Captain Johannes stood at the bridge, the phone clenched in his fist, his knuckles turning white as the blood drained from his hand. The grip on the phone was the one he imagined around Bleeker’s throat. He slammed the phone down. “Damn.”
His first officer visibly jumped beside him. The Captain was never one for outbursts, not even in their most dangerous times of sailing. The crew watched the Captain as he gave instructions to the first officer; they could see something was wrong.
“Slow speed to 10 knots, and turn back to our previous heading,” Johannes said in an almost whisper to the first officer.
“Aye, aye Captain,” the first officer repeated, then he gave the same instruction to the helm. The entire bridge crew knew what had happened. The head office in Miami had overruled their Captain, the one they all admired and would do anything for. They were not going to the aid of fellow sailors; they were making like they were disabled and heading for their original port.
The captain stormed off the bridge, the bridge crew could feel the heat of their captain’s anger as he walked by. It blended with the heat of the shame they felt for the actions of their ship.
Captain Kostas Yannatos on the Greek Coast Guard ship of the Hellenic Navy received the news from the Cruise ship Empress of Europe. He did not challenge the vessel’s information about being damaged. To Captain Yannatos, a deeply religious man, everyone’s actions were between themselves and their God.
Captain Yannatos told his helmsman to increase the speed of their 190-foot boat to its maximum 33 knots, and informed the other ships in the area to make haste, as the cruise ship would no longer be the first on the scene. He put down his phone, and made the sign of the cross over his chest, hoping they would be in time to save the sailors from the sinking tanker.
24
Adlan watched the BBC Europe News. News of the sinking supertanker in the Mediterranean was now breaking across the screen, with pictures of a map where the sinking was taking place.
News reporters, barely sounding awake, were weighing in from Athens, Haifa, and Istanbul. They were trying to talk coherently about a tragedy at sea involving an oil tanker. They were piecing the story together from Coast Guard reports. There would be no light for another five hours. No news helicopter would fly until dawn.
The ship’s owners, located in Sevastopol, Russia, did not want to comment. They were digesting the news themselves. There were three million barrels of their precious oil, to their knowledge, gushing out into the sea. They hadn’t even thought of the ecological damage. They just saw money leaking out of the hull of their tanker. Thirty-three million US dollars of crude oil was leaking into the Atlantic. They were liable for the huge cleanup bill. Several in the boardroom reached for a Vodka bottle.
The Greek Prime Minister made a statement regarding the potential destruction to the Greek fishing fleet and the tourist industry. Adlan could see the underlying tension on the Prime Ministers face. As if the Greek economic crisis had not been enough, the strikes, the loss of tourism—now this—millions of barrels of crude oil washing up on the picturesque Greek Beaches from Santorini to Rhodes. The losses would be catastrophic, and Adlan rubbed his hands in glee.
Zara stood in the kitchen and watched Adlan. They were holed up in this apartment until someone came for them. The clock was ticking. Either the Russian Security forces would find them, or the men Adlan had called to rescue them would get to them first.
Adlan’s cell phone rang. He put it to his ear, with a quick, “Yes. Speak.” He listened intently, nodded a few times, shook his head a few times, and then hung his head in his hands as he put the phone down.
“My scientist friend tells me that he cannot break the password for the formula you brought from Canada.” Adlan waved his hand at the television. “This was the last of the bugs in the hold of the supertanker. We just made a statement to Russia, by destroying pipelines and one of their great ships, and I have no more of this marvelous weapon.”
Adlan turned and gazed at Zara, “Unless you know who your dead Canadian friend gave the password to, then our campaign is finished before it gets fully started.” He waved back at the television. “So many more pipelines . . . more ships . . . I could get a hundred men lined up to do this destruction . . .”
“But isn’t it in the book I brought?” She thought of the book she had stolen from Goodman’s elderly neighbor. She thought she had closed all the loopholes and brought everything to Adlan.
“No, it was only a notebook of chemical formulas, very basic musings according to my scientist friend. He even tried using some of the names of the chemical elements to unlock the formula, but nothing worked . . . perhaps someone else has this password?” Adlan searched Zara’s face for an answer. She could see he was desperate to get his hands on more of this new weapon.
Zara’s face lit up. “Yes, yes, his professor friend, he talked about him with great reverence, and there was an address in the back of the book—somewhere in Mexico.”
Adlan stood up, and stretched. His shirt was covered in sweat. “Then that is where we are going.”
“Are you not satisfied with the destruction done already?” Zara asked.
“Ha, not even close. I will not be satisfied until the last pipeline in Russia stops delivering oil and every Russian tanker is sunk into the ocean. The Russian banks will dry up—their military will be broke, and they will leave my Chechnya in peace.” Adlan sat down again, and watched the TV.
Zara placed her hands on her hips. “And how will we get to Mexico? I told you the Russians are in the street looking for us.”
Adlan didn’t turn, he only raised his hand as he said, “They’ve chased me for years. I’ve felt their breath on my neck every time they’re close—we will be fine.”
A knock came at the door. Zara walked slowly to answer it. She held her breath as she opened the door. She expected to see Russian Security Forces. Instead, a man stood in the dimly lit hallway, wearing a bright green jacket and pants, with large bands of sliver stripes around the arms, torso and legs of his outfit. Barcelona Sanitation Corporation was written in Spanish on a badge of the jacket.
The man nodded to Zara, introduced himself as Cayo, and walked into the apartment with a large bundle under his arm. The bundle produced two outfits in sizes to fit Zara and Adlan, as well as work boots and gloves.
Adlan smiled at Zara. “You see Zara—transportation has arrived.” He put on his uniform, donned the boots, and Zara did the same. Zara tied a bandana over her hair, and wore a set of protective glasses. Adlan put on a baseball hat. Their disguises were complete.
They walked quickly down the stairs, Zara aware of the clump-clump that the work boots made. Her heart beating so fast she could hardly breathe. She expected a Russian agent to jump out of every apartment door they passed.
In the darkened street outside, a Barcelona Sanitation truck was idling. A stream of diesel from the twin exhaust pipes mixed with the humid air and stench from the street. Zara’s stomach did a double take from the anxiety and the smell.
Cayo instructed Zara and Adlan to follow him as they picked up trash along the streets and dumped it into the back of the truck. They hung on the back of the large truck, its air brakes sounded and they lurched forward. In front of every apartment building, they stopped and picked up trash.
Their garbage truck passed by a group of men getting out of two cars and rushing into a building directly across from where Zara and Adlan were staying. They had the look, the determined fierceness in their eyes of Russian Security Forces as they sprinted toward the apartment door. The same door Zara would always go into when coming home, then go out the back and walk two blocks to their apartment. Adlan had always drilled into her to never go directly into a hiding place. His teaching had saved their lives.
As they bounced along in the back of the garbage truck they passed Spanish Police checkpoints, the Guardia Urbana of Barcelona and the Mossos d’ Esquadra of Catalonia. Zara knew if the latter were at the checkpoi
nts that they were the force looking out for terrorist. They were looking for them. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and picked up more trash. The stench of the trash engulfed her in the humid Barcelona night. She kept her head down as they drove by the checkpoints.
After two agonizing hours, the garbage truck left the Ravel area they had been hiding in and bounced down a main street, then onto a dimly lit side street. Cayo motioned for them to follow him. In a small doorway they shed their uniforms and said their goodbyes to Cayo. As the garbage truck pulled away, a white delivery van pulled up.
Zara remembered little of the next several hours inside the van. The van smelled of Spanish sausage and ham. The pungent ripeness of Chorizo sausage was in her hair by the time they got out of the van outside a small village. The village signs were in French.
There was a shower in the small house, a change of clothes, and Adlan gave Zara her new passport. She was a Canadian again, a former Czech, named Leona Novak and Adlan was Alex, her husband. They lived in Toronto, and were travelling from Marseille to Atlanta and then to Cancun.
Adlan gave Zara the backstory for their cover. Something he always did. They would have to go through US Customs to go to Cancun, Mexico, and a Canadian passport was their best bet for travel. Adlan said, “Zara, the Mossad of Israel’s Secret Service, the CIA, and even Al Qaeda use the Canadian passport for travel, should we not follow their example and use the best?”
They left Marseille at 6 a.m. the next morning, caught the connecting flight in Atlanta with no questions from US customs authorities and landed in Cancun after a 20-hour flight. Zara only breathed a slight sigh of relief as they travelled toward the town where they thought Professor McAllen might be hiding.
She knew when they found McAllen if he did not give them the password they needed to open up the Bio Bug formula that Adlan would torture him until he did. Adlan knew how to torture; he had learned from what the Russians had done to him. And they had done everything possible. His body showed the scars.
Bernadette woke up at three am. Chris was still sleeping; he lay like a Greek god, with muscles that look like they’d been chiseled out of marble. She grabbed a small blanket from the bed, and wrapped herself and went into the kitchen. A full moon was shining in the window.
A slight doubt settled over her. In between all the lovemaking they’d talked about their future. Maybe they’d both just quit the force, and take other jobs, and maybe move to Vancouver or to Calgary where they could work for private security companies in the oil industry, and make real money, and have real vacations.
She poured herself a glass of water and powered on her phone. She hadn’t checked texts or emails for hours. In just four hours from now she was supposed to be boarding a plane to join the hunt for McAllen. The unexpected arrival of Chris had put this large question mark on her future, what was she to do next?
A stream of messages and texts flowed across her phone. They were all from Anton. Where was she? He’d called her hotel, the one she was supposed to have checked into near the airport. Was she planning to make the flight?
Bernadette closed her eyes tight, and then opened them wide. “Yes,” she texted back to Anton, “I’m on my way.”
She didn’t bother going back into the bedroom to get dressed. She grabbed some clothes from her suitcase, put them on and headed out the door.
She left a note for Chris.
Sorry, duty calls. Perhaps love will find a way, I’ll see you when I get back.
And yes, I do love you.
Bernadette.
She backed out of her driveway at 3:30 am. She would make that flight, she might have to put the siren on, and clear the way on her radio with any other officers on the road, but she would make that flight.
25
The super tanker bled oil. The Bio Bugs ate through the double walled hull, and thousands of holes developed that gushed the black oil into the sea. The ship took on water, and started to sink quickly. A sickly wrenching sound was heard by the sailors in the lifeboats as the tanker started to descend beneath the waves.
A small freighter approached what was left of the tanker. Only the stern section and top wheelhouse remained. The Bio Bugs attacked it from the outside. The freighter was sinking in a matter of minutes and issuing a Mayday distress call. The Greek coast guard that came to the aid of the freighter found their ship started to sink as well.
The Greek coast guard Captain sensed there was a strange force in the water, and informed all other ships to stay clear of the area. He got his men into lifeboats and watched as his beloved ship sank below the waves, disappearing at an alarming rate. He called the Greek Navy, and told them to send helicopters to the area; there was something ominous in the water. He thought perhaps the Russian supertanker had released it.
The Greek Coast Guard Captain watched a wave leave what was left of his ship, and head for the only set of blinking lights on the moonlit horizon. It was the cruise ship. He called the Coast Guard dispatch on his cell phone. He told them to let the cruise ship know they were in trouble if they continued at their current speed. He hoped the captain of the cruise ship would understand his message. Captain Johannes of the cruise ship Empress of Europe received the message from the Greek Coast Guard, “There’s some kind of wave heading for us sir, and we’re to make all possible speed to leave the area.” His first officer reported.
Johannes went onto the flying bridge, and picked up a set of high-powered binoculars. The sea was smooth as glass. A bright moon shone in cloudless skies. He thought maybe it was a rogue wave, something in the area of 60 to 80 metres high. But even if it was, his ship could withstand almost any wave.
“Do you see anything?” Johannes asked.
“Yes I see it,” the first officer replied. “I see a wave of one metre high and about one hundred metres wide. I estimate it is traveling at 18 knots. At our present speed this wave will reach us in 20 minutes.
“Very well,” Johannes replied. He thought of his options. If he put his engines at full thrust the Greek Coast Guard would know he was lying about his engine trouble. And throwing full power to engines took time. A massive cruise ship like his wasn’t a speedboat.
Johannes turned to his first officer, “Monitor the wave, I’m sure this is a wave from the sinking of the tanker.”
The first officer gave a crisp “Aye, aye Captain,” in reply, and the Captain made his way back to his cabin.
The Captain was just getting into bed when the bridge called to tell him the ship had suffered a hull breach. Before the Captain could get his clothes on, the ship was listing badly. By the time he reached the deck the abandon ship announcement was given. He never reached the bridge to consult with his crew; a massive lurching of the ship threw him overboard.
Kerim watched the black wave attack the freighter, the Coast Guard vessel, and then head toward the large profile of the cruise liner on the horizon. He saw the how fast the Bio Bugs attacked and disintegrated each of the vessels. Kerim thought, “What madness have we unleashed from these vials?” This was supposed to be an attack on one Russian oil tanker. It was now an attack on any metal vessel in the area.
The small Greek fishing boat was made of wood. Kerim, a scientist at heart, figured the propeller was made of brass, and that was the reason that the boat was still chugging along, its prow pushing the waves at a laboring 8 knots. The captain and two crew of the fishing vessel had decided they had rescued Kerim and Anzor from the tanker; and that was their contribution to the rescue effort. The scene of sinking ships around them was frightening. They were now plowing their way away from this strange wreckage of ships as fast as their boat could chug.
Anzor lay on the deck, his large stomach heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His arm was bleeding. A steady stream of bright red blood gushed forth and mixed with the black oil on the deck. Kerim realized he had to staunch the blood flow. He grabbed a rag from a coil of fishing lines and attempted to tie a tourniquet above the wound. As he did so, the oil-so
aked rag brushed the wound.
Anzor looked up at Kerim, “Thank you my brother, you saved my life. I realize you have some shortcoming as a true warrior but you are brave and . . .”
Kerim looked down at Anzor. Anzor’s eyes went wide, his mouth opened in anguish. “What is it?”
Anzor shuddered, “Kerim, I feel like I am burning inside . . . I . . .” His body went limp, and started to shrink in size.
The Greek sailors cried out in fear. They could see Anzor drying like a black olive in the late sun. His eyes became sullen; his large stomach flattened, and fell below his rib cage in seconds.
“Anzor, Anzor, what has happened to you?” Kerim asked, slapping his brother’s cheeks. He could see it was no use. Anzor was dead. The once mighty, bellicose, and sometimes brutal Anzor lay on the deck, half his former size. Something had got inside him from the sea, and killed him from inside.
Kerim heard the Greek Captain of the fishing boat yell something to the deckhands. A moment later, Anzor was taken from Kerim’s lap and thrown overboard. Kerim did not protest, he understood the fear, the strange events the Greeks had just witnessed. They stood on the deck and made the sign of the cross as Anzor’s body sunk beneath the black waves.
26
Viktor Lutrova sat hunched in the back of the Mercedes SUV. He held a cell phone to his ear; his other hand massaged the back of his neck.
His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips tight. He nodded only once or twice or said, “Yes,” in Russian to the caller on the phone.
Bronislav leaned against the back of the SUV smoking a cigarette, a cloud of smoke mixed with his breath in the early morning air. Elena Batkia strolled by the window of a French bakery. The Boulanger was not open yet. They wouldn’t open for another hour. Smells of baguette and croissant assailed their nostrils and made their stomachs grumble with hunger.
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 18
