Maggie spotted the target first as they descended into the valley. “There it is,” she shouted, her frosty breath lost in the slipstream.
The snow machines went silent. Snowflakes landing on the exhaust pipes broadcast mini-hisses as they flashed to vapor.
Dismounting, Jessie trudged through the three-foot-deep snow until he stood next to Target One. He removed the glove from his right hand and placed his bare skin on its exterior surface. The insulated cover was cool to the touch. However, under the foam and inside the four-foot-diameter steel tube, lukewarm Prudhoe Bay crude flowed southward at a leisurely three miles per hour.
Maggie joined Jessie. “Amazing,” she said, taking in the elevated pipeline that stretched ahead for over a mile, following the rising slope of the mini-mountain. “It’s so exposed and no one is around.”
“Except for us.” Jessie grinned. “Let’s get to work.”
It took just ten minutes to install the device. Jessie cut away a one-square-foot section of the nearly four-inch-thick foam insulation from the underside of the pipe. Maggie verified that the batteries were fresh and the internal clock was accurate. She set the timer.
Jessie placed the charge. The magnetized base plate matched the curve of the steel pipe. It snapped into place with a metallic clang.
Jessie armed the bomb with a simple flip of a toggle switch. There was no going back now. At precisely 6:00 P.M. local time, the ten pounds of plastic explosive molded in the form a circular-shaped charge would detonate, punching a ten-inch-diameter hole through the half-inch-thick steel pipe.
Jessie and Maggie remounted their machines and blasted off. Charter members of the Environmental Direct Action Anarchy Network, they had three additional bombs to plant, each one in the base of a valley. It was snowing two inches an hour. If it kept up, their tracks would vanish by the time they returned to the Cadillac.
CHAPTER 68
Kwan Chi and Commander Wang Park were in the PRC’s consulate general in downtown Vancouver. It was early afternoon. Summoned an hour earlier by the consulate’s supervising MSS officer, they took a cab from Coal Harbour.
“What do the Americans know about what happened?” Kwan said, addressing the supervisor.
“Not much. So far they appear to be treating it as an accident.”
“That won’t last.”
Kwan, Wang, and the supervisor along with three of his staff huddled around a table in a secure conference room. The windowless room was about twenty feet square with plain white walls and fluorescent overhead lighting. A National Geographic map of the Gulf of Mexico, covering the tabletop, was the focus of their collective attention.
“What was their target?” Wang asked.
“We believe they were planning to attack a floating production plant located in this area.” The senior MSS officer tapped the map with his right index finger. “It went operational a month ago. The oil wells supplying the plant are in very deep water—almost three thousand meters.” He removed a color photograph from a file folder and placed it onto the tabletop. “This is a photo downloaded from the company’s website.”
“They store oil inside of it?”
“Yes, Commander. According to the website, a converted supertanker is permanently moored over the well field. Oil is pumped up to it and stored in the ship’s tanks. When it’s full, another tanker comes alongside and fills up. Apparently, this arrangement was more cost effective than a pipeline because of the water depth and the distance from shore.”
“That’s quite a juicy target,” Kwan commented.
“Yes, sir. That’s why we believe the Russians were after it.”
Wang said, “The helicopter that crashed—where did it originate from?”
“At first we thought it might be Cuban, but we’re now certain it was Russian. We believe it took off early this morning from a military base west of Havana. After making the attack, it was supposed to land on a Russian-flagged cargo ship that departed Havana early this morning. The ship is still in the area. It appears to be loitering.”
“Searching for crew?”
“Possibly, or waiting for other assets.”
“How did we manage to get this information?” Kwan asked.
“Our people in Havana reported the arrival of the naval Spetsnaz unit two days ago—supposedly for joint training with the Cubans. They arrived on two Russian military transports loaded with combat gear, including a helicopter. Our electronic eavesdropping station at Bejucal focused its assets on the base.”
“Beijing must have suspected something,” Kwan said, not letting on that he’d received an earlier briefing on the Russian unit.
“That’s right. When the special operators showed up, Beijing speculated that the unit was going to target a U.S. oil installation somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“As a response to Sakhalin?”
“Yes. We were able to track the Russian helicopter for about a hundred kilometers before it dropped below the horizon. It was headed toward the oil storage facility.”
“When did it crash?”
“We think about fifteen minutes after losing radar coverage. One of Bejucal’s sensors picked up the automatic emergency beacon. It activates on water contact.”
Kwan leaned forward, eyeing the chart. “So to pull this off, the Cubans had to be involved, too.”
“Possibly. But they could have just as easily been duped by the Russians.”
“Improved relations with the U.S.?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When the Americans figure it out, and they will, Cuba may once again be on their shit list.” Kwan took a step away from the table. “Thank you, gentlemen. I need to speak with Commander Wang, so please leave us.”
The MSS supervisor and his aides exited the room.
Kwan faced Wang. “Now we know what they had planned. It was a brilliant idea and a fitting response.”
“But it failed.”
“Yes, and you of all people know how fragile helicopters can be—even the brutes the Russians make. The crash was just bad luck.”
Wang rubbed his wrist with his other hand, reacting to the phantom pain. He had survived an exceedingly hard helo-landing during a training mission early in his career. Six others aboard perished. Wang and another crawled out of the wreck before the flames engulfed the entire passenger compartment. He spent over a week in a hospital recovering from a shattered wrist and third-degree burns to his forearm.
“This is actually a lucky break for us,” said Kwan.
Wang cocked his head to the side, not making the connection.
Kwan checked his watch. “Assuming our surrogate operation in Alaska is under way as we speak, the double-pronged attack will truly shake up the Americans.”
Wang smiled, putting it together. “And that will mean the immediate deployment of the Kentucky.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Arms around each other’s waists, Jessie and Maggie walked down the long hallway that led to their fourth-floor hotel room. Pumped from their afternoon jaunt, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
Jessie inserted his keycard into the door’s electronic lock and pushed it open. Within a minute, they were naked under the sheets of the king-size bed.
Lost in passion, Jessie and Maggie did not hear the door open.
The man stealthily approached the enrapt couple. He wore a heavy dark parka with a hood that concealed his head. A backpack hung from his shoulders and wool gloves covered his hands. He was in his forties with a slight build and medium height. Of Asian descent, he easily passed as a native Alaskan.
Maggie spotted Joseph first. She shrieked.
Jessie turned around. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Joseph sat on a chair by the desk. “Did you complete your work?”
The couple sat up, covered themselves with the sheets, and leaned against the headboard.
“Yes, it went just as planned,” Jessie said. “Why are you here?” he
asked again.
“Peter sent me.”
“To spy on us.”
“Watch your backs.”
“No one knows what we did.”
“I know. You did well.”
Joseph checked his watch. It was 5:48 P.M. He reached for the TV remote and clicked it on. He tuned it to a local news channel, turning up the volume.
“What are you doing?” Jessie said, annoyed at the elevated sound level.
Gesturing toward the live newsreader, Joseph said, “We should know soon if it worked.” He pulled off his nylon backpack. “Peter has another assignment for you up here,” he announced as he reached inside the pack with his still gloved hand.
“No way,” protested Jessie. “We’re bugging out tomorrow morning just—”
Joseph pulled the trigger from inside the backpack. The first suppressed-sound hollow-point hit Jessie in the throat, just above the Adam’s apple. The second slug plowed into Maggie’s forehead between her eyes.
Hands clamped around his neck, Jessie gagged with an awful gargle as blood surged from his mouth and nostrils. He collapsed onto Maggie’s still form.
Joseph dialed back the TV’s sound.
* * *
Laura was miserable. Still bound to the bunk, she could feel her lower back in spasm. It had started as a dull ache but morphed into stiletto-class agony. She remained supine, unable to shift to either side to ease the stress of the restraints.
The only relief occurred during feeding sessions with Maddy and bathroom breaks when she was able to stand for a few minutes. The female tag team that traded off watching Laura ignored her pleas to slacken the bindings.
No longer sensing motion or the faint tremor from the engines, she was certain the boat was again dockside. But she had no inkling where it had moored.
Laura stretched her spine as much as she could and closed her eyes. Sleep was an impossible expectation, not with the pain. Even more troubling was the uncertainty of her predicament. Her thoughts leapfrogged as she searched for answers.
Where do they take Maddy? Who are these people? What do they want? What’s Elena doing with them?
And where’s Yuri?
* * *
“State Troopers, Fairbanks.”
“Ah, I was out hunting this afternoon and I spotted a couple suspicious characters monkeying around with the pipe.”
“Alyeska pipeline?” asked the Alaska State Trooper.
“Yeah, the Prudhoe Bay pipe.”
“May I have your name, sir?”
“Nah, I don’t want to do that. I just wanna let you know what I saw.”
“What did you observe, sir?”
“They were across the valley from me, but I scoped ’em. Looked like they were attaching something to the bottom of it. Then they took off on snow machines.”
“Where did this take place, sir?”
“North of Fairbanks. I think it was not too far from one of the pump stations.”
“When did this occur?”
“A couple hours ago.”
“Can you describe the individuals?”
“A white couple. They looked young to me—twenties. The guy was a big oaf, six foot plus. He had a scraggly beard and long black hair hanging from under his ski hat. The gal was blond, slim, nice looking from what I could see.”
“What direction did they—”
The conversation ended. The caller’s English was ordinary. His dialect was Alaskan Inuit, since he had spent over forty hours in Beijing with speech experts to perfect his diction and storyline.
The MSS operative masquerading as “Joseph” walked into the hotel bathroom and removed the SIM card from his cell phone. He tossed it into the toilet bowl and flushed. He returned to the hotel room’s main section. Jessie’s and Maggie’s corpses remained in the blood-saturated bed.
Still wearing gloves, Joseph reached in his backpack and removed a one-kilogram brick of Semtex and assorted bomb-making parts—spares from the Alyeska bombs. He laid them on the desktop. He retrieved Jessie’s suitcase from the closet and placed the plastic explosive and bomb paraphernalia inside, wrapping them in clothing.
His mission complete, Joseph slipped on the backpack and exited the hotel room. Although he’d already disabled the hallway’s closed-circuit security camera system, he kept the hood on and walked with his head down.
Jessie and Maggie’s co-conspirator Petruso (“Peter”) Teslenko remained in Oregon—but not for long. An East Ukrainian immigrant with a degree in electrical engineering, the thirty-seven-year-old worked for a London-based international engineering company with a branch office in Portland. He designed electronic control systems for water treatment plants. His real vocation, however, was eco-anarchism. His specialty was bomb making. Peter acquired his lethal skills from three years as a separatist fighting the Kiev government. His mentor was a Russian explosives expert.
Peter supplied the bombs. He also arranged for funding. A wealthy benefactor sympathetic to their cause deposited $100,000 into Peter’s checking account through a wire transfer originating from an East Europe bank known to service the Russian mafia.
Joseph had posed as the forty-two-year-old son of wealthy Chinese American parents who owned a chain of automobile dealerships in the Bay Area. Appalled at the West’s dependence on petroleum, the impostor’s stated goal was to import anarchist initiatives to Taiwan.
The Semtex and timers left behind in the hotel room would pull in the FBI and Homeland Security. Most damning of all, the credit cards John and Maggie used to pay for the hotel, SUV, and the Kawasakis left a trail that would point straight back to Peter Teslenko and his pro-Russian affiliation.
The Department of Justice would issue a federal arrest warrant for Teslenko, charging terrorism and a dozen other crimes. But the warrant would languish. Unable to locate Peter in North America, the FBI and the U.S. Marshals would mount a worldwide hunt. But that, too, would fail.
Shipped across the Pacific in a forty-foot container packed with steel barrels filled with toxic waste chemicals, the drum containing the remains of the third founder of the Environmental Direct Action Anarchy Network would join the other million-plus barrels dumped into a mammoth earth pit about twenty miles west of Shanghai.
CHAPTER 69
Yuri and Nick relocated to their hotel. They were in Yuri’s room after a shopping spree at a dive shop, marine equipment store, and an outdoor recreational gear retailer. Sprawled across the carpet were half a dozen boxes of diving equipment and other paraphernalia. Nick kneeled beside one of the boxes. He extracted a neoprene wetsuit jacket and held it up.
“This doesn’t look like the kind of suit you used for the Neva. Will it keep you warm enough?”
“It’ll be fine. I won’t be in the water that long.” Yuri stood beside the bed, connecting a regulator to the valve of a steel scuba tank on the mattress.
Nick tossed the wetsuit back into the box and stood up. He turned to face Yuri. “I thought you were supposed to avoid diving.”
“It’s been over a year. I’ll be okay. Besides, I won’t be going deep.”
“What about the bubbles—won’t they give you away?”
“They could, but I’ll be okay.”
Nick made his way to the opposite side of the bed and retrieved the Colt .45. He examined the weapon, verifying that it remained loaded. “I think you ought to use two of the bags to keep the water out.”
“Good idea. Would you take care of that for me?”
“Yep.”
Nick placed the pistol and the extra six-round magazine inside the first plastic storage Baggie. He started to seal it when Yuri said, “Try to squeeze out as much air as you can before sealing it up. I don’t want that thing bulging out when I submerge.”
“Got it.”
Yuri finished examining their purchases and announced, “Everything checks out.”
“Good, what’s next?”
Yuri spread a chart on the bed. “The Yangzi is moored here, at the end of this
dock,” he said, pointing.
“Right, and that location is about as exposed as it could be, with that public walkway and the marina and all those condos.”
Yuri arched his eyebrows. “How do I get in the water without someone seeing me? That’s the problem we need to solve.”
* * *
Tucked into a back corner of a low-rise building east of downtown Vancouver, the restaurant was near the center of Chinatown. It offered no view, but none was needed to attract its clientele. With just a dozen tables and a handful of private dining suites, the eatery rarely had an open table. Only serving dinner, the restaurant specialized in authentic mainland Chinese dishes while also providing an impressive selection of the world’s finest spirits.
Elena ordered the Peking duck. Kwan Chi chose the sea bass. They had just finished the main course and were enjoying the last of the Loire Valley sauvignon blanc. A pot of green tea was on the way.
Over the meal, Elena and Chi engaged in casual chat. Elena refrained from peppering him with questions, knowing it was best to wait for Chi to initiate the conversation. After the tea was served, Kwan did just that.
“Have you heard from Kirov?” he asked.
“Nothing since yesterday. What have you heard?”
“He evaded our men.”
“I can’t say that I blame him, Chi. There was a deal on the table.”
“It’s still there. We ran into a time issue and had to delay the exchange.”
Elena sipped from her cup. “When will you pick it up again?”
“Soon. Our other work here is complete.”
“Tomorrow, the next day?”
“I can’t be specific yet.”
“I take it you want me to contact him again.”
“Yes, he made it clear that he will only go through you.”
Elena expected the confirmation. “He will want proof of life before he does anything, like the other times.”
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