Legacy

He took a deep breath and tried to fend off his father’s jab. ‘Well, I’m working on it. I’ve got some quotes—’

‘Working on it! What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m not there yet but I will be.’

‘Working on it, Alex, always working on it,’ Sir Nicholas chuckled with derision. ‘You see, you need to be a bit more bloody decisive, like me.’

‘Hmm,’ Alex muttered.

‘Now look, the dry rot is getting very bad in the north wing here, lot of the roof timbers are about to go. Seeing as you’re just back from Africa and flush with funds I expect that you can fork out a bit to help keep the place running.’

‘Dad, I need to get Bradbourne sorted out first.’

‘Bugger Bradbourne, child! What about looking after your alma mater!’ This was a well-worn argument. His father knew that the family pile was no longer sustainable since he had sold off most of the farmland around it, but had made it his cantankerous cause célèbre to die in the house he was born in.

Alex’s jaw tightened. He stood up and began pacing back and forth in the living room. He pressed the receiver hard against his head and his dark brows drew together.

‘Look, let’s just get to the point here, Dad. We need to sell Akerley. Without the land the house is just a liability — we’re living in the ruins of our history. We can’t go on as if we’re …’ he raised his free hand in exasperation, ‘… in the Middle Ages or something. You know we—’

‘And you know damn well that I never will, so don’t you start that cant again! If you were earning some decent bloody money as a colonel, instead of pissing around with nignogs in the bush, you might actually be able to start putting something back into this family!’

Alex stopped pacing; his shoulders heaved and he put his head down, his eyes closed, as he summoned up all his strength not to retaliate.

With forced calm he said: ‘I am trying my best, Dad.’

‘Trying won’t do, Alexander! If you weren’t such a fucking failure the family wouldn’t be in this bloody mess!’

‘I am not a fucking failure!’ His voice cracked into a shout of rage.

Provoked.

Exposed.

Defeated,

Humiliated.

He had failed.

He had been drawn into an argument, allowing his father to score the petty victory he had been looking for to make himself feel better.

Alex slammed the phone down but he could hear the braying, triumphant laugh all the way from Herefordshire. His father’s uncanny ability to zero in on his weakness had worked yet again.

Alex was shaking with anger as he walked to the back of the living room and stood with his hands on his hips, staring out of the window at the overgrown back garden. He did not see or hear anything else as the scene played itself over in his head.

Murderous fury consumed half of him; the rest was simply crushed by his father’s scorn and his own fear of what he was.

I am not a fucking failure!

The phone rang again.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment and then snatched it off the cradle and barked, ‘Yes!’

‘Mr Devereux?’ asked a voice in a concerned tone.

Alex could not place the accent exactly, something Middle Eastern but with an American overtone.

He forced himself to sound more civil. ‘Yes, this is Alexander Devereux.’

‘My name is Mr Al-Khouri. I represent an organisation that is interested in doing some business with you, Mr Devereux.’

‘Yes?’ Alex replied cautiously.

‘I realise that you cannot talk on the phone but I would be interested to meet you tomorrow to outline a project.’

‘Right,’ Alex managed.

‘I have booked a table for tea at the Ritz at three o’clock tomorrow. Would that be acceptable?’

‘Fine …’ Alex said slowly, avoiding commitment as he desperately tried to think if he wanted to go. He knew he did not have any alternative, and the Ritz was about as unthreatening a place as one could meet in.

‘Very well, Mr Devereux. Just ask for my table, Mr Al-Khouri, and it’s jacket and tie,’ he said in a smug tone.

‘Right, OK. Thank you,’ Alex tried to end the conversation sounding as if he was in control.

As usual, Alex arrived early; army habits died hard.

He was wearing highly polished black Oxfords, his bespoke blue pinstripe suit with a crisply ironed white shirt, and his Cavalry and Guards blue and red striped tie.

He didn’t like being so obvious about his regiment — ‘cabbage’ was their derisory term for flaunting the connection too overtly — but this was business, and he knew it was one of the few British army symbols that foreigners in his line of work recognised and valued.

He walked up the side entrance steps on Arlington Street and was greeted by a smartly uniformed porter with white gloves tucked into one of the epaulettes of his overcoat.

He was shown along the broad entrance hall by an overly suave waiter in black tie and a white dinner jacket. The middle of the Palm Court tearoom was dominated by an enormous gilt urn decorated with palms. A lady in a sequined dress tinkled away at a piano on one side.

Alex cringed; the whole effect was one of stifling fussiness. The sparse clientele included grandmothers being taken out on their birthdays, aspirational fathers fulfilling their dreams by bringing cowed wives and children out for tea at the Ritz. Conversation was reduced to a subdued level by the formality.

‘Mr Al-Khouri is over there, sir,’ said the officious waiter, his arm extended grandly to point to a table in the far corner of the room. Alex straightened his shoulders and walked over slowly, eyeing his potential business partner carefully.

On first sight Mr Al-Khouri looked the epitome of a wealthy playboy: about thirty-five, blow-dried black hair, average height, slim build and cleanshaven. He was wearing a white shirt with a black Armani suit and tie.

The man stood up as Alex approached, all slick smiles and competitive bonhomie. ‘Mr Devereux. Please come, sit down, sit down.’

‘Alexander Devereux,’ said Alex unnecessarily, and gave his firmest handshake as he towered over the smaller man. It was all part of the male posturing, manoeuvring to show who was in charge.

‘Yes, yes. Kalil Al-Khouri. Thank you for coming, Mr Devereux. Tea for two, please.’ He signalled to the waiter hovering behind Alex. ‘Your finest Earl Grey,’ he added fastidiously.

‘A nice location.’ He swept his hand around the room.

‘Splendid,’ replied Alex.

‘I like to come to the Ritz when I am in town; it has a very … established feel. I do a lot of business in London.’ Kalil spread his hands and his voice dropped to a quieter conspiratorial tone. The word ‘business’ was deliberately vague, implying things far too important and secret to be spoken about in detail.

‘Right,’ Alex nodded, and waited for the posturing to stop.

‘So,’ Kalil tilted his head to one side, ‘my contacts tell me that you’ve been in Angola recently.’

Alex was not sure who Kalil’s contacts were but there was nothing secret in what he had said so far. Alex’s work was sanctioned tacitly by the Foreign Office so he had nothing to hide.

‘Yes, a contract on the Lucapa field in the north. Mine defence and security team training,’ said Alex.

‘And how did that go?’

‘It went well,’ he replied cautiously. ‘We had good support from the government,’ which was a lie, but he was always careful to sound positive about his employers. ‘We did a lot of clearing-up ops on the bandit groups in the area. Counterinsurgency, some armoured recce work.’ He wasn’t prepared to go into any more detail, and looked at Kalil, who was watching him carefully.

‘Well, that’s very much the line of work that we are interested in.’ He glanced around to see that the grandmother and her family two tables away were not taking notes. He steepled his fingers together and leaned towards Alex.

‘Can I confirm, in the first instance, that you would be free to be involved in a six-month project starting with immediate effect? The compensation package will be,’ again he paused for effect, ‘… extremely competitive.’

The waiter arrived with a triple-layered stand of cakes and a silver tea set on a tray. He fussed around laying them out and then left with a simpering smile.

Alex and Kalil resumed their conspiratorial huddle.

Alex nodded. ‘It would depend on the nature of the project, but yes, in theory, I would be available.’

‘Good.’ Kalil poured tea for them both and then sipped it slowly. Eventually he put his cup down and leaned over the table.

‘I represent a cartel of Lebanese diamond dealers,’ he continued quietly. ‘We are interested in hiring you to lead an operation involving a mechanised battle group in Africa. My understanding from your file is that this is your area of expertise?’

Alex stared him in the eye and nodded slowly.

Lebanese. They ran the diamond-trading networks in Africa and were famously secretive, but it sounded like a big job so in principle he was interested. The money would be good.

‘The cartel was extremely impressed with your file. You understand our position in the trade?’

‘In broad terms, yes.’ Alex had been involved in the business for long enough to have a good understanding of their role but he did not want to prevent any revelations so he held his hands out in a gesture inviting further comment.

‘We are the comptoirs — the middlemen on the ground — in Africa, who supply the markets in Amsterdam and the Far East. De Beers, Steinmetz and the rest have been getting very antsy about CSR and blood diamonds of late, but we’re not too angst-ridden about all that.’ He tossed his head dismissively.

Alex was pleased that Kalil was dropping the bullshit and speaking more openly.

Corporate Social Responsibility was a buzzword of all the multinationals. It was supposed to be about ethical behaviour towards indigenous peoples and the environment, and generally not behaving like rapacious capitalists. All well and good, but for small fry like Alex it meant that big firms were no longer prepared to operate in the sort of lawless areas where his skills would be in demand. He was not bothered to hear it denigrated.

‘I mean, we can’t afford to be.’ Kalil looked at Alex with his eyebrows raised to see if he was going to get precious.

Alex shrugged to indicate that he was not bothered about exact adherence to the codes of practice that the larger security firms followed these days. He was not in a position to be picky.

‘Let me be plain, Mr Devereux.’ Kalil took on a serious expression. ‘This operation would be illegal by all international law codes. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not about genocide, but it does involve an attack across sovereign borders. Not that that means squat in the parts of the world we’re talking about. It’s basically a dispute between two private enterprises over a diamond field in the Central African Republic. If you don’t feel comfortable in that situation, please tell me now.’

Alex looked at him. He didn’t know the man from Adam. Was he a plant sent to trap him into an admission of illegality? Was he wired? He couldn’t tell. He needed the money. He shrugged again.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. Don’t worry, Mr Devereux, the cartel is a bona fide organisation and we are as concerned to protect ourselves from outside scrutiny on this as you would be, so we are doing things very carefully. I think that is about as far as we can go on the operational details for now.’ He indicated the incongruous surroundings with an open gesture of both hands.

‘Tell me about your time in the army,’ he said, sitting back and switching topics. His hand hovered over the teacakes as he chose one. He ate it, catching the crumbs with one hand under his chin, as Alex detailed his career résumé.

‘I was commissioned into the regiment and served with them in Northern Ireland, Cyprus and Bosnia. I trained for armoured recce with Striker, Spartan and Scimitar, and then main battle tanks with Challenger 2, so I am able to deal with all types of armoured warfare operations. We were also part of 5 Airborne when we were at Windsor so I have done paratrooper training and can handle infantry ops as well.’

‘And you left as a major?’

‘Yes.’

This was another tricky topic for Alex. He did not want to say that he could not face being a passed-over major.

‘The British Army is the best in the world,’ he went on, ‘but I wanted to get more action and independence so I went into the defence business …’ It was a downright lie but he was so used to telling it that he sounded like he meant it. What he had really wanted to do was to stay and serve his country as a colonel.

‘And have served with companies in Sierra Leone, Congo and Angola?’ Kalil dipped his head interrogatively.

‘Correct.’

Now that Kalil had dropped the act he seemed to be much more down-to-earth. Alex was not exactly warming to him but at least he thought he was someone he could do business with.

The chitchat continued until they had finished their cups of tea and then Kalil stood up, swept his hand through his hair, chucked a fifty-pound note dismissively on the table and led the way out.

As they walked to the hotel lobby Kalil’s quick eye caught the display of ‘Ritz Fine Jewellery’ cabinets arranged along one side. He stopped to look at the cases of rings, necklaces and brooches.

‘You see, this is what it’s all about.’ He pointed out a diamond pendant to Alex and spoke with sudden enthusiasm. ‘This is what we in the cartel do. This is a white diamond — yes?’

He looked at Alex, who bent down to inspect it and then nodded, wondering why he was asking such a question.

The immaculate sales manager stood up from her desk and came across to them. She was a suitably striking addition to the Ritz: tall, with long blonde hair and an elegant black dress.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked Kalil in a voice as polished as one of her stones.

‘Hey, how are you?’ Kalil looked up, slightly startled, and fired off the standard American greeting rather defensively.

She had had enough American customers to know that the question was not meant to be answered and nodded in return as Kalil continued without pausing.

‘I’m looking for a coloured diamond. You gotta coloured diamond?’ His eyes were flicking over the displays.

‘We have some over here, sir.’ She led the way across to where a row of select-looking cabinets were set into the wall. The pieces in them sparkled alluringly under the lights.

‘We have a natural Vivid Yellow stone set in a necklace here and this is a natural Vivid Green stone in a ring.’

‘That’s it! OK, lemme do a price comparison. Can you get me a white stone the same carat as that, please?’

The manageress walked over to the cabinets in the middle of the room. Kalil’s black eyes flicked a quick glance over her svelte backside. He watched her intently as she paused to pull a pair of white cotton gloves onto her slender hands. She unlocked a cabinet, took out a ring, closed it carefully and walked back.

‘This is a one-carat white diamond.’ She held it up and it sparkled pure white light.

‘Can we compare it to the green one, please?’

She nodded obligingly and unlocked the cabinet on the wall. There was a soft peep of an alarm as it slid open.

‘Now, look at this, see?’ Kalil held the new ring up to Alex and turned it back and forth so that it caught the light. At first glance it appeared clear but as the light played on the facets it sparked green.

Alex had never had much interest in the aesthetics of diamonds before but he had to admit that it was captivating how the colour appeared from nowhere.

‘You see, same chemical structure as a diamond — it’s not an emerald — but totally different effect. They’re formed when the diamond is in the presence of radioactive minerals: uranium oxide, molybdenum, radon. You know, they get all hot and compressed in a kimberlite pipe, all that stuff,’ he said dismissively, assuming Alex knew the basics of diamond formation.

‘Hmm,’ Alex murmured with genuine interest, continuing to peer at the stone.

‘OK,’ Kalil held up the two rings and turned to the manageress. ‘What’s the price comparison between them?’

‘OK, well, this stone is—’

‘It’s a one-carat stone, ya?’

‘Yes, they are both one-carat stones. The value of this white diamond is eleven thousand.’

‘Dollars?’

‘Sterling.’

‘And the green diamond?’ Kalil held it up in anticipation of the punchline.

‘The value of this diamond is one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

‘You see …’ Kalil nodded and looked at Alex with a smug grin on his face.

‘OK, so we’re talking about a …’ Alex paused to do the maths, ‘… a fourteen times price differential.’

Kalil nodded again in satisfaction at having made his point.

‘OK. Thank you, ma’am.’ He handed the stones back to her. ‘We’re just looking around at the moment.’

He gave her his most charming smile and led the way out of the hotel and onto the darkened street. They stood under a streetlamp.

‘Ya, OK, so apologies about that. Got a little overexcited.’ Again the quick grin flashed. ‘But the point for us is this.’ He leaned towards Alex. ‘The field we’re gonna capture in Central African Republic produces green diamonds.’

11 P.M., THURSDAY 6 NOVEMBER, CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC

The man sat alone in the room watching the silent black-and-white film flicker awkwardly on the screen. The pictures jumped sometimes, the camerawork was amateur. The room was quiet but for the soft whirr of the projector and the whine of mosquitoes drifting through its beam.

The camera panned over a long table on a terrace; soldiers slouched around it on chairs. SS double lightning-flash tabs showed on their collars. The table was covered in the casual debris of a good lunch: messy plates, bowls of couscous, tagines, grapes and bottles of wine. The men were smoking. As the camera went closer and interrupted their conversations they smiled and waved good-naturedly.

The shot swung round to a tall man with blond hair, scraped down in a severe short back and sides. He was leaning back on a railing in front of a view — Tripoli harbour. The man in the room recognised it.

The soldier wore the field-grey tunic and insignia of a major in the Waffen SS. His tunic buttons were undone and he held a cigarette in an off-hand way. He had the commanding but relaxed air of natural authority as he talked to the camera. Standing next to him was a pretty, petite woman in a tight-fitting, floral print dress. She had black hair pinned up in a 1940s fashion and was listening attentively to what he was saying, her eyes sparkling.

The officer began pointing out sights in the harbour. The camera swung awkwardly back and forth between him and the ships in the bay. He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, said something, grinned cheekily at the camera and then looked quickly at her.

Handsome bastard.

The woman clapped her hands delightedly and flashed a black-eyed smile at the lens.

She was a looker as well.

Her gesture was all the more powerful for its complete lack of affectation. She was beautiful but modest with it. She kept her eyes lowered and the laugh only broke out when the girlish exuberance of her nature could no longer be contained.

The film continued with the woman listening to everything the major said and he touched her arm affectionately once. Eventually the film ran out and the scene cut off abruptly.

The man behind the projector continued to stare at the bright white square on the screen. His heart far away, his eyes filled with angry tears.

AUGUST 1522, STELTZENBERG, SOUTHWEST GERMANY

Eberhardt von Steltzenberg lay asleep on his four-poster bed in the tower of his castle, his barrel chest exposed. The canopy over the bed was worn and moth-eaten, full of dust and dead flies.

It was a hot night; a mass of cloud brooded over the single main tower of his cramped castle in the forest. It blotted out the moon and stars, pouring a thick darkness over the land. His bedchamber took up the whole of the first floor of the tower. The heavy old ceiling beams were hung with cobwebs. His accoutrements littered the room: a suit of armour, his lance, saddles, his chests of clothes.

On one side of the room was the trap door that led down to the great hall where his manservant and his ten hunting dogs slept; their excreta mixed with the rushes on the floor. The hot stench of it rose up through the gaps in the floorboards.

The tower was packed with heat. There had been clear summer skies for the last few weeks; the dark red sandstone had been baked like a kiln during the day and now emanated warmth. The main door was barred shut and no breeze could stir through the five thin arrow slits that punctured the walls of the knight’s chamber. A heavy weight pressed on the air in the room.

The figure on the bed breathed in slowly, his eyes fluttering in deep sleep, and then stopped.

Dreaming furiously, Eberhardt saw a black spot appear in his heart.

He could see it against the deep red in his chest.

It grew slowly.

He watched it.

What was it?

It was getting larger and heavier. He could feel the weight of it beginning to strain the fibres in his chest, like heartburn. It was hard and jet black, cutting into his soft tissues.

The Nubian Deathstone had returned.

He knew it.

What was it doing there? Why had it come back to him now after twenty-one years?

Blackness swirled out of it like a mist and began branching out along the blood vessels in his heart. The tendrils were reaching across his chest like black ivy.

Confusion at first but fear coming now.

He could feel the strength of the strands clutching at him, squeezing him. He could not breathe. Terror built, pouring through his veins.

‘I can’t breathe!’ he screamed.

The figure on the bed twitched and convulsed. It groaned and scrabbled at its chest with both hands.

His eyes flew open.

Now he could see it properly! He could see the Deathstone and the black miasma that was choking him. It was the smoke from the stone all over again — the cloud of it was now moving in and out of his body at will.

In the darkness he saw it clearly. The rock pressed down on him, forcing him deeper into the mattress. He struggled desperately against it, thrashing his arms and legs. He was a being of fear fighting a being of darkness.

A mighty effort and he was on his feet.

The darkness was all over him, both within and without, coiling around his body and weighing him down. The stone hung down inside him, the darkness wriggling through his blood vessels, penetrating out through his ears and his eyes, choking his throat. He had to escape it, he had to breathe!

He lurched across the room, blundered into a chest and fell onto his knees.

It had him on his knees now; he had to fight back.

He forced himself through the pain and straightened his legs. There in front of him was an arrow slit. He could sense the clean air outside. He could tear the slit open and escape the foulness that was forcing itself down his throat. His fingers gripped the thin stone edge of the slit where it narrowed in through the thick walls.

He tore at it with all his might. His huge shoulders knotted, the tendons tensed and sweat stood out on his skin.

It did not move. The stone blocks were ancient but well laid.

‘The Deathstone is conspiring against me. It has seeped into the stones here.’

He lurched around the edge of the room, supporting himself with one arm against the wall. His fingers found the next arrow slit and he heaved on that. Again it stayed resolute.