Glass House by Patrick Reinken Page B

Bombardier’s sole passenger stepped
from the stairs that led to the plane’s door, Rupert presented him
with the pink diamond. The mine superintendent held it up, pinched
between his thumb and forefinger, where the light shone through
it.
    The man plucked it from Rupert’s hand
without missing a stride as he moved toward one of the two waiting
cars. “He’d taken this?”
    Rupert nodded.
    “From where?”
    “East excavation area,” Rupert said. “A
little toward the north fringe.”
    “Toward Ariacht.”
    “That direction, no surprise,” Rupert
agreed. “We’ve pulled another collection out of there over the past
two months. None quite the likes of this one, to be sure, but still
a host of pretty rocks, with more expected as long as we can
continue to push that way.”
    “Where’s Dikembé now?”
    “Gone.”
    The man stopped, but it wasn’t a reaction to
the news, which he’d certainly expected. He only paused to look at
the rough in his hand more closely before climbing into the car. He
held it toward the sun and watched the light cut through it,
weighing the color and guessing at what might be found in the
stone.
    “And so what about Ariacht?” he asked while
he did that.
    “They have a shipment in the next few days.
We’ll pin the timing down in a day, I’d wager, and add whatever
you’d like based on our discussions here. We’ve one other minor
point to deal with after that, then we’re a go, on your okay.”
    The man looked away from the stone. “A minor
point?” he asked.
    “There’s a SAPS detective,” Rupert said.
“She’s due in tomorrow.”
    “About Dikembé?”
    “That’s not clear,” Rupert said. “Fair
guess, though, I suspect.”
    The man climbed into the car. He shut the
door and rolled the darkly tinted window down. “Make us clean and
give her a show, Mr. Rupert,” he said over the half pane of glass.
“I’ll keep my visit brief. We shall discuss the details on Ariacht
as planned tonight, including anticipated yields, and I’ll be gone
by the time she’s in. You meet with her, and you answer her
questions politely and properly. Walk her on the grand tour we’d
normally provide and show her away. She’ll be fine then, and you’ll
have your go on Ariacht in time to deal with it.”
    The man passed the pink to Rupert. The
window started up. “And get this out,” he said. “Get it sold.”
    “I’ll take care of it,” Rupert said,
watching the man disappear behind the dark glass. He glanced at the
diamond as the car drove away. He was always the one who made sure
of things. Always the one who assured those things were done, and
done well. And the truth was that he was okay with that.
    He’d spent his time in the mines, and his
experiences there hadn’t allowed his appreciation for bigger and
better things, because the bigger and better things were never
there. When you’re working at separating rock, the niceties of the
world are far from the tips of your fingers.
    That changed with Laurentian. He had a
three-painting collection of art at home, and he had a call to
Antwerp later in the day, in hopes of running down a fourth.
Nothing extravagant, but nothing worthless either.
    He had good food. A nice wine cellar. Two
houses, one plain but exceedingly comfortable, the other a
well-kept cottage that held a view of the ocean.
    He pocketed the diamond and pulled out a
pack of Rothmans. Better cigarettes, too, he thought, moving to his
own car. He slipped one out and lit it.

Chapter 12
    To
Liberia
    The Rover jerked on the tracked road, and
Binyon rocked side-to-side with it. He tapped his pants pocket by
habit, as though the stone could fly from it at any pothole he hit.
Then he steered straight once more, honked to push tribesmen from
the roadside he was roaring down, and made the plume of dirt rising
behind him a little higher.
    Diamond transactions run in layers. Commercial layers.
    The trafficking of diamond rough is notable
for a number of reasons. First,