Free Hot Ice by Madge Swindells

arrives.’
    Half an hour later she pays the cab and unlocks her front door. The house is in darkness. Mum and Bertram are asleep.
    She’s soon in bed, but sleep evades her. Who was he? Why was he stalking her? He looked so threatening in his long grey coat, with his face half-hidden by a scarf. Was Ben right in blaming al-Qaeda for the kidnapping? Could she be in any danger? More likely her stalker was merely an unhinged man on the loose. After all, how could he possibly know she would be emerging from the tube station at exactly that time. Perhaps he’d been waiting for any woman to walk the streets alone. Slowly she reassures herself and after a while she even believes her comforting ideas, until she falls into a restless sleep.

CHAPTER NINE
    The IT department of FI is amazingly well-equipped for hacking. Chris has left some highly specialised software running overnight in the hope of discovering Prince Husam’s computer password. Arriving at seven a.m., she hurries to the IT room to find that the programme has been completed and there is the password on the screen: 24-05-53. Strange password…someone’s birthday perhaps. Triumph surges bringing goose-pimples to her arms. ‘Ha! Gotcha,’ she says aloud.
    Hyped up and trembling, she enters the Provident Trust’s financial records. There it is…everything she needs, a mass of transactions from every African branch. Sighing with relief, her fingers race over the keyboard. Hardly noticing her discomfort, she sits hunched over the screen. Occasionally she pauses, stretches, makes a few notes, calls for coffee and a biscuit and returns to the screen.
    ‘Just how late are you staying?’ Janine calls out some time later.
    Chris looks up in surprise. It seems that the day has hardly begun, yet Janine is going home.
    ‘Don’t mind me. I’ll lock up,’ Chris tells her.
     
    Three days have passed since Ben left and Chris has spent hours each day examining the prince’s financial records. She’s also seen the local branch of an American NGO and listened to their plans to launch a worldwide diamond boycott soon, if the industry can’t keep blood diamonds from the market.
    Chris has masses of information on Arab investment in Africa, but nothing that indicates large cash payments for illicit diamonds. The hours pass too quickly. Sometimes Chris goes out for a coffee and a snack around six p.m., otherwise she works through, leaving around one a.m.
    It is eight p.m. and Chris is alone in the IT room. She stands up, stretches and performs a few karate katas until she feels more relaxed. She is about to get back to work when the telephone rings. It’s Ben calling from New York and the sound of his voice makes her feel warm and happy.
    ‘They treating you well over there, Chris?’
    ‘Everyone’s great. How are you doing?’
    ‘Rather well. I’ve managed to locate Jon’s dealer. His name is Moses Freeman. I have some data for the file. Better switch on the recorder.’
    ‘OK. Ready.’
    Chris listens as Ben gives the addresses of Freeman’s two sisters, in New York and Johannesburg. ‘Moses Freeman is Liberian-born,’ Ben continues, reading from his notes. ‘He’s descended from a freed slave, Benjamin Freeman, who was repatriated to Africa from the United States in the 1820s. Moses converted to Islam three years ago, and he often wears a fez and robes, but he has retained his family name, which is strange. I have the feeling that his religion is merely a status symbol. His American sister, Lydia Jasmen, is a devout member of a local Christian-African sect…she wears a crucifix and a long blue robe, but they seem to get on well together. She owns a house in the Bronx and Freeman stays with her when he’s in town on one of his frequent selling trips.’
    ‘How did you get all this so quickly, Ben?’
    ‘Ah. I’ve been devious…’
    Chris can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
    ‘When Freeman is about to arrive in New York, he places a cryptic message