Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2)

by Lyle Nicholson

  Bernadette paused, tapped the pen on her notepad, “Because really smart people think everyone else is dumb. McAllen is hiding in plain sight. He thinks we think he’s moved on, and he hasn’t—he’s still there.”

  Patterson placed his hands down on the table, preparing to make a statement when Anton cut in. “Sir, I have a report that Paul Goodman made two trips to Cancun in the past six months. He could have used the supposed vacations to meet with McAllen.”

  Bernadette quickly added, “I think McAllen would be in a place that he could meet with some of his former students from the University of Victoria. He was close with his old Vietnam War buddies; he lived close to them for years. He is a creature of habit. He needs to be close to people he knows.”

  Patterson looked around the table. “And how exactly do you expect to locate our fugitive? I imagine the Mexican Police Force will not have the manpower to give you. Sure, they’ll put up a poster or two on the net . . . but I doubt they’ll pursue it seriously.”

  Bernadette was doodling on her pad, and looked up. “I think we can find McAllen from Goodman’s past contacts. I have a feeling that Goodman was able to contact McAllen on a regular basis. McAllen was his teacher, his mentor . . .”

  “You think you’re going to find email for phone records, between McAllen and Goodman? We’ve had a team combing through Goodman’s laptop and cell phone, they reported no contacts to any addresses in Mexico.

  “No I don’t. I doubt if the two were that stupid. I think we’ll find old-fashioned mail drops. Snail mail is still the hardest thing to track if not sent by courier. I think Goodman was posting letters and sending information to McAllen from a contact in Canada or the USA to Mexico,” Bernadette said.

  “And how exactly did you ascertain that?” Patterson asked.

  “It’s what I’d do if I wanted to stay totally off the grid, off the electronic surveillance that the FBI, CSIS and numerous other agencies employ. Good old-fashioned snail mail isn’t monitored unless you’re in prison or a suspected terrorist. Goodman was neither,” Bernadette said.

  Patterson stood and straightened his tie. “Agent De Luca, Detective Callahan, I really hope you’re right about this. Oil pipelines throughout the world are about to be attacked by a vicious Bio Bug, and unless you find this man, there is no way to turn these things off.” He walked out of the room, his young aide following close behind him.

  Anton sat quietly as the other CSIS agents left the room. He looked over at Bernadette. “Well, I do hope you’re right about this—as I really do enjoy my job, and I’d be terrible as a priest, if you get my meaning.”

  Bernadette let out a nervous laugh. “Relax Anton, look, at the worst you get a little beach time, a little tequila, and I take all the heat. And yes, you’d still be a cute priest.”

  Anton dipped his head slightly. “Oh my God, Bernadette, right now I’m trying to think of a good Italian saying for where you’ve put us.” He raised his head and smiled, “but nothing comes to mind.”

  Bernadette gave Anton a rap on the shoulder. “Finally I’ve made my Italian stallion speechless.”

  Anton shook his head, and motioned for Bernadette to follow him. They made their way to the commissary, picked up a couple of sandwiches and cokes and found a picnic table on the lawn.

  “You really think you have this McAllen pegged—that he’s where you think he is—still in Mexico’s Yucatan?” Anton asked after a few bites of his sandwich.

  Bernadette finished chewing on her sandwich and swigged her coke. “There’s something about this guy, something I saw in him. I just think that’s his M.O.”

  Anton shielded his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “I hope you’re right for the sake of oil, and our sake. Patterson will hit the roof if we’ve led everyone on a dead end.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn about Patterson. Sorry to be rude, but that son of a bitch thinks I’m about as good as Tonto to his Lone Ranger . . .”

  “—Whoa, Bernadette.” Anton put up his hand.

  “What do you mean whoa? You think the guy’s just as much of a jerk as I do.”

  “Yes, but he’s an effective jerk. He gets things done for the agency, especially in dealing with the politicians. He’s got to keep some guy in Ottawa happy, who’s got to keep someone in Washington happy. And so it goes. He’s got the FBI and Interpol on his ass every time he screws up.”

  Bernadette looked away, rolled up her sandwich wrapper and tossed it with a wide arc into the trash bin. “I didn’t know you were so cozy with Patterson.”

  “No, it’s just I see how I have to work with him to get my job done. Yeah, his instincts can be off. They can be off by a long shot, but he gets the overall picture—he’s trying to protect the world from the bad guys.”

  Anton stopped his soliloquy as a young agent stepped up to their table. “We’ve got a situation developing Agent De Luca.” He handed Anton his cell phone.

  Anton scrolled down the screen and looked up at Bernadette. “Damn it, they lost them. We have a Russian Federal Security Services person we’re in contact with. They’ve been on the trail of two Chechen Terrorists they believe are in possession of the Bio Bugs.”

  “Where’d they lose them?”

  “A city called Samara in Russia. Unfortunately it’s a major oil pipeline transportation hub. There’s lots of rugged terrain there, and the pipelines are above ground—they could strike anywhere.”

  17

  Beslan and Elbek watched the Russian oil workers walk from the main control room of the pipeline pumping station. They’d lain there for hours. Mosquitoes feasted on their exposed skin, and ants crawled over them. The forest where they lay smelled of sweet pine and dense earth. Down below them the Volga River—the pride of Russia in song and story—rolled slowly by.

  It had taken Besland and Elbek a week to get to this location. Their meeting with Adlan in Barcelona, and then obtaining the Bio Bugs from him seemed in the distant past. From Barcelona they’d taken the ten-hour train trip to Paris. Train travel had less security, fewer passport checks.

  They travelled as Spanish Nationals, as far as Berlin, but they had to be careful. If their passports were scrutinized and their faces put through facial recognition software it would turn up the truth. They were both Chechen, wanted by Moscow for what Russia considered terrorism, and Chechens considered defense of their homeland.

  From Paris they took a train to Berlin. They shredded their Spanish passports, produced their fake Russian ones and took the train to Moscow. Their connections in Moscow were tense. Both men felt eyes looking at them. The train conductor spoke roughly to them as they boarded the train to Samara City; their passports were thrown back at them. The man muttered under his breath to their faces, a nasty Russian word that meant “filthy Arabs.”

  Both men were used to such abuse. They were both dark-skinned and black-haired with sharp angular faces that stood out from the typical white Russian. They let the conductor make his comment, and then muttered under their breaths how he was a “filthy Russian.”

  With little sleep and in need of baths and decent food, they arrived in Samara City. A man met them at the train station, and took them to his house. He was a Chechen like them, but light-skinned, tall and blonde. He called himself Sergey. He fit in with the Russians. He supplied weapons, a GPS and maps of the pumping stations they wanted to target.

  As they left that morning for their target, Sergey said, “You know the Americans who threw the tea into the harbor in Boston before their revolution would now be considered terrorists.”

  Beslan had smiled at Sergey. “Yes, my friend, but the winners write the history books; the losers descend beneath the waves of infamy.”

  As the light faded in the sky, they inched their way forward. The pipeline was elevated, a large swath of overgrown grass provided easy cover. The pumping station had no fence, no armed guard, only a sign that proclaimed in several languages that this was a restricted area.

  Beslan stopped, lo
oked back at Elbek and smiled, his one gold tooth flashed. His eyes, now almost closed from mosquito bites, brimmed with excitement. “Elbek, this will be easy, you see how lazy these Russians are. We will be in and out in no time.”

  Elbek raised his head, “Belsan, you were always the optimist. Once we get in and make our deposit of these bugs in their pipeline, you don’t think they’ll have the whole Russian army after us?”

  Beslan laughed softly, “My friend, it will be like old times back in Chechnya, the Russians stomping around in the woods looking for us, and you and I picking them off from up in the trees.”

  Elbek wiped the sweat dripping into his eyes from his face. “Yes, my dear friend, you are a dreamer. Let’s get this one done, and if we live, we hit the next one 150 kilometers to the west, God willing.”

  Beslan winked and adjusted his R4 assault rifle. “Are you kidding? Of course we will live. We will go back to our village, and I will marry your sister, have many children, and you, you tightfisted bastard, will be forced to provide many presents to all the children I produce from my excellent loins.”

  Elbek dropped his face into his hands. “You are more than a dreamer . . . you’re a fool . . . don’t you think my lovely sister could find someone better than you? I think a short man with half a penis would be better.” He slapped his friend’s foot, and then held it for a second in a mock embrace.

  Beslan made only a soft grunt in reply. He adjusted his rifle, and moved his grenades from his belly to around his back. They inched slowly past the perimeter of the pumping station, and into the yard. Four young Russian workers walked from the main pumping station and control room toward the sleeping quarters.

  They froze. The laughter and shouts of bravado from the young Russians echoed around them. They could hear their conversation. They were arguing over the Russian Premier Soccer league. One of them proclaimed in a loud voice how the team Spartak Moscow would wipe the field this year, and the others shouted back more loudly how the local team of Krylia Sovetov Samara would have their banner year.

  Their conversation fell away as they entered their quarters and went inside. Beslan motioned with his hand to move, and they crawled once more. In a few more minutes they were within 50 meters of the main control room. No cover, bare ground. They needed to run hard. They did.

  Panting, they flung themselves against the doorway, opened the door, and dropped on all fours into the low light of the control room. Either no one heard them, or the controllers were asleep. With the amount of vodka the Russians consumed on a daily basis, it was not a stretch of the imagination to think that.

  Using hand signals for communication, they crouched low and moved slow. The control room was hot. Machinery pumped the oil down the pipeline. A steady hum permeated the room. A smell of oil burned the back of their throats. They slowed their breathing as they moved forward.

  A small door at the end of the corridor announced control room in Russian. This would be the place to inject their Bio Bugs . . . Elbek pointed his hand to his lips, signaling silence to Beslan, as he opened the door.

  One lone operator sat at the controls. He was on his cell phone, his fingers busy answering a text message. The control room glowed in a sea of soft lights. Most muted, some blinked . . . showing the pressure of the oil flowing from Russia to Europe.

  They crept slowly, first Elbek, then Beslan towards the operator. Elbek held a wire cord in one hand. He intended to choke the operator to death and take over the controls, and then open the main pumps to inject the Bio Bugs.

  They crouched and inched closer. Beslan’s foot hit a small bucket. The bucket clanged over the metal flooring. The operator turned, saw the two Chechens with guns and murder in their eyes, and fled.

  It happened inside of a second. Elbek turned to Beslan, “You stupid bastard, could you have been more clumsy?”

  Beslan rose on his knees, “Look, I was following your path . . . you idiot.”

  Elbek put his hand to his chest, and lowered his voice. “Okay, they know we’re here, let’s get the bugs injected and see if we can get out of here fast.”

  “Okay, I agree, let’s focus on our mission,” Beslan said.

  Elbek took over the controls, opened the main valves and turned to Beslan. “Okay, all the valves are open.” They walked into the main pumping station. It was deserted. If the workers were smart they would be calling for the Russian military. The army station was some 15 kilometers away. They had time to inject the Bio Bugs and get away.

  Beslan took the pouch with the vials, poured all of them into the opening of the pipe and smiled at Elbek. “You see, now we will do the rest of the job, return to our village, and you will give your sister away to me in marriage.”

  Elbek was about to respond when he heard the sound of trucks screeching to a halt from outside. Peering out the window, he saw four Russian Tiger trucks come to a halt. The Tiger trucks, that looked similar to an American Humvee, with a large caliber machine gun on top, spewed a crack team of Russian military from their doors.

  Beslan placed his hand on Elbek’s neck and brought his forehead to his. “You know I’ve loved you like a brother, and I would love nothing more than to spoil the little brats you’d give my wonderful sister, but I think this is not in our stars.”

  Elbek pressed his head against Beslan’s. “God willing, we will meet in paradise.”

  They embraced, and then Beslan took out his cell phone and typed a text to Adlan in Barcelona. He needed to know they had only managed to sabotage one pumping station. 10 more vials were in the woods were they had crawled from. The Bio Bugs would soon die without being released to attack iron and oil. Beslan felt a sense of loss for having left them there.

  The Russians were shouting for them to give themselves up. The soldiers advanced slowly, checking their strength, to see what they would do.

  Beslan took Elbek by the shoulders. “There is no use to fight. If we do, we may be injured and taken. We must go with our purpose in hand, we did what we came to do, now we will leave here as martyrs.”

  Elbek nodded his head, and smiled. “Yes, my friend, you are right. You are always right.”

  They pulled all the pins on their grenades and embraced. As the Russians came through the doors with their guns blazing, they were torn to pieces by the explosions.

  Adlan sat on the tiny balcony of the apartment in Barcelona. The balcony was barely big enough to hold a small chair. He balanced his tea on his knee, and thumbed through his cell phone reviewing his text messages. When he came to one from Beslan, he sighed deeply, and looked upward. A small tear made its way down his cheek. He did not try to brush it away.

  Zara appeared at the balcony window. “How is it with Beslan and Elbek, do you have news?” The answer was obvious from Adlan’s face. She felt a need to comfort him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Adlan stared up into the Barcelona night, “They injected one pumping station . . . they have taken their own lives to avoid capture.”

  Zara squeezed his shoulder, “And the other two?”

  Adlan looked up at Zara, his eyes brimmed with tears. “They are safely on board their target.”

  “Safely on board . . . they are safely on board what?”

  Adlan looked back into the sky. “You will see, the world will see . . . very soon.”

  Anzor and Kerim stood on the deck of the Russian oil supertanker, Asheron. The tanker steamed slowly through the Bosporus Straight, the lights of Istanbul winked on as night descended. They were the last two crewmen to sign on. Their documents as Able Seaman were in order. That they did not speak much Russian was of little concern to ship management. Their duties would be general maintenance and cleaning, with some standing watch.

  Anzor and Kerim’s journey to Russia had been easy. Neither of them was on the radar for Interpol or the Russian Intelligence and Security force. They were new recruits. Travelling on fake Russian passports, they’d flown to Paris from Barcelona after their meeting with Adlan. They took a co
nnecting flight to Sevestapol the home of the pipeline terminal and port for Super Tankers in the Black Sea.

  Their biggest concern was getting on a crew of a supertanker, but within three days, they were successful. Anzor told Kerim that Allah smiled on their mission. Kerim wasn’t so sure. The younger brother, he’d been forced into this mission by his parents—he thought Allah would have had different ideas.

  The Asheron needed extra crew for the 40-day trip through the Mediterranean, the Suez, and down Pirate Alley along the treacherous coast of Somali, but it was hard to find willing crewmen. Ships increased pay rates, but thoughts of being captured by Somali pirates and spending days off the coast of Somali waiting for ransom or for commandos to storm the ship for their release were not appealing.

  Anzor put his arm around Kerim’s shoulder. “Fortune smiles on us my brother, and getting hired on this ship shows us we are blessed in our venture.”

  Kerim shrugged his shoulders and only a slight smile forced its way to his lips. “Anzor, you know I love you, and have always followed you in your vengeance against the Russians, but are we on the right path?”

  Anzor said, “Any strike against the Russians is a correct one.”

  Kerim looked at Anzor. He was much smaller than his brother, a slight wisp compared to his tall and thick sibling. “I do not know. This vessel carries three million barrels of oil; Adlan wants us to set the Bio Bugs in the middle of the Greek Islands. It sounds like he wants to attack the cruise ship and tourist industry rather than the Russians.”

  “Look, this is a Russian oil tanker; it will come apart at sea. You and I will watch in wonder from the life boats, and see the world condemn the Russians.” Anzor placed his mouth close to Kerim’s ear although there was no one close to them on the massive tanker. “But I know the real reason.”

  “And that is?” Kerim said.