The Devil's Stone

By Marie Reindorp

Omar Ash Raff is a man of honor. He lives in Sierra Leone, a country rife with diamond smugglers. Omar knows what diamonds can do to a man. He's chased that dream all his life. He safeguards Okra Hill - the most valuable piece of diamond-rich, real-estate the country possesses from being pillaged by rebels, diamond congl

• Language: English
• Publisher: ARPress
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798893302684

Marie Reindorp

Marie Reindorp is an English native who traveled the world extensively as a tour guide. Many of her stories are based on her adventures and experiences of her travels and the places she's lived in.

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Copyright © 2023 by Marie Reindorp

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Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024901023

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 :Kono, Sierra Leone, West Africa

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 :Kamakwie

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12 :Freetown

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36 :Kamakwie

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53 :Freetown, 4:00 A.M.

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Praise For

The Devil’s Stone

The Devil’s Stone is a smart and stylish thriller set against the diamond trade in Sierra Leone, Africa. Reindorp knows the country and this dark business from the inside out. Fast-paced and cleverly plotted, The Devil’s Stone is a wonderful debut.

—T. Jefferson Parker

Author, California Girl Storm Runners

An impressive debut novel by Marie Reindorp. Her vibrant descriptions of the beauty of nature of Sierra Leone, paint vivid images which stay with the reader for a very long time afterwards. I was completely lost in the book and couldn’t stop turning the pages till the last one. A very welcome female author who is not afraid to write about a harrowing time in Africa’s recent past.

—Antonia Yeo

Hastings, England

The Devil’s Stone is a rollicking fun adventure story through war-torn Sierra Leone, replete with rebel villains, illicit diamond smuggling and a charming love story.

Dale Perlman

Past President of Jewelers of America

The Diamond Council

The 51-store King’s Jewelry Chain

An interesting mix of socio-political intrigue, pulse-pounding adventure, and solid romance set against the dangerous backdrop of the West African diamond trade. Marie Reindorp takes the reader for a blistering ride into the minds and hearts of characters whose ties to land and self create a stark and confrontational story of sacrifice and discovery.

—Michael A. Wolf

Author

Reindorp’s exciting tale of adventure that uncovers the underbelly of dirty diamond trading, kept me intrigued from page one to the end.

—Sarah Bates, Co-Author, Out of Our Minds

Wild Story by Wild Women

Marie Reindorp has created a page-turner of a story full of intrigue, passion and the enduring power of human spirit as we are plunged into the deepest heart of darkest Africa at a pivotal point in the diamond mining trade and smuggling industry as three people, thrown together by fate, carve their own destinies. A must read.

—Laurel Aarsvold

Author, Shaman’s Oil

A wild and exciting ride of adventure, romance and diamonds!

—Colleen Bailey

Stylist

The Devil’s Stone literally drops the reader into the violence and action of wartorn Sierra Leone. The contrast between corruption, blood-shed, and the interesting beauty of the land mirrors the dramatic relationship of a man and a woman, desperately searching for a red stone, that’s rumored to be a priceless diamond. Politics, war, and romance collide, in this fast-paced, spell-binding tale. The reader will be mesmerized by the heart-pounding chain of events of this fascinating page-turner.

—Kara La Russa

Author, Victoria’s Secret

The Devil’s Stone is a smartly crafted adventure with a superb cast of characters set in the midst of Sierra Leone’s politically corrupt diamond trade. A terrific read!

—Carmi Cosmos

Author

Just finished The Devil’s Stone and it’s BRILLIANT! I couldn’t put it down. Well researched, well written and a very exciting read. I can’t wait for the next installment! You are a master story teller.

—St. Jon Simpson

Captain for Cathy Pacific

Dedication

For Rami Jojo, a native of Sierra Leone and victim to the rebel war. Your personal experience and understanding of the different factions and ways of life in the bush gave tremendous impute and inspiration to this novel. Your knowledge of the diamond industry was a priceless asset and your insights gave credence into a country long lost in this modern world we live in. For your stories, memories of life in the wild and devoted collaboration to make parts of the novel authentic, sincere thanks. Without you this story might never have been told.

Acknowledgements

To write this book involved the time and brains of many. Diamond miners from Sierra Leone, writing groups, friends and family gave me countless hours of knowledge and inspiration and to those who in one way or another helped formulate this story I’d like to express my gratitude.

I’m indebted to Sarah Bates, Carmi Cosmos, Kara La Russa and Michael Wolf for your constant support, tireless critique, companionship and humor. Thank you, Lori Curtis and Laurel Aarsvold, for rereading the same pages over and over; you never complained.

And thank you, Jeff, my husband, for your endless patience and unwavering encouragement, always believing in me and giving me the time to write through years of rewrites!

For Barbara Seranella, wherever you are, my mentor and trusted friend, you’ve no idea how much I miss you.

Finally, for Sierra Leone. That peace has finally come to the people of Sierra Leone is a good thing. The sad price they had to pay for it is not. How the country will live with the nightmares and survive after generations of chaos, war, and horror remains to be seen.

Chapter 1

Kono, Sierra Leone, West Africa

Okra Hill loomed on the horizon like the hump of a camel. Though it appeared small from a distance, it served as a beacon from any point in Kono. A fiery glow of reds, oranges, and yellows flared across its apex during the day, while at night the moon cast shadows upon it, making the mountain an ominous landmark.

In the rainy season, red water tumbled through its rivers. Ruby-colored stones, the size of a man’s hand, flowed in that water and sometimes diamonds rushed out into the savannah surrounding the town.

Locals believed the hill was cursed with a devil. Human bones found along the banks of the mountain’s rivers confirmed that a devil did live there and if anybody so much as breathed one breath upon that rock they would die.

Omar Ash-Raff headed into a cavern at the base of the mountain. He raked his fingers through his brown hair and wiped perspiration from his tanned forehead. The cold morning air made him shiver. Except for the glow of camping lanterns strung along the tunnel, the cave was dark. Grains of gravel dribbled from the ceiling onto his head and into his muddy shirt. His jeans and heavy boots were covered in dirt.

He moved into the tunnel, aware of the uneven ground, and carefully transported a box of dynamite from the Jeep outside to where his friend, The Block, embedded charges into the crevices of the cave. A demolition expert, Block discovered a limestone vein ran through the cavern and took advantage of the natural geological find. Sandwiched layers of clay and granite rested above the vein and over these—kimberlite rocks.

The hill was the last piece of valuable real estate Sierra Leone possessed and judging by the runoff into the river, there had to be billions of gems stuffed inside. Their brilliance flashed from within the walls and Omar considered how many lifetimes they’d waited to be pried from their sleep.

He relaxed his shoulders and moved within the parameters of the cave. The thought struck him that a monumental weight was packed above, and he worried that the pressure of rainwater seeping into the clay might cause the hill to sink. Yet the mountain stood as if weightless by its very stationary position. That it could crumble at any moment made him nervous.

He checked his Rolex. Half an hour to get to the worksite. Estimating that they were roughly three-quarters of a mile from the entrance, he added the box of explosives to the stack against the wall. Fifty boxes in all. Each contained twenty-five sticks of dynamite. Such an amount would blow the belly out of the mountain. That thought made his heartbeat race, and to calm down, he watched his cohort bury yet another stick into its grave.

Omar admired the agility of the red-haired Scot. For one so large, Block moved with the nimbleness of a cat. The tick, tick, tick, tick of his watch intruded over the silence, and Omar found the sound irritating. Once again, he shivered and ran his hand against his bearded stubble then rested his other hand on the boxes of explosives.

You’re certain this will disrupt the mantle? Omar asked.

Och, enough to leverage an avalanche. The twang of Block’s Scottish brogue drifted in the air, and his words seemed to bounce from one wall of the cave to another.

Omar shot him a questioning look.

Man, how many times do I have to tell you? Block said. The center will explode first to give room for the circumference to collapse into it. Then it’ll form a hole as if an earthquake struck, opened its mouth, and swallowed the lot. Graphic enough?

Omar nodded and while Block got on with the job of burying more deadly beauties and reams of wire beneath the soil, he headed out to collect the last box of dynamite.

Crimson glory seeped into the early morning sky and even from the dark side of the hill he had a panoramic view of the mountain peaks that guarded the valley of Kono. Despite the chill, a sudden burst of sweat dampened his hair. He felt tired, his clothes were smudged with dirt, and he needed a cigarette, but after months of work this was the final opportunity to finish the task. He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to smoke.

Another shiver raked his flesh. He wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm and watched the layers of mist forming at the foot of the mountain. Shrieks from hawks and the swell of birdsong filled his ears. Yet even though he was born and raised in Sierra Leone and his ancestors were buried deep in its soil, as a white man in Africa, he would always be a foreigner. He sighed and took a moment to revel in the stillness of the scenery as the day began, then took hold of the remaining box of charges and headed back into the cave.

His beige hat lay by the entrance. He crouched down to get it and grabbed a handful of earth. Even the grains glistened, and he rubbed some on his jeans. The grains clung to the fabric as if tattooed there. Some lodged under his fingernails. He shook his head in amazement and found Block hunched over, smoothing soil over wire, sprinkling gravel on top.

I’ve heard rumors that there’s a curse to this hill and the stones that come out of it. Block’s words echoed over to Omar.

I know, Omar said. The people from the village that died, right?

No, no, no, they died on this mountain.

Omar laughed. The curse turned them into diamonds and the spirit takes revenge. Don’t tell me you believe that? He studied the dirt lining his fingernails.

Block wiped off grease smudged on his chin. Come on, be a man of science. There’s some justification there. Diamonds made of carbon. People made of carbon. How farfetched is that?

Omar shook his head. That’s all I need, you to validate what they say. Anyway, this is going to save a lot of people, not kill them.

Gravel fell from the ceiling.

"Ah, Block said, stretching out his back, there you go again, saving the country."

Omar grinned. He picked out a stick of dynamite and rolled it between his fingers. The stick had the texture of an expensive cigar with a stringy appearance. He sniffed it, twitching his nose at the pungent aroma of ammonia that lingered on his hands. He tasted that smell at the back of his throat and sipped some water to try and get rid of it. This left the flavor of copper in his mouth as if he’d sucked pennies.

He reached into the stack of boxes and selected a silver cap from the top box, laying it into his palm. The cap consisted of an electronic firing pin that connected to two wires. With the dynamite in one hand, the cap in the other, he would never have discerned a sequence occurred and decided that to blow up a mountain was more of an art than a science.

Damn and damn, he said. Why do we have to blast? How I wish there was another way. Other miners dig the river, camp by the water.

Aye, and die of yellow fever or some other delight. My cousin did, anyway.

The one that came from that sweater island in the North Sea?

Shetland. It’s called Shetland. You should go there sometime.

Omar handed the dynamite to his friend. Too cold for me, thanks. I’ll stick to the bush.

Speaking of the bush, how’s old Kaboo going to react when he finds out you’re about to blow his mountain? Block said while burying the charge.

He believes it’s the cause of the war. He’ll think it a favor.

Huh! I hope you’re right. The last I heard from Kaboo and his chiefs is anyone who enters this mountain doesn’t walk out alive. There’s a devil in it killing people.

You still on that? Omar scraped out shiny dirt from under his thumbnail with his knife. I know the devils that are killing the people, and we’re alive the last time I checked.

You shouldn’t scoff. A lot of bodies found by the river lately were said to be explorers excavating the mountain. Nobody knows what they died of.

That was true. Recently, several men were found dead at the bottom of the hill with no explanation for their death. If Omar didn’t know better, he might begin to believe the superstitions. He shivered at the thought then broke out into a sweat when the vibration of the walkie-talkie in his pocket made him jump. He removed the blue, hand-sized device and thumbed down the switch.

A baritone voice blared, Are you there? Over.

Omar checked his Rolex. Five-thirty in the morning wasn’t a good time to be speaking over the airwaves where anybody could eavesdrop on the conversation. Why are you contacting me? Over, he said into the device.

A change of plan. Change of plan echoed throughout the cave. You must come back immediately. Over.

What’s the emergency?

I can’t explain now. You must come….

A garbled message followed by continuous static and a piercing shrill made Omar grit his teeth. He snapped the handheld device off and shoved it in his pocket.

I’m taking the helicopter, he said to Block. The vibration of his voice caused the ground to shake. The two men looked at each other. Tick, tick, tick, tick. Gravel sprinkled from the ceiling. He lowered his voice. Finish off. We’ll meet in town later. Bring me the timer.

Block snipped wire with cutters. "Och, orders, orders. You know, he said while grabbing a handful of caps from a box, we should give this operation a name."

Freedom, Omar said. He’d have to change his clothes, pronto. And wash his hands.

Do I have to tell you to be careful? Block asked.

Omar smiled. No, but I like to hear you say it. He blew the dust from his hat and put it on his head. After pulling down the brim, he turned and left.

Chapter 2

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just been informed of a ground strike in Gambia and are unable to land, the captain said in a husky, middle-Eastern accent. Air traffic control has instructed us to proceed to Freetown until the strike is over.

Dawn Peake needed a minute to process the information. She’d read about the atrocities in war-torn Sierra Leone. The West African nation was constantly in the news. Of all places on the planet, the plane had to land there. She took a breath and caught her reflection in the window. In the dim cabin light, her features assumed a ghostly aura. Her golden hair draped over her shoulders like a shroud, and her olive eyes resembled dark holes above her cheekbones. She felt she looked all of her thirty-four years.

Passengers traveling to Gambia, please fill out transit forms that will be handed out shortly, the captain said. We apologize for any inconvenience. Freetown has assured us assistance when we arrive.

Swallowing her apprehension, Dawn pressed for the steward on the panel of her first class seat. Being a seasoned tour operator, she managed to obtain the comfort of first class when available. On this occasion, she had approached Jumma Air, a Jordanian charter company that flew regularly to Gambia. She asked if they were interested in chartering flights for her clients to a resort she was pursuing there. Jumma Air jumped at the idea. And here she was on a reconnaissance trip. Landing in Sierra Leone wasn’t in the plan.

You can’t be serious, she said to the steward. Surely the captain has made a mistake. Sierra Leone is at war. We can’t go there.

The lanky man shrugged. London, Banjul, Freetown. That’s the flight path. We run it twice a week. It’s not our fault the ground crew in Gambia has decided to strike. He also had an accent. It had a singsong lilt to it. There won’t be a problem for a short layover.

The plane bounced in turbulence and the seatbelt sign pinged. Dawn snapped her seatbelt.

"Look, I don’t want a short layover. She should have checked. She should have done a lot of things. Now she was headed somewhere she didn’t want to go. Wasn’t that a familiar story? She’d planned the trip to change all that. I’m going to miss my meeting. Why are we going there? There must be an alternative destination."

It’s not as bad as you think, Missis.

Missis? Are you telling me that the fighting has stopped?

Oh, no, he said. The fighting is in the north. Not much chance it will reach Freetown.

Well, I need more information. You can’t just take the plane wherever you want.

Most of the passengers are traveling to Freetown. They won’t mind.

Well, I don’t want to go to Sierra Leone. Colleagues warned her about small African nations that made up the rules as they went along—or, worse still, didn’t have any rules to begin with.

Madam, he said, relax. There isn’t anything I can do.

She rubbed her forehead. Oh, what’s the point. How much longer is it to Freetown?

Roughly an hour. Why don’t you calm down? Let me get you some coffee.

I hardly think going to a rebel-infested country is reason to calm down. No, not acceptable. I’ll have a strong talk with your airline when we land.

The steward shrugged again. Yes, you can sort it out once we get on the ground. He disappeared into the galley as the plane shuddered and lost altitude. The sharp drop caused Dawn to press back in her seat.

That’s just great, she said under her breath. I’m going to a war zone. Bloody great. Imagine if she’d brought clients on the trip! Ah, the nightmare of dealing with all those complaints.

Lightning lit the sky. She watched the storm as the plane hit an air pocket and plunged through a cloud layer. A baby screamed somewhere in economy and the passenger sitting directly behind her belched, then beeped for the steward.

Here’s that coffee, the steward said to Dawn. I’m sure it will make you feel better. He poured the steamy liquid into a china cup and handed it to her on a tray.

I doubt it, she said, taking the cup and sighing. But thanks, anyway.

The steward turned to pour coffee into the cup of the man sitting across the aisle from Dawn. An elegant Frenchman with ivory-white hair and matching mustache, Jacques Maurice introduced himself before the plane took off. His gold timepiece reminded her of a bulging oyster.

Dressed in an immaculate, off-white suit and shiny cream shoes, Jacques sipped his coffee. You know, there’s little use making a fuss on the plane.

Easy for you to say, she said in French. You’re going to Freetown? How is it there?

I travel to Sierra Leone frequently. You haven’t cause for concern.

The passenger sitting behind beeped for the steward. Another beer, the man demanded. His brusque, middle-Eastern accent pronounced the words as if they were weighted with bricks.

The steward took on a determined stance. Mr. Wahtii! Haven’t you had enough? He didn’t seem interested in attending to the needs of the third passenger in first class as he cleaned off Dawn’s breakfast tray.

Well, what’s it like? Dawn asked Jacques. If we’re in transit, can we visit Freetown?

Jacques laughed. The airport is on a peninsula. You have to take a ferry to the mainland.

Oh, God. How long will that take?

The steward rolled his eyes. Longer than the flight.

Dawn said, You mean it takes six and a half hours to fly the three thousand miles to get there and another six hours just to make it to the mainland?

"Ah, Jacques said, twisting the ends of his moustache. Welcome to Africa." He sipped his coffee and turned away.

Her mind raced. She’d presented the concept of elite tours to a five-star hotel chain. They loved the idea. With the Canaries constantly crowded with tourists, Gambia offered miles of golden beaches and exotic river excursions. The Christmas period was the perfect time to go and see if her idea was feasible. She’d been successful in Greece and in Turkey and would use the same business model in West Africa. If she could only succeed at this, so much would be changed. Now, thanks to the diversion, she would be delayed for the most important meeting of her career.

Brochures prepared for her proposal lay on her lap. She took a deep breath, turned to Jacques, and asked, Isn’t Sierra Leone where they have diamonds?

He looked at his watch and, without lifting his head, said, That is correct, as he squeezed the bezel and reset the time. And occasionally they dig up a big stone.

So, it’s true then, she said, thinking the Frenchman seemed withdrawn. But what about the war?

Jacques got up from his seat and frowned. The war is a rebel war and it’s up-country, not in Freetown. Excuse me, he said, making his way to the bathroom.

As the light from the passenger behind her pinged, Dawn pictured what a handful of sparkling gems might look like.

The steward huffed. What is it now, Mr. Wahtii?

Mr. Wahtii stepped into the aisle and stood by the empty seat next to Dawn. He shoved his glass into the steward’s hand. I want a beer. Get it.

Dawn stared at him. Sporting a bushy black and gray beard, his disheveled appearance was that of a hobo roaming a city street; and he reeked of beer, sweat, and garlic. She pulled back her head from the overpowering smell as he staggered along the aisle to the bathroom.

Don’t just stand there, Wahtii shouted to the steward. Get me a beer.

Very well, the steward said and waltzed off to the galley.

Wahtii leaned against the bathroom door. He looked at Dawn, raised his eyebrows, took a few steps forward, plopped his skinny backside into the seat beside her, and belched and gargled phlegm in his throat. She cringed and sat up in shock as he placed a warm hand on her knee. Her ex always did that. The plane dropped altitude. She heard several screams from economy.

Wahtii leaned over her. It’s Christmas, babe. Have a drink with me.

She gritted her teeth. Take your hand off my leg. He reminded her of a slimy worm, slithering from the mud after the rain.

Here’s your drink, sir, the steward told Wahtii and handed him a beer.

Put it here. He slapped his hand on Dawn’s tray table. And bring the lady a drink.

I don’t drink, she said. Can you take your beer and go back to your seat?

Why?

Because I don’t like the smell of alcohol, and I don’t want you to sit next to me. You’re drunk. Do you mind? She turned away.

I’m trying to be friendly. Don’t tell me you’ve never been drunk. So what, if I’m drunk?

We’re experiencing some turbulence, the steward said. Kindly return to your seat.

Wahtii ignored the steward. You have beautiful hair, he said. I’ve never seen golden hair so long before. It must reach your sweet arse. He reached to touch her hair.

She unclipped her seatbelt, got up, and tried to pass around him. He stuck out his leg and blocked the way. She fell back and recoiled into the window, then slid into her seat. There was no way to another seat unless she crawled underneath the one in front. She considered it.

Wafting beer breath over her face, Wahtii said, Come on, it’s that jolly time of year. Have a drink with me. He waved the beer can in the air, then attempted to fill his glass. Brown liquid splashed across the tray table and over Dawn’s brochures.

She wanted to hit him. So deep was the impulse, she had to sit on her hands and took a slow, deep breath to consciously release her anger.

Mr. Wahtii, go back to your seat, the steward ordered.

Yes, go away and leave me alone, Dawn said.

Wahtii gulped his beer. Yeah, yeah, I know your type.

She stared at him in disbelief and decided conversation with Wahtii a waste of time.

Women like you think you have power in Europe, he said, leaning over her again. But in Africa, you’ve got nothing.

I don’t know what you mean. Please leave me alone, she said, trying to remain polite.

Who’s going to make me?

Mr. Wahtii, the steward warned.

Okay, okay, I’m going. He got up and spilled beer over Dawn’s shirt.

Right, I’ve had enough. She stood and pushed Wahtii forward so as to pass around him. He slipped sideways, knocked his head on the baggage hold above, and slumped into a heap on the seat. Then he looked up at her, closed his eyes, and miraculously fell into a drunken sleep. A moment later he deafened the cabin with his snoring.

She said, And stay like that, then gathered her bag and briefcase and moved to the front row as Jacques came out of the bathroom.

Are you okay? Jacques asked Dawn.

Yes, I’m fine.

Jacques smiled. "Ah, alcohol." He sat, tilted his seat back, and closed his eyes.

She envied his ability to rest. She’d been awake throughout the night and felt like the dead.

Relieved the ordeal with Mr. Wahtii was