by Dave Edlund
“Yes; our only customer for now. We haven’t been granted an export license, even to NATO countries that are our closest allies.”
“Guns are an old and proven technology. Everyone has access to them, and they are pretty durable and cheap. So what makes your invention special? Why is it export restricted?”
“The answer is simple—noise. Or, more correctly, the lack thereof. With your background in the military, Jim, you can understand how useful a nearly silent weapon can be in certain circumstances.”
“Of course. As SEALs, we always used suppressors on our weapons. Kept the bad guys from guessing our exact location. They can’t hit what they can’t find.”
Todd spoke up, “We’ve done a fair amount of testing in the shop, and the magnetic impulse technology—we call it MI—is much quieter than a suppressed 9mm. Isn’t that right, Peter? And even with this nine-inch barrel we can push out a projectile at up to—”
Peter interrupted, “Let’s just say we can deliver several times the muzzle velocity of a standard 9mm round and be virtually silent. And unlike conventional guns, the shooter can turn the power up or down to adjust the muzzle velocity of each and every shot. The benefit is that sometimes you may want a subsonic projectile and at other times you may want maximum velocity.”
“I see. Now I understand why the government is showing interest. Judging from our surroundings, I’d guess they’re giving you enough business?”
Peter smiled. “Business is good enough that I can keep a small group employed. In addition to Todd and his two machinists, we have two mechanical engineers that make sure we have complete documentation packages. They also help with the design work.”
Jim was genuinely impressed. “If you ever need help with field testing, just let me know.”
Peter smiled. “The basic model is single-shot, but we’re currently prototyping a six-shot version—kind of like a futuristic revolver. I’d be happy to send one of the prototypes to you in about three weeks if we can get the proper authorizations in place.”
“Excellent. When I’m back at my office I’ll send an official request to you. I’m confident you’ll find the security clearance and authorization are more than adequate.”
“It’s a deal. Now, if we’re going to make our reservation at Anthony’s, we better get going.”
Jim thanked Todd and followed Peter out the street-level entrance into the cool evening air. As the door closed, Jim said, “You know, you should think about upgrading your security. Looks to me like you just have a standard commercial system.”
Peter was taken aback by the comment. “It satisfies our DoD contract monitor. Besides, the neighborhood here is pretty quiet.”
“I’m sure it is. But the desk jockeys at Defense seldom have the first clue as to what adequate security really means. Just a thought. I can have one of my techs follow up with you if you’d like.”
Peter nodded. “The system we have has worked fine for us. But, sure, have him give me a call sometime.”
Jim inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh air. He also noticed how quiet it was, with little street noise compared to his work and living environment in Sacramento. This was despite the many pedestrians window-shopping the store fronts lining both sides of the street. As they walked to the restaurant, Jim paused at Lahaina Gallery to admire a western bronze sculpture of a cowboy sitting tall in his saddle.
“When did you take to western art and clothing?” inquired Peter.
“Not quite fitting with my Greek heritage?”
“I didn’t mean that. Just curious, since I don’t recall you showing any interest in boots and hats and cowboy culture in high school.”
“Hey, we all change as we grow up, right? For me, it was an awareness of the outdoors. Wide-open spaces, wildlife, being close to the land. And, I suppose some of that John Wayne philosophy from the movies resonated with me when I was leading men into conflict.”
“You mean good guys versus bad guys?”
Jim smiled at the simplification, knowing there was a strong core of truth in Peter’s question. “It’s not as corny as it sounds.”
Now it was Peter’s turn to smile. “Sure, buddy. I believe you.”
They finished the short walk to Anthony’s in silence. Peter checked in with the hostess and they were seated promptly at a large table for two next to a wall of glass. Beyond the windows lay a manicured lawn, and beyond that a walking path and the Deschutes River. There was a steady stream of joggers and people walking both ways on the path, many with dogs on leash.
“This must be a paradise for people who enjoy the outdoors,” Jim observed.
“That it is. You’d be surprised at the number of folks who have moved to Bend primarily for that reason.”
“Maybe someday I will, too.”
Their conversation was interrupted by their waiter who took their drink order and recited the daily specials. Despite the crowd, service was punctual. Laughing and telling stories, they tried hard to recount all that had happened in their lives since graduating from high school in Sacramento. Eventually the conversation returned to work.
“You said you work for military intelligence. Do you travel a lot?”
“Yeah, but usually not to vacation destinations.”
“Any exciting stories to tell?” Peter knew he was pushing.
“Only if you have the proper security clearance,” answered Jim with a polite smile. But before Peter could answer, Jim continued, “And yours isn’t high enough.”
“How do you know?” retorted Peter, somewhat defensively.
“Let’s just say I do, and leave it at that.”
“Okay… for now. But I have a feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Just then the waiter arrived and cleared their plates from the table. Neither had room for dessert, so Peter paid the bill and they vacated their table.
As they were walking back, Peter glanced at his watch—the evening was still young. “Can I interest you in a drink?”
“Sure, if you’ll let me buy.”
“We can arm wrestle over it. There’s a nice bar just ahead to the right.”
They took a small table looking toward the west. A dozen or more conversations blended into a din, forcing Peter and Jim to raise their voices somewhat to be heard. The waitress brought a generous bowl of pistachio nuts and took their orders: a gin martini, shaken, three olives for Peter and a vodka tonic for Jim.
“So tell me, Jim, what really brings you to Bend?”
“Well, actually I’m passing through on business. I have a meeting in Corvallis tomorrow.”
“Really? My father works in Corvallis at Oregon State University. He’s a Professor of Chemical Engineering.”
As the drinks arrived, Jim continued, “How is your dad doing these days?”
“Pretty well, I suppose. He still works hard but seems to enjoy it. He has enough seniority that he doesn’t have to teach anymore. Now he focuses solely on his research—he’s working in the field of geochemistry. Seems to have a productive collaboration going with a Japanese professor.”
“So tell me about your kids, Ethan and Jo.”
Peter smiled at the question. “Ethan is attending the University of Oregon. He’s in his second semester and still hasn’t declared a major yet. Joanna is an interior designer. She’s a partner at a local firm and seems to be enjoying herself, and she makes a good living. She did all the decorating in my home, even helped me pick out the furniture.”
“Did she advise you on that pool table too?”
Laughing, Peter answered, “No, I was able to choose that on my own.”
Jim noticed that through all the conversation, Peter had not mentioned anything of Maggie. He decided to probe further. “How is Maggie?”
Peter’s smile vanished. He looked down and became quiet. His face, which had been bright and full of cheer, was now dark and sad, and his eyes seemed to sink back into his head with a faraway look.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked
.” Jim immediately recognized his mistake.
Peter shook his head, but didn’t look up. “Maggie died a little over two years ago. She was in a car accident—you know, slick winter roads.” Peter drew a deep breath before continuing. “She was in intensive care for five days. We tried to maintain hope, but the doctors were pretty clear. The head trauma was too severe for recovery. Only machines were keeping her alive; there was no brain activity.”
Peter paused again and fought back tears. “Maggie had always told me that she didn’t want to exist as a vegetable. If that ever happened, she wanted me to pull the plug. It said so in her advance directive, too.”
Another pause and Peter cleared his throat. Even though he was still looking down at his drink, Jim could see that Peter’s eyes were moist; a single tear was slowly tracing a wet line on his cheek.
Finally Peter spoke. “She had no other family, only me and the kids.” He shrugged his shoulders before continuing. “So, I did what she asked.” As he confessed this, a second, larger tear rolled down his face.
“Hey man, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you went through.”
Peter nodded subtly. “Well, as they say, life goes on. It still hurts though. I think it always will.”
Both men were quiet—Jim didn’t know what to say. Then Peter spoke, still staring at his drink, his face devoid of emotion except for the wet lines on his cheeks. “Jess—was our dog. Maggie trained her; I was no good at that, and she loved training her.”
Peter looked out the large wall of windows. The sun had just set and a brilliant red glow shown off high, thin clouds above the mountains. “She loved this view. We would come here for cocktails and just to talk. She was fond of vodka tonics, too.”
Jim looked at his drink and felt strangely guilty for surfacing the memory.
“It hasn’t been the same… you know, since she died. We shared so much, and she meant everything to me. I never thought it could come to an end. Then, one day… pretty much just an ordinary day… it did.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. I wish I could have been here for you.”
Peter was still staring off into the distant horizon. “The emptiness was all-consuming.” Peter spoke as if no one was around to hear him—his voice soft, almost a whisper. “I didn’t know what to do. One morning I found myself staring at the wrong end of a gun. But I couldn’t do it. I love my children too much, I suppose.”
Peter shifted his eyes, taking Jim in as if seeing him for the first time. “I devoted myself to my work and my children. It’s better now, but I’m not the same man I was.”
Jim could see that the memories and pain were still very strong, and some were connected to this bar. “Come on, Peter, let’s go.”
Jim paid the tab and they left. Neither man spoke during the short walk back to Peter’s condo.
Once inside, Peter seemed relaxed again, having pushed the pain back into the far corners of his mind. Jim took note of how quickly and markedly Peter’s personality had snapped back from that of the grieving widower once they stepped into the condo. He was no psychologist, but he wondered if the loss felt by his wife’s death had altered Peter’s mental state a bit more than a normally grieving person might experience.
Jim sat in an over-stuffed leather chair, one of two facing the massive fireplace. A small table separated the chairs. Peter quickly laid a fire and soon it was crackling and giving off comforting warmth. Then he put a CD in the player, selecting Jimmy Buffett’s Songs You Know by Heart.
“Can I offer you a Scotch? I have a broad selection of single malts.”
Jim was eager to have the conversation move in a new direction. “Since I’m not driving anywhere tonight, sure. What do you recommend?”
“Lately I’ve been rather fond of Oban. It’s not too peaty.”
Peter retrieved a bottle and two small tumblers from a shelf in the bookcase and poured a shot for Jim and one for himself. Reclining into the large chair next to Jim, he took a sip. “So where is your meeting tomorrow in Corvallis?”
“At Oregon State University. I’m meeting with your father.”
Peter raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Really? Why didn’t you say so earlier. What’s up? I’m surprised my father would agree to meet with someone from military intelligence—he hates the military.”
“I sort of guessed that; he was a difficult man to persuade. Actually, that’s why I’m here. I need your help.”
“What do you need my help for? You said you had a meeting scheduled; Dad won’t stand you up. If he agreed to meet, he will.”
“I’m part of a team investigating a matter of national security. I need to interview your father because we think he could become unwittingly involved. We also have reason to believe his life could be in danger.”
Peter set his glass down and sat upright, looking squarely at Jim. “You’re joking, right? Exactly which agency did you say you work for?”
“I didn’t. But they’re all the same, just different bowls of alphabet soup—NSA, DIA, CIA. I work at a place simply called The Office. Catchy, isn’t it? It’s a different world since 9/11.”
Peter stared at his friend, contemplating what he had said. “Dad’s a professor in the chemical engineering department. He works on far-fetched geochemical theories. I’m not really sure exactly what his research area is, but it’s hard for me to believe that it could have anything to do with national security, or terrorism, or whatever.”
“I understand how bizarre this sounds. But believe me, I wouldn’t be asking for your help if I didn’t think it was in the best interests of you, your father, and our country.”
“You know, I wasn’t really buying your story that you just happened to be cruising through Bend.”
Jim silently held Peter’s gaze, choosing not to offer any further explanation.
“Okay, tell me why you think Dad needs help.”
“Your father’s work is related to a field of study called abiogenic, or abiotic, petroleum formation. There are some credible theories that petroleum and natural gas are made all the time through reactions deep within the earth. No one really understands how, but we think your father is close to finding some key answers.”
Peter was transfixed, absorbing all Jim was saying and trying to make sense of it. His father had never spoken much about his research, so Peter really didn’t know if Jim’s facts were correct or not.
Finally Peter shook his head. “I’m not following you. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re right and Dad’s work is aimed at figuring out how oil is made. So what? Why would that make him a target?”
“We don’t know. There are too many pieces missing from the puzzle. What we do know is that in the last six months, many prominent researchers in the field of abiogenic oil formation have been murdered or have died under very suspicious circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“In June, 45 delegates at the Hedberg conference in Caracas were blown up by terrorists. Those delegates were all attending a special conference session on theories of abiogenic oil production. Many of those murdered were American citizens.”
“Suicide bombers are blowing up innocent people every day. Why do you think that was different?”
“The terrorists had made a demand for ransom, and while the authorities were putting together a response, the bombs were detonated. Why would they do that? Why detonate the bombs when there was still a chance of negotiating the ransom and safe passage?
“And there are others. A professor from Georgia Tech was murdered in London in early June—ricin poisoning. He was a close collaborator of many of the delegates murdered at the Hedberg conference. And before that, in May, a leading theorist in abiogenic oil production was shot—execution style—on the streets of Kiev. There have been many others. Do I need to go on?”
Peter sat stunned, not knowing what to say. Jim finished his Scotch and looked at Peter. “I can see that your father is stubborn, and he’s very skeptical that his work has any sign
ificance on the scale I’ve described to you. I need your help to convince him to lay low for a while and let my team have time to figure this all out. I can put a 24 hour guard on him, but that only works if we have his cooperation.”
“All right,” Peter replied. “I’ll go along with you, and we’ll talk to Dad together. What time is your appointment?”
“Just before lunch, 11:00 A.M., at his office in Gleason Hall.”
“We’ll need to be on the road early in case we hit traffic. Perhaps we should call it a night.”
Peter finished his Scotch in one gulp, and the two friends retired to their rooms. But it would be a fitful night for Peter.
Chapter 3
September 12
Moscow, Russian Federation
Sitting comfortably in his oversized black leather office chair, Grigory stared out the large window at the cold rain, considering the timing of the next operation. His office overlooked the Moskva River and beyond that, the Kremlin. As befits a man of his stature and power, he had visited the Kremlin many times. While he gazed at the golden domes decorating this seat of power, his thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his cell phone.
“Yes?” he said.
“Sir, we have learned that the target is meeting with an American intelligence operative tomorrow at his office.”
“Hmm. What do we know about the American agent?”
“Very little, sir. I have resources looking into it as we speak. The man’s name is Commander James Nicolaou. He does not appear to work for the CIA or NSA.”
“Then he must work for the Pentagon. Check the military databases. Stay on it, and let me know immediately when you have more information.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a pause, then the man spoke again. “Shall I have a local operative tail the agent after his meeting tomorrow?”
Grigory thought for a moment. This was an unwelcome intrusion into his plan. “Have two teams at the university, well in advance of the meeting. I don’t want any mistakes. And record the conversation—all of it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Chairman,” said the voice over the phone.
Grigory narrowed his eyes. “You know the protocol, do you not?” It was not a question that he expected to be answered.
