Final Finesse

by Karna Small Bodman

  “Christ! You’re right.” He ran his fingers through his hair and swore again. He shoved his chair back so hard, it almost toppled over. He reached back and caught it before it hit the floor. “Sorry. But I’ve gotta make a call.”

  He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number. “Calling our control center. This is far out, but we’ve gotta check it out.”

  Tripp talked to their chief engineer and explained Samantha’s theory. The engineer said he had thought about the pigs, but dismissed the idea, calculating that they were way too sophisticated for a bunch of terrorists to figure out. Then again, if Tripp wanted an inspection done, he’d get on it immediately and report back as soon as possible. Tripp shoved the phone back in his pocket.

  Samantha had cleared their plates and was loading the dishwasher when Tripp came into the kitchen. “Inspection’s under way. Trouble is, if they find out some of the pigs are missing, there’ll be hell to pay with our security, and we still won’t have any idea who took them and where they might strike next. That is, if there is a next time.”

  “Looks like you’ll have more to do than just an inspection,” Samantha said, carefully lining up the wine glasses in the dishwasher.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How about an inspection, or surveillance if you will, of all your employees? Email? Phone calls?”

  “You think it could have been some of our people? You can’t mean that.”

  She turned to face him. “Look, I have no idea who’s doing this, but I think we’re agreed that it wasn’t just faulty maintenance. It’s sabotage. And sabotage means a threat to the country. At least parts of the country. And sabotage could mean threats to a lot more people, their jobs, their lives if we don’t figure out what’s happening here.”

  “I know you’re right. It’s just that I can’t fathom why anyone who works for us would blow up his own livelihood. I mean, what are the chances that we have terrorists on the payroll of GeoGlobal for God’s sake?”

  “Probably slim, I admit. But we’ve got to check out every possible lead here. You know that,” she said emphatically.

  “So I get the company to review email and phone records. That’ll probably end in lawsuits over privacy and all that crap.”

  “What choice do you have? The company has a right to check emails of its own employees, you know. It’s not like you’re the phone companies we asked to help us after 9/11.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Look what happened to those guys.”

  “I know. But we’ve simply got to get to the bottom of this before any more lines get blown up. And before any more firemen die or other people freeze to death,” Samantha said.

  “You’re right. Come sit down. I’ve got more to tell you.”

  “More?”

  “Yes.” He took her hand and let her back into the living room. He pulled her down next to him on the couch. “Come here. I know we’ve been talking about this gas line disaster, but there’s something else we have to talk about. And by the way, I miss you already.”

  “What do you mean? I’m right here,” she said, moving in closer.

  “I have to take a trip.”

  “A trip? Where?”

  “To Venezuela.”

  “Venezuela? You mentioned that once before. But why now? Since it’s the Christmas season, I was going to invite you to …”

  “To what?” he asked.

  “The senior staff Christmas party in the East Room.”

  “At the White House?”

  “Sure. The president and first lady will be there. It’s a nice affair. I thought you might like to come with me. It’s next week.”

  “Damn. There is nothing I would rather do than stay here and be with you. Party sounds good, but I don’t think I’ll be here that long. It’s not like I want to go to that damn country. But we talked about how their crazy president is threatening to take over our last oil and gas division down there.”

  “Yes, I know. They’ve nationalized just about everything else in sight.”

  “The thing is I think they still need some people in the fields who actually know what the hell they’re doing. The head of our South American operations has been talking to them, trying to stave this off, but they keep making puny offers for our facilities, and it’s getting dicey. We have a hell of an investment in that country. We don’t want to have to write it all off. Besides, we need the oil. And if they take it over, they’ll screw it up for sure.”

  “When would you have to leave?” she asked.

  “Not sure. I’m waiting to hear back. Oh, and that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?” she said, raising her troubled eyes to his.

  “The hearings.”

  “You mean the congressional hearings on the gas lines?”

  “They’re trying to schedule them,” Tripp said.

  “Will you have to testify?”

  “I’ll get the testimony in order, but if I have to head south, we’ve got Godfrey Nims. He’s our chief lobbyist and a very bright guy. Then again, they may demand that our CEO, somebody higher up on the food chain, come before the committee so they can have a really high profile officer to beat up. They usually do.”

  “I heard that they wanted to have a hearing pretty soon, but now you’re saying you might have leave before that?”

  “As I said, I’m just not sure yet.” He stood up, pulling her up with him. “So what say we don’t waste what little time we have now.”

  She leaned into him, raising her mouth for the kiss she knew was coming. It was long, deep. She loved his mouth, his tongue, the way he held her in an almost vice like grip. With all the tensions in her life, being in his arms was turning out to be the one place she felt safe. Protected. Almost cherished. But now that she’d found him, he was about to leave her.

  Suddenly, he pulled away, stood, picked her up and started to walk back to her bedroom. Nobody had picked her up since she was about four years old. Now this man who had so captured her imagination over a decade ago was carrying her through the condo. It was obvious where they would end up. She didn’t object. Why would she?

  Maybe she’d only known him a short while. And yet, she felt she had known him for years, starting back at Princeton when she had fantasized about a moment just like this. She leaned her head against his neck as he gently deposited her on top of the green and white comforter. She lay against the shams and throw pillows that were arranged in front of a carved walnut headboard.

  He lay down next to her and took her in his arms once more. “I want you, Samantha. I’ve wanted you since the first day I laid eyes on you.”

  “Not at Princeton? she teased.

  “Yes, even back at Princeton when I saw you in a hallway,” he murmured, gazing into her eyes.

  It had been a long time, such a long time since a man had treated her this way. A long time since a man, any man, had gotten this close to her. There had been no one. Not since Dexter.

  She had a fleeting thought about the framed photograph on the living room table. Tripp had never asked. She had never volunteered. She knew she’d tell him some time. But not now. Now, she wanted to feel again.

  But what would happen next? When would he leave her? When would she see him again? So many questions. As for any answers, she had absolutely no idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CARACAS–FRIDAY MORNING

  “Did you see this report from the American drug czar?” the fixer asked, holding an article in one hand and opening the door to the presidential limousine with the other.

  “Of course, I saw it. Drug czar. The Americanos give their people fancy titles, but in truth, they are powerless to do their jobs. I saw another report about those places in the states that call themselves Sanctuary Cities. Can you believe they actually protect drug dealers who get arrested for going across the border illegally? Make a note to send even more of our best cocaine and our most clever sellers north again to those particular cities so that even if
they do get caught, they’ll be okay until our lawyers can get them out.”

  The fixer settled into the back seat, took a pad from his pocket and made some notes. Referring to his own article again, he said, “That so-called czar told the press that the drug cartels are using our ports to ship cocaine to Europe.”

  El presidente mumbled, “Of course they are. So?”

  The fixer continued to read, “And the number of flights from Venezuela suspected of ferrying Colombian cocaine to Haiti, the Dominican Republic and other transfer points have increased by 167 percent in the last year.”

  The dictator chuckled. “And what does it say they’re going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. They do complain a lot though.”

  The driver pulled away from the palace and headed through the teeming city, surrounded by security teams in front and behind the limo.

  “Let them complain,” the president continued. “As long as we get our cut, why should we be bothered because their people are so stupid they buy every drug that hits their streets? Of course the flights are increasing. It’s big business.”

  “Speaking of flights, I have a meeting this afternoon when we get back. It’s with the Iranian ambassador about the Caracas-Tehran route.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s going well. Our Conviasa Airlines and Iran Air have a new code sharing agreement. We are going to be talking about increasing the number of direct flights between our cities.”

  “Good news, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed. And in my meeting, I have a few more ideas about increased trade with Iran. I won’t bore you with the details. Just trust me on this one.”

  “I always trust you, my friend,” el presidente said.

  “And speaking of trust, since our little project to raise gas prices and create a bit of havoc up in the states is going so well, I’ve decided that next week, I will use our field office for a while. We have worked out our signals. I will be monitoring the location of all of your speeches. I’ll know when to contact our agents. I think it’s probably wise for me to handle all of these details and stay out of sight for a while. After all, we want you to have, how do they call it? Oh yes. Plausible deniability,” the fixer said.

  The president’s mouth curved into a half smile. “Yes. That would be wise. I am watching the price fluctuations and seeing all of the reactions on CNN. The stupid Americanos have no idea what is happening in their country. Their Congress will hold hearings, but they’ll never figure it out. We are too clever with our scheme.” He turned to the fixer, “Your scheme actually. And it is brilliant. They think they are so superior. We will teach them who is superior, who has the natural resources, who will benefit when the price goes through the roof. Sure they have their own gas production, but they still need our oil and gas. Now they will need more. They can afford to pay. Our people will reap the benefits. Yes, it is a brilliant plan.”

  “And I have a few more ideas about how to make this even move effective,” the fixer said. “And, as we are agreed, you don’t need to be bothered with the details. You can just leave them to me.”

  “By the way,” the president said, “is there anything new on the negotiations with GeoGlobal? Are they finally seeing the light?”

  “Their president for South America, Victor Aguilar, may know his business but he doesn’t know ours. He keeps refusing our offer for their operations.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  “I hear they may be sending down some negotiator from the states.”

  “Good. Let him come. We still won’t change our position. Even if they ask for arbitration like ExxonMobil did, that will take years to settle. I am not concerned. It will cost them money. Meanwhile, we take their oil and gas and get even higher prices for it. Thanks to all of your plans.”

  The fixer pulled on his pristine white cuffs and wiped a speck of lint from his navy blue suit. As their motorcade moved to the outskirts of the city, el presidente glanced over and said, “You may be a bit overdressed for this stop.”

  “We won’t be there long and, as I said, I have a meeting later this afternoon.”

  After several more minutes, the motorcade pulled up at a construction site down the road from the La Planta jail where hundreds of prisoners were crowded into small cells.

  “We can’t stop at La Planta,” the fixer remarked as they parked at the new site. “We’d cause another riot. We had enough of those last month.”

  “Why would we want to? We don’t need to spend time with that scum. Nothing but gangs and common criminals over there.”

  The president’s body guards swarmed around the car and opened his door to the jarring sounds of hammers, shouts, and the incessant beeping of trucks backing up to the side of the building. “I just want to see some progress on this new jail,” el presidente said. “I figure if they know their leader is watching, they will finish up on schedule in the next few weeks. We may need this place if those students decide to march again.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a good strategy.”

  As soon as they emerged from the limo a dozen workers scurried down a scaffolding, others raced outside still holding their tools. They all started to crowd around to get a glimpse of the man who ruled their entire country. The bodyguards formed a line in front of the president and tried to hold them back.

  El presidente smiled and waved. “These are my people,” he said. “I know many others are opposing our system, but these men have jobs so they will never protest. Not if they want to keep them, that is.”

  The fixer surveyed the scene and then stepped back to allow the president to be the sole center of attention. The foremen pushed forward to shake hands. The president slapped them on the back, chatted about the progress on the building and waved for the workers to move closer.

  “I come here to see your fine work. You are making good progress. You are all part of my plan to lock up the people who would disrupt things.” The men nodded as el presidente went on. “You work hard. I work hard for you. Today. Every day. You are with me?” They nodded solemnly as the mid-day sun beat down, reflecting waves of heat radiating off the bright concrete.

  “I must go now. Keep up the good work and tell your families that I came to you today to tell you how much I appreciate your labor. Your labor for your country.” He turned, waved once more and headed back toward his limo.

  The fixer moved in lock step with him and murmured, “Your decision to nationalize the cement industry means that we could advance the schedule here and add another story.” He pointed to the top floor of the four-story building.

  “Yes, and when we have more protests, there will be plenty of space to lock them up until well after the elections. Elections where we must consolidate our power even more. And speaking of staging elections, I want to see the latest list of opposition candidates along with your recommendations of the best charges to lodge against each one of them so we can disqualify any who might have a following.”

  The fixer nodded as one of the bodyguards opened the back door to the limo. The two men ducked inside. Looking out the window, the fixer said, “I’ll take care of those so-called candidates. And if any of them deserve prosecution we can stash them here. With this new facility, nobody can accuse us of inhumane conditions.”

  The president leaned back against the soft leather seat and laughed. “Hardly. This is no El Dorado prison.”

  “And there is no Henry Charriere to write another Papillon.”

  “Ah, the movie.”

  “Yes, from the biography. You know that Papillon means butterfly.”

  “I assure you, my friend, that no one, and I mean no one, will fly away from my prisons like a butterfly. Not while I am in charge.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE WHITE HOUSE–FRIDAY MORNING

  “So, Greg, here’s what I think we should do.” Samantha said as she wound up her briefing to Homeland Security team at their regular morning staff meeting. “After two explosions, ca
used by something inside the lines, GeoGlobal will be inspecting every one of their warehouses to see if any of their equipment is missing, things that might have been used inside the lines.”

  “Wait a minute,” Greg said, “you’re saying that something inside the line exploded and that caused the lines to flare? Again, it sounds to me like GeoGlobal has a big problem on their hands. It’s not on our hands.”

  “But Greg, GeoGlobal didn’t do anything to blow up their own lines. That’s absurd. This has never happened before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Greg said.

  “No. I believe it was deliberate sabotage. And if somebody, or some group is sabotaging a major energy source in our country, I believe this is a concern of ours. Or at least it should be. So, while the company is checking their own operations on the ground, I have an idea of how we can help to prevent another attack, if, God forbid, there’s another one in the works.”

  “And what would that be, Miss Sherlock?” Greg said derisively.

  “I believe we should utilize our domestic satellites to focus on their entire network of lines throughout the South and Midwest. We could get MASINT from the satellites. We could overlay suspicious activity against a map of pipeline locations.”

  “Now, wait just a damn minute,” Greg said, raising his voice. “You think they’re going to let us get measurement and signature intelligence from our domestic satellite program? I told you before that you were over-reacting to this whole situation. We’ve got real threats to the country that we should be working on.

  “As for your idea of using our satellites, do you even have a clue the kind of firestorm you will create?” Greg looked around the table and shook his head, “Pardon the pun, but I’m serious here. Do you have a clue about how hard certain members of Congress will come down on us if we even suggest using our domestic satellites? They’ll call it domestic spying and say that we don’t have enough legal safeguards. They’ll ask for detailed plans and programs of how we intend to coordinate with local law enforcement. We’d have to create working groups, a top down nightmare, and assure them that the satellites wouldn’t be used to intercept communications, but only to watch simple things like gas lines.”