French Diamonds

By Joseph W. Michels

FRENCH DIAMONDS is the third action-thriller novel to feature WILLIAM CHURCH, the freelance recovery specialist based in San Francisco. In this novel CHURCH is retained by a New York insurance company to recover fifteen-million dollars worth of diamond jewelry stolen during a violent robbery at a Las Vegas hotel. The jewelry was stolen from a French jewelry designer attending an international diamond show. The five men who committed the robbery are hardened criminals belonging to an eastern European syndicate. CHURCH, in his effort to unravel the elaborate criminal network supporting the operation, clashes with leaders of the gang in both Las Vegas and Los Angeles. A ransom of twenty-million dollars is demanded in exchange for the return of the jewelry. A deadline of one week compels CHURCH to move fast in pursuit of the diamonds. Aided by a female FBI agent and a Russian mixed martial arts expert, CHURCHs quest for the diamonds takes him from the international diamond bourses of Antwerp and Amsterdam to the gangs headquarters on the Adriatic coast. Along the way, deadly exchanges of gunfire leave bodies from Las Vegas to Trieste.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462000807

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

Book preview

Contents

DAY 1

DAY 2

DAY 3

DAY 4

DAY 5

DAY 6

DAY 7

DAY 8

DAY 1

IT TOOK ME A moment to figure out the buzzing I was hearing wasn’t part of my dream. How could it be, Jack and I were besting another thirty-six footer in a beer can race out on the bay; the only sounds were the snap of the sails as we tacked around the west buoy and the satisfying swish of the hull cutting cleanly through the water. The dream faded but the buzzing kept on. I glanced at the night table next to my bed and gradually took in the fact my cell phone was gyrating crazily. Somebody was calling me at four o’clock in the morning, for Christ’s sake!

Yeah, I’m here…who the hell is it?

Sorry to wake you, Church, but something’s come up that needs your immediate attention.

That you, Guy? I said, raising myself to a sitting position.

Yeah, Guy Sanderson, your meal ticket from the Mutual Insurance Company of New York…you awake?

I guess…what’s going on?

I need you in Las Vegas right away.

Can you slow down a moment and tell me what this is all about?

There’s been an armed robbery of a jewelry collection at the International Diamond Show…it was one of our insured clients that got hit.

This happened when?

Sometime late last night, I’m told, though I didn’t hear about it until about two hours ago…seems the guys that pulled it off left two dead bodies and a bound and gagged victim…took him a while to get himself loose.

Okay, I’ll see what I can arrange about transportation…car’s out of the question…it takes a good ten hours to make the drive from San Francisco to Las Vegas.

Don’t worry about it, that charter jet service you used during the art theft operation last year said they can muster a craft…seems that crew you worked with—a Captain Jeffries and an Officer Johnson—happen to be at La Guardia. They’ve already taken off…with Emily Parsons on board…their ETA in San Francisco is nine o’clock this morning, your time.

Then why the hell didn’t you wait a couple of more hours before calling me…I don’t need five hours to get over to SFO?

Bear with me, Church, this is a big deal…if we don’t recover the diamond jewelry the company is out a cool fifteen million dollars.

Jesus! I can see why you’re a little on edge. That why you’ve sprung for a charter jet? You know damn well I can get a flight over to Las Vegas probably as fast if not faster than the time it takes for Jeffries and his co-pilot to make it across the country then back over to Las Vegas…and at a hell of a lot less money.

You’re to keep that charter with you until the diamonds are recovered…we’ve got a time element to worry about…the collection is highly portable, no telling where it’ll end up and the more time it’s in their hands the less likely we’ll recover the collection intact.

I hear you. So what’s this about Emily Parsons being on board?

She’ll fill you in on the details during the flight to Las Vegas…then serve as the company’s representative on site.

You know, Guy, Emily and I didn’t part on the best of terms last time we worked together.

You mean when you ran out on her in Chicago?

I wouldn’t exactly put it that way, but I suppose she might. You sure she’ll be okay teaming up with me again?

She’s a big girl, Church, and over the past year she’s proven to be a competent and resourceful field agent for the company’s claims division.

I’ll take your word for it…so, usual contract terms?

Yeah, Emily’s got the paperwork with her. You just need to sign off on it. An advance payment for your services has already been authorized…should show up in your bank account by the end of the day.

Thanks, I’ll talk to you later. I broke the connection but before putting the phone down I activated the ringer. I had a feeling this was going to be a busy day, certainly no time to miss phone calls because the mute function was on. I slid back and put my head on the pillow, debating whether I should try and catch a couple more hours of sleep or face the fact I was wide awake and would probably stay that way. Regrettably, there was no contest. I grudgingly climbed out of bed and headed for the shower.

The bathroom was small, like the rest of my one-bedroom condo, and toweling off after the shower was an awkward task given my six-foot-three-inch, two-hundred-pound frame. But I managed, and after finishing up in there I put on a terry cloth robe and headed for the kitchen. Well, it’s kind of an overstatement to call it a kitchen—just a single granite counter in an alcove off the living room, interrupted by a sink, a stove and a small fridge, with a microwave and a rack of cupboards overhead. But the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows made up for the paucity of living space, at least it did at normal hours. At this time of night there wasn’t much to see, just a few cars crossing the Oakland Bay Bridge, a few security lights dimly illuminating the cluster of skyscrapers nearby, and the bobbing lights of a handful of tiny fishing trawlers heading out towards the Golden Gate Bridge to try their luck.

I poured a bowl of cereal, squeezed three oranges for juice and turned on the television, hoping the robbery had made the early morning newscasts. I figured there wouldn’t be much on it given that less than two hours had passed since the crime had come to the attention of the police—still anything was more than I had at the moment. I surfed a couple of all night news channels but picked up little—just the headline: diamonds stolen, dead bodies left behind. They identified the location—one of the newer resort hotels just off the strip. Seems the hotel’s convention center was the venue for the International Diamond Show and most of the participants were believed to be staying there. Admitting defeat, I shut off the television, finished the cereal and juice and cleaned up.

I needed some coffee and thought the neighborhood baristas should be just about ready for business despite the early hour so I decided to get dressed and go out. This being San Francisco one gets the impression most people choose not to make coffee at home but prefer to rely on the abundance of high quality coffee venues throughout the city. I certainly fall into that category, not having even a coffee maker or a package of instant to fall back on. I quickly put on a pair of gray jeans and a white sports shirt. But before reaching for a soft cotton navy blazer I grabbed my holstered 38-caliber semiautomatic and slipped it over my belt. San Francisco is not what many people would call a gun-friendly city but I had a federal concealed weapon permit and a state-issued private investigator’s license, making a ‘concealed carry’ a rather routine part of my daily wardrobe.

I live in one of the new luxury condominium buildings south of Market Street. It’s a newly developing neighborhood so the closest coffee bar was several blocks away. Only an occasional vehicle passed by as I walked towards Market Street. It would be another hour or so before traffic picked up, and before joggers poured out of nearby buildings to get in a thirty-minute run before work. Streetlights were still on and I could make out the approach of a couple of guys a block ahead of me. They were tall and slender. Both wore baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirts with the hoods up. As we grew closer to one another I noticed they were talking in loud voices, punctuating their comments with extravagant gestures. I smiled to myself as I realized the guys were probably rapping; kind of nice in a way but not if you were in one of the nearby apartments trying to sleep.

I gave them a welcoming nod as our paths crossed, but the guy closest to me grabbed my left arm while the other guy positioned himself directly in front of me, blocking my forward progress.

You got some money for us? said the guy gripping my arm.

Why would that be? I replied, pivoting my body away from him while keeping my left arm tight against my torso. The sudden move forced him to release his grip but not before pulling him off balance and smack into the arms of the guy in front. I stepped back a pace as the two guys hastened to get their balance.

Show him your piece! shouted the guy who’d gripped my arm.

I don’t think so, I said as I stepped towards the guy fumbling under his sweatshirt, trying to get a grip on the handgun hidden somewhere in his clothes. With his hands busy at his waist he had no way to block my move. Using both hands, I grabbed the front edge of the hood covering his head and pulled down violently while simultaneously bringing my right knee up. The impact messed up his face and rendered him unconscious. The other guy just froze, probably not used to having their intended victim react so aggressively.

I pulled out my gun and pointed it at him. Down on the pavement, you know the drill!

You some kind of cop? he asked as he complied with my instructions.

No, just a peace-loving citizen ticked off at having to put up with bastards like you.

I used my cell phone to call 911. The dispatcher said she’d alert the nearest police patrol. Sure enough, within minutes a squad car pulled up. One of the cops cuffed the two guys while the other took down my account of what transpired. They recovered the gun the one guy was carrying and found a knife on the other.

The concealed weapons charges should be enough to hold them, especially since both are on parole for earlier offenses, said the officer handling the paperwork, but you’ll probably be required to testify should the matter come to trial.

I understand, officer.

You want to tell me how in hell you managed to get a federal concealed weapons permit? asked the cop.

Spent three years as a Special Agent for the FBI. They seem inclined to continue renewing my permit in recognition of my work as a recovery specialist handling high profile theft cases involving art and other big ticket items.

Why’d you quit the agency…seeing as you’ve pretty much kept on doing the same kind of work?

Couldn’t take the bureaucratic runaround…felt I could be more effective doing the work freelance.

And it probably pays a hell of a lot better…am I right?

That you are…but listen, I don’t mean to badmouth the agency. They taught me a lot…especially about recovering stolen art…and working with Interpol was one of the highlights of the three-year hitch.

Your present jobs involve much work overseas? asked the officer as he closed his incident report book.

A fair amount…enough to ensure I keep my Interpol contacts current…hell, Interpol even issued me an international concealed weapons permit in acknowledgement of the fact my cases often involve cross-border movement of the things I’m asked to recover.

So how come you’re not based in New York or Washington…be a lot more convenient than San Francisco?

Yeah, but I’m a sailor and there aren’t many places where the sailing gets much better than right here.

You guys going to talk all morning? asked the other cop who’d been cooling his heels next to the squad car, keeping an eye on his two prisoners.

Coming, Jerry, said the cop I’d been talking with. Well, I’d better be on my way…it’s been good meeting you, Mr. Church.

I nodded, shook his hand and watched as he and the other cop climbed into their squad car and swiftly drove off.

* * *

It was well after six by the time I took the elevator up to the floor where my condo unit was located. I was still drinking my coffee but what remained was beginning to get cold. After one last swig I exited the elevator. My unit was about halfway down the hall. Walking quietly so as not to disturb my neighbors I made my way to the door, unlocked it and walked in. The drapes on the floor-to-ceiling living room windows were wide open, giving me a clear view of the eastern horizon where the sun was just beginning to make its appearance. I dumped the remaining coffee down the drain and dropped the disposable cup in the recycling bin beneath the sink.

I pulled two pieces of leather luggage out from the hall closet and took them into the bedroom. The larger one would hold clothing, the smaller—toiletries, my satellite phone, laptop computer, and extra clips and a cleaning kit for my gun. Everything was packed by seven o’clock. I dropped the two bags next to the door and took a seat on the living room couch. It was time to make a couple of phone calls.

Chelsea, this is Church…did I wake you? Chelsea works at the concierge desk of my condo building but picks up extra cash by handling my logistical needs on the side. Actually, my business card has her cell phone number on it rather than mine, an indication of just how central she is to my operation. But her real love is modern dance. She’s in her twenties, incredibly cute and dances like a dream.

No, replied Chelsea, but that doesn’t mean I’m up and about.

Okay, and what I’ve got to say won’t change that one bit…the call is just informational.

Now you’ve got me curious, what’s going on?

Guy woke me at four this morning to tell me one of their insured clients just got robbed of fifteen million dollars worth of diamonds…wants me to be in Las Vegas ASAP.

Jesus! That’s awesome! I take it you’ve got transportation arranged already.

Yeah, Guy’s chartered the outfit we used last year on that art theft deal. He wants me to keep the craft on standby until I can recover the stones. I’m to meet up with the plane at SFO at nine this morning.

So what do you want me to do?

At the moment, nothing, but I wanted to give you a head’s up since you won’t be seeing me around over the next few days.

You going to team up with anybody?

At this point it doesn’t seem likely but you never know…that is except for Emily Parsons who Guy has sent along to brief me and to represent the company on site.

Hmm, how’s that going to play out? Seems the last time you and she met up you kind of stiffed her.

That’s a little strong, Chelsea. All I did was give her the opportunity to take full credit for the return of the six Impressionist paintings and give her a rain check on an evening out on the town.

Well, my sense is she doesn’t see it that way…you going to make it up to her?

Guy says she’s okay with it…that I’ll find her easy to work with.

Come on Church, you guys don’t have a clue. She’ll keep it low key but one way or another she’ll be looking for ways to light up whatever dwindling flame she sparked back in Chicago in the heart of one William Church, that handsome, blond-haired bachelor who thought he’d managed to get away.

Are we done?

Yeah, good luck…let me know how it goes.

About the robbery, sure; about Emily and myself, not on your life.

We’ll see.

Oh, and maybe you should schedule the housecleaning crew…take advantage of my absence.

Will do. By the way, do you know where you’ll be staying tonight?

No, not yet. I’ll give you a call when I figure out what my next moves will be.

I’ll be waiting.

I broke the connection and thought about what Chelsea had said, then shook my head and speed-dialed Jack.

Jack Barker and I co-own a thirty-six foot sailing sloop we keep on the bay. We met during my FBI days—he stayed in and is now a Special Agent in the San Francisco office. We touch base pretty regularly, especially when one or the other of us needs someone to bounce ideas off or when there’s a problem with the boat. This morning what I really needed was a contact.

That you, Church? said Jack once he came to the phone. Jack was single and in his early thirties, just like myself, and often had a girlfriend stay over—explaining why a young woman answered my call.

Yeah. Listen, I need the name of an FBI agent in the Las Vegas office who’ll be straight with me.

What are you working on? asked Jack.

There’s been an armed robbery of one of the guys attending the International Diamond Show…the diamond collection stolen was insured by my client…to the tune of fifteen million dollars. I’m flying out in about two hours and need whatever information the Feds have pieced together…thought maybe you’d have a contact out there?

You think we’ve been called in?

Something this big and involving an international cast of characters…yeah, I’d have to believe the FBI is already on board.

Let me do some checking…I’ll get back to you…but probably not until after nine this morning.

Call me on my satphone…I’ll probably be somewhere over the Sierras by that time and well out of cell phone range.

Will do.

He hung up. I looked at my watch. I had about an hour and a half to go before Jeffries and his co-pilot touched down. Given that it was rush hour it made sense to head out to the airport; a thirty-minute drive under normal conditions could stretch a lot longer if the traffic was particularly bad. I called down to the