Tsunami Connection (10 page)

January, 2012

The mausoleum atmosphere was not
lost on most visitors, especially Russians. Behind the desk was an old-world
map filled with a multitude of pins headed with diverse colors. Beside the desk
was a single bed, covered with a down comforter. On the table beside the bed, a
votive candle in red glass cast an eerie shadow on some yellowed paper, covered
with indecipherable writing in red crayon. The red crayon used for the writing
lay beside a plain envelope.

Jutting angularly out of the envelope was a letter,
hand-scribbled in the same crayon. A large magnifier, including a light, sat
perched over the letter like a bird of prey. To read the letter, it was
necessary to turn on the light. The letter itself was encased in an oak-sided,
glass-topped cover, complete with a pressure-sensitive, thumbprint reader to
secure the contents. The desk along the center of the wall was made of
beautifully polished hardwood inlaid in the same pattern on every side.

Beside the bed was a black leather couch. President Rutin
sat on the couch. He was a short man, accustomed to power. Yet in this room, in
the green stone building that echoed the past, he could not help but feel in
the presence of a deity. Rutin's host, Doctor Rostov, thrived on power. Every
minute of his day was contrived to gratify his need to be respected. On this
day, the president of Russia sat on a couch that Rostov had re-designed.

The purpose of the oligarch's re-engineering was to
humiliate the president of Russia, to make him feel small. Doctor Rostov stared
through a spy hole in the wall at President Rutin, sitting with his legs
dangling in empty space over the edge of the sofa, feet not touching the floor.
The oligarch made a mental note to reward the minion who had suggested
re-designing the chesterfield, chuckling at his petty achievement. The Russian
president, for his part, sat rather awkwardly on the black leather couch and
waited. A manservant, who spoke only when spoken to, stood beside the president
of Russia, holding a samovar.

"You may pour my tea," said Rutin, having already tried
several times unsuccessfully to indicate his needs by gesturing to the servant
without speaking.

The young man seemed for the first time to notice the pair
of glasses, holding long silver spoons and sitting beside a small silver topped
glass jar filled with very sweet, homemade, black current jam.

"Doctor Rostov instructed me to await his arrival
before serving the tea. He said he has timed its steeping to be perfect at ten
forty-one exactly. It is now ten thirty-nine, sir."

Rutin ground his teeth, making a hollow in his cheeks. A
wall to his left, previously unremarkable as a door, slid into itself,
noiselessly. The sound of the door's arrival at the end of the track, guiding
it to its closing point, interrupted the conversation between the manservant
and the President.

"It's uncanny the effect he still has on us, isn't
it?" said Rostov from the door where he was standing, holding a pipe,
wearing a uniform from the Great Patriotic War. He also had a moustache just
like Uncle Stalin's moustache.

"I never took you for a fool. What is this charade? I
am a busy man," said Rutin.

A bell sounded in the oligarch's pocket. He laughed in a
mischievous tone and broke into a classic Cossack's dance, his legs squatting
under him as his feet strutted out in front of him in alternating thrusts.
Rostov's knees were bent; his arms were clasped in front of him, fingers over
elbows. Music filled the room.

"The tea, pour the tea and bring in the vodka. Today we
celebrate victory for the Rodina," shouted Rostov.

Rutin stumbled into the coffee table in front of him because
he misjudged the height of the adjusted couch. His knee struck the table,
hurting him. He uttered, "
Yob tvoyu mat
," under his breath,
meaning ′fuck your mother′, a common Russian expletive. The
president ground his teeth together while he rubbed his bruised upper shin,
just below his kneecap. As this transpired, the manservant had effortlessly
held up the samovar, bent at the waist and scooped up the President's falling
glass, all without spilling one drop on the pristine, crisp white tea service
cloth.

"Your tea, Sir," he said without any judgment in
his tone.

Rutin looked up to his left and took the proffered glass of
tea.

Responding to a nod from Rostov, the manservant spoke out of
turn, "Perhaps Your Excellency would care for homemade black current jam
to flavor his tea?" added the manservant, never looking directly into
Rutin's eyes.

"I'll serve myself," said the President, still
rubbing his shin, but now more comfortably seated in the back of the couch.

"Leave us," said Rostov, flicking his fingers in
dismissal. The manservant exited with the finesse and speed of a professional
dancer, all the time carrying the heavy, antique samovar. The sliding door
clicked closed after him, its movement activated by Rostov using a remote
control on his desk.

Rostov walked around his desk. He sat and Rutin had to crane
his neck to see him clearly. Rostov looked forward and spoke as if on the stage
in soliloquy.

"It is all an exact replica. I own the drawings for the
summer dacha in Sochi. Some of the furniture is original. Money buys anything
today. Some of the pieces are copies made to my exacting specifications. Look
on that table. Do you know what that is under the magnifying glass? That is the
hand-written note that ended Trotsky's life. Imagine Stalin governing an empire
from this exact desk, using red crayons."

Something broke the trance. Rostov stood up and reached into
his chest pocket. His cell phone was on vibrate.

"I am truly sorry, Mr. President, I must take
this,″ said Rostov as he strutted towards the door, sliding open, in
front of him. The phone made an unusual noise, which the president recognized
as the sound of an encrypted device.

"We must encourage them to bring their drilling
equipment here. Once they are established and at work, we will find a way to
break our agreements. Leave that to me," continued Rostov, but the closing
door muffled the rest of the conversation.

When he came back into the room, he was wearing a
grayish-blue, hand-tailored, made-to-measure Anderson & Sheppard of London
suit. The actor was gone. Rostov was all business.

"Red crayons and no telephones. How on earth did they
do it?" said Rostov, sitting opposite the president on a chair that he had
dragged across the room. "More tea?" he asked.

"No, you said you had news of the drilling rights'
documents that British Petroleum falsified," said Rutin, looking around as
if worried about the security of speaking in Rostov's home.

"This place is better than an embassy. There is electronic
noise in the walls and the windows are actually the highest quality flat
screens money can buy. You are watching live video. Not even parabolic
microphones can penetrate into here," said Rostov, as if understanding
Rutin's unuttered fears.

"The drilling rights …" repeated Rutin.

"Falsified is a strong word, Mr. President. My 'suits'
prefer the word ′adulterated′. It casts less illegality while
having the added benefit of spreading mistrust. To make an omelet, you have to
crack some eggs, don't you?" said Rostov, winking at his allusion to one
of Uncle Stalin's favorite expressions, which was a play on the Russian word,
yeiko
.
In Russian, the word transliterated as
yeiko
could mean either an egg or
a man's testicle; hence, the notion in Stalin's Soviet Union that making things
happen required crushing some testicles.

"Don't tell me about details. I have plausible
deniability then," said Rutin.

"Once they are successfully bringing the oil to the
surface, we will introduce an element of mistrust into our studies of the
original documents pertaining to the acquisition of drilling rights during
perestroika
.
It will become abundantly clear, with your agreement, Mr. President, that the
rights were bought at usurious rates during a devastating period of our history.
As we all know, my predecessor was a traitor and thanks to you, Sir, he is now
behind bars. He tried to sell off the Rodina for his own profit. He was, after
all, a Jew, wasn't he?"

"You still haven't answered my question, Doctor
Rostov."

"It is a delicate matter, but the long and the short of
it is this: when the oil is successfully drilled, a feat our technology could
not achieve, we will declare their drilling rights invalid and throw them out
of the country. We then continue to reap the benefits. What is it the Americans
say: a win-win scenario. Good for you and good for me."

″A win-win situation would include both parties, them
and us winning, not you and I, Mister Rostov. But, your ability to use
Americanisms is not the subject of our discussion today, is it?″ said
President Rutin.

"Just as a point of order, Mister President, there is a
Ph.D. after my name, but never mind. I must have misspoken. At any rate, two
parties win, n'est-ce pas?″

"The other oil companies will boycott us. We will have
trouble raising capital in the markets. They will spread rumors of the old
Soviet Union coming back to roost."

"Let them, Mister President. In a short time, their
greed will overcome their fear and we will shift our partnership to Exxon or
Royal Dutch Shell. In addition, our next topic of discussion will guarantee
their culpability. Thanks to your moves, Mister President, in Syria, the price
of oil will be rising again."

The sliding door clicked open and the manservant stepped
into the room. This time, the samovar was replaced by a silver tray containing
two iced vodka glasses and an ice bucket. In the bucket perched a bottle of
vodka, a special golden yellow bottle made by the armored-car maker,
Russo-Baltique, in collaboration with Princess Regina Abdurazacova of
Kazakhstan. The manservant manipulated the tray effortlessly. It seemed to rest
in the air unaided as he used slight-of-hand to hold and pour the vodka while
an unseen clasp held the tray to his chest. The clasp had disappeared when he
again held the tray. He slinked out of the room silently, tapping his toe
behind him to the tune of an early 20th century tango from Argentina called
Cholo
.
As the manservant left, walking in time with the music, the two lifted their
glasses.

"To our new Rodina," they said in unison.

March 2, 2012

Dubai International Airport sparkled
in front of her as Ms. Michael MacAuley cleared customs. Ms. MacAuley was
travelling first class and her customs inspection reflected her obvious
privilege. The flight from Buenos Aires had stopped in Rio de Janeiro, where
she had a short layover and a connection directly to Dubai International
Airport Terminal 3.

In an effort to follow her older brother's explicit
instructions, she was dressed in a culturally sensitive manner. Her thick,
mahogany-colored hair was completely covered by an emerald green silk sari top,
delicately threaded with gold filament.

A close inspection of the garment would have revealed Celtic
runes, but a cursory glance might have mistaken the filigree for stylized
Arabic script. She was very uncharacteristically timid, intentionally, not
drawing attention to herself. Her older brother's instructions had been
unconditional and clear. "Take the perks, but don't let anyone remark your
passage. Just be understated. Our lives may depend upon it," said Michael
MacAuley before Michael, the sister, left Argentina. He had gone on to explain
that she would be his artifice, distracting those who scoured international
databases and wanted him dead. In fact, her name had raised red flags in all of
the passport stations where she passed. Even her fawning gestures, lowered,
sparkling, green eyes, pale regal-looking skin, and curvy shape could not belay
detection.

In Dubai International Airport Terminal 3, electronic scans
of her hands and passport perfunctorily acknowledged the name Michael MacAuley.
Her retina was not in the database, precluding a retinal scan.

An apparently oblivious bureaucracy quickly passed her
through to a waiting Rolls Royce rental, arranged by Doctor Rostov's staff, and
a scenic drive through the stunningly lit city of the future, before finally
crossing the small bridge to a Panoramic Suite at the Burj Al Arab. The less
evident bureaucracy was alert to her movements, exactly as Michael, her
brother, wished, leaving him free to move as bureaucracies were paying
attention to his sister with the selfsame name.

Her brother, Michael MacAuley, arrived the next day by a
more roundabout manner. He was packed into a house-moving container. In effect,
he was sealed into the storage place that Air Freight paid for in fifty
one-ounce, Platinum Platypus coins from the Perth mint in Australia.

MacAuley's storage place was a state-of-the-art hiding
place. When he exited his Air Freight container, he did not pass customs. The
security man, near his means of transport, conveniently looked the other way as
a reasonably dressed man with a dense dark beard, straggly long hair and dark
aviator glasses, left the cargo hold of the plane carrying a suit bag flopped over
a suitcase and a set of golf clubs on his left arm. He was remarkable only for
a pronounced limp. His trip took place in the relative comfort of a sealed
container with all of the conveniences of home, including an inside lock on the
storage place. A coded knock by a mute security guard on his box, using a
specially designed hammer, signaled to MacAuley to open up. Platinum bought
silence. A pre-ordered taxi was waiting for MacAuley near the airport exit.

MacAuley stayed at The Fortune Classic Hotel Apartments, on
the corner of Damascus Street and Al Nahda Road. He was an ordinary tourist
with a paid up United Arab Emirates Visa billed on the Internet in Burnaby,
British Columbia. Michael did not use his fluent Arabic. He knew where he would
meet his contacts, not where they expected him.

Doctor Rostov was waiting for Michael MacAuley when she
arrived at the Panoramic Suite. He appeared a little impatient. Rostov was not
used to changing his plans. People changed for him, not the other way around.
Michael waited as the bellhop opened the door for her. She stepped into the
suite and the view astounded her. She reached for a tip in her purse, but the
young man bowed and gestured toward the L-shaped leather sofa and coffee table
near the enormous floor-to-ceiling, plate glass windows.

Dr. Rostov stood up and eyed Michael MacAuley from top to
bottom. She had loosened her wrapped, over-the-shoulder robe to reveal half of
her body, one breast and one exposed leg, covered by a silky skin-toned, finely
woven under wrap. The thread in it matched the green of her eyes and the red of
her hair. The tension of the material against her skin left nothing to the
imagination.

"You are not the Michael MacAuley I was expecting.
Since you conveyed the correct password to the driver, I let you come forward.
Now is the time for explanations. You have sixty seconds to live,″ said
Rostov.

Michael walked calmly toward the older man. She did not
speak. As she reached into the folds of her inner garment, Rostov could not
help but take another glance. Her skin was pearly white; her veins etched fine
blue patterns on her neck. Her abdomen, of which he now caught a glimpse, was
taut but supple. She produced a white ticket. It had the letterhead of the
Dubai Creek Golf and Yacht Club marked discreetly on its left corner. Rostov, a
member, recognized the shape of the insignia.

"You have balls to match your beauty, but I suppose I
should expect nothing less from Michael MacAuley. Pity you bend the other
way," said Rostov.

"Michael will find you at his leisure at the golf club
in the next few days. Please golf every day. Acting unpredictably has kept him
alive for more years than he really deserves in his business. Please accept his
humble apologies for any inconvenience he may have caused."

"By all means, and I thought he had weakened when he
asked for the belly dancer by name."

Rostov clapped his hands. The dancer's hands and head
snapped into an opening pose, her arms locked over her head, raising the
sculpted shape of her breasts. Haunting flute music filled the suite as she
delicately commenced her dance on the upper landing. She swayed, and then
hesitated, unsure of herself. Her upbringing made her gravitate toward Rostov.
He smiled and gestured toward Michael. Ms. MacAuley was looking on very
appreciatively, her eyes taking in the entire woman she knew she would soon be
embracing. Rostov left. Under his breath, he muttered, "This is too much
for me. Such a waste of beauty." He continued, more loudly, "Enjoy,
but remember … if your brother does not show, you will pay with your
life."

A stunningly beautiful young woman gracefully made her way
down the spiral staircase from the upper floor of the suite. Her eyelids
darkened by thin black lines, her face flushed with preparation, the whites of
her eyes shimmered. Perfectly shaped nipples pierced through rows of tiny beads
that outlined exquisite, regal shoulders and just more than a handful of taut
breast. Her fleshy hips fluxed around her belly. She turned around and bent
down, exposing perfect, apple-shaped hips covered by slightly opaque gossamer
shorts of silk threaded with golden patterns, but exposing a shaved pubis under
a tuft of dark hair on the top of her pubic mound.

Michael noticed a cognac and espresso beside honeyed, Middle
Eastern sweets on the coffee table. Her libido excited, she greedily gulped the
coffee, swallowed some Baklava and then finished with the cognac.

The dancer was warmed by her exertions. Her musky smell
incensed her onlooker, as she passed close to Michael. The red-haired devil
reached out in a practiced gesture, almost throttling the dancer with the
intensity of her grip, stopping her in her tracks. The belly dancer's eyes,
full of glycerin to make them shine, were locked onto the stare of the other
woman and … there was fear in her young eyes.

The gambling debts of her older brother, whose life she was
saving by her sacrifice, had compromised her. She was new to the profession and
shocked by the reality of her new life. The thought of giving herself, a virgin,
to anyone had been easier than the actuality.

Tears streamed from her eyes, smudging her inexpensive
make-up. Michael pulled her lips toward hers, never letting go of her throat.
Her grip was so tight that bruises were sure to form later. Their lips touched.
Michael's tongue forced its way into the young woman's unwilling mouth. Michael
bit the young dancer's lip, drawing blood. The older woman moved her lips away,
then came back drawn by the blood. She cooed and sucked, still paralyzing the
young woman with her clutch. The Irish woman's free left hand caressed the taut
nipples then pinched them, producing a small yelp. She flipped the dancer
around, altering her chokehold to accommodate the change. Her other hand
slipped down and under the gauzy shorts as Michael started swaying to the
music, forcing her body to mould with the dancer's body.

"Move with me like this," she ordered.

The fear of God contorting her body, the younger woman
complied with a nod. Michael let go of the dancer's neck and caressed her
nipples. They swayed together as only professional dancers could. The younger
woman saw no choice, and moved to the ministrations of the woman she thought of
as a fear-provoking, red-haired devil. She thought she would need to feign
arousal, but her body betrayed her.

"You see, pain is pleasure. I saw it in your eyes. Wait
my sweet, the best is yet to come," whispered Michael from behind.

They slowly walked to the upstairs bathroom and Michael
guided her into the shower. Rostov's hidden cameras were following everything.

The next morning, at slightly after dawn, Rostov left the
Presidential Suite after having a full Russian breakfast of caviar, cold pork,
eggs, smoked bacon and black tea with jam served in a glass, all of which he
had brought with him from Russia. His taster sat beside him, feeling
overstuffed as the oligarch continually requested that he taste before the
oligarch would eat.

"How do you keep in shape eating like this?" asked
the taster.

"Ah. My father taught me that you never know when there
will be a war. I always eat well in the morning."

The Rolls Royce left to take them to the Dubai Creek Golf
and Yacht Club. After bribing the man making the day's line up for tee off,
Rostov got the second place. He was an impatient man and bore no waiting. The
first on the tee off was a sheik and, as a result, very difficult to displace.
The sheik kept the pace of his game brisk until the third hole when he suddenly
welcomed a second player on the green. They chatted loudly in Arabic and
refused to move from the green. Rostov was fuming. He slammed down his club.

"
Yob tvoyu mat
," he cursed and jumped into
his cart, leaving his caddy open-mouthed behind him.

He drove arrogantly onto the green beside the sheik and was
stunned to see an Uzi pop out from the sheik's robes. Rostov turned to the
other player, an American-looking gentleman in his early forties, wearing
hopelessly foolish looking plaid Bermuda shorts and a yellow Lacoste golf
shirt. He then recognized his folly. MacAuley approached as a third man took
the Russian's cart and returned it to the waiting caddy and bodyguard.

After a brief discussion and a nod from the now distant
oligarch, they all agreed to continue their games. The sheik trotted to his
cart and caddy, and waved to MacAuley and the Russian, both of whom were
climbing into a third cart driven by someone who nodded to MacAuley. The driver
wore an earpiece and looked like American CIA. MacAuley, sporting a USS Tucson
cap, was chuckling to himself. He got right to the point when he spoke to
Doctor Rostov.

"First, seeing as my sister has already left the
country, I want the original videos and any copies of my sister's activities
delivered to me, today. Second, I can safely tell you that I've done what you
wanted. The weapon works. The news will show a tsunami of incredible force
washing over Aceh Province in Sumatra. Many hundreds of thousands will die.
Third, the Americans do not know how you did it and they will not sink your
submarine, and lastly, if you ever try to blackmail my family again, I will
castrate you personally," said MacAuley, a stiletto appearing in his hand
and then sticking into the seat between Rostov's legs.

"You will die for this insult."

"I doubt it. I did your stinking bidding, by providing
you with information that even your billions could not buy. As I said before,
the weapon works. Now, on to more practical matters: my money had better be in
my account as planned," said MacAuley as he entered something on his
Blackberry.

MacAuley had used his connections at Russian Military
Intelligence to get information about and compromise the communications of an
Akula attack submarine, controlled by a group of ex-Soviet Navy submariners
near Sumatra, Indonesia. One of MacAuley's past lives included being an
assassin for the Foreign Military Intelligence Directorate (GRU) of the former
USSR.

MacAuley was owed some favors because of his excellent
unbeaten record of assassinations without being apprehended. He had called in
these favors, and because he paid exceedingly well, the Irishman had been able
to garner highly sensitive information about the whereabouts and recent
successes of the hijacked Akula.

Everything was for sale in Russia, but sometimes it was
difficult to know whom to ask in order to make a purchase. MacAuley's
connection at GRU was responsible for, among other ultra-secret tasks, tracking
the stolen Akula, using a recently manufactured and quieter Akula submarine.
Even the American submarine USS Tucson SSN 770, which was clandestinely
following the rogue Russian Akula attack class submarine, had not yet
discovered the ultra-quiet, Russian tail on the rogue Akula.

"Your blood money is there. I made sure of it when I
heard this morning of the tsunami. I have another request. Look at this
picture. It is the child of the Admiral commanding the rogue Akula submarine. I
want her in a secure location to ensure his compliance. She is my, how do you
say it, 'ace in the hole′. There's another ten million in it for
you."