'A' for Argonaut by Michael J. Stedman Read Free Book Online

Certification Scheme prompted by the U.N. resolution banning the trade in “blood diamonds,” smuggled stones used to fund terrorism; the trade had attempted to tone down the term by referring to them as “Conflict Diamonds,” but no one was biting. Anyone dealing in non-KPCS diamonds was to be thrown out of the world’s twenty-four diamond exchanges. Amber knew that to be so ridiculous that it didn’t even rise to the level of a joke.
    The shop, a comptoir that served as an illegal bourse in the center of the war-torn city, was constructed within a wood frame of blackish gray clay blocks and rusted corrugated tin. It sat alongside a wooden shack piled with racks of plastic shoes and umbrellas. In this primitive environment, torn between Catholic superstition, Islamist zealotry, and animistic worship of talismans and animal parts, women were not allowed inside the trading rooms; Amber was an anomaly.
    Outside, the stalls were loaded with mounds of fresh melons, cassava roots, and dried fish from the Congo River. Inside, the store was sparely furnished with several desk and table combinations dominated by a worn wooden counter. It divided the front from the back of the shop. There was no jewelry on display; piles of small diamonds filled dishes scattered across the counter like nut offerings on a coffee table.
    A small, wiry Pakistani stood at the counter. He took out a damp handkerchief, swabbed his brow, pushed up the sleeves of his paisley silk shirt and poured about thirty rough stones out onto a black velvet scarf on the white marble table. He lit a Gold Leaf Pakistani cigarette and blew a bellow of smoke through an unkempt black mustache.
    Amber leaned down while she examined the gems. Tariq Faisal flashed a gold-toothed grin from his stool behind a wooden booth. He was one of a minority of Pakistani-Kenyans who pitted themselves against the Indians, Lebanese and Chinese dominant in the trade there. At 45, he was twelve years older than Amber. Schooled earlier as a security officer with Branch Energy, a now-defunct former British mining company, he made enough money in illegal gemstones to feed his appetite for young women. Amber could feel his lust slither over her body like leech slime. She put up with it because he offered great prices. She was always ready to deal. Someone who knew her situation might think she had no choice, but she operated under one premise: You always have a choice. The problem is that some choices are equally painful.
    A small gold ring, accented by a brilliant-cut diamond, decorated her nose and when she laughed, Faisal could see an emerald-stud cock-tickler pinned into her tongue. While admiring her body, excited by the smell of sweat that radiated from under her arms, he fantasized about what it was she did with that piece of equipment. Never mind that he had known her for four years; he had never seen anything like her before, with her tawny, perfectly unblemished skin. Clear as a high-yellow D-perfect diamond, her complexion hinted at the origin of her given name.
    The temperature outside was ninety-five degrees. It was worse inside the shop. The electricity had been off for a month due to problems with the government-owned utility. She had her shirt opened to the fourth button that strained against the tension across her chest. He squinted, hoping for a glimpse of nipple.
    “With all due respect, honey,” she said, her voice a throaty whisper through her pearlescent glossy, ample lips. “Keep your syphilitic fucking eyes off my tits. I have to concentrate and you’re making me nervous.”
    That direct, rude candor ignited him. It drove him crazy whenever she reached into her crocodile purse, came out with a leather travel box filled with thick Cuban Cohiba Robusto cigars, lit one up, blew a thick stream of smoke in the air. Meeting her for the first time shocked him. She seemed so out of place in his seedy arena. All suspicions of amateurism or incompetence disappeared as soon as