Pipeline (23 page)

Schutz understood that he had to be the one to decide. Stradius was an implementer, a mere instrument. He had no ability to lead. Ludwig Schutz was in charge and knew what he had to do.

Schutz rose up off the floor and fixed an angry stare into the large man’s eyes.

“Stradius, go to your room and change. You look like hell. The senator will be here in ten minutes and I want you in the meeting. We will have to take care of this on our own.”

LIMA
SEPTEMBER 2, 9:00 A.M.
JORGE CHÁVEZ INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

The next morning, dressed in a casual brown dress and medium-heeled, tan-colored sandals, Blaise’s long legs took her quickly down the airport hall toward the American Airlines Admirals Club. With all her traveling, Blaise was a platinum-level frequent flyer, permitting her constant access to airline clubs and complimentary upgrades to business class.

The security line had been excruciatingly long—slowed by passengers who were made to remove the layers of coats and sweaters that buffered them against Lima’s chilly winter mornings. Waiting in the grinding queue, Blaise had noticed clumps of people gathered in front of television sets in the airport’s numerous duty-free shops and coffee bars just beyond the security stations.

Blaise had suddenly felt a strange wave of worry wash over her. It hadn’t been ignited by her usual legendary impatience. Instead, it had been a quick, unsettled jolt of anxiety, as if something about her trip to Lima had remained unresolved. The unease irritated her. After all, Blaise had come to Lima to do a very important job and, yesterday afternoon, she had succeeded.

She had known that it could easily have gone the other way. Her
biggest worry had been that Luis Matta would refuse to see her. Given their past, the senator could well have sent her packing. But the opposite had happened. She made a mental note to e-mail the good news to Anne-Sophie once the plane landed in Miami.

Now it would be up to Matta. Once the Peruvian senator made the news public, there would be a worldwide firestorm of protest at the deceit. The Russians would become frantic with denials and backpedaling. The ensuing chaos cascading over Daniel and his friends at Volga Gaz would give Anne-Sophie enough time to get the kids out. Blaise figured that the scandal’s winds would break loose in two or three days max. With some advance warning, Anne-Sophie could be out of Russia a few days later.

Blaise Ryan took the elevator down one floor to the club room and handed the American Airlines attendant her ticket. The airline representative pointed out the club’s highlights—newspapers on the rack to the left and the coffee and croissants arrayed on the bar at the back.

Blaise flashed a thankful grin and took her boarding pass. As she stretched out her arm to pick up her carry-on bags, the attendant leaned over the counter and handed her an additional printed paper.

“This is on us, Ms. Ryan. You look like you could use a drink. Give the voucher to our barman and he’ll make you a mimosa.”

Blaise laughed in gratitude. Yes, the lady had gotten it just right; champagne and orange juice would be a fitting end to her stay in Lima.

The club was full of passengers. Finally finding a seat, Blaise lowered herself down on a cushy, faux-leather easy chair. The flute of orange-colored bubbly at her side, she reached over to pick up the
People
magazine strewn on the coffee table. She smiled at the elderly, well-dressed man in his midseventies sitting opposite her. He was reading a local paper.

The huge headline of
El Comercio
caught her eye. She couldn’t read Spanish, but her perfect French was enough to convince her that something about the print was ominous.

LUIS MATTA ENCONTRADO SIN VIDA

Blaise Ryan felt a cold sweat run down her spine. It couldn’t be.

“Excuse me, sir.” Blaise leaned over to the gentleman across the table. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course, my dear. I’m Peruvian. But I graduated many years ago with a doctor’s degree in biology from Cambridge.”

“Forgive me for interrupting. I speak French and that front-page story caught my eye.” Blaise pointed to the article. “Would you translate it for me?”

“Certainly, my dear. Which one? Ah yes, this one. Such a tragedy. It’s been all over the radio and television news this morning. This young senator would have gone far.”

Blaise could feel her hands start to tremble. “Please, please read it to me.”

The old man started to read slowly, translating with precision.

“‘Hotel chambermaids at the Miraflores Park Plaza Hotel found Senator Luis Matta dead in a hotel room bed early this morning. Also dead in the same room was his press secretary, Susana Castillo. Both bodies were naked in bed.’

“‘Police authorities report that the cause of death was by gunshot in an apparent murder-suicide. There are unconfirmed reports of a suicide note written by Ms. Castillo that references the anger she felt at the senator’s refusal to divorce his wife.’

“‘The bodies have been transferred to the state coroner’s office for examination. There has been no official comment from either family or the senator’s office.’

“‘Senator Luis Matta leaves behind his wife, Alicia, and two twin daughters, Laura and Sara, nine years old. He had become a widely known figure in Peru because of his chairmanship of the Humboldt project hearings…’”

The older man glanced toward Blaise. What he saw made him stop cold.

“My dear. Are you all right? Shall I get you some tea?”

Blaise Ryan didn’t answer. She sat in front of him, her usually sparkling gray eyes staring emptily into space. Her red hair was combed backward into a ponytail, making it easier for the older gentleman to see how her normally perfect lips were now crumpling into uncontrolled tremors. Blaise heard a rustling noise just below and slid her gaze downward. She saw that the sound was coming from the erratic shaking of her fingers as they rattled the pages of the magazine open on her lap.

Blaise felt an overwhelming need to move. Leaving her bags strewn around the lounge chair in front of her elegant elderly translator, Blaise just got up and walked away without a word. She moved like a zombie through the lounge, heading instinctively toward the women’s bathroom.

Once inside, she just stood there. Motionless. Alone, in front of the large bathroom mirror, hoping some order would return to her brain. Blaise Ryan knew she was close to full-scale panic. But she was also very aware that she couldn’t allow herself to go over the edge. Mustering every last ounce of energy, Blaise strained to take back control over her body. She had to think. The next few moments were critical.

Within minutes, she felt some semblance of normalcy return. The only thing clear to her was that Luis Matta and Susana Castillo had been murdered hours after she told them about Volga Gaz. She surmised that the senator and his press assistant had revealed what they knew to somebody willing to kill to avoid allowing the information to become public.

The ramifications of that thought catapulted Blaise Ryan into action. What if Matta or Susana told the killers how they had come across the information? What if they now knew about her?

That meant they were looking for her. Perhaps right here. Right now.

Fear is a funny thing. It affects people very differently. Some succumb to uncontrolled cowering. Others feel a cold clarity layering through their mind. That is what was happening to Blaise at
this exact moment. She felt a penetrating, clairvoyant vision, into the present. She understood that her immediate objective had to be to get on the plane and out of Peru. She had twenty minutes until boarding time.

Blaise exited the bathroom and saw the elderly gentleman still staring at the bathroom door. She walked over.

“Forgive me, sir. I had coincidentally just met that man who died yesterday, so I was unusually affected by the news of his death. Thank you again for the translation.” Blaise smiled, hurriedly picking up her bags.

She headed to the club’s coatroom, where passengers left their roll-away bags and overcoats. She immediately identified a long trench coat that might fit her. Her eyes now sought out a hat. At the far end of the coatrack was a Che Guevara–like cap, which would easily fit her considerable head of red hair. Regretting for just an instant the robbery of fellow passengers’ clothes, she took the coat and the cap and walked to the array of twelve individual cubicles reserved for travelers seeking a quiet desk for work. She stepped into an empty one and looked at her watch.

As long as she was in the Admirals Club, she was safe. The challenge would be to walk down the airport’s corridor to her gate. Presuming the killers would be looking for a red-haired woman, she hoped—prayed—that the trench coat and cap would respectively hide her legs and her red mane long enough to make it to Gate A7. This wasn’t a disguise. At best, it was a distraction.

Ten minutes later, the stolen items draped over her body and head, Blaise walked out. Turning right out of the elevator, she looked up and saw that she was next to Gate A3. Four gates to go.

She passed a glass wall and looked at her reflection. Blaise allowed herself a smile. The coat and hat looked ridiculous, but they did the trick. Anybody looking for a red-haired woman would not immediately gravitate to the person with a covered head and a long trench coat. She could see movement at Gate A7. Good. That meant they were boarding the flight. With only another minute to go until
she reached her departure area, she heard the call over the airport loudspeakers.

“Blaise Ryan. Miss Blaise Ryan, please return to the security area. You have forgotten some items. Blaise Ryan to the security area, please.”

Blaise felt a shudder as she quickened her pace. She was not about to fall for the ruse; she had not forgotten anything at security. Her mind was splicing together quick calculations. There was bad and good news about the voice on the loudspeaker. The bad news was that Matta’s killers knew she was here. The good news was that they were probably stuck at the slow security lines.

Blaise got to the gate and handed the agent the ticket. She walked onto the plane and settled in her business-class seat, waiting anxiously for the plane to fill with travelers. She glanced backward to the economy section of the Boeing 767 and saw that it was nearly full.

Blaise allowed herself to relax for a moment. Flight attendants were slapping closed the overhead bins. She was almost free.

Almost turned out to not be good enough.

Just as Blaise was about to relax, her attention was caught by a commotion at the front of the aircraft. The minute she heard it, she knew it wasn’t good news.

The plane’s public address system crackled. “Ms. Blaise Ryan, please identify yourself to the flight attendants.” She frantically tried to decide what to do. Knowing that they could pick her out by the passenger manifest, she figured there was little choice. The last thing she needed was to be considered a problem passenger by the flight crew. She reached up to ring the call button.

A flight attendant approached her. “Ms. Ryan, there is a man with diplomatic identification at the door of the plane. He is asking to talk to you.”

Another split-second calculation was needed. Again, she decided that the more naturally she behaved the better it was.

“Thank you very much,” said Blaise, uncurling herself from the seat.

As she got to the front of the airplane, a tall man with a bushy mustache identified himself as Aleksander Shirakin from the Russian Embassy. He stood just to the left of the open cockpit door.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Ms. Ryan. We knew from the congressional hearing yesterday that you were in Peru. I’m afraid I have bad news for you regarding your friend Anne-Sophie Perlmutter. She has been taken very ill and is in a hospital in Moscow. As her husband is a senior official at Volga Gaz, we’ve been asked to make arrangements for you to travel to see her. Please come with me.”

Blaise Ryan did everything in her power to suppress the shock of hearing Anne-Sophie’s name being used to pry her out of the airplane. It was clear from the man’s tall story that they were betting she had not heard the news about Matta. She looked around and saw the flight attendants busily locking the food carts into the galley’s storage compartments. Nobody was paying attention.

“Thank you for coming to tell me. I will call Anne-Sophie the moment I land in Miami.”

This was not the answer he had expected. The tall man took her arm and pulled her to the airplane door.

“Please come with me now.”

“No! I won’t.” The sharp tones were loud enough to turn the heads of the flight crew. Even the captain, ensconced in the cockpit’s left-hand seat, turned his head.

“Come, now.” The man was literally pulling her off the airplane.

“Let go of me!” At this point, Blaise could see the captain getting out of his chair.

“Good morning,” the captain drawled. “Is there a problem here?” He was in his midfifties and obviously a southerner. Good, thought Blaise. Probably old-fashioned and protective of women.

“Captain, my name is Blaise Ryan. I’m an American citizen and a platinum flyer with your airline. I’m in business class, seat 4C.” Blaise identified herself with all the codes needed to denote her elite status with American Airlines. So far, that was the truth. Now came the lie.

“My ex-fiancé is from Russia, Captain,” she said, her voice as plaintive and teary as possible. “We broke up last night after I found out that he was cheating on me. Now he has sent some Russian Embassy goons to drag me off the plane. I don’t know how I got involved with these bad people. I just want to get to Miami, change planes, and go home to my parents’ house in California, sir. Please tell him to leave me alone.”

The Russian was clearly caught off guard by the enormity of the lie. The diplomat didn’t even know where to begin.

“She must come with me,” he repeated in a monotone.

The captain placed his body squarely between Blaise and the Russian.

“Now, sir, if you’re not flying with us, please step back from this aircraft. There is no reason this lady has to go with you if she does not want to.”