Colleen Gleason

by Siberian Treasure

  “We’ve got rescue teams coming up from Philly,” Vince told her, strapping on a protective helmet and lifting a radio to his ear to listen to a broadcast from Command Central. “Another team coming from Jersey. They should be in here in an hour or so.” He shook his head. “We’re gonna need dogs, and more heavy equipment to move this shit.”

  “Not to mention a lot of prayers,” Grant told him. “If one of those drums with the chemicals collapses, it could ignite and add explosions to our mess here.”

  “Holy shit.” He snapped his attention to Grant, a tall blond woman who, from the look of the streaks on her face, had already been digging through the rubble. “What’s the chances of that?”

  “The plant manager, who was off-site today, says the nitro tuolene is highly flammable and compressed in the drums. If the area of those metal drums is compromised, or the area compresses any further, they will ignite. We were able to find three under some concrete and steel beams. So far, they seem to be holding up … but if anything shifts, we’re dead meat.”

  Vince swore. “We’ll just have to work fast and easy.” As he spoke, a paper fluttered across the empty parking lot and tumbled at his feet. He would have kicked it away, but Grant bent down to pick it up.

  “Another one,” she murmured, and stared at it for a moment.

  “What?” Vince snatched it from her hand. “What do you mean another one?” He looked at the plain white paper with the strange image printed on it.

  “There’re a bunch of these papers, blowing around,” she told him, resting her hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea what it is?”

  Vince shook his head. “Probably some kid’s drawing for a club or something. Or maybe a new icon for a gang. That’s the least of my worries right now.” He crumpled the paper and pitched it toward a heavy metal trash can. “Let’s get to work.”

  -2-

  June 30, 2007

  Princeton University

  “The United States Geological Survey records over 50 earthquakes a day in an average year.” Professor Paul Everett brushed chalk-dusty hands over the seat of his dark trousers before he realized what he was doing. “Most of them can’t even be felt by the average human. About 18 earthquakes a year measure in at 7.0 on the Richter scale, and perhaps one or two at 8.0 or higher. Those are the ones we hear about in places like Bam, Iran.”

  Darlene was going to read him the riot act if he came home with powdery streaks on his dark pants again. He could never remember to use his handkerchief when he was in the middle of a lecture. Maybe he ought to just wear white pants.

  “At this time, there isn’t any accurate way to predict earthquakes,” he continued, glancing at the clock at the back of the classroom. Five minutes and he was on vacation with Darlene … heading to the Shore.

  And if he so much as stopped for a cup of coffee on the way home, delaying their Friday afternoon start-time, she’d know—and he would hear about it. Focusing back on the lecture, Paul continued. “We can anticipate that one will strike in places like Hawaii, where the magma moving underground causes some extra activity prior to a quake, but in other areas where the earth shift is caused by pressure along fault lines, there is no accurate prediction method. Which is why I don’t live in California.” A soft murmur of laughter acknowledged his comment, but he knew they were about ready to check out.

  “Scientists are collecting data using Global Positioning Systems to find where the major faults and fault lines are and combining that with statistical analysis. They hope to use that data to try and predict quakes.

  “And recently, there was a study in Iceland that measured water chemistry—the levels of certain chemicals in the water before and after a large quake there. Scientists hope to be able to use that information to begin a data warehouse, which may also help predict future quakes.”

  About three minutes left, and then the class would slam their laptops, Alpha Smarts, or notebooks closed and shove them into their backpacks while streaming out of the geology lab. They were just as eager to start their weekend as he was.

  Paul gestured to the university’s seismograph mounted directly on the ground outside of the lab. “Many people confuse the purpose of the seismograph and believe it can be used to help predict earthquakes. And while this machine can record even the most sensitive of ground movements, it can only do so after the fact.

  “As you can see, it’s placed directly on the ground, and if the earth shifts, the needle will record even the slightest of the earth’s movement. We’ll talk more about what normal seismic activity looks like next week.”

  Most of them had little real interest in the studies; they elected the class during the summer term as a last-ditch effort to fulfill a science credit in the liberal arts program at Princeton. He tried not to let the apathy bother him; after all, he taught three other, more advanced classes for geology or biology majors. They not only looked at the seismograph readings; they had a clue what the readings meant.

  “I’ll cover Chapter Ten in next week’s lecture. Come with questions because that will be the last class before the exam.” His last few words were lost as they rose fairly en masse to sling backpacks over shoulders and stampede out of the room.

  He turned to switch off his laptop, hoping to get out and on the road in time to beat the weekend traffic, and noticed one of his students standing next to the seismograph. The young woman was actually looking at it.

  “Professor Everett, what is that?” she pointed to the paper roll that showed a series of red markings. Etched with gentle peaks and valleys was the activity in a fifty-mile radius around Princeton.

  And there, on the seismograph, were big spikes coming from an area in the middle of low hills and valleys.

  Big damn red spikes.

  Paul swallowed the words he’d planned to give: a quick answer, before he’d seen what she was pointing at. He looked at it again.

  Big damn spikes right in the middle of nowhere.

  Paul frowned and peered at the little needle radiating up and down with its etchings. It appeared to be working.

  “Shouldn’t there have been some kind of warning before such big spikes? And what would cause something like that? There aren’t any earthquakes around here, are there?”

  Apparently someone had been listening, even though she’d spent half the class flirting with a young man across the room.

  Paul adjusted his trifocals. Damn glasses; couldn’t trust them to see when he needed to without having to move them around to get the right lens.

  But, yes, the spikes were still there, like upside-down icicles. And as he watched, several smaller peaks jumped up— little aftershocks, they would be, if indeed it was an earthquake.

  But an earthquake … of maybe seven or eight on the Richter scale, he guessed … in eastern Pennsylvania?

  Incredible.

  “Professor Everett?” She was staring at him.

  He realized he’d never answered her question. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an earthquake. But … there aren’t any major fault lines in this area that would cause such a large response.” He shook his head, scratching at the flimsy wisps covering the top of his scalp. “I don’t know what else would create a graph like that … .”

  He froze. He did know of something else.

  Paul frowned, his brows drawing together. The last time he’d seen something like this, it was decades ago. Hundreds of miles away.

  He’d have to find his old papers, his old records of seismic activity from thirty years ago.

  Because if it was what he thought it was, he was going to be on the phone to the USGS and not heading for the Poconos.

  Darlene was going to kill him.

  ***

  Barbara Melton, PhD, President and Chief Executive Officer of the closely-held AvaChem, had just sunk a beautiful putt when her IPhone vibrated against her hip.

  “Perfect timing,” she muttered, glad it hadn’t come moments before. The birdie put her two strokes ahead of
her partner and lover, and that much closer to the wager they had riding on today’s game: who was going to be the submissive during their sex play that night.

  Tempted to ignore the insistent buzz, she nevertheless pulled the phone from its clip and noted the number of the incoming call. Theo Meadows, the COO of AvaChem, wouldn’t call during her Friday golf time unless there was something important going on.

  “Nice shot,” her lover, Roger Brady, complimented as he dropped the pin flag back into the hole. “Haven’t you trained your husband not to call you when you’re on the course?” he joked. “Of course, if he’d called sooner, during your shot, I might be the one handling the whip tonight.” His eyes gleamed wickedly.

  “It’s Meadows. I’d better answer it,” Barbara replied, flipping the sleek phone open. “Melton.”

  “Jesus, Barb, have you heard?”

  Barbara’s heart stuttered as she slid her putter back into her custom tooled-leather bag. The last time Meadows had started a conversation with that question, the news AvaChem was dumping toxic chemicals into the Delaware River had just hit the press. “I’ve heard nothing. I’m on the fifteenth hole. What is it?” she snapped, nervous and impatient.

  “Allentown, Terre Haute, and Hays—the plants are gone.”

  “Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? In flames?” She leaned against the golf cart, and began to fumble for her nitroglycerine tablets. There was always the risk at a chemical plant for an accident to occur, but three of them at once … . “Bombs?” Barbara heard the squeak in her voice that made her sound like a teenybopper.

  “You won’t believe it … .Earthquakes!”

  She paused, her hand inside her pocketbook. “You’re joking.” She started to laugh, strained, but feeling the relief that trickled through her.

  “Turn on the fucking news, Melton! It’s all over the country! Three earthquakes, all of them where our buildings are located. They’re completely destroyed. Everything’s gone.” Meadows’ voice spiraled into a hysterical wail. “The IPO’s shot, and we’re fucked. We’re fucked, Barb, do you hear me? And those federal fines … .they’re coming out of your pocket and mine, now, do you hear me?”

  Barbara heard him, but she didn’t believe him. Three plants, leveled by earthquakes—in the most unlikely places all over the country? All on a Friday afternoon?

  All at once?

  It couldn’t be a coincidence … .pure, unadulterated bad luck.

  It had to be those damn Greenies.

  And there was no way Barbara was going to be stuck for two mil because of their tree-hugging antics.

  She snagged her driver out of the bag and turned to the sixteenth tee.

  -3-

  June 30, 2007

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Dannen Fridkov had always heard Riyadh described as an island, a refuge, in the center of barren desert; and indeed, the Saudi Arabian capital was exactly that.

  Located in the middle of the Kingdom, the city sported an eclectic combination of mud-dabbed buildings and fortresses, courtyards with palm-tree-trunk pillars, and modern white spires. And the only greenery to be spotted for hundreds of miles.

  Doors to traditional and modern buildings alike were ornate with Islamic art and designs in colorful geometric and organic shapes, often repetitious in their patterns. The streets were generously wide and busy, thronged with pedestrians, limousines and the brown and yellow commuter buses available to women and those with limited funds.

  Fridkov had visited the city only once before, at night, briefly; so this mid-day visit in the cloak of desert heat was quite a different experience. He would have preferred time to wander a bit, shopping for rugs on Talateen Street, but his mission was clear, and, of necessity, must be quick. He settled back into the seat of his chauffeured car, adjusting the unfamiliar skirts of the thobe he had donned in an effort to blend in as a native rather than a Western businessman.

  The Lincoln Town Car moved smoothly through the streets, and Fridkov eyed Riyadh’s Water Tower looming above the city. It rose like a flower toward the sun, with a long stem and a flat, fan-like top, glowing dirty yellow in the radiating heat. It was ironic that one of the most prominent landmarks in a city made from oil wealth was that of a water tower.

  The industrialized world might be dependent upon oil, but in the end, water was the greater need—and something she gave more freely.

  The minarets of The Great Mosque speared the sky, and Fridkov mused to himself that the devotion of the Arabians to their daily scheduled prayers was akin to that of the Americans to their television and French fries. He identified several members of the muttawa patrolling the streets, screening for violators of Islamic fundamentals.

  Fridkov realized that he was not so unlike the muttawa himself. However, he would draw the line at removing the nipples from the mannequins in a women’s clothing store. Fridkov’s style was much more subtle—yet direct.

  The car turned onto Al Matar, and now he must focus on the task at hand—-the meeting with Israt Medivir, the president of Medivir Petroleum. The Medivir Building, though not nearly as tall and grand as the Ministry of Petroleum, still displayed the great wealth and success of the company. Success and wealth that had come purely by happenstance and not because of any great effort or planning on the part of Israt Medivir.

  It was only his name that Medivir had given the company; the rest had come to him as nothing less than a gift—a gift that had now turned into a threat.

  Looking in a well-positioned mirror, Fridkov arranged the traditional headscarf, ghuttera, over his dark hair so that it framed the sides of his face like a curtain. He placed the aqal around the crown of his head to hold it in place and adjusted the moustache and goatee he’d donned on the airplane. With his naturally swarthy skin, dark eyes, and thick brows, Fridkov would blend in perfectly.

  His briefcase rested comfortably against his calf, not so heavy, for it didn’t even contain a laptop. No. What Fridkov needed for his meeting wasn’t any burden to bear.

  At last, the car eased to a halt in front of the Medivir Building. A tall, glistening glass spear, the offices of one of Saudi Arabia’s largest petroleum companies clearly bespoke its prestige. Fridkov paid his driver with riyals and stepped from the cool comfort of the Lincoln into a wall of heat that made him gasp audibly.

  A burst of air from the revolving door rustled his ghuttera, and then he was once again in cool comfort. How did people live in this 45-degree Celsius heat, day after day?

  The Arabians have a love for their desert, despite the barrenness and aridity of the waves of sand. Fridkov could not imagine feeling anything but dislike for the dust and grit and skin-tugging dryness—not to mention the thirst and boredom.

  The floor of the main lobby was intricate granite and marble design, and it gleamed like the glass of the building’s exterior. It was quiet and empty but for the fifteen or so live date trees that grew from holes in the floor, surrounded by round metal grates. The ceiling of the lobby rose high above, curving gently to meet at the top. No security guards; but a desk with two young men who looked up as he approached. Fridkov flashed the counterfeit Medivir employee badge as he walked on past.

  Continuing his stride without waiting for acknowledgement, he made his way to the elevators that nestled in a small alcove to the north side of the building. The buttons were labeled in both Arabic and English, of course, and he pressed the one that said 35. The top floor, where Medivir’s office overlooked the city.

  Medivir wasn’t expecting him, but Fridkov had no qualms about appearing without warning. He knew for certain the man was not traveling and would be in the office today. Once Fridkov’s presence was announced, Medivir would not dare deny him entrance. Even if Fridjov had made an appointment, or attempted to make one, the casualness of the business culture would not guarantee that he would see him today. And he must see him today, before another—Fridkov pulled back the sleeve of his robe to glance at his watch—four hours had passed.

&nbs
p; The elevator doors opened to display a small, rounded greeting area. A gentleman sat behind the reception desk, his black hair combed back and gleaming as if it were wet. Instead of the traditional thobe and ghuttera, he wore Western business suit, white shirt, and subtly-patterned blue and black tie. He looked up and offered a polite greeting. “As-salam alaikum.”

  “Wa alaikum as-salam,” Fridkov responded appropriately in Arabic, telling the receptionist that God’s peace should also be with him; then he switched to English. Although he spoke a myriad of languages, Arabic was not one of them. His best choice was English, the most common second language spoken in Arabia and Fridkov did not wish to give any information about his identity by his selection of language, it was the best choice. “Please give this to Mr. Medivir. I need a moment of his time.”