“Yes, that is a possibility, only a theory, and of course, we would have to test it to ensure that our premise is correct,” Ramzan said.
Adlan pounded his fist on the table. “I have no time for your theories—we will find out everything we need to once the bugs are released into the ship—you can watch CNN, and you can validate your premise.”
“Anzor and Kerim, you hear me?” Adlan shouted into the phone.
A weak voice replied, “Yes.” It wasn’t clear if it was Anzor or Kerim. Zara thought it would be Anzor.
“Stick with the plan. I want the shipping channel I’ve chosen for release of the vials. Make sure you release where you can do maximum damage,” Adlan shouted into the phone.
“Yes,” came the reply.
Zara stood at the kitchen door listening to Adlan. He snapped his phone shut and threw it onto the floor. It bounced along the carpet and ended up by a chair. He put his head in his hands and breathed deeply. Zara knew there was no use in approaching him now.
She walked quietly out of the apartment. The Boqueria Market on Barcelona’s Ramblas street would have everything she needed for the feast she would make for Adlan tonight. She grabbed her three shopping bags, and checked herself in the hall mirror.
Zara wore a brown Abaya and a black hijab headscarf that covered her hair. She added a pair of dark imitation Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses to hide her eyes. An Arab woman in the Ravel neighborhood was not uncommon—she would blend in perfectly
It was already 9 a.m. and she needed to get going. The streets would be scorching with the temperatures reaching 37 Celsius by midday. She descended the stairs, smelling the morning coffee and fresh bread from other apartments. A mixture of voices, some Pakistani, some African, blended into a steady stream of background noise—and then she stopped—there was someone speaking a language that always struck fear in her. It was Russian.
She was at the bottom of the stair, her hands on the door to exit. She froze. Two men walked by in the street. They were speaking Russian to one another. They were dressed in dark pants, white shirts, dark jackets, and black shoes. There was an air of determination about them. Zara felt dryness in her throat. Her breathing became shallow.
Her first thought was, Russian tourists, they are everywhere now—how can I be so paranoid? She tried to let these thoughts soothe her paranoia, a technique she used so she would not panic. She would wait, watch the two go down the street, and then resume her journey to the market.
Zara took a deep breath, let it ease out and was about to push further out of the large apartment door when she caught sight of two more men. They met the other men on a corner. There was something about them. They were athletic-looking, and also wore jackets. Who wears a jacket in the heat of Barcelona in August? She thought.
The answer came to Zara like a bolt of electricity running through her body. These men were SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Everything about them screamed it to her. She watched through the crack in the door. They were motioning with their hands, looking at their phones. Their jackets would conceal weapons: guns, handcuffs, and Tasers.
One of the men looked back down the street toward Zara. She backed away into the shadow of the doorway. She didn’t close the door, for fear they would see it. Her heart pounded; she was sweating in her abaya. A long moment passed before she felt safe to look out again.
They had gone. The street was empty. A few children played down the street, and an old woman dressed in a hijab and abaya walked slowly with her daughter as they carried packages back from the market.
Zara composed herself and headed back up the stairs. Adlan needed to know the Russians were in the neighborhood, and they could only be looking for her. She had left a trail to Barcelona from Canada. She was in danger and so was Adlan.
Bernadette couldn’t speak at first. Seeing Chris there, he’d been the object of her avoidance for four weeks. Here he was in the flesh—remarkably good looking flesh, but with it came the guilt of her non-commitment.
“I see you’re heading somewhere,” Chris said softly, eying Bernadette’s suitcase.
Bernadette put the suitcase down, “Ah . . . yeah . . . a major case in Mexico, we got a lead on McAllen . . . and well you know, just got to follow the leads . . .” She let her words trail off.
“Are you’re on the case with Anton?”
“Anton?” Bernadette looked at Chris, his eyes had this accusing look, and the name Anton, had the sound of an accusation in them.
“Yes, Anton, I’m wondering if perhaps . . . you know . . . if you and him were now an item because . . .”
“Oh no,” Bernadette blurted out, her brain putting together Chris’s train of thought, “No, Anton and I, no we’re not in any way romantically linked, oh no, not even in the slightest,” She suppressed a slight giggle at the thought.
“Then why haven’t I heard from you in over four weeks?”
Bernadette looked at her watch, it was 6pm, and she had to be at the airport in less than twelve hours. Chris needed an explanation. She pulled him inside the door and closed the door behind him. She had some explaining to do.
Viktor Lutrova looked at his latest text message. There was no sign of Zara Mashhadov. There were now five teams of Russian Foreign Intelligence Service in Barcelona, and another three teams were on their way.
They had arrived by commercial flights from Amsterdam, Paris and Frankfurt. No Russian agent would land direct from Russia. They wanted their presence to be unknown. A house had been rented on the outside of Barcelona. The house was chosen because it was not close to other houses and had a basement. An interrogator was waiting there. He was waiting for the capture of Zara Mashhadov. He would extract the location of Adlan Kataev from Zara. The interrogator was proficient at this job, and only needed Zara to begin his duties.
Viktor glanced at his cell phone; another sweep of the Raval, Barcelona’s seediest area had revealed nothing. He was sweating. The heat of the stone buildings produced an oven-like affect for those foolish enough to be outside in it. Barcelona’s populace went to the market early, then stayed indoors until after a late lunch that was followed by a nap, and would only come outside in the evening for dinners that began at 10 p. m. and ended at midnight.
Agent Bronislav appeared at Viktor’s side, “I think we need to dress up our female agents.”
Viktor dropped his phone to his side. “Dress them as what—Flamenco dancers?”
Bronislav was taken aback by Viktor’s comment. “No, I think we should get Arab dress for them. They can wander the streets and not draw attention—like our men are doing.”
Viktor dropped his head slightly. “Yes, you’re right. We stand out like idiots walking around in our European clothing in an Arab neighborhood. Zara has spotted us by now, and will be hiding deep in her hole like a rabbit.”
Bronislav shook his head. “Don’t worry, it’s early yet. We have more agents coming, and Zara is going nowhere. And if she’s with that bastard Kataev, they can rot together until we catch them.”
Viktor smiled. “Bronislav, what would I do without your optimism?”
Bronislav laughed as he walked away. “You would be a traffic cop in Moscow.”
Viktor watched Bronislav walk down the filthy street. Bronislav was Vicktor’s second-in-command. He was mid-thirties, tall, and carried himself with an air that told you he felt good about himself. All the other agents liked him. He always made sure he was at your back.
Viktor was late forties, short for a Russian, with dark features and dark brooding eyes. His mother claimed there was some Manchurian influence in his father’s family, an influence that gave him a broad nose, broad face and thick features. His father never confirmed the genealogy as he was out of Viktor’s life soon after he was born.
Viktor Lutrova was the senior field officer with the SRV. He had spent several years in Chechnya hunting the Chechen terrorists, and his latest mission was to hunt the Chechens abroad. The Russian Foreign Intelligence ser
vice had long ago taken on the methods of the Israelis and the Mossad. You hunt them wherever they are—before they are able to attack your homeland.
Viktor was moved back to Russia in 2010, just after the bombing of the Metro station in Moscow by two Chechen women. Defending Russia against Chechen terrorism was made more complicated by the corruption of the Russian border patrol. A 5,000 Ruble note stuffed into a fake passport was all that most people needed to get across the Russian border.
Viktor made several attempts to discuss the lack of Russian border security with his superiors, and how it made his job harder when the border was so porous. After each attack on Russia, borders were closed, a few officials were fired, and then everything went back to the way it was, with the exception that it now took a 10,000 ruble note to get past some of the more discerning Russian border guards.
Viktor’s cell phone rang. The caller was one of his agents covering the Boqueria Market off the Ramblas. “What have you got?” was Viktor’s greeting.
The caller was Lena Batkin, a new hire right out of Moscow University, and other than her ability to speak Arabic fluently, Viktor was not sure if she was much use. She hadn’t developed any instincts yet. “We haven’t seen anything all morning. Now that it’s late morning, we’re getting all the tourists coming by.”
“And she could blend in with the tourists—couldn’t she?”
Lena paused on the phone. “Yes, she could do that.”
“Good, then stay there, and keep watching the market to see if she shows up.” Viktor punched his keypad to close his phone. He shook his head at the rookies that he was getting lately. His division should be staffed with the brightest and the best, and he was getting daughters of police chiefs who had done a favor for someone in the service, or had paid a bribe.
His cell phone rang again. This time it was Bronislav. “I think we have something.”
Viktor shielded his eyes from the high sun, “Where are you?”
“I’m just down the street, by the local market—we’ve been showing Zara’s picture, telling the Arab’s in the neighborhood that Zara was a kidnap victim and we’re offering a 5,000 Euro reward for information on her whereabouts.”
“Good thinking. I hope you have a spare 5,000 Euros,” Viktor replied.
Bronislav chuckled into the phone. “I think I have some counterfeit stuff on hand . . . so do you want to hear what I’ve got?”
“Sure, I’m always amazed at what information someone will come up with for 5,000 Euros. I’d tell you I’m a direct relation to Stalin,” Viktor said.
“Okay, this shopkeeper here says a woman matching Zara’s facial features was in his shop just yesterday. The shopkeeper’s wife said that the woman spoke Arabic but with a dialect she’d never heard before,” Bronislav said.
“Well, if someone had never heard Chechen Arabic, then yes, it would sound strange. Did they say where they think she lives?” Viktor asked.
“Yes, the shopkeeper’s wife watched her walk down the street, and enter the building you’re standing in front of.”
“Call all the other agents. Get a car and tell our interrogator we will have a nice warm body for him very soon.” Viktor punched his phone closed and looked up at the building he was standing in front of. They would wait until night, and enter the building quietly. Using listening devices and tiny cable cameras they would find out where Zara was. Viktor felt the triumph of her capture very near—he hadn’t been this happy and excited in months.
22
The oil super tanker plowed deeper into the Aegean Sea on its journey to the Mediterranean. Its blunt edged prow threw a thick sea spray over its array of pipes and valves that served to offload the mass of oil in its hold.
On the bridge deck, one crewman sat in the command chair. There was no wheel, but a lever on each side of the chair that sent instant commands to the mass of diesel engines below. An officer of the watch sat in the chair beside him, watching the horizon and the monitors displayed on the console in front of him.
Behind the crewman and the officer were another series of computer stations with rows of monitors. One officer watched a series of monitors that showed the immediate area around the tanker. Another monitor showed all vessels within 100 nautical miles.
The tanker was three football fields long and one wide. It took a full 15 minutes and eight kilometers to come to a stop, and needed a full two kilometers to make a turn. A ship like this needed other ships to keep out of its way. The officer on the radar made sure of that.
The tanker held three million barrels of oil. With a double hull and a state of the art leak detection system, it was deemed to be one of the safest tankers afloat. But if they had a fire or collision, they were sitting on a disaster at sea.
Another crewman watched a series of monitors that showed a bank of green lights. In both Russian and English, the warning stated:
FIRE CONTROL PANEL: ANY FIRE ALARM SHOULD BE TREATED LIKE A GENERAL ALARM.
Anzor and Kerim were at the center of the ship, kneeling down, and chipping away rust from the deck. From the bridge, they looked like mere ants on an expanse of metal. Anzor sweated in his coveralls. He was a large man and sweated easily. He stood up, arched his back and looked down at Kerim. “I think I know how we will attack this monster.”
Kerim did not look up from his work. “And how do you think we will do that?” He actually enjoyed the work he was doing. He hoped Anzor would fail, and they would sail for the full month on this magnificent ship.
Anzor wiped his face with a rag from his back pocket. “I met a man from Kurdistan last night named Goran. He is the one who oversees the main pump room. He will show me how to put our little bugs of mischief into all the compartments of this mighty ship, and pull her apart.” He threw his other hand into the air, to punctuate his statement.
Kerim looked up at Anzor, squinting in the sun. “And how will you make this Kurdistan man help you sink this vessel? Kurds do not hate Russians; they hate Turks and Iraqis. I remember my school teacher telling me the Russians were aligned with the Kurds.”
“Yes, yes, that is all true, but Goran thinks I want to become a lifetime sailor on tankers just like him. I told him, I no longer want to be a lowly maintenance worker.” Anzor puffed out his chest. “Yes, I am quite the story teller. I told him of my struggle to feed my wife and five children, my old mother who needs an eye operation, and several other tales of woe.”
Kerim sat back on his heels, and pointed with his chipping tool at Anzor. “So, you have told this man a pack of lies to curry his favor—if he only knew you were a single man who couldn’t commit to a decent woman, he would spit on your shadow.”
“Ha, this is very true, but what can I do? I am a marvel when telling tales . . .”
“What do you think this is, a luxury cruise? That we pay you to gab all day while we sail amongst the sights?” The words of their foreman brought them back to reality. Neither of them had seen him approach. Kerim and Anzor bent down with their chipping tools and waited for him to depart.
They chipped away in silence, until their foreman was gone. “We will be close to Mykonos and Naxos in three days. It will be imperative that we release our bugs into this ship then,” Anzor said. His head was bent down over his work. A bead of sweat edged its way from his eyebrow to his nose.
“Why do we do it there?”
“Maximum bloody damage,” Anzor said. “The shipping lanes are tight there. The coast of Mykonos will feel the blight of this monster’s hold, and people will rise up in hatred of the Russians.” Anzor bent down to his work, and they spoke no more of the plan for the rest of the day.
Kerim watched Anzor ingratiate himself with the Kurd called Goran. At each mealtime Anzor was at this side. Anzor would fetch Goran more tea or an extra sweet from the canteen. He sat in rapt awe as he asked Goran to tell him more about his home life, his past voyages, and the many values of being a merchant marine sailor.
By the third day, Goran was offering to give Anzo
r a lesson in his pump room as Anzor told Goran this was the job he wanted to do, and wanted to see if he was capable of it. As they walked out of the dining room, Anzor took Kerim aside.
Anzor looked both ways up the gangway to ensure no one would hear them. “Look, tomorrow night Goran will take me to the pump room to give me a lesson in its operation and you will arrive soon after with our little vials.”
“But how will we put the vials into the pump room mechanism with Goran still there?” Kerim looked around as he spoke softly.
“Easy, we will kill him.”
“Kill him . . . why do we need to do that?” Kerim whispered. A tightening in his throat cut off his voice. Kerim was committed to the cause, but had never killed a man, and did not know if he had the will to do so.
Anzor shook his head in disapproval. “My little brother, if we let him live, and if he survives the sinking of this ship—what do you think happens to us?”
Kerim bowed his head. The answer was obvious. He was no suicide bomber or willing to kill himself to sink this ship. The death of Goran was now an obvious choice. Something that just had to be done. “I guess you’re right.”
“That is the spirit. Now I will give you a wrench and when Goran and I are talking, you hit him a mighty blow to the head.”
“You want me to kill him!” Kerim blurted out the words out. He clasped his hand to his mouth and looked around. No one came out of the dining room. No one had heard them.
Anzor pulled Kerim close. “Look, I will keep him busy talking, and you come up from behind him. Very simple. One blow and he’s done.”
That night Kerim did not sleep. He tossed from one side of his small bunk to the next. Beside him in the small, darkened room that they shared, Anzor snored softly. He knew that killing someone had always been a possibility the moment they agreed to this mission. He thought it would be a bomb—triggered from a remote area—and that many Russians would die.
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 16
