Russell Blake - Betrayal

The weather was forecasted to be in the forties all day, so she had a clothing problem — no coat. She’d seen nothing suitable during her shopping in Bangkok, so she’d had to content herself with a navy blue knockoff Ralph Lauren sweater that was far too light for any real cold. She asked the concierge at the front desk about nearby shops, but they apologetically informed her that the stores wouldn’t open until ten, at the earliest.

Jet waited in her room, pacing in front of the window, until nine thirty, when she called the buyers. After a brief back and forth, they agreed to meet at one of Zurich’s largest private banks at eleven and warned her to allow several hours for the verification process.

She exited onto the boulevard in front of the hotel and followed the concierge’s directions, arriving at an upscale women’s apparel store that exuded prohibitive pricing. The shopkeeper was just opening, and after browsing the selection while the hawkish woman looked on, she paid three times more than she would have anywhere else in the world for a heavy wool Italian coat. Jet checked her watch as the woman counted out her change and then made for the bank, stopping across the street at a bakery to watch the foot traffic going into the building while she waited for her appointment time.

When she entered, she was directed to a private suite with two armed security guards flanking the door. After exchanging polite introductions with the buyers, she placed the briefcase on the table, flipped the latch, and withdrew the package containing the diamonds. The two men carefully inventoried each stone, noting color, clarity, cut and carats, grading each with the precision of a locally-manufactured watch. The entire process took an hour, at which point the haggling began. Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the bank, nine million seven hundred thousand dollars richer, having made a concession in the interests of getting the deal done. The buyers hadn’t batted an eye when the banker stamped the transfer agreement, instantaneously moving the money to her bank a block away — one of the operational accounts she’d set up years earlier, requiring only the account number and a passcode to access from anywhere in the world.

Once in the branch, she confirmed the balance and withdrew a hundred thousand dollars in cash. The bank vice president confirmed the amount and returned ten minutes later with two packages of new hundred dollar bills, which she counted and then slipped into her briefcase.

Logistical necessities concluded, she returned to the hotel and had lunch, and then used one of the hotel computers to locate several jet charter companies. The second one she contacted had a Gulfstream G-550 that could be ready for her within twenty-four hours at a cost of a hundred and ten thousand dollars. She booked it, and the company volunteered that it would be delighted to handle the visa she would require for up to a thirty-day stay. Ordinarily it would require a full business day, but the company had strong relationships with the people at the embassy and could arrange everything, if she would be kind enough to stop in as soon as she could. She got the bank information and committed to doing a transfer within the hour, and then made her way back to her bank and signed the order.

Jet now had over nine and a half million in her account, as well as a card that would allow her to access another two million. Three million in loose stones. And of course, fifty million for Arthur. Good old Arthur. There was something primal inside of her that couldn’t wait for their reunion.

The following day, after a two-hour workout at the hotel gym and a one-hour run, she packed and prepared to meet her plane after lunch. Takeoff was smooth, and she settled into the jet’s plush swivel chair as the plane whispered into the sky, ready for seven hours of travel before she landed in Washington in the late afternoon, local time.

The difference between Washington and Zurich was striking, although the weather was largely the same — cold, with snow threatening. Customs was straightforward with no search of her bags, the diplomatic passport working its little miracle again in a town where the officers were accustomed to diplomats arriving by private jet at all hours of the day or night. The experience at the cab line was completely different, though, having to stand in line in the wind chill for ten minutes, and when she told the driver to take her to the Four Seasons, he practically sneered at her.

The hotel was gorgeous, the service impeccable, and the room nosebleed expensive, but she’d decided that it was better to hide right out in the open than skulking around in motels — especially with the payload she was carrying.

Once she was settled, she went downstairs to the business center and booked a rental car online, and then took a cab to the rental yard to collect the keys to her new Ford Focus. First stop was Walmart, where she chose four disposable phones, and then a superstore where she selected a laptop computer, paying cash. She went to an internet cafe and activated all four of the phones and then placed a call on the first to Matt’s satellite phone, which just rang unanswered.

They’d agreed that she should try him every three hours at thirty minutes past, Pacific Time, so she resolved to call later.

She’d thought about both Matt and Lawan a lot on the flight over, forging their way through the jungle while she was flying on a lavish private jet, and had sent a silent prayer that they would get to their destination safely.

A web search showed a list of gun shows taking place over the next few days in nearby Virginia, and a cursory perusal of the laws told her that she could buy whatever she needed, within reason, without a permit or any kind of background check. That would save her the trouble of having to source weapons on the street. There was one at the fairgrounds the following day in Richmond, Virginia, a hundred miles south. She calculated it would take two hours to drive there — perfect — far enough away so that she’d never be remembered if any questions were ever asked.

Evening came without her reaching Matt. She called his phone every three hours at the appointed time, but he never picked up, and by ten, she decided to call it a night and resume her efforts in the morning.

“I’ve only fired it maybe twenty times,” the heavyset man assured Jet, beaming a boozy smile, beer on his breath. “A nice ladies gun.” He pronounced ladies: ladeeeeees.

Jet hefted the Beretta and then regarded the owner; an orange T-shirt with a silhouette of a man shooting a pistol strained in vain to contain his substantial belly.

The gun appeared brand new, and experience had taught her that Berettas could take a substantial amount of abuse and still perform. She cocked the slide and peered down the barrel. It had a thin film of oil and looked unused.

“Kind of pricey for a used one, don’t you think?”

“Not hardly. That gun’s a winner. One of the most popular in the world.”

“Really.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you. But, tell you what. Seeing as you’re interested and you seem to know your way around a weapon, I’ll knock twenty-five bucks off, assuming it’s cash.”

She considered the proposition.

“I had my heart set on getting a spare clip or two as well. You know anyone selling those?”

“Seem to recall old Clovis over on the end of this row had a few. He’s a character, but he knows his stuff. Might want to look there.”

“All right. I’ll take it. Where can I get some ammo for it?”

“’Bout a million sporting goods places in town. Should be able to get a box of shells.”

“Shame you don’t have any. That would be a lot more convenient.” Jet winked as she pulled a small wad of hundreds out of her pocket. The seller almost salivated when he saw the money and rubbed the stubble on his face with a grimy hand.