Peter Spiegelman - Thick as Thieves

Carr pauses as they approach Prager’s pink guesthouse, waiting for some reaction but getting none. The guesthouse has a wall of French windows on the ocean side that open on to a patio. There are two tables there, with umbrellas and chairs, and Prager sits in one and watches the surf unfurl. Rink sits next to him and looks at Carr, who continues.

“What’s different about my setup-where maybe there’s an opportunity to work with somebody like you-are my buyers overseas. I have a lot of them-in Europe, Latin America, Asia, all over-a whole network of gray market independents. And all they do, all day long, is buy and sell stones-for local currency, for euros, for dollars, for pretty much whatever you want. Cash goes out, diamonds come in; cash comes in, diamonds go out-all day long, and no questions asked. And they all know how to ship.”

Carr pauses again, waiting for a response. And he gets one, after a fashion: Prager looks at him for a long while and raises an eyebrow before he stands and strolls away. Carr follows, and Kathy Rink follows him. They pass a greenhouse and a low cinder-block building painted the same pink as the guesthouse. It’s the size of a two-car garage, and it has a tin roof and roll-down metal door. The door is open, and two young black men are inside, talking, laughing, and doing something with the gardening equipment ranged around the walls. They fall silent as Prager passes. The path curves toward the beach again, and when they hit the sand, Carr continues.

“Stones are a lot easier to move than bulk cash,” Carr continues, “and a whole lot harder to trace. They’re easier to store and secure, and easy to convert to cash when you need to-especially with a network like mine at your disposal. How much simpler does your operation become if you don’t have to worry about moving cash-if you can move diamonds instead? Or better yet-if somebody is moving the diamonds for you? How much does that improve your margins? And how much more can you charge your clients for access to this kind of network?”

Carr finishes as they climb the stairs that lead from the beach to a vast blue swimming pool. They cross flagstones, headed toward more glass doors. Carr sees Bessemer, still at the table under the awning. Bessemer raises a hand in salute, and Carr waves back and looks for cameras, remembering where they’re mounted, figuring the blind spots. The three remain silent as they go into the house, down a paneled hallway, past what looks like a wine cellar, and up a flight of stairs.

At the top of the stairs, past a study, a game room, a music room, through an atrium, and down another paneled corridor, is Prager’s office. It’s white and glass, minimally furnished in an aggressively modern style-a monk’s cell with Barcelona chairs, a pair of Rothkos on the wall, and a view of palm trees and a Caribbean garden. Prager takes a seat behind a brushed aluminum desk that looks like a knife blade and that is bare but for a laptop, a large, wafer-thin monitor, and a phone. Rink takes one of the guest chairs. Carr takes the other and tries not to look at the laptop or at the thumbprint scanner plugged into it. Prager clasps his hands behind his head, leans back in his chair, and sighs.

“You’re a guy off the street, Greg. Yes, you know Bess, and you have a little story to tell, but basically you’re a guy off the street.” Prager says it quietly, with a faint smile that is almost regretful. Carr says nothing.

“You could be a big deal, or a big waste of time,” Kathy Rink says. “Or you could be something worse than a waste of time. How’re we supposed to know?”

Carr shakes his head. “I’m confused. Are you saying no, or that you want to know more?”

It’s Rink who answers. “Maybe he’s saying you haven’t sold him yet.”

Carr shrugs and looks at Prager. “I’m not a salesman. It seems to me you’re either interested or you’re not.”

“I don’t know if I’m interested,” Prager says. “I don’t know if you’re anything besides talk.”

Carr lets a silence descend, and then he nods his head. “How about I get something from the car?”

Prager nods to Kathy Rink, who picks up a phone. In a moment a crew cut appears. “Take Mr. Frye to his car, and then bring him back,” Rink says. “Anything he brings with him gets scanned.”

The crew cut leads Carr out. When they return, Carr is carrying a slim metal attache case.

“You checked it?” Rink asks, and the crew cut nods and leaves. Carr places the case on the desk and turns it so that the latches face Prager.

“I take it I’m supposed to open this,” Prager says, and Carr nods. Kathy Rink comes around the desk to stand beside her boss. Prager looks at her and she lifts the lid.

Prager is silent for a moment, and then smiles thinly. “Very dramatic, Greg. They for real?”

“You expect me to say they’re not? But I’m going to leave them with you, so you can check them out yourself.”

“How much is here?”

“In carats or in dollars?”

“Dollars.”

“Loose like that-three bucks, plus or minus. A lot more when you turn them into earrings and bracelets. But I figure you’ll check that too.”

“This a big lot for you?”

“Nope.”

Prager leans back and sighs again. “So you’re a guy off the street with a story and props-albeit, expensive props.”

“Which makes me more worried, not less,” Rink says. “Not many folks can afford this kind of window dressing. Assuming they’re even for real.”

Carr reaches across the desk and closes the attache case. “I guess this is where I say thanks for lunch.”

Prager puts a hand on the lid. “If you were in my shoes, would you do it differently?”

“It would depend on how much I wanted your business,” Carr says.

“The dollar amounts you’re talking about are rounding error,” Prager says, shaking his head. “Not even that.”

“Then I guess it would depend on how interested I was in access to this network-what kind of problems it could solve for me, what kind of new revenue streams it could bring.”

“And if you were interested?”

“I’d ask you to open your kimono-at least a little.”

Kathy Rink clears her throat and frowns. Prager ignores her and nods slowly. “And if I ask?”

Carr rubs his chin and looks at Prager. “Open the briefcase. Look in the lid pocket.”

Prager lifts the lid and lowers it again. He holds a black flash drive between thumb and forefinger. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“My kimono,” Carr says.

Carr walks into the suite, and Latin Mike and Bobby look at him like children at a Christmas tree. Bobby’s face is red and peeling. “Did he take it?”

Carr closes the door behind Bessemer and nods. “He took everything. When I left, the jump drive was sitting on his desk, right next to his computer.”

Latin Mike sighs. Bobby smiles and puts out a fist. Mike taps it lightly. “So now we wait,” Bobby says.

“We’ll know as soon as it’s plugged into anything with an Internet connection,” Carr says.

“When what gets plugged in?” Bessemer asks from behind the bar.

“Gotta be the next day or two,” Mike says, ignoring him. “He’s got that party next weekend, and afterward he’s on his road trip.”

“Prager invited us to the party,” Carr says. “I want to be far away by then.”

“What’s supposed to get plugged in?” Bessemer asks again.

“I gave Prager some information on a jump drive-information about my business, and some of my colleagues abroad. It should give him a better idea of what I’ve got to offer.” Which only seems to make Bessemer more nervous. Bobby and Mike exchange looks, and Carr smiles thinly.