Legacy. James Steel

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