Stuart Kaminsky - People Who Walk In Darkness

Gerald St. James would have killed to be one of those offered a sight. In fact, he had killed in the very hope that he would someday be among the elite purchasers at the DeBeers table. When the opportunity arose he could find a respectable dealer who would front for him.

“Chocolate?” St. James offered the woman across the desk.

She nodded and took one of the Cadbury chocolates from the crystal bowl he eased in front of her. St. James was addicted to British candy, food, clothing, and cars. He had considered buying a title. Many people already assumed he had one, and he did not correct supplicants and business associates who called him Sir Gerald.

The woman, dressed in a brown business suit, was about fifty, full figured, clear skinned, and no nonsense. She did not eat the candy but held it in the palm of her hand as she spoke.

St. James adjusted the vest under his jacket, sat back, put his fingers together in a steeple, and waited. His eyes were dull blue and unyielding. Ellen Sten felt them on her and looked up to meet them.

“Problems,” she said.

“So I gather.”

“Our man in the Russian mine had to kill a Canadian mining engineer,” she said.

“Had to?”

“Perhaps not, but he did. It’s done.”

St. James reached for a chocolate and put it in his mouth without taking his eyes from her.

“And he didn’t make it look like an accident?”

“He was hurried.”

“Police?”

“Police,” she said. “Our man will take care of it. The Russian police have never been a problem.”

“I’m comforted by your confidence,” he said. “Go on.”

“Two of the Botswanans to whom the last shipment from the mine was transported have been murdered in Moscow. A third is missing.”

“Do we know who is responsible?”

“Not yet. Possibly a competitor.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes,” she said. “A courier delivering a shipment to Kiev for transport to Paris was also murdered. She made the delivery and then the payment was stolen on the train back to Moscow.”

“Someone is attacking our enterprise?”

“It would seem so,” Sten said. “But it could be coincidence.”

There were many things Gerald St. James shared with Ellen Sten, but he had survived and prospered for decades by always holding something back. St. James was well aware of who was responsible for the attack on the Botswanans.

“Coincidence is the easy dismissal of connected events to avoid the often difficult task of finding an understandable if not logical connection,” said St. James.

She nodded.

“Find out,” he added. “Keep in touch with our contacts in Devochka, Moscow, and Kiev.”

She nodded again. It was what she had been doing for hours. St. James knew it.

“And Ellen, use whatever resources you need to clean up this mess.”

His voice was calm, even. She knew that his concern was only minimally about the fifteen or twenty million dollars in diamonds and more with the threat to Monarch’s entire enterprise and his wish for ultimate respectability.

“Yes,” she said starting to rise.

“And if you do not intend to eat that chocolate, please put it back in the bowl if it has not already begun to melt in your sweating palm.”

Balta, whichwas the name he had given himself, had a simple plan. He had a name, Oxana, and he knew she was a model.

After he had gotten back to Kiev having cleanly killed Christiana Verovona, Balta called the person who had hired him. He reported that he had the money and that he would find the diamonds and deliver them himself. He would cut out the middleman, middlewoman in this case, named Oxana.

Balta was not greedy. His needs were simple. Three million American dollars’ worth of diamonds plus his share of the cash were quite enough. Besides, he liked his work and a future reference from his employer might be helpful in his career. He did not intend to retire.

Now, having adopted a quite different and pleasant persona, Balta sat at the Talgen Restaurant on Velyka Vasylkivska Street, leisurely eating strawberry vareniki with just a bit of sour cream.

The waiter came to the table ready to provide service. There were two reasons for the waiter’s helpful approach. One had been Balta’s show of a very substantial one-hundred-hryvnia bill before even ordering. The other had been Balta’s engaging presence.

“Dessert?” asked the waiter, who sported a thin mustache and was doing his best to look French. “We have the finest selection of pastries in Kiev.”

“Watching my weight,” said Balta with a smile.

“I understand,” the waiter said. “Coffee?”

“Coffee,” said Balta.

“With a very small sweet at no charge?”

“What kind?”

“British. A Cadbury chocolate. Quite small.”

“I believe I will,” said Balta.

“Good,” said the waiter, who moved away, anxious to please.

Balta liked the Talgen and was quite familiar with the quite tasteful erotic shows that went on in the next room at night.

Balta looked around the crowded restaurant. Two men in business suits were at a nearby table. One of them, no more than thirty-five, looked at him and smiled. Balta smiled back. Life was apparently good for the businessman. It was certainly, at this moment, quite good for Balta.

Life, wasnot, however, quite so good in Moscow for Georgi Danielovich. Elena Timofeyeva and Sasha Tkach were knocking at the door of his apartment. They were going to tell him that Christiana Verovona had been murdered on the train to Moscow. She had not been worth much as a prostitute, but income is income. No, the really bad news they were bringing without knowing it, was that she had been found without a suitcase. The money for the diamonds was gone. Whoever killed her had taken it. The very serious, well-built man from Monarch in London who spoke perfect Russian was not going to be happy. What Georgi did not know was that the well-built man from Monarch in London already knew of the theft.

Georgi opened the door.

Elena and Sasha found themselves facing a man with a flat, dark face in need of a shave and a haircut. Georgi was about thirty. He looked fifty. He was a dry, wasted man with the look of an addict both Elena and Sasha recognized.

Georgi, his eyes an interesting but not becoming mixture of red and yellow, looked at them and reached down to tuck his shirt into his pants.

“Police,” said Elena.

The policewoman looked something like the second woman he had lived with and run when he came to Moscow from Tblisi. Georgi couldn’t remember her name anymore, but there was little Georgi could remember in the hours, like now, after heroin.

“I’ve done nothing,” he said wearily.

They pushed past him into the room that smelled of sweat, stale food, and cigarettes. Sasha and Elena had been in many rooms like this. They would shower tonight, and the smells, if not the memory, would be gone, though they would have to carry them the rest of this day, which was just beginning.

“Close the door,” said Sasha.

It was what policemen often did with someone like this. Give him a simple order. Start the process of obedience. It worked almost all of the time. They could see it would work with this one.

Georgi closed the door, finished tucking in his shirt, pushed his hair back with the palm of his hand, and faced them.

“What’s this about?”

“Your name?”

“Georgi Danielovich. What. .”

“Christiana Verovona lives here,” said Elena.

It wasn’t a question, but Georgi made it one and said, “Yes, but she is away now and. .”

“She’s dead,” said Sasha, walking around the room, looking at things.

“Dead?” said Georgi, not quite understanding.