The Gem Merchants

By Ray Ferguson

In Ray Ferguson's exciting new novel ‘The Gem Merchants’, the young protagonist Mark Branson has achieved what every gem dealer dreams of. He is on the scene at the time and place of a major gem strike.

In this case, the location was Zambia in Africa, after a major cache of emeralds had been discovered by local tribesmen - who noticed the bright green crystals embedded in rocks after a heavy thunder storm.

Branson, the gem buyer for a small London firm, manages to purchase a king's ransom in rough emerald crystals. But to hold onto them and get them out of the country, Branson has to navigate his way through a series of obstacles including greedy politicians, sadistic military men and a grasping Indian money changer.

The book is realistic and well paced. Ferguson shows an adept hand in character development and a good sense of place. No mere cardboard cutouts, his characters live, breath and are quite believable.

Along the way, the author, himself a gem dealer currently living in Madagascar, teaches us a great amount about the gem trade and how it operates across the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781483511719

Book preview

Ferguson

1

ZAMBIA

10th JANUARY 1977

Thank God for Land Rovers! Mark mused. Zambia, and indeed much of Africa, would certainly grind to a standstill without these automotive workhorses.

Their old Land Rover was sliding wildly from side to side as it clawed its way through thick thorn trees fifty miles southwest of Kitwe. The track was caked with clinging mud and the air damp with brooding purple clouds that seemed to appear like magic out of the burning African sky.

Mark Branson, a tall blond Londoner, glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. Sandwiched between his tubby Zambian driver George, and his old guide Chaki, he wondered just how much longer this journey was going to take. He flexed his legs and winced as the vehicle shuddered through a series of deep potholes. Was he getting too soft for this type of expedition? At twenty-eight he was not exactly ancient, but everything deep in Africa was just that much harder and demanding. It was times like these when sedate England seemed positively attractive.

After a tortuous downhill, the terrain dropped steeply towards the Kafubu River. Flowing from west to east and swelling in places to almost a mile in width, the river narrowed at their proposed crossing point to a manageable one hundred yards. As he peered through the mud-splattered windscreen, it was the depth that worried Mark. Axle-deep if they were lucky, impassable if they were not.

Take it easy, George, Mark warned. I need to take a look.

The driver nodded and the engine whined as he shifted noisily down through the well-worn gears. He navigated the last few yards to the riverbank and pulled up at the water’s edge. Following Chaki out, Mark knew by the swirling brown current that this was going to be tough. There was no other option; this was the only place where the riverbed cut into a rocky and solid surface.

Get the rope, George, he said confidently while gazing at a stout tree on the opposite bank.

Old Chaki furrowed his brow and shook his grizzled head with misgiving as George hurried away to comply. Looks plenty deep, sir, he warned. Mark nodded, glancing round both banks for any sign of sleeping crocodiles.

George returned and handed Mark the free end of the nylon rope. He knotted it round his waist as George secured the other end to the front chassis of the Land Rover. Take in the slack, George.

Be careful, sir, urged the Zambian in a voice tinged with apprehension. This river is very dangerous!

Mark slipped off his khaki trousers and waded resolutely into the river. The first few yards were easy, but as the water seeped into his boots, memories of his military service suddenly returned. The English moors could be wild, particularly when weighed down with combat gear on training maneuvers. Two years in the British army after high school had seemed like a lifetime. But there, the freezing rivers could be jumped. The Kafubu, however, was a quagmire of mud and the water was surprisingly cold.

As the water rose above his knees Mark felt the pull of the current. Ten paces out, the water was up to his thighs and rising fast. The flow threatened to sweep him downriver while the sticky mud sucked at his feet. His tanned arms and face were drenched in spray as he leaned heavily against the current and reached midstream. He hesitated a moment then pulled the wet rope. Suddenly, his right foot plunged into a hole and he disappeared.

Watching anxiously from the bank, George pulled on the rope. Chaki gasped and closed his eyes. Mark surfaced, clinging to the rope, and fought his way to the opposite bank.

The big question now was whether the Land Rover could follow. Mark doubled the rope around the tree, took in the slack, and beckoned George and Chaki to follow. He watched nervously as the driver inched the vehicle into the water. It was heavy going as the water level rose swiftly above the tires, tilting the chassis dangerously downriver. Terrified, George pressed on too quickly and a wave of muddy water washed over the hood. The Land Rover lurched forward, then stuck fast.

Mark pulled hard as George frantically revved the motor. The rooftop snorkel exhaust system from the engine belched thick black smoke high above the spray and the rope suddenly slackened flinging Mark backwards. The vehicle lunged forward toward the bank as the driver struggled to regain control. It shot up the bank and stopped just short of the tree. Mark untangled the saturated cord and threw it into the back of the Rover. George and Chaki stared at the steaming engine in awe.

Mark glanced back at the river, dreading the return crossing. Well done! he said. Let’s get going.

The landscape opened before them. Dark gray rocks shimmered in the morning light that reflected off trillions of embedded mica particles. In the distance white quartz outcrops sparkled across the country.

There they are! the guide pointed excitedly, after barely a mile. The driver braked gently as a group of colorfully dressed tribespeople waved them down.

An old lady poked her shaven head through Mark’s open window and bombarded them with a jabbering flow of local dialect. When Chaki questioned her in the same tongue, she gave a broken-toothed smile and produced a small parcel from a pocket in her garment. Mark’s pulse quickened. She fumbled with the cloth and George, determined not to miss anything, leaned over to add to the chatter. She opened her hand and there was a large green crystal, still partially coated in soft black schist and yellow clay. This was what had brought Mark all the way from London: EMERALDS!

* * * *

Amid the excitement, Mark’s efforts to examine the matchbox-size stone were totally ignored. Finally Chaki explained that she wanted five thousand kwacha for it. With one kwacha officially equal to one American dollar, her asking price represented a fortune. Cupping the crystal in his hands, Mark rotated it slowly under his flashlight and the color streamed out in all its glory – that unique green exclusive to emerald. It was magnificent!

An old hand at African bartering, Mark casually offered the woman one thousand kwacha. After moments of excited bargaining, a final settlement was reached at three thousand. Mark eased open his large leather briefcase and extracted three thick bundles of notes, slipping the stone to safety. Grabbing the money, the old lady passed it on to a tall man in a red shirt. She smiled again as she delved into another pocket and extracted a slightly bigger parcel. The discussion became even more animated than before. This stone, Chaki translated, was of the best quality and she was demanding ten thousand. She was negotiating with an expertise that would impress the best New York bankers.

Mark glanced at the dark sky as a few large drops fell on the windshield. Time was running out, and eventually the stone was handed to him for appraisal. He was disappointed. Although larger in size, it was slightly milky, which effected its clarity and deep intense green color. He knew, however, that this would be lost on the old lady, and that he would have to offer her at least the same amount to sustain his credibility.

Tell her my final offer is four thousand, he whispered into Chaki’s ear. Otherwise give it back, and let’s get the hell out of here.

Chaki nodded and relayed the message, prompting more frantic conversation. Finally, as Mark refused to increase his offer, she handed him the stone and pointed to his briefcase. Amid a flurry of grasping hands, Mark extracted the cash and thrust it through the window. The old woman quickly produced a third stone from the depths of her clothing and the ritual was resumed. More heads pushed through the windows and she was having trouble with her breathing. A few of her flock clambered on the vehicle and started thumping on the glass in support.

With both feet firmly planted on his briefcase, Mark struggled valiantly to reach the crystal. At last, holding her withered fingers with one hand, he angled his light and managed to illuminate the most spectacular emerald yet.

She suddenly switched to broken English. Fifteen thousand, she whispered in two labored gasps.

Leaning forward, Mark yelled, Tell her we must go now. I’ll give her five thousand and not one kwacha more! He would gladly have parted with twenty thousand, but that was not the way the game was played. After several screamed insults, the old woman retaliated with a demand for ten thousand. The crowd became frenzied, keen to riot, but Mark shook his head. Six thousand, he stated firmly.

As soon as the the cash passed over, she dug deep into her clothing and produced a fourth stone, this time from the vicinity of her navel. Six tribesmen were now prancing on the roof, rocking the car on its springs. George shouted at them and with Chaki’s help, Mark managed to hand over the money and the battle for the next crystal began.

Twenty thousand! the old woman shrieked, accompanied by screams of tribal support. Mark managed to grab her withered wrist and, poking his light between her fingers, glimpsed a blaze of brilliant green. Prying the gemstone from her grasp, he examined it more closely. It had to weigh eighty carats. He had never seen such a fine quality emerald of this size from Africa.

Tell her I only have eight thousand left and that’s it! Mark shouted into his guide’s ear. This time we really must get out of here! The rain began to pour down.

George started the engine and began edging forward. Parting reluctantly with her last stone, the old lady grabbed the money and turned away. George gunned the engine, made a fast turn and accelerated away with mud spitting from the tires.

2

ZAMBIA

JANUARY 10th

After an equally hazardous crossing of the river, they retraced their way north in heavy rain toward the paved road. They bumped and skidded through snagging thorn trees below an erupting sky of thunder and lightning, with the headlights on bright.

Mark’s thoughts were not on the hazards of the road. They had drifted back to that crucial meeting in London, just six days earlier. He smiled as he recalled the anxious face of his elderly employer, Harry Matthews, when he had shown a rival gemstone dealer, Andrew Hopkins, the first spectacular emeralds that he had purchased on his previous visit to Zambia in mid-December.

Matthews! Where the hell do they come from? Hopkins had demanded, looking up at his lanky manager, Douglas Price, an orphan who had been brought up on the Hopkins farm in Surrey.

Matthews passed his fingers over the sparkling crystals on the table. Zambia! And Mark is going back to buy more. Are you interested in joining me in the venture? I’ll put up one million dollars for a two-thirds stake.You are welcome to contribute a half a million for a one third interest and then we will have a million and a half buying power. Mark is to get a double salary during the trip, plus a percentage of the profits.

Hopkins didn’t hesitate. I’m in! And Mark must be rewarded for having found such gems.

* * * *

Mark didn’t particularly like Hopkins and was dubious of the idea of having him included in the business. The man was hard-nosed, sixty-five years old and would undoubtedly demand a say. He was worried that control of the emeralds would once again slip from his grasp.

His thoughts then reverted eight years back to the period leading up to his first visit to South Africa. Over the years his father, a gemstone cutter working for Matthews, had helped him to assemble a collection of different stones and taught him all about precious stones and their cutting and polishing. He had even set up a simple machine in a tiny bedroom for Mark to practice on. His very favorite stone was an emerald crystal given to him by a prospector from South Africa named Cassidy, who had been one of his father’s suppliers. It had always been his ambition to visit Cassidy in Africa and to see the mine where his emerald had been found.

While on his training with the British Army, his mother passed on and his father’s health then deteriorated rapidly. After he died, leaving Mark with a tiny house in Chelsea and ten thousand dollars, Mark called Cassidy and was invited to visit South Africa. He quickly bought a plane ticket to Johannesburg and changed five thousand dollars into South African pounds.

On his arrival in Johannesburg, Reginald Cassidy had offered to drive him to the tiny emerald mine at Gravelotte, close to the city of Phalaborwa in the northeastern part of the country. They had set off early from Johannesburg one December morning in a battered VW Beetle and Mark clearly remembered the intense heat and choking dust which had risen from miles of dirt roads. He had visualized mounds of bright gemstones, but the reality was far from romantic. The mine at Gravelotte was drab and dreary, set in a piping hot quarry on the top of a hill of black rock. The miner had proudly shown them around and explained how emeralds were formed millions of years ago.

Mark had been amazed when the miner’s pointed hammer splintered a rock to reveal a dull green hexagonal crystal which he casually tossed onto a pile. Their splendor was only revealed moments later when the miner unceremoniously dumped a bucket of water over them. He stood back in awe as the wet emeralds sprung to life. They sparkled with an incredible vibrant green, and he decided then and there that emeralds would become a part of his new life.

He edged forward to watch Cassidy conclude his purchases. Then, as the miner covered his pile of emerald crystals with a ground sheet, something stirred in him. He blurted out that he, too, wished to buy stones. With sweat pouring off his face and down the hollow of his back, he recalled the miner glancing up in surprise.

How much money have you got, son?

Two thousand pounds, sir, he gasped, groping for the notes. The miner took his cash and carefully selected a dozen emeralds which he handed to him in a paper packet. Then, picking up one dazzling crystal, he turned it over lovingly in his palm and reached for Mark’s hand. Young man, this is a present from me to you. Look after it well and it will bring you good luck.

* * * *

And it had. Mark’s twelve stones, after cutting and polishing, had been sold in Idar Oberstein, Germany for twenty-five thousand dollars. And with half of his new capital exchanged into South African pounds, he had returned to Africa to try to buy more emeralds from the miner. Cassidy had been away from Johannesburg, so he rented a Beetle and drove up to the mine alone.

A young black servant ushered him into a tiny bedroom where the miner was lying on a filthy bed in a raging fever. Mark noticed a crate of empty gin bottles in the hallway and one full bottle on the bedside table. The miner called out for another glass and filled it to the brim.

What medicine are you taking? Mark asked anxiously.

This! he slurred, as he handed the full glass to Mark. Do you want more stones?

Mark nodded. William, what stones are left? His servant returned with a bucket, half full. Bwana, this is all, he mumbled as he shuffled out of the room.

The miner glanced at the unwashed stones and grunted, How much do you have?

Mark answered, Four thousand pounds, sir.

Take them all! I haven’t been mining for weeks. But do me a favor and drive down to the shops at Gravelotte Village to buy me a few cases of my medicine. Where is the money?

Mark paid him, drove the nine miles down to the shops and returned with six cases of gin.

This should last you a few days, sir! Mark joked.

Go well, my son, and thanks! He emptied his glass and pulled a sheet over himself.

Outside, William poured the stones into a jute bag and carried it to the Beetle.

Bwana, do you want more stones? he inquired softly, looking nervously back at the house.

Sure, bring what you have! Mark replied with surprise.

William gestured Mark to drive off and park around the corner. Mark followed his instruction and parked in the shade of a large tree out of sight from the house. There he waited for a good thirty minutes, wondering if he had misunderstood William. It was getting late and he was about to leave when William reappeared from the deep bush, dragging a heavy jute bag behind him. Mark glanced inside and was amazed to see that there were over twenty pounds of unwashed stones in the bag.

How much do you want? he asked anxiously. Do you have any more?

One thousand pounds and there are more stones, William promptly answered.

Bring them! Mark instructed. William returned twice with two more heavy bags of stones before indicating that that was all.

William, how much do you want for all three bags? Mark asked with interest.

One thousand pounds, he stammered, anxiously eyeing Mark.

William obviously had no idea of their value. Mark felt sorry for him and gave him two thousand pounds. Knowing that he had incredible value in the car, he drove through the night to Johannesburg.

* * * *

By the age of twenty-five, Mark was well on his way to being worth a fortune. In his spare time he had read every book on emeralds, including all the technical information about composition and geology he could find. He even joined study groups at the Royal Chamber of Mines and learned everything he could about gemology.

Mark couldn’t remember how he had lost his talisman, but the result was catastrophic! The old miner in South Africa had suddenly passed away during his next visit and the mine was closed down under the control of a local attorney. And he had been unable to trace William, who simply disappeared.

He had then met and concluded a large deal in cut stones with an Israeli dealer that had gone terribly wrong. After further mishaps, he learned that the trade was packed with unscrupulous and conniving traders. In just three years, he had lost much of his wealth.

Then, he found his lucky stone behind an old cupboard in his cluttered bedroom and landed the job as manager of the House of Matthews. The pay was not great, but he was to be groomed to succeed the elderly owner. With his talisman now lying snugly in his pocket, he was ready to search for more of these gems.

* * * *

It was late when George dropped Mark at the entrance of the Elizabeth Hotel in Kitwe. He was tired but excited. The gems were superb and he needed to get the news to London right away.

What time should I return, sir? George asked, his friendly smile reflecting his eagerness to please. He shared with Chaki a generous commission of ten per cent on all purchases, less the cost of the vehicle, fuel and repairs. They were both delighted with their progress.

Mark glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock tonight, he said. We have to visit Tayob. I’ll meet you here, George. And it’s not necessary for Chaki to come with you.

The Zambian nodded cheerfully as Mark waved to his guide. He started up the noisy engine and drove off in a cloud of blue smoke.

In the busy hotel lobby, Mark went directly over to the receptionist. Peter, can you get London on the line for me?

Sorry, sir. No chance. I can’t even get Lusaka. It’s probably storm damage. Mark took the elevator to his room, threw off his clothes, took a shower and collapsed onto the bed.

* * * *

Emerald trading was illegal in Zambia and for those unlucky enough to be caught, the punishment could be severe. If one was fortunate, the surrender of the stones and a payoff might suffice. However, the more likely alternative was weeks or even months in jail, with little or no recourse to the courts or any foreign embassy. Among the local white expatriates, emerald trading had become a favorite hobby as it was the only easy way to change local currency into dollars, the currency of choice in Zambia. The rewards could be great, but extreme caution was essential. Pieces of doctored green glass or green painted quartz often found their way into parcels of crystals. Some pieces even had mica flakes glued onto them as a deception. As a buyer it was easy to make a costly mistake.

Mark’s operation was proceeding smoothly. He had kept his team small as fewer mouths meant fewer words. George, he felt, was totally reliable, and Chaki could be trusted as long as his commissions flowed. They would both make sure that Mark was never caught – even if it meant fleeing into the trackless bush. With rampant corruption in most government departments, nobody worried about breaking the laws, or dealing in black-market currency.

Ahmed Tayob, a middle-aged Indian, was unfortunately a necessary evil. Mark felt that he was untrustworthy, but still managed to establish an excellent working relationship with him. Tayob, a shrewd trader, came from a Bombay family that had settled in East Africa and drifted inland to the copper mines.

In Zambia, the Indian community had assimilated well into the local culture. For the most part, they blended with the society and quietly went about their business. Tayob was an established black marketeer, busy with all sorts of shady deals, and now served as Mark’s banker. Officially a trader in fabrics, he dealt with anything from cases of smuggled Scotch whisky to tons of copper or cobalt stolen from the local mines. If the price was right, he could, within a matter of weeks, supply a brand new Caterpillar bulldozer, although none had been officially imported for years.

Mark’s employer, Matthews, had banked three hundred thousand dollars in the Indian’s London bank account to cover the purchases. Not bad, because the current black market rate Tayob was offering was triple the official rate. Mark needed large quantities of cash to trade effectively and any stranger drawing huge amounts from local banks would immediately arouse suspicion. He could now draw nine hundred thousand kwacha from Tayob in cash, with no one the wiser.

Mark also needed to secure all the emeralds he purchased because leaving them at the hotel was a risk he was not prepared to take. For the time being, he would leave them in a locked storeroom at Tayob’s ranch north of Kitwe, where he had spent a weekend on his previous trip to Zambia. He knew this arrangement would provide him with a safe place to wash, clean and sort his purchases.

In spite of distrusting Tayob, the arrangement was working well, but there was just something in the man’s deep penetrating eyes that Mark often found disturbing. On his arrival he had drawn the first fifty thousand from his nine hundred thousand credit, leaving a credit balance of eight hundred and fifty thousand kwacha.

Mark dressed in a clean khaki safari suit and went downstairs to the noisy, smoke-filled lounge.

It was always the same in the evenings, a riot of activity with everyone shouting to be heard.There was the usual sprinkling of foreign nationals, but Zambians were in the majority. Beer flowed freely and the tables were littered with empty brown bottles. Every plastic chair was occupied and customers were even sitting on planters, where the last few surviving plants were being squashed flat.

Squeezing between the tables, Mark searched in vain for a familiar face. It wasn’t until he reached the packed bar that he found his elderly politician friend, Barry Zulu, the leader of the opposition party, who was buying beer for everyone around him.

Barry, you old rogue! How are you? Mark shouted.

Keeping alive, retorted the stout Zambian, while thumping Mark on the back. Why haven’t you come to visit me at my emerald mine?

Tell me where it is and I’ll certainly try to find it.

Drive south on the Lusaka road and turn right just after the Kafubu River bridge. Continue for some miles south of the river, past a ranch and you will see my sign. It’s easy to find, just ask the locals. What are you drinking?

Mark grinned. The only way to get service was to stay close to Barry who had his own steward fetching crates of cold bottles. Make it a beer, he yelled in Barry’s ear.

Barry clicked his fingers. He was a popular politician who had been rewarded for his services to the nation with emerald mining concessions. Since those halcyon days he had broken away from government and formed an opposition party. A wealthy man with an alcohol problem, he had unrestricted access to the diggings and had sold Mark the first fine stones that had excited Hopkins. But Barry knew his prices and there had been little profit left for Mark in the deal.

Mark sipped his beer. How about more emeralds, Barry? But this time, give me a break! They were great but my firm lost money.

I’m leaving tomorrow for Lusaka. Why not give me a call on your way back and I’ll show you what I have? Barry smiled before he turned his attention towards another Zambian.With his sycophants quite tipsy and everyone talking at once, it was bedlam. After downing another bottle, Mark beat a retreat down the wide stairs and out into the night.

* * * *

A few minutes later, George was skillfully maneuvering along poorly lit roads between potholes and a few drunks to Tayob’s mansion in the residential area. Two uniformed guards kept them waiting at the gate while permission was sought for them to enter.

Tayob was waiting in the front of the house dressed in a flowing white robe. He bowed slightly as he ushered Mark through the large wood-paneled door. The spacious sitting room was magnificently furnished and well-stocked with all the trimmings of Indian-style wealth. A large cut glass chandelier hung from the high ceiling and several Asian oil paintings adorned the walls. On instruction from Tayob, his many children had disappeared from sight. A liveried butler appeared with a bottle of Dimple Haig and crystal glasses. A silver tray laden with cheese, biscuits and nuts completed the offering.

After pouring a generous measure of whisky for Mark and a fruit juice for himself, Tayob cupped his hands and smiled. How many kwacha do you require, Mr. Mark? he asked softly.

Three hundred thousand.

Tayob nodded graciously. Not a problem, Mr. Mark.When do you need it? Now, if possible.

Clapping his hands twice, he then rattled off instructions to a summoned aide. Twenty minutes later the servant returned with three large black plastic shopping bags crammed with notes.

Do you wish to count it?

That won’t be necessary. Mark was amazed that the Indian kept such sums in his home and noted that this would cost Matthews no less than one hundred thousand dollars on the black market.

Gathering up the bags, Mark rose and the Indian escorted him out to his vehicle. No receipt or signature was required. This was a business of total trust, even with a man like Tayob.

After arranging for George to buy a case of bottled water for the vehicle, and to collect him an hour before dawn, Mark entered the hotel and carried his bags up to his room. Opening the double combination lock of his briefcase, he took out the four stones he had bought from the old lady. He washed them in soap and using a pocketknife and toothbrush to remove the stubborn coating of yellow clay and schist, he examined each crystal carefully with his flashlight. The first was of fine quality, the second medium grade but the third and fourth crystals were outstanding. The old lady certainly knew what she was doing.

Inside the stones were clear portions where square cut emeralds over five carats could be extracted and from the residue many smaller stones could be recovered. The remaining portions would yield a range of fine finished stones from four carats down to those tiny emeralds that are so effectively set around diamonds in rings, brooches and earrings.Yet, even with this type of clean emerald, Mark knew that roughly half the weight would be lost during cutting and polishing.

He carefully hid the gems in a secret compartment in his suitcase. He was pleased with his first excursion into the mining area and was frustrated at not being able to pass on the exciting news to London.

Matthews would just have to wait to get the news. Now old and without close relatives, he had been contemplating retirement. Mark had joined him as manager because he had been verbally promised the opportunity to take over the business. He hired Harvey Gibson, a trusted friend to be his young assistant and Harvey had in turn hired Brenda, a charming blonde secretary who had developed a dedicated and efficient loyalty to both of them.

Today’s more pressing problem, however, was that Mark had not eaten. Locking the money and his briefcase in the flimsy cupboard, he left the room and took the elevator to the first floor. He passed the reverberating lounge and entered the packed dining room where Haji, the headwaiter, found him a place at a long table occupied by an Indian family. He was about to sit down when he noticed the young girl sitting next to him pouring ketchup over her smaller brother’s head to the delight of her siblings. Mindful of his clean safari suit, he grimaced at Haji who hastily showed him to another table. Here an inebriated Pole was trying to communicate with a flashy local hooker he had met at the bar. Her red dress was heavily soiled with sweat stains and whenever he tried to kiss her, she would poke her index finger up his nose and then giggle hysterically.

Mark gaped at her, shrugged and sat down. As usual most of the items on the menu were not available. He settled for chicken a la king. Haji brought him a cold beer.

Barry was entertaining nine of his cronies at the table of honor in front of the stage. A three-piece band was blasting away but this did not prevent Barry from laying down the law to his admirers who could not hear one slurred word. A few couples attempted to dance, but each time they adjusted to the rhythm, the band changed the tempo. Mark drained his beer

Reviews for The Gem Merchants

[richardwise · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In Ray Ferguson's exciting new novel The Gem Merchants, the young protagonist Mark Branson has achieved what every gem dealer dreams of. He is on the scene at the time and place of a major gem strike. In this case, the place is Zambia just as a major cache of emeralds has been unearthed.Branson, the gem buyer for a small London firm, manages to purchase a king's ransom in rough emerald crystals, but to hold on to them and get them out of the country, Branson must navigate his way through a series of obstacles including greedy politicians, sadistic military men and a grasping Indian gem dealer .The book is realistic and well paced. Ferguson show an adept hand in character development and a good sense of place. No mere cardboard cutouts, his characters live , breath and are quite believable. Along the way, the author, himself a gem dealer currently living in Madagascar, teaches us a good bit about the gem trade and how it operates across the world. I highly recommend The Gem Merchants to anyone who is interested in a fast paced, entirely believable and authentic account of the adventurous side of the international gem trade