And you sat here wasting my time. You must leave…at once.’

Freeman grabs her elbow, hauls her from the chair and pushes her towards the door.

‘Return to London and tell Prince Husam to wait until I contact him. I’ll call from the airport.’

Chris finds herself back on the pavement in record time.

He’s innocent of murder, at least, she decides. No one could be that good an actor. Freeman was shattered by the news and absolutely terrified.

Chris walks rapidly down the street towards a shop where she feels safe enough to call a taxi. The youths tag along, but she senses that they’re merely curious.