Free Midnight in Ruby Bayou by Elizabeth Lowell

Afghanistan rated one line: Primitive transport and mining conditions. “How primitive is the mining?”
    â€œA handful of men with pickaxes, a white limestone ledge with occasional nodules of red crystal showing through in the weathered parts, and a portable, sixty-pound pneumatic jackhammer that shakes itself apart once an hour, if they’re lucky enough to find fuel to run the compressor that long. Dynamite is easier to haul, so that’s what they mostly use. After the explosion it’s pick, hammer, and chisel work.”
    â€œAny quality to the stones?”
    â€œThe ones that survive the blast?” Walker drawled.
    Wincing, Archer thought of greedy, unskilled men mining priceless ruby crystals with explosives. The picture was unpleasant.
    â€œRumor has it that someone is digging on the sly in the Taghar mine,” Walker said. “That’s the one that the mujahideen buried to hide it from the Soviets. I saw one or two rough stones that were nearly pigeon-blood quality. One was twenty carats. The other was sixteen. A good cutter would get ten and eight carats. Fine, really fine stones.” Walker shrugged. “By now, they’re cooked in Bangkok and wearing a ‘Burmese ruby’ tag. The other rough I saw varied from good to second rate.”
    â€œWhat was it selling for?”
    â€œThe Thais have a lock on the legal output, and if you’re pushy and buy under the table, somehow the bandits find out. Bad news, boss. Really bad. Those ol’ boys are as hard as the mountain passes they control.”
    â€œBut you brought out some rough gems anyway.”
    â€œThat’s what you pay me for.”
    â€œI don’t pay you to get killed,” Archer retorted.
    â€œYou want good rubies, you pay the going price. Burma’s Mogok mines are either played out or locked up tighter than a sultan’s virgin daughter. That leaves Cambodia, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, and Kenya.”
    â€œJustin and Lawe are working on Kenya. From what you’ve told me, the rest belongs to the Thais—lock, stock, and barrel.”
    â€œFor now, anyway. No cartel lasts forever.”
    â€œTell it to DeBeers.”
    Walker laughed softly. “They’ve ridden their diamond tiger real far, haven’t they? Been an inspiration to us all.”
    Archer didn’t look inspired. He looked irritated. He and his siblings—and now Jake, Honor’s husband—owned Donovan Gems and Minerals, a very loose affiliate of Donovan International, the family corporation. DeBeers’s control of the diamond market pretty well limited the rest of the world, including the Donovans, to smuggled or inferior diamonds. The ethnic Chinese Thais had become middlemen to the world for rubies. China and Japan had a stranglehold on pearls. The drug cartel or local warlords had a lock on Colombian emeralds.
    At the rate the planet was being carved up into gem fiefdoms, Donovan Gems and Minerals would be lucky to be selling “cultured” turquoise in a few years.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind, Walker?” Archer said. “And don’t bother with that shit-kicking country-boy shuffle. I saw through it the first time you cleaned me out at poker.”
    Walker managed not to smile. “Have you thought about the ruby resale market?”
    â€œThe Thais don’t leave much room for anyone else to make a profit. Not in America, anyway. We just won’t pay as much for quality rubies as the rest of the world will.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking about that. There’s another way to end-run the Thais.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œMine old jewelry instead of old mines,” Walker said simply. “Buy estate jewelry from all over the world, take out the good stones, recut them if necessary, and sell them loose. You should be able to have a nice little high-end business, because you can guarantee Burmese rubies that haven’t been