Green Ice (22 page)

Inside was the same sort of cabinet arrangement with shallow drawers. More of them.

Argenti pulled out several drawers to show layer after layer of emeralds. These seemed greener, more vivid, for some reason. Argenti watched closely for Wiley’s reaction, the amazement, the anxiety and the envy. Argenti fed on it, prolonged it, allowed Wiley to examine the contents of as many drawers as he wanted, to run his hands over the precious stones.

“A hundred and fifty million here,” Argenti said.

Wiley closed the drawers, told himself, hell, they’re only stones, only better than pebbles because of scarcity. If someone ever discovered a cliff or a big boulder or even a fifty-foot outcropping that was pure emerald, these here would be worth shit.

He focused his appreciation on the unorthodoxy of Argenti’s security system. The ingenuity of situating the vaults on the top floor rather than beneath the building. He complimented Argenti, who took full credit for the idea and therefore was inclined to explain it to some extent.

What about the roof of the building? Couldn’t someone …?

The roof was equipped with radar, a sweeping KU-band type that relayed to a monitoring room continuously manned by Conduct Section down on the thirty-third floor. Not only that, the roof had what Argenti referred to as a listening alarm. Extremely sensitive. Jet planes flying miles overhead had frequently set it off. As for a helicopter … no way for one to get anywhere close.

The floor below?

The only way up from there was that small elevator. During off hours a steel plate was extended horizontally and locked into place across the elevator shaft, closing it off.

The vaults?

Floors, ceilings, all the sides were of a special cadmium-based metal, four inches thick. A by-product of space research, that metal. No torch was hot enough to cut through it, and according to actual tests Argenti himself had witnessed, it showed hardly a dent when hit by a seventy-millimeter shell fired point-blank. The vaults were impenetrable.

Wiley remarked that he, Argenti, had proved it not so—by opening them.

Argenti raised his chin, aimed it and a smile at Wiley, challenging him to figure that out if he could.

Electronically controlled, Wiley thought. He was certainly no stranger to the workings of things electronic, but there was no way of telling how these vault doors operated. The combination that released them would have to be activated, but Argenti hadn’t done anything, hadn’t gone within six feet of them.

Wiley went to the open vault door, examined the exposed edge of it. No locking device, no visible mechanism, just flush metal. To hell with it.

Meanwhile Argenti had used the phone to summon Kellerman, who came up carrying an Air France flight bag, one of those ordinary plastic satchels with the airline’s logo imprinted on it. He and Argenti went into the first vault for several minutes. When they came out they placed the flight bag on the table.

Kellerman was somewhat upset. He’d had only time enough to run the most cursory check on Wiley, and he still had to make all the other arrangements for this unanticipated trip.

“There is your carry,” Argenti said, indicating the flight satchel.

“How much?” Wiley asked.

Argenti told him.

Kellerman said, “Take off your jacket and roll up your right sleeve.”

Wiley did as told.

Kellerman removed from his pocket a black leather kit, flat, like a set of drafting instruments. It contained several pens that were battery powered.

Wiley realized he was about to be tattooed. He refused.

“It will not show,” Argenti assured him.

Kellerman explained he was using an ink that only made itself apparent under black light, that is, ultraviolet or infrared. It was a requirement.

As Kellerman proceeded to tattoo a letter C about a quarter-inch in size on the inside of Wiley’s forearm, Wiley couldn’t help thinking it stood for
Concession
and that something similar had been a requirement of the Nazi SS.

Now in the better part of the belly of the 707, Wiley was cutting through the night sky over the Atlantic.

His carry was at his feet. He could feel it against the back of his lower legs. He had not, would not for even a moment, lose touch with it.

Five thousand carats of emeralds.

Classified
fine
quality gemstones.

Two and a quarter pounds of them.

Worth a thousand dollars a carat at the dealer level.

Five million dollars altogether.

Two percent commission would be his. One hundred thousand dollars just for taking a quick trip to Paris.

Had to be Argenti was following intuition, trusting Wiley with such a large carry first time out. Argenti was obviously the kind of man who needed to prove himself a good judge of other men. And, thereby, superior to them? That was it, the only reasonable explanation, Wiley thought.

As for Argenti’s using this carry as a means of getting Wiley out of the way, that wasn’t really a hundred-thousand-dollar motive. Argenti could hardly expect to accomplish much with Lillian in the short time Wiley would be gone. No, it wasn’t a one shot. The tattooing of the C on his arm, for example, indicated the intention of doing business long term.

A hundred thousand. Ten carries a year would make him a million. Before taxes. What the hell was he thinking about? There were no taxes there on the shady side. Even if he wanted to pay taxes, he couldn’t, and even if he could, he wouldn’t—because, for one thing, the U.S. Department of Agriculture might get a nibble of that tax bite. He’d never forgive the Department of Agriculture for fucking up his imported-dirt gimmick.

Strange, though, how crime compounded itself. At once he was also a tax evader. How he’d deal with that depended on how he got paid, by check or in cash. He should have nailed that point down with Argenti. Given a choice, he’d take it in green. A thousand hundreds.

Argenti might not really be such a bad guy, Wiley thought. He questioned his animosity toward Argenti. How much of it was because the man was so successful, powerful? Thirty percent seemed an acceptable figure.

Anyway, as Argenti had promised, he’d had no trouble at El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá. The customs official, as though he’d been on the watch for him, had passed him through without search or question. An invisible C on that custom man’s forearm?

The flight attendent came offering magazines. Wiley chose
Fortune
and requested another bottle of Lowenbrau. Beer was even better when you could have champagne.

First thing he’d do when he got the first hundred thousand was pay Jennifer and her lawyer off. She was probably having such a shit-fit by now she’d stay out of a sanitarium for half the price. He got a flash of her battling the rats. Why was it more difficult to forget the good things?

He paged through
Fortune
, to an article that featured the forty-four-year-old Chairman of the Board of a widespread fast-food corporation, who had, it said, started at the low-management level of an altogether different kind of business when he was twenty-nine.
Tenacious, amiable, systematic-minded
were some of the adjectives.

Wiley shoved the magazine into the pocket of the seat in front of him, where there was also a vomit bag and ditching instructions.

He got up, took his carry with him to the lavatory.

The moment he slid the door bolt into
Occupé
position the plane started to fight strong headwinds, buffeted sharply. The Fasten Seat Belts sign went on. All right, there was the seat, but where was the belt? The confined space exaggerated the jouncing, made it seem more dangerous. Wiley placed the satchel on the floor, had to take a wide stance. His aim was unsteady but within the stainless-steel target. How many passengers got caught midstream by turbulence and missed? he wondered.

The sink was splash-spotted, had a soapy film. Rather than clean and fill it, he contended with the cold tap. Had to hold the tap down with one hand while he washed the other. He doused his face in the same handicapped manner.

After drying, he took up the satchel, placed it on the counter. Unzipped it and removed his spare shirt, socks and toilet articles. There was the bottom that wasn’t really the bottom. It snapped out to reveal a layer of cotton wool. Wiley peeled that aside. The emeralds, 712 of them, were on another layer of cotton wool. So they wouldn’t rattle.

Wiley gazed at the five million dollars’ worth of emeralds.

They didn’t look like they were worth five million.

The lavatory light flattered complexions but apparently did nothing for precious gems.

Wiley took out one of the stones. About eight carats. He held it up to the light. When it was cut and polished, it would probably knock eyes out. He started to put it back but recalled Argenti’s saying he expected Wiley to steal some. He tucked the emerald into his vest pocket. Not to disappoint.

The flight touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 12:35
P.M.,
a half hour ahead of schedule.

Wiley was still flying twenty minutes later as he waited in line at customs. At least he didn’t feel as though he was on solid ground. Everything and everyone around him seemed either too fast or in slow motion.

Moment of truth that was the moment of lie.

He was next now. There were two customs officials at that pass-through. It was overly optimistic to expect cooperation from both. Perhaps he should have chosen a different line.

They were being thorough with the lady ahead, an innocent-looking middle-aged woman. They had all four pieces of her luggage open, feeling and poking around in them.

Wiley turned, smiled weakly at the older couple behind him. Out of nervousness he noticed extraneous things: the chrome railing, the wrinkles in the seat of a gray flannel skirt on a woman in the next line over, people waiting in the terminal just beyond customs, among them a fat man trying to hang on to four kids, and another man wearing a hairpiece so obvious it might as well have been cut from a black nylon bathmat.

They were done with the middle-aged woman.

It was Wiley’s turn. He placed the Air France satchel on the counter.

“C’est tout, monsieur?”
the taller customs man asked.

“Huh?”

“Is that all?”

“Oui, c’est tout,”
Wiley replied.

The taller customs man unzipped the satchel, held it open. The shorter one peeked into it rather conscientiously but didn’t poke.

The bag was zipped up. It received an approving scrawl with a piece of white chalk.

“Merci, monsieur.”

Wiley restrained his smile.
“Merci.”
He walked through and out into the terminal, relieved and buoyed to such an extent that when he passed by the man in the so obvious hairpiece he had the urge to snatch it off and buy him a real convincer.

Heading for the exit, Wiley thought how incredible the reach of The Concession was. Both those customs men were doing double duty. Either that or he’d just experienced the good fortune of French inconsistency. He believed the former.

It was cold outside, flurrying snow. Wiley had come without a coat. He wouldn’t need one. While he completed the carry, he’d have the taxi wait, take him right back to the airport.

Place des Vosges.

A square that was once a favorite for illegal dueling and other foolishness. Its all-around identical structures of red brick, white stone and blue slate still displayed much of the majesty, harmony and good nature that Henry IV had ordained more than three hundred years ago.

Victor Hugo had lived at Number 6. Cardinal Richelieu at Number 21. Mme. de Sévigné, Anne de Rohan and Marion Delorme had resided and done other intriguing things around the
place
. Many fashionable persons lived there now. The address Wiley wanted was Number 14, a J. F. Forget, which was easy to remember although it was pronounced
for-jay
.

The taxi put him there in forty-five minutes. He went into a foyer. Number 14, like all the apartments, was above street level,
deuxième étage
. The curved stairway had a lovely seventeenth-century iron bannister that Wiley didn’t notice. He pressed the door buzzer and waited. The usual pinpoint peephole was in the upper door panel. Wiley tried to appear nonchalant for it. He buzzed again, waited, listened, believed he heard movement within, but no one came to the door. After three more insistent buzzes and ten minutes, he gave up.

The taxi driver was irate. He was a Communist, wanted nothing more to do with this inconsiderate American. He wanted only his money. He had locked the car doors so Wiley couldn’t get back in. Wiley gave him fifty dollars through a crack in the window, five times too much, and even then, there wasn’t a
merci
in the man’s mumbling as he drove off.

Within seconds Wiley was cold to the marrow, close to chattering. Spits of snow on his face. The
place
was nearly deserted, a few cars, no pedestrians along the sidewalk or on the pathways of its parklike center. The leaden sky had a tint of red neon in it. And against the sky, the branches of the trees were like networks of dead black nerves. The time was nearly two. It would be dark by four, perhaps sooner. Wiley couldn’t just stand there. He remembered Argenti had mentioned that The Concession kept a suite at the Hotel Meurice that he could use. A nice suite overlooking the Tuileries.

Luck! A taxi was letting someone off down the way. Wiley ran and got it. He gave the driver his destination. Argenti had said that the suite at the Meurice was the one General von Cholitz, the Nazi commander, had used as his Paris headquarters. Inasmuch as von Cholitz had been a sort of inverse aesthetic hero for not burning and otherwise destroying the city, probably every suite at the Meurice claimed the same distinction, Wiley thought.

He changed his mind, had the driver take him instead to the intersection of Rue Royale and Faubourg Saint Honoré. He walked west on Faubourg Saint Honoré, shopped a few windows but was soon chilled through. He went in at Number 23, Ted Lapidus. Bought a substantial wool topcoat, dark blue, silk-lined, double-breasted. For seven hundred dollars. And a pair of picked pigskin gloves for fifty. Protection against pneumonia was certainly a justifiable business expense. He requested a stamped receipt. The sales clerk glanced disapprovingly at the plastic Air France satchel.