Deadly Diamonds (30 page)

Seamus detailed our unsuccessful efforts to locate the diamonds. He wrapped it up with the notion shared by both of us that they were now in the hands of the younger of the two O'Byrnes.

Declan, between servings of the Guinness, filled us in on a few missing pieces that made Seamus's presence in America more understandable to me.

“I've been dealing with your Frank O'Byrne for some years. I get supplies of the rough diamonds that come from some hellhole in Sierra Leone. There's a Morty Bunce in Freetown. He buys them from a ragtag rebel group in the diamond pits in the east. Morty sells them to me, and I sell them to O'Byrne. He has the contacts to trade them off to a middleman in America who sells them to a diamond merchant in Antwerp, Belgium. It's brought a good profit to all of us in the chain. Not enough to catch the attention of the ones that police that black market, but enough to make it worthwhile. “

I got in a word while Declan took a sip of the Guinness. “And that's where these diamonds that we're chasing came into the picture?”

“No. Not at all. There's a man I met here. He came from Sierra
Leone. He delivered Bunce's last shipment. Calls himself Johnny Walker, like the whiskey. But—”

“But what?”

“There's something about this man. I took to him. He has a hell of a story. He was one of the slave workers in those damn diamond pits. Somehow he escaped with a bag of rough diamonds. He wanted to sell them for all he could get.”

“I don't blame him.”

“No. This is different. He needs the cash to buy his father out of the hands of those pissant rebels that captured some of the diamond pits. Anyway, there's this thug in the Italian Mafia in your home town, Michael. Salvatore Barone.”

“This
former
thug.”

“Correction noted. I heard that he came to an unfortunate end, you might say. Anyway, this Barone wanted into the ‘blood diamond business,' as some call it. He wanted to buy some of these diamonds from Sierra Leone. He was looking to deal at a level higher than anything I wanted to handle. He'd apparently already made contact to sell diamonds to this Frank O'Byrne, for the love of all the saints. A more unlikely pairing of two badass gangsters you'd be hard put to find. I guess he had little choice. There's not much market for the blood diamonds these days except on the black market.”

What he said made sense. Barone was driven by his ambition to use the diamond profits to stage a coup and take over the New England family. I figured that was what drove him to get into bed with his Irish archenemy, O'Byrne. I didn't interrupt.

“Anyway, O'Byrne put Barone onto me as a source for the diamonds. Like I said, it was too rich for my blood. I wanted no part of a deal that was big enough to attract the attention of the authorities on three continents. But I was willing to pair Barone up with this Johnny Walker. They did the deal for Johnny's diamonds, and Barone took them back to America to sell them to O'Byrne.”

Declan raised his glass to Seamus. “And that's when I sent my best man here to see that Johnny Walker gets his money.”

Seamus said quietly, “And with Barone dead, it got complicated.
I've been on the scramble ever since to come up with those damn diamonds. Which is what brings us back to Dublin.”

“Tell me about it. What've you got?”

Seamus looked over at me, and I picked up the telling.

“Your man, Seamus, and I have had a busy week. We've got it narrowed down. I'll bet the next round of drinks that Kevin O'Byrne, Frank's son, has them with him right now. I'll bet the round after that that he's in Dublin at the Shelbourne Hotel.”

The lines in Declan's forehead deepened as I spoke. “That explains a lot. This kid, Kevin O'Byrne, he called me yesterday morning. He must be in it with his old man. He wanted the name and address of an upper-level diamond merchant. He said they wanted to bypass their American connection and go right to the man in Antwerp. Cut out the middleman. I thought what the hell. It's no dip into my profits. I thought he was talking about the diamonds I've been selling to Frank O'Byrne. I didn't know he had Johnny Walker's diamonds. I gave him the name of a man I'd heard of in Antwerp.”

Declan slammed the table hard enough to make the glasses jump. “Damn! I wish to hell I'd known it was Walker's stones he was talking about. I'd have wrung his bloody neck to get 'em back for Walker.”

Seamus put down his glass. He straightened up. I could tell he was ready for business. “Where's the little punk now, Declan?”

“Hell if I know. You said you thought he was staying at the Shel-bourne. Maybe he's still there. He'd probably want to make contact with the man in Antwerp. Then he'd have to arrange a flight. That'd take some doing. There may be time.”

Seamus was on his feet, and I was one step behind him. Declan caught us in mid-motion. “Hold it, Seamus. It's more complicated. Johnny Walker's back in Dublin. He came to see me yesterday. He was asking me for any lead I could give him to anyone who could have any information about his diamonds. I figured you had no information or you'd have contacted me right away like you always do. I gave him Kevin O'Byrne's cell phone number. I didn't know what you just told me. I just figured since the O'Byrnes were involved in the business, it could be a lead.”

I looked at Seamus. “It could be a dangerous lead. I haven't trusted that little punk since I met him.”

“Then we better get our asses on horseback.”

Seamus and I caught the first cab from the Brazen Head. I dropped a twenty euro note onto the passenger seat. “What's your best time to the Shelbourne Hotel?”

The driver looked at the note beside him. “Twenty minutes, traffic as it is.”

“There'll be another to match that one, plus the fare, if you make it in ten. And to hell with the traffic.”

He smiled. “Buckle your seatbelt, Yank.”

We pulled up to the front of the stately Shelbourne in ten minutes flat. I made good on my promise of another twenty euro note plus fare to the smiling gratitude of our cabbie. I figured we could throttle back on the speed now, since we were in position to spot the elusive Kevin if he decided to leave the hotel.

This time the lead was mine. Seamus took a seat with a view of anyone checking out or passing through the lobby. I gave him a full description of Kevin.

I stopped at the reception desk for the purpose of asking the clerk to ring Mr. O'Byrne's room to announce my presence.

“And your name would be, sir?”

“Bieber. Justin Bieber.”

The clerk smiled. “Indeed, sir. Perhaps related to
the
Justin Bieber?”

I returned the smile. “Cousin, on my father's side.” Now I had his full attention. “Would you tell Mr. O'Byrne that I have a package for him here in the lobby?”

“I'd be delighted. Do you see him frequently?”

“Mr. O'Byrne?”

“No. Justin Bieber. You know, the other one.”

“Only at family gatherings. Christmas. Fourth of July. Groundhog Day.”

“Really, sir? My daughter absolutely—”

“Not to rush, but do you suppose you could make that call?”

“Of course, sir.”

The clerk pressed a short series of numbers. That told me that the little punk was indeed registered there and, more to the point, had not yet checked out.

The clerk gave me a mime signal that there was no answer. “Shall I leave a message, sir?”

“No. I'll check back.”

I moved in closer for a quiet word. “Could you do one more thing? This is a bit of a surprise for Mr. O'Byrne. Could you give me a ring at this number if you see him come in? I'll drop back with the package.”

He took my cell number. “I'd be delighted, sir.”

I started to move away. He caught me in midstep.

“I say, sir. You don't suppose, possibly, an autograph for my daughter, Niamh?”

“More than possible. Probably around the family gathering on the Fourth of July.” I figured by that time he'd have forgotten, and his daughter would have outgrown the infatuation.

My limited experience has taught me that a gracious reception clerk will grant favors if asked with a bit of finesse. But the chances of having the rules really bent out of shape improve if you deal quietly with a concierge. They are the civilian equivalents of Air Force sergeants. They combine a code of ethics unique to their position with an uncanny talent for accomplishing the impossible if they're properly motivated.

I stopped a bellboy for a whispered inquiry as to the full name of the concierge. He complied.

As I approached the concierge's station, I took the measure of the stately, debonair figure of approximately forty years attending charmingly to the requests of an elderly female guest. I waited. When the moment of privacy occurred, I walked up with the most ingratiating smile I could manage.

I could have addressed him as “Bernard.” My quick-draw psychology
told me that familiarity at this stage would be counterproductive.

“Mr. Phelan, might I have a word with you?”

“Of course, sir.”

The ingenuous smile told me that although I was certain he knew I was not a guest of his fine hotel, he would deny me nothing within reason. The trick was to keep it within reason, and to show no sign of a tip until we were on closer terms.

“This is a bit awkward, Mr. Phelan.”

“In what sense, sir?”

“I'm going to be completely honest with you.” That was a fact. My rule of thumb is simply, when stuck for another approach, try the truth. Sometimes it works.

“There's a dangerous situation developing. You have a guest. An American. About nineteen, twenty years old. Blond, curly hair. About five feet ten.”

“We do indeed, sir.”

“To be brutally frank, in spite of his boyish appearance, he's an American gangster. I have good reason to believe he intends to do serious physical harm to a gentleman who deserves my protection. You have nothing to go on but my word. I'm counting on your intuition to believe me.”

“Interesting, sir. And what did you want of me?”

“I believe he'll set up a meeting with the man he intends to harm. I need to know where it's going to be. He'll probably take a cab. It could well be this evening. I need to know where the cabbie is taking him before it's too late. Is that within the realm of possibility?”

His expression remained unchanged, except that, perhaps out of wishful thinking, I noticed a slyness creep into his professional smile. I wondered if he fancied a bit more excitement than filled his usual tour of duty.

He excused himself to answer a brief question from an elderly gentleman. He turned back when we again had privacy.

“It's an unusual request, sir.”

Timing is everything. I took a hundred euro note out of my
breast pocket where I had it ready with the numbers clearly showing. I quietly placed it inside a brochure I had picked up at the front desk. I placed the brochure on the surface in front of him. We both appeared to ignore it.

“It's an unusual situation, Mr. Phelan.”

“It is indeed. Shall we see what can be done, sir?”

I took that as an unqualified yes. I gave him my cell number, and started to walk away. I got ten feet, when he called me.

“Sir, I believe you forgot your brochure.”

He handed it to me, and I walked to where I had left Seamus. The brochure seemed thicker than I expected. I opened it and was surprised to see the hundred euro note there untouched.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I picked up Seamus at a jog. We left the hotel as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. If Kevin was returning to the roost, I had no desire to be spotted at that point. For the sake of the safety of Declan's friend, Johnny Walker, which was apparently of serious concern to Declan, we had to let the drama play out before we made a move.

We walked a few blocks to Doyle's Pub on College Street. We settled in at a table against a window for a wait of undetermined length. Lunch passed the first hour for us. For the rest of the afternoon, we spelled each other for walks outside by one while the other held the table.

The day drew on into evening. We had dinner around eight. Through the entire waiting period, we rationed ourselves on the tempting Guinness to be ready for an alert scramble at a moment's notice.

Around eleven thirty, when I was about to suggest we cash in our chips for the night, my cell phone jarred me upright. It was Bernard Phelan, my trusty concierge. He was speaking in a hush.

“What you wanted to know, sir. He just left in a cab with another American gentleman about the same age.”

That could only be the equally elusive Chuck Dixon.

“Thank you, Mr. Phelan. Any idea where?”

“Ah, that's the beauty of having a symbiotic relationship with the cabbies. They're heading to the Ha'penny Bridge over the Liffey River. It's just off the Temple Bar area. Do you know it, sir?”