He slid a small white card across the desk to the receptionist. The younger man picked it up, looked at the front in confusion, then turned it over to find a blank side. He looked at Fridkov, who merely smiled. “Mr. Medivir will understand. You need give it to no one but him, if you would. I will be happy to wait.”
The young man hesitated, then, apparently recognizing the intent in Fridkov’s eyes, rose from his seat and hurried out of the room.
Moments later, he returned with a much more relaxed expression on his face. “Sir, you may please have a seat for only a moment. Mr. Medivir will shortly finish his telephone conference and will then see you immediately. May I offer you some coffee? Or tea perhaps? Fizzy water?”
“A coffee would be most welcome,” Fridkov told him with gratitude. It had been more than twelve hours since he’d been sent to Riyadh from Amsterdam, and between the planning, traveling, and off and on sat-phone conversations—plus the jet lag—he could use a bit of a boost.
Fridkov had just added pinches of cardamom and cinnamon to his steely black coffee when an unobtrusive door near the reception desk clicked and opened. A tall, slim man in a Hugo Boss suit and Armani tie stepped through. At 40, Israt Medivir was younger than his photos made him appear, and with his olive complexion, hooked nose, and tiny black cool patch on his chin, he looked more like an Italian businessman than an Arabian oil sheik.
He made a direct line to Fridkov, who stood immediately, choosing to show the man deference while under the observation of the receptionist. With a slight bow, and then a proffered hand, Medivir offered the same greeting of peace Fridkov had shared with the receptionist.
Again, Fridkov replied, and when his host asked him to follow, he fell into step behind him. They passed no one during their walk down a short hallway illuminated with soft yellow lights and then into an expansive room. Medivir’s private office.
Fridkov strolled into the room, and continued walking across it to the ceiling to floor windows along one wall. Amazing to be this high, overlooking the city, eye to eye with the Faisalia Tower, with its odd spherical cap—and then to see the vast expanse of flat brown desert in the distance.
“I am most honored at your presence,” Medivir said from behind him. “Your people have not visited the Kingdom for many years.”
“Ten years, I believe it has been. Your dealings were with Roman?”
Medivir nodded. Fridkov had a moment to wonder what that meeting would have been like: the controlling, precise Roman striking a deal with the younger, staid Medivir. A deal that would make Medivir, who had been, at that time, a tradesman dealing in coffee, wealthy beyond his imagination, and forever beholden to Roman and his people. Rather like Daniel Webster selling his soul to the devil.
“Yes, Roman and I have continued our business dealings through video conferencing, telephone, and email, but he has not returned to the Kingdom since our initial meeting.”
Fridkov would have liked to learn more about how Medivir had been chosen; how Roman had met him and selected him to be the bearer of his people’s product. But that was immaterial now.
He glanced at his watch. Three and a half more hours. He needed to finish the meeting successfully and be back at King Khalid for his flight.
Silence stretched for a moment, and then, as if remembering himself, Medivir offered his visitor a seat. Fridkov then sat across the desk from his host, noting the way the man’s hands trembled while he kept his fingers busy arranging pens and papers. He was, and should be, uneasy at the surprise visit by Roman Aleksandrov’s representative.
“The latest news of the Crimson Shell reached Roman yesterday,” Fridkov spoke. He held his flat black briefcase on his lap, pulled up against his abdomen. “He was not pleased, as you can imagine.”
Medivir shot to his feet. Agitation played over his face, and through his nerves as his fingers moved in an erratic dance over the desk. “Tragic. Very tragic. We—”
“A Tier Three oil spill is not acceptable.” Fridkov opened his case with a snap sounding like a gunshot.
“We have already called in the containment specialists. They have been working around the clock since the spill. It is not—”
“But, yes, it is. It is unacceptable. The damage will be horrific, both biologically and economically. I have been authorized to advise you that our partnership will cease as of” —he looked at his watch for effect—“twelve minutes from now. Noon today.” He slid his hand into the leather envelope and pulled out a small pen.
Medivir’s dark face took on a greenish cast. “No! No, there must be—we will take complete responsibility—”
It was pathetic … but then perhaps if he were in Israt Medivir’s shoes; just on the verge of losing his fortune and power, Fridkov would be tempted to plead as well. He fingered the metal pen, considering. No. No, he would not. He would face his defeat, his mistakes gracefully.
He pushed the clip on the pen, and the tiny ping was barely audible over Medivir’s fumbling apologies. The dart found its mark and the man across the desk abruptly stopped speaking. Eyes and mouth open in astonishment, he froze, then pitched forward.
Fridkov was already moving and caught the man before he made a thump that might be heard outside the room. He laid him on the floor behind the desk and hurried over to lock the door.
Fifteen minutes, no more than twenty, and he would be finished.
He pulled a small syringe from his case, followed by a plastic bag of dark liquid that sloshed as he moved it. Five of his fifteen minutes later, Fridkov had finished with Medivir and took the man’s seat at his desk.
Clicking effortlessly on the computer keys, he made his way through Medivir’s confidential files and into the Medivir Company’s main database. As he quickly and efficiently erased every file that contained details that would identify their arrangement, the only other Arabic phrase he knew slipped into his mind: “In shallah.”
As God wills it.
And so it would be.
-4-
June 30, 2007
Allentown, PA
“Oh my God! It’s going to blow!”
“Get back!”
Vince Bruger grabbed the uniform sleeve of whoever happened to be standing next to him, slamming him to the ground as he dove behind a large pile of rubble. Pain fired along his shoulder, jarring his teeth and snatching away his breath. The other guy, an EMT, tumbled on top of him just as the ground erupted into flames only yards away. The shattering boom left his ears hollow and ringing.
The explosion sent debris crashing around them, raining cinder blocks, bricks, glass, and rock. Something hit Vince’s helmet, slamming his face into the ground, while another weighty object smashed into the back of his leg. Intense heat scored the air and seared his lungs. Damn lucky he wasn’t any closer, or his hair would be singed.
Spitting sand and glass from his mouth, Vince slowly got up while the pain down his leg made him wince. He looked at the spot where the plant had once stood; tall, with iron grey walls and a glassed-in front entrance that jutted out like an arrowhead.
Now it was a mass of black smoke, a jumble of rock and steel and concrete that roared with deep, angry flames. Good God. Anyone left in the plant was toast. Jesus H. Christ.
Reminded him too much of 9/11. Vince’s stomach felt like he’d drunk a whole case of beer with a plateful of tacos. He wiped a hand over his lips. Bits of glass and dirt ground into them and he spit again, tasting blood and pebbles.
He checked his waist but the radio was gone. Probably went flying when he crashed to the ground, now a melted glob of metal and plastic. Someone bumped into him and Vince turned to see Darrel Blake, the fire chief, covering his eye with a hand.
“You okay?” Vince asked.
“Got hit in the eye. Jesus, God, will you look at that?”
The inferno reached into the air like brilliant orange claws against the blue sky of early evening, and a tower of black smoke ribboned toward the puffy white clouds. They had to crane their heads b
ack to get a good look at it.
“Any of your men in there?” Vince asked, dreading the answer.
Blake shook his head. “By some blessing, no, none of’em. Shift change.”
“One thing to be thankful for.”
“Yeah. But there’s at least five people still unaccounted for, last report I had. I hope to God they were either found or beyond help before that.”
Before Vince could reply, the renewed wail of sirens drowned out any further conversation. The fire truck that had been parked at the back of the parking lot trundled toward them as fast as its bulk would carry it. He nearly smiled, but couldn’t quite get his lips to move in that direction. Good guys, Blake’s men. Already on the scene.
Shit. He shook his head, that urge to smile evaporating. How many lives gone?
Someone handed him a cell phone, warm from overuse. “Someone from the USGS on the phone for you, Captain Bruger.”
“The who?” He took the phone. “Vince Bruger.”
“Charlotte Messing, US Geological Survey, Earthquake Hazards. Captain Bruger, I understand there’s a report of an earthquake in your precinct.”
Vince tore the phone away from his ear to stare at it. Was this some kind of fucking joke? He was about to slam the phone back into the hand of whoever’d given it to him, but figured he’d at least better find out what the lady wanted. “By the looks of the city center, and the way one of our manufacturing plants have collapsed, it sure as hell looks like you’re right. And, oh, the crevices in the ground too. Yep, looked and felt like an earthquake to me.” Jesus Christ.
“I’m calling you, Captain Bruger,” the woman continued, and she had that same tone in her voice that the wife had when she was about to lecture him about something stupid he’d done, “because we have no report of any true seismic activity in the vicinity of Allentown, and—”
“Well, I don’t know what the hell we felt here if it wasn’t seismic activity. Look, I have a fire to put out, a town to clean up, and a whole fucking crew of television and news reporters waiting for me to tell them why we just had an explosion on the top of everything else … .plus a whole slew of families who are wondering where the hell their husbands and wives are. I don’t have time to talk with you. Watch the news, and in the meantime, maybe you better check your equipment to make sure you didn’t miss it, because we sure as hell felt it here.” With that, he did jam the phone into the abdomen of the guy standing next to him, who had been barking orders into another cell phone.
Vince stormed off, not waiting to see what happened to the phone. Crazy scientist. What the hell did she mean there wasn’t any real seismic activity? It sure had felt real to him.
He tramped over to the team of rescue workers who stood watching the blaze as the fire crew blasted it with streams of water. It occurred to him, briefly, that he ought to call Maureen and let her know he was all right, but then he figured that the statement he’d given the press about an hour ago would tell her that he was alive and well—and busy. He was just glad she and the kids hadn’t been around when this all happened.
“We got one over here!”
Vince turned as a shout of triumph came from a cluster of workers on the other side of the rubble. It would be nice if he had some good news when he gave the press an update. In about, he looked at his chipped, scratched wristwatch, ten minutes.
Sure enough. A bloody, dirty figure lay on a stretcher, but the man was breathing. Thank God. One down, four to go, if Blake’s last report was still right. Maybe even less.
“Where’d you find him?” he asked one of the doctors. Couldn’t remember his name; he wasn’t from around there.
“Behind where the plant stood,” the man replied. His green eyes were piercing and serious. Man, Vince’d never seen eyes that green before. Maybe he hadn’t met him. “Down inside a big gap in the earth. He must have fallen in when it shifted. We got him out before it all blew.”
“Great news.” Vince nodded. “Any chance there’s anyone else down there, doc?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t believe so. However, it’s far enough away from the fire that we could look. By the way, my name’s Varden.” He had a faint accent that sounded European, but he spoke English fluently and easily. Must have studied here in the States.
“Dr. Varden. Vince Bruger, Chief of Police.” Vince shook his hand. He didn’t remember meeting the guy after all; he’d have remembered those eyes and that accent.
“People here are lucky. The death toll could have been a lot worse,” Varden commented, peering toward the mess.
“Yep, coulda been.” He was stating the obvious, and the conversation was superficial, but Bruger didn’t care. Lord-a-Moses, he was tired. It crashed into him all of a sudden, kind of like it did after he’d had one beer too many. As soon as he stood, he felt the results. His legs would hardly move. His brain’s function had fizzled. He didn’t want to have to think.
“But the plant itself … a big pollutant, wasn’t it? They’d been fined. For environmental violations. Good thing if it had to happen, it happened on a Friday afternoon when so few people were there.”
Vince smashed his hand over his eyes and rubbed like hell. It eased a little of the tension. But not nearly enough. “Er … yeah, I guess that’s a way to look at it. But one life lost is more than I’d like.”
“And I as well. But it is the way of the world—nature takes its toll, goes its course. And earthquakes … they are a natural event. They can’t be tracked, or prevented, can they? It’s almost as if it was a sign, do you think?”
“A sign?” Vince knew he was at the end now. The doctor’s conversation wasn’t making any sense, and he couldn’t form the words to reply coherently. He’d best get some sleep before getting back to this hellhole tomorrow. “Listen, doctor, it was my pleasure. I’ve got to finish a report and get home for some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.” It was an effort just to get those words out, but he did.
And as he walked away, still rubbing his dry, creaking eyelids, the image of Dr. Varden’s intense green gaze stayed in his mind.
-5-
June 30, 2007
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
It was nearly two hours after Israt Medivir and his guest had disappeared into his office that Konal, secretary to the company president himself, took it upon himself to interrupt them.
It wasn’t that Medivir was late for a meeting, or that there was some urgent matter that must be addressed. Nothing like that. It was just that … Konal had a feeling. An odd, squirrelly feeling that he should knock on the door.
It had been so quiet. No voices. No laughter. No orders for food or drink or copies or reports or files.
So he did. He knocked and there was no answer.
He waited and then five minutes later knocked again, louder.
A warm rivulet of sweat rolled down his back. Did he dare open the door?
Fifteen minutes later, he could no longer contain his curiosity and the odd nervousness worming itself around in his belly.
Konal knocked one more time, and then turned the knob slowly, oh, slowly, so that if he heard the sound of voices, he could stop, pull the door back, and be satisfied and protected at the same time.
There was no sound of voices, and Konal became bolder. He turned the knob and pushed the door open three centimeters. And was greeted by silence.
“Mr. Medivir—” his hesitant greeting slapped to a stop when Konal saw the toe of a shiny black shoe protruding from the side of the desk that belonged to Israt Medivir.
Konal flung the door wide, dashing to the side of his employer. He did not need to touch the clammy, cold skin to know he was dead.
Working quickly, he scrabbled through the pockets of his inert employer and found the cash he always carried there. Only after stuffing the wad of riyals into his own pockets did Konal run screaming from the office to alert security.
Under the circumstances, it did not bother him one bit that his scream sounded like that of a woman.
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* * *
Hamid al-Jubeir did not wear the traditional red beret that many of his colleagues in the muhabith, the secret police, sported. He preferred, when conducting his criminal investigations, not to call attention to himself.
He almost regretted that decision to be unexceptional when he reached the Medivir Building and was nearly trod upon by a collection of reporters and photographers. The word that Riyadh’s most successful rags to riches story had been found dead in his office had spread more quickly than the assignment to Hamid had been given. Not that that was saying much; for Hamid’s superior, Tirat al-Haebir, who was the director of the General Directorate of Investigation, was known for crossing every T and dotting every I, as the Americans would say, when he made his assignments.
Colleen Gleason Page 3
