The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (12 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tbilisi, Georgia

One of the henchmen adjusted the lights while another peered through the camera’s viewfinder at Shamil Basayev, who was wearing a peaked hat and sitting on a rug in front of a photographer’s backdrop.

“Microphone check,” said the cameraman.

“Of course,” said Basayev with excitement in his voice. “We certainly want our message to be heard. One, two, three.”

The cameraman held up a thumb. “Ready when you are, Commander.”

“Very well, but before we begin, Elbruk, my brother, come here.”

Elbruk Matsil was somewhat surprised by the summons, but dutifully rose from the bench by the makeshift dining table and approached the Commander.

“My brother, why don’t you go with Vaslav here and go into town” He leaned over and lowered his voice in a conspiratorial way. “Perhaps you can get a bottle or two of vodka for your comrades.”

“Of course, Commander.”

And with that, Elbruk was escorted out of the warehouse by Vaslav, who on his best day, resembled a blond gorilla with a beard.

With a wary eye, Basayev watched them depart, then he nodded to the cameraman, who pressed the record button and said, “Rolling.”

The beady eyes stared into the lens, and with a malevolent smile, he began speaking in Chechen. “This is Shamil Salmanovich Basayev, Commander of the Riyadus Salihiin Reconnaissance and Sabotage Battalion of Chechen Martyrs. As the American author known as Mark Twain once said, ‘Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

New York City

Jarrod walked into his apartment that overlooked Central Park west and felt the exhaustion wash over him. What a week! It was enough to give an average mortal a coronary three times over.

He went to the bar and opened the mini fridge to pull out a Lone Star Beer. He’d developed a taste for it and periodically imported a couple of cases from Texas. He took off his jacket, twisted off the cap, and went out on the balcony to take in the spectacular view of Central Park from the seventeenth floor. The sky was a dusky indigo and the lights of the city were starting to wink on like popcorn across the skyline. He pulled on the beer and let the tension ebb from his body, reflecting on how much he loved this city. Capital of the world, really. And he liked the view from the top.

The apartment was a three-bedroom co-op he sublet from a matronly widow who lived in Florida. She’d initially asked thirty grand a month, but he’d charmed her down to twenty-five. Bit of a stretch for him currently, but by this time next week, he’d be catapulted into a partnership and could start shopping for his own co-op. The thought of his own Park Avenue pad boggled his mind. But who else could have turned a $500 million deficit into a positive balance inside of a week? A week! He tried to keep such sugarplum thoughts out of his brain, but this would surely cement his status as the crown prince to take over the firm upon William’s retirement. Then he could mold it to his own vision, and New York would be his oyster.

In that vein, maybe it was time for a little R&R. He’d been pushing it so hard for so long, maybe he should step out on Saturday night. He hadn’t checked his home phone voice-mail in over a week. He hit the play button and deleted the messages on the monthly co-op board meeting, the building bingo tournament for the rich blue hairs, and a stockbroker with the deal of ten lifetimes. But then Lisa Radigan—a runway model he’d met during a function at last season’s New York fashion week—was in town over the weekend for a photo shoot. Would he like to get together for dinner?

Yes, this week had definitely turned around. Lisa wasn’t just a model. She was a lingerie model. Long and leggy with red hair and milky white skin. He’d seen her portfolio. She was staying at the Waldorf. “Call me,” she said.

He plopped down in his leather La-Z-Boy and punched in her cell number.

*

A Hilltop Outside the Pumping Station

Stavropol Krai Province, Russia

The ragtag bunch of Basayev’s followers who huddled around Lemontov now thought him the most severe of all. He had that funereal look to his eyes that sent a chill down the spine of anyone who glanced his way. Putin and his Russian horde had pounded Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, into rubble. But now Putin would pay the price. Indeed, for Lemontov, killing a Russian had the same moral imperative as pulling a cork on a bottle of vodka.

The three trucks were parked on a slight rise overlooking the isolated pumping station of the CPC pipeline—the pipeline that ran from the oil fields of the Caspian Sea to the Russian Black Sea terminal at Novorossiysk. Of the five pumping stations on the 1,510-kilometer route, this was the most isolated. The giant pipeline snaked across the steppe and into the fenced pumping facility, then continued out the other side. The pipeline looked like a never-ending eel, making a serpentine path over the Russian steppe. Each section of pipe was suspended above the ground with a U-shaped brace suspended between two steel poles sticking out of the earth, making it resemble a centipede rolled over on its back.

Lemontov peered through the night vision binoculars at the facility. It was well past 3:00
am,
and he was waiting for the lone interior ministry soldier to make his way back to the guardroom where—no doubt—he would help himself to some forbidden vodka secreted away in his lunch pail. Lemontov knew this because a janitor who had been working at the pumping station for the last nineteen months actually worked for Shamil Basayev. He was an awkward looking nobody named Kordan who quietly swept, mopped, and stayed in the background—ignored by everyone and recording everything in his meticulous journal. Kordan paid particular attention to security, which was virtually nonexistent. At this time of night, there would only be a skeleton crew of seven people on duty, including the soldier, who presented no problem to Lemontov’s assault team. Kordan had observed that after his patrol he would go to the communications room and log in some “check the box” communication to higher headquarters. Then he would retire to the break room to dine alone and take a nip of some vodka, and after that, a snooze.

How pathetic, thought Lemontov. But convenient. While the soldier himself presented no real obstacle after he’d clocked in with higher HQ, Kordan had noted he always carried a satellite phone with him. That could be a problem if he had the chance to raise an alarm.

Lemontov squinted, waiting.

*

CPC Pipeline Pumping Station No. 2

Stavropol Krai Province, Russia

Kordan Simonov slowly mopped the break room floor. Confident he was alone, he went to the locker belonging to the security soldier and removed the lunch pail. He took out the thermos filled with vodka, unscrewed the top, and dropped in the pill Shamil Basayev himself had given him. He screwed on the top and gave it a shake as if he were a bartender mixing a martini. Then he put the thermos into the pail and the pail into the locker. He continued mopping out the break room, then went up the corridor toward the communications room. As he got closer, he saw the lone guard walk into the commo chamber and sit down at a computer terminal. After a few keystrokes, he rose and walked down the corridor past Kordan to the break room. He did not even acknowledge Kordan’s presence.

But Kordan paid no mind. He kept his head down and continued slowly mopping into the commo room, then down to the end of the hall. He rolled his mop bucket of dirty water back toward the utility closet. As he reached the break room, he peeped through the window and saw the soldier passed out, face down on the table beside the knocked over thermos. Kordan entered, removed the satellite phone from the guard’s holster, and dropped it in the pail of dirty water. Methodically, he rolled the bucket to the utility closet and locked it in. Then he put on his jacket, took a flashlight from the pocket, and headed outside.

*

Lemontov saw the four long flashes from the grounds near the administrative building. With that, he entered a single word—READ —into the text message field of his satellite phone and hit the send button.

Jarrod was halfway through his Tanzanian quail with cranberry glaze, but he had a sinking feeling this wasn’t the way things should be unfolding. The evening was going beautifully. They were sitting in the main dining room of Le Cirque restaurant, enjoying gastronomic delights of which mere mortals could only dream. Across from him sat a ravishing Lisa Radigan, who was drawing envious glances from every direction, while the sommelier kept their wine glasses filled with a Chateau Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux—a case of which would pay for a college education.

The red-haired beauty was definitely easy on the eyes. She was wearing some black silk nothing that could have been taken from her wardrobe at a lingerie photo shoot. And maybe it was.

But after the initial impact of her raw beauty, he found her conversation got stuck in a continuous loop about the married makeup artist’s snit with the gay hairdresser, who had thing for the lighting director, who was sleeping with the photographer, who was also sleeping with one her model buddies, who was in a snit with the same makeup artist…and on it went, over and over, like a recursive loop.

“Then Jerry got so incredibly pissed because the foundation base Barry was using wasn’t going to contrast my hair the right way for the fabric on the bustier I was wearing.”

“I believe you mentioned that,” injected Jarrod.

“Did I?”

“Yes, a couple of times. By the way, how is your Peruvian trout?”

“It is kinda weird, its so fishy tasting, but I guess I shouldn’t complain cause it swam all the way from Peruvia”

Ummm. She was kidding right? Trying to move things along, he inquired, “Do you think China will devalue the Yuan some more?”

“I thought Yuan was a rapper?”

“The, uh, Yuan. The Chinese currency.”

“Oh. I don’t think I knew that.”

“Ever been to China?”

“Oh, yes. I think a lot of lingerie is made over there.”

“I’m sure.”

“I did a photo shoot on the Great Wall once.”

Jarrod perked up. “Really? Well, that must have been an intriguing experience.”

“Mainly it was cold. That’s never fun when you’re modeling lingerie or swimwear. And I remember on that shoot the lighting director got into this huge argument with the photographer on which shade of shadow to use because the clouds—”

“Lisa?”

“Yes.”

“I apologize for doing this, but I’m going to have to call it an early night. I have a splitting headache.”

And sadly he wasn’t kidding.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CPC Pipeline Pumping Station No. 2

Stavropol Krai Province, Russia

Lemontov and twelve men carried silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistols and wore black balaclava ski masks. No one spoke. It had all been rehearsed many times. They did not run but walked the quarter-mile to the pumping station briskly, muzzles up and at the ready. All were battle-tested Chechen rebels, handpicked by Basayev himself.

They arrived at the high chain-link fence. After a wave from Lemontov, one of the men came forward with large cable cutters and snapped the shackle of the lock as if it were a soft pretzel.

The squad of men entered the grounds as Kordan emerged from the darkness, and the trigger-happy invaders almost shot him.

Lemontov stepped up to Kordan, who only said, “All in the central control room as of a few minutes ago.”

Lemontov nodded and said, “Execute.”

Two men hid off the road outside the gate, and two inside, so no one went in or out alive unless it was by their grace.

Lemontov, Kordan, and the others ran to the admin building. Two more deployed on the outside, covering the exits with their MP5s. At the security door, Lemontov nodded at Kordan, who punched in the code on the cipher lock. Then he peeked in and saw no one. Lemontov and the remaining six entered behind Kordan. They went down the corridor, doing a duck walk under the interior windows until they arrived at another cipher lock door.

Kordan stood, concealed by the door, and peeked through the window. Three men were monitoring consoles, and two others were playing a card game with an empty seat at the table. Kordan held up five fingers to Lemontov, who didn’t like that all six Russians were not present.

Lemontov whispered the question, “Rogonoff?”

Kordan peered in, then nodded.

Lemontov made the decision and said, “Go.”

Kordan punched in the number, and five bored meter readers were suddenly confronted by seven menacing figures who were clad in black and toting some serious guns. And the janitor was among them!

“Stand up! Hands on your head!” barked Lemontov.

All complied immediately, except one, who was too dumfounded to stand up from the card table. To establish who was in charge, Lemontov butt-stroked the laggard across his teeth, sending him to the floor. Lemontov smiled under the ski mask. Inflicting pain on a Russian was one of life’s little pleasures.

The muffled sound of silenced muzzles caught Lemontov’s attention.

“One down outside,” crackled a voice through Lemontov’s hand held radio. He keyed the mike, “Then all are accounted for.”

The five pumping station workers now stood against the wall, hands on heads. One had a bloody mouth.

With some ceremony, Lemontov removed his ski mask and said, “Good evening, gentlemen. Or should I say morning? My name is Colonel Arkady Lemontov, and I am Deputy Commander of the Riyadus Salihiin Reconnaissance and Sabotage Battalion of Chechen Martyrs. Which one of you is Rogonoff?”

A middle-aged, balding, bespectacled man with a generous paunch slowly raised his hand.

“You come with me,” ordered Lemontov. Then he pointed at another and said, “You as well.”

Two of the gunmen and Lemontov left central control with Kordan. The Chechen Commander cryptically said into the radio, “Bring up the truck.”

Two minutes later, Lemontov and his party were standing outside next to the exoskeleton of pipes, valves, and fittings that made up the pumping station. The air was punctuated by the omnipresent sound of compressors. A truck wheeled around the corner and then backed up to a large pipe that jutted out of another pipe in a Y-joint configuration. The end of the pipe that extended into the yard was waist high, with a hatch secured by a wheel lock over a meter in diameter.

The tailgate of the truck dropped and four ski-masked men jumped from the bed, one of them Markov, the bookish-looking Professor who had measured the fire hydrant when it first arrived. Without a word—as they had done in rehearsals—the men rapidly pulled out a gurney-like device, then slid the fire hydrant contraption onto it and rolled it to the hatch at the end of the protruding pipe.

Lemontov motioned for Rogonoff to approach, and nervously the little man stepped forward. Lemontov put his hand on Rognoff’s shoulder and asked, in a paternal voice, “Your name is Alexei, is it not?”

Numbly, Alexei Rogonoff nodded.

“Now, Alexei, it is my understanding that you are the pig technician at this facility. Is that correct?”

Pipeline Inspection Gauges—or “pigs” as they are commonly known—have been used on oil and gas pipelines for decades. The first pigs developed were simple plug-like devices that were inserted into the pipeline and the pressure of the oil flow pushed it along to act like a bottle washer. It shoved the sludge down the pipe to the other end where the muck was expelled. A pig technician monitored this process.

Again, Rogonoff nodded, his mouth dry.

“Of course it is. Now then, Alexei, please listen carefully. We want you to launch our pig here”—he motioned to the fire hydrant device—“downstream through the pipeline. Just as you would a regular cleaning pig. Is that understood?”

He rapidly nodded.

Lemontov continued as if he were telling a neighbor about his golf handicap. “Now we have our own pig technician with us, and he will be watching your every move as he gives you instructions. But I have to be honest with you. I have been in these situations before and—surprisingly—sometimes people in your position decide they want to do something stupidly heroic to try to stymie our success. To keep that idea from entering your head, we brought your colleague along to dissuade you from having such thoughts.” And with that, Lemontov’s MP5 burped and the colleague’s head burst open like a red melon.

“Now then, shall we proceed?”

An apoplectic Rogonoff nodded vigorously.

“Excellent,” said Lemontov. He motioned to a metal structure that looked like a very large phone booth. “This is the pig launch control is it not?”

“D-D-Da.”

“Then move. Time is of the essence.”

To inject a pig into a pipeline was much like launching a torpedo from a submarine. And in a sense, that was exactly what Lemontov’s crew was doing.

“Flush launch tube and close valve,” ordered Mitrofan Markov.

Rogonoff hit some buttons on the console, and the sound of a pump kicked in, followed by a hissing noise as the air pressure built up in the tube, forcing out the oil into the main pipeline. When the instruments told him the launch tube was clear, he flipped a toggle switch, and the valve closed off access to the main pipeline.

“Tube clear and valve closed,” said Rogonoff meekly.

“Depressurize launch tube,” ordered Mitrofan.

Rogonoff hit some more buttons on the console and another hissing sound was heard as the excess pressure inside the launcher was vented to the outside atmosphere. This equalized the pressure inside and outside the tube. Without depressurization, if someone unlocked the hatch, it would fly open with the force of a cannonball.

“Depressurization complete,” said Rogonoff tentatively.

Mitrofan twirled his finger in the air, and one of the hooded men unscrewed the wheel lock and opened the tube while his comrades rolled the gurney up to the opening. Lemontov unsnapped a panel on the side of the pig and powered up a digital LED counter display. He entered 04:00:00 and mashed the start button, causing the digital readout to begin counting backward. Then he snapped the panel shut and nodded to his men to slide the fire hydrant into the tube.

And as it had been designed, the rear end of the pig had the open fishing reel gizmo attached to it, holding a large spool of filament line. At the end of the line was a clasp, and this was clipped to the interior shaft of the locking mechanism on the hatch of the launcher.

“Close and lock hatch,” ordered Mitrofan.

The men shut the metal lid with a
clang,
and the locking wheel was spun tight.

“Close vents and pressurize,” said Mitrofan.

Rogonoff mashed some buttons, and the pump kicked in again, building up air pressure behind the pig.

Both men leaned forward and watched the pressure gauge needle move up until it was just caressing the red zone on the meter.

“Open launch valve!” ordered Mitrofan.

Rogonoff tripped the toggle switch again, causing the valve to flip open. There was a
whooshing
sound, much like a toilet flushing, as the air pressure hurled the pig into the pipeline. The clasp held fast, and although the filament line appeared fragile, in fact it was quite strong as it unwound from the spool in the rear of the pig.

After the initial launch, the pig settled into the 5.3 mile-per-hour flow velocity of the oil in the pipeline as the filament line continued deploying behind it—sort of like a fisherman holding the lure and casting the reel.

“Close release valve 90 percent,” instructed Mitrofan.

Rogonoff looked at the masked man quizzically but complied with the order.

He didn’t know that closing the valve all the way would sever the filament line and derail the entire Chechen enterprise before it started.

“Valve closed 90 percent,” replied Rogonoff.

“Now come with me.”
Meekly, the bespectacled Russian was led back into the admin building.

Lemontov ordered everyone into the break room where the Russian soldier was still passed out on the table. The Commander withdrew his bayonet and handed it to Kordan—the unassuming janitor and master spy. “Basayev himself gave an oath the mark would be left on this soldier. Would you care to do the honors?” he asked.

Kordan nodded and took the knife. He yanked the soldier onto the floor and rolled his limp figure over. Then with both hands, he grasped the hilt of the bayonet, fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the chest of Russian.

The captives looked on in horror as Kordan slit open the soldier’s abdomen and inserted the blade deeply under the ribcage. It was obvious the young man had done this before as he operated with a grisly efficiency. A few moments later, a bloody hand at the end of a bloody forearm extracted a human heart, prompting one of the captives to faint. This elicited a grim smile from Kordan as he recalled the rape and murder of his sister by a Russian invader. She had been violated in a drunken orgy to celebrate the subjugation of Grozny.

“Now, gentlemen, we must bid you farewell,” said Lemontov with great formality. Checking his watch, he observed, “It appears we have almost four hours before the next shift arrives, so we will leave now. May you all burn in hell.”

And with that, four machine pistols spat their silent death, creating an abstract painting-like scene on the back wall.

Inside the forty-two-inch diameter pipeline, the specially manufactured pig built by DortmündFabrik of Hamburg continued on its journey at 5.3 miles per hour, the digital clock counting down from four hours, and the filament line spooling out the rear silently as it travelled along in a bath of black crude.