Diamonds Best Friend or Foe? Read online

  AN M-Y BOOKS EBOOK

  DIAMONDS BEST FRIEND OR FOE?

  © Copyright 2005

  Albert Able

  The right of Albert Able to be identified as the author of

  This work has been asserted by him in accordance with theCopyright, 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

  Published by

  M-Y Books

  187 Ware Road

  Hertford

  Herts. SG13 7EQ

  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 in
ternal 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 whe
n 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.”