Benford eased the door open and stepped inside the garage. It was chilly inside—he could still see his breath with each cold exhalation—but warmer than the bitter cold of the wind. The dogs yapped and bawled. Richardson was near the door, opening up the locker that contained slabs of thawed meat; Larson was a few feet away, pulling a five-gallon container of gasoline off of a rack. As was usual, they were arguing.
“I’m not disputing global warming, damn it!” Larson snapped. “But there’s no proof yet, one way or another, that we have anything to do with it!”
“Proof? What proof do you need?” Richardson snapped back. He was a young man, in his twenties, and passionately opposed to the injustices of the world. “The industrial revolution comes along and bang! Temperatures go up. Carbon dioxide goes up. Summers start getting hotter—”
“An oversimplification, Richardson. Back in the seventies there was a scare that the climate was getting colder, remember that?”
“That was before my time.”
“Kids.” The word was a snort. “Yeah, well, there was a downturn in global temperatures from the fifties through the seventies that suggested we were on the verge of a new ice age. The point is, we don’t know. All we can do is gather data at this point, which is why we’re up here in the first place.” He looked past Richardson as Benford stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. “Oh, Benford. What do you want?”
“I just came out to help. Thought I could give a hand fueling the snowmobiles.”
Larson looked surprised, then shrugged beneath his heavy parka. “Suit yourself. Here.” He passed Benford the container of gasoline, then turned to reach for another one.
“How many are we fueling up?” Benford asked, shouldering the bag so he could take the can. “All three?”
“Just two. I want to leave one on reserve in case something happens to the rescuers. We’ll leave one plus the dog team in reserve. Just in case . . .”
He didn’t elaborate, but Benford heard the worry in his voice. Fifteen people at this outpost . . . three of them now missing. Communications with the mainland were dodgy at best, and it was two weeks until the next supply flight was due in. Commander Larson was having to do some nasty juggling with his assets, trying to find the three missing personnel without leaving the remaining twelve at risk.
Larson handed Benford the second container of gasoline, then nodded down the concrete aisle toward the other end of the building. “Go ahead; get started with the fueling. I’ll be with you in a minute and we’ll do the mechanical checkout.”
“Right.”
As he lugged the gasoline past the cacophony of the dogs, he could still hear fragments of the argument at his back.
He paid no attention. The philosophical divide between the scientists and the Greenworlders had reached a fever’s pitch during the past few days. Benford had added a little fuel to the fire here and there, helping to enflame the debate, but it had scarcely been necessary. The scientists resented, deeply and angrily, the Greenworld presence here. For their part, the other four Greenworlders felt the scientists were all but betraying the human species by downplaying the world-threatening dangers of major climatic change. Richardson and that little rich bitch Cabot, in particular, were convinced that the climatologists all were deep in the hip pockets of Big Oil, that they were being paid to downplay the immediacy of the global threat.
Benford didn’t buy any of that himself. He’d joined Greenworld because the people represented by Feodor had sought him out during his trip to St. Petersburg two years ago and offered him a proposition, quite literally an offer he couldn’t refuse.
He wished now he had refused it. Things were getting entirely too nasty, too risky personally. The trouble was, he’d gotten into this mess step by tiny step, had never seen ahead of time where the bastards were leading him.
Two years before, he’d been a very junior sales rep for Wildcat Technologies, a Houston-based firm that manufactured high-tech drilling equipment for the petroleum industry . . . especially for certain highly specialized deep-ocean drilling rigs.
In 2006, Benford had been sent to Russia with a WT sales team to negotiate a $500 million deal. A Russian petroleum company was interested in the new robotic drilling rigs that could actually work on the seabed itself, and the order for a single test rig alone would have guaranteed Wildcat’s success.
Unfortunately, doing any business in Russia at all these days was an ongoing exercise in frustration, unforeseen expense, and delay. The Russian mafia had its hand in everything—including in the Russian petroleum industry, it turned out—which meant they had to be paid off before any negotiations could even begin. That half-billion-dollar deal would cost 10 percent, an extra 50 million, just to get to the talking stage, and there’d be another 10 percent in fees, bribes, and special considerations for each consignment shipped into the country.
And Wildcat Technologies, frankly, was on the ropes. They’d developed the Deepsea platform over the past ten years at considerable expense, and they’d overextended on the loans needed to begin production. So far, though, none of the big global petro companies had shown more than an initial and passing interest. The Canadians were intrigued, but there were some governmental barriers there on both sides of the border . . . and way too many rumors that Mobil and Exxon both were working on their own versions of the Deepsea drilling technology.
The Russians could make or break Wildcat Technology with this one order, and that extra 10 to 20 percent on the red side of the ledgers might well have killed the entire deal.
And then Benford had met Masha.
Maria Antoninova. She’d been one of the interpreters for the sales team in Russia, blond, leggy, and drop-dead gorgeous. They’d flirted, harmlessly enough . . . and then one evening after a particularly discouraging round of negotiations with the reps from Russian Petro-Gas, he’d come back to his hotel room to find her naked and waiting for him in the bed.
The next morning she’d told him that she might know some people who could help.
And, in fact, Feodor had been most helpful. The barriers, the difficulties, the need for yet another round of high-level approvals and special payments, all had vanished as if by magic. Benford had been able to secure several signatures in particular that had opened up a whole new world of possibilities for Wildcat, including no less than Putin’s signature on a long-term agreement for continued sales and service that would guarantee Wildcat’s survival for the next decade.
It hadn’t hurt that the unexpected turnaround had transformed Benford, the very junior member of the sales team, into Houston’s fair-haired boy, with promises of a big raise and bonuses that would set him up very well in the years ahead.
And all he’d had to do in exchange was make a promise to join a bunch of tree-hugger freaks out to save the planet . . . and maybe do a little job for Golytsin later on, when the time was right. Where was the harm in that?
Joining Greenworld had been simple enough. Apparently, the Russians already had people—sleepers, they called them—planted inside the organization, though Benford still had no idea what interest the Russians could possibly have with the environmental activists. He’d joined the American branch of Greenworld by contacting one of their agents in California and happily gone back to work in Houston for more money than he’d dreamed was possible. Not only that, but it turned out, just by chance, that Masha was now working in Houston for a travel agency and she’d wanted to keep seeing him. Benford was married already, but Masha hadn’t minded in the least seeing him as his mistress while he stayed married to Georgette. Life had been good. So very good.
Benford reached the far end of the aisle, set down the gasoline, and looked around. Yeah, this would work okay. And he might not get another chance, not one as good as this, anyway. Both Larson and Richardson were here, with no one else around. There wouldn’t be a better time.
He was terrified. Could he go through with it?
He had to. That was the problem. He ha
d to. There was no other way out.
Benford had thought he was home free. As a member of Greenworld, he received a certain amount of junk mail and computer spam, but he hadn’t been expected to do anything. He’d not even had to attend any meetings. Then, just five weeks ago, his contact had phoned him and told him it was time to make good on his promise.
When he’d learned what was involved, what was expected of him, he’d done his best to back out and renegotiate the deal. Three weeks in the Arctic . . . God, there was a reason he liked living on the Texas gulf, despite the mosquitoes and the cockroaches. And what they wanted him to do . . .
He’d tried to get out of it; he really had. He’d threatened to go to the authorities and blow this filthy thing wide open. But it seemed the bastards had been filming him and Masha in that hotel room through a one-way mirror, both that first night and on some of their subsequent trysts over the two years since.
If he didn’t do precisely what he’d been ordered to do, Georgette would find out about Masha. Worse, his bosses at Wildcat would receive convincing documentation suggesting he’d been feeding the Russians highly proprietary information on Deepsea drilling technology, passing it through Masha to Moscow.
It meant utter ruination—losing his wife and his job and his overpriced house with its pool and hot tub and expensive back deck. It meant blacklisting in the industry and a very expensive lawsuit, and probably criminal charges and jail as well.
But if he did this thing, just this one thing, his handlers would turn him loose. He’d have the negatives of him and Masha and the incriminating documents to do with as he pleased. And he’d have a half-million dollars besides.
Yeah . . . an offer he couldn’t refuse.
The whole thing didn’t make an ounce of sense. The Cold War was over, right? The Russians were friends now, friends and business partners. It wasn’t like they were asking him to steal military secrets or betray his country or anything like that.
But to actually kill someone . . .
Golytsin had explained with great care why he had to do this, and do it this way. A simple murder wasn’t enough. The murder had to look like it had been committed by one of the NOAA officers. Otherwise, it would all be for nothing . . . and Benford would lose everything he’d worked for since leaving college.
He didn’t like the idea of murder, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the alternative. . . .
British Airways Flight 2112
200 miles southeast of Nova Scotia
1710 hours EDT
Charlie Dean sat in 7A, a window seat in tourist class, looking down on the brightly sunlit waters of the western Atlantic. Tommy . . . dead?
No. God damn it, no! It made no sense whatsoever. Tommy Karr had been a good agent, but more important, he’d been a lucky agent. At times, it had seemed like nothing could touch the exuberant young giant with the unkempt blond hair and unfailing grin.
Everyone back at NSA headquarters had been shaken by the news . . . no, stunned. It just didn’t seem possible that Tommy was gone.
Damn it, this was going to hit Lia hard. Her relationship with Karr had been a thorny one, full of jabs and put-downs and outright arguments at times, but Dean knew she liked and respected the guy, despite the sometimes acid banter.
Somehow, it made it even worse that Rubens had left the job of actually telling Lia to him, a job Dean was not going to enjoy. On the other hand, of course, it would have been worse if she learned about the death through other channels—a radio call or a terse e-mail from headquarters. Dean understood why she hadn’t been told while she was still in the field.
But God, this was going to be hard.
Almost as hard, just possibly, as identifying the body, picking up Karr’s effects, and arranging to have him shipped back home.
“How about you then, sir?”
“Eh?”
An attractive blond flight attendant was leaning over him. “Something to drink, sir?” She had a lovely British accent.
“Um, no. Not right now. Thank you.”
“You just give me a ring if there’s anything I can get for you.”
“Right. Thanks.”
This was the same flight Tommy had been booked on a couple of days ago.
Rubens himself had rescheduled Dean’s flight. His trip to St. Petersburg was off, he’d been told. Instead, he would catch a shuttle for the quick hop up to JFK, and there catch British Airways Flight 2112, part of the regular transatlantic service between New York and London.
Dean was used to sudden changes in orders and schedules, often with no explanation . . . but Rubens had explained this one carefully.
Tommy Karr . . . dead?
Dean had wondered at first why they’d insisted on putting him on the same flight Karr had taken, but it did make sense. As Rubens had told him, “Don’t take anything for granted, Dean. This thing is big, bigger than we’ve been seeing. I’d like you to talk to the flight crew, the flight attendants, maybe see if any of them remember Karr.”
Dean wondered if this attendant had waited on Karr, if she even remembered him? He looked at her name badge.
Julie.
After she was gone, Dean brought his hand up to his jaw and pretended to rest his head, using his hand to block his mouth from view. “You guys on the air?”
“We’re here, Charlie,” Rockman said back in the Art Room. His voice was fuzzy and indistinct, with bursts of static. Sunspots, they’d told Dean. Communications were going to be patchy in spots for the next several months.
“Just wondering. Did Tommy have any conversations with the flight attendants the other day? Something you folks might have picked up?”
“Sorry, Charlie, you’re breaking up. Say again after ‘Tommy.’”
He repeated himself, trying to speak distinctly while keeping his voice low enough that none of the other passengers would overhear.
“Okay,” Rockman said. “Got it. I was running Tommy during his flight, but Sandy was handling him later on, at the hotel. I do know he was chatting one girl up on the plane, though. Took her back to his room after he got in, in fact.”
“Got a name for her?”
“It’ll be in the transcripts. I can check.”
“Do it, please.”
“Hang on; I’m calling it up. You got something?”
“Not really. Mostly just wondering if someone on the flight crew remembered Tommy, y’know?” He was also remembering that someone had followed Tommy from Heathrow Airport all the way into downtown London. He wasn’t sure why yet, since the ambush had taken place the next day at the symposium, but Karr hadn’t picked up that tail at random. They’d been waiting for him on the street outside the Heathrow hotel. That strongly suggested a chain of contacts, picking him up and handing him off.
“Yeah. Okay . . . I have it here. ‘Julie.’” There was a pause as Rockford read the transcript. “Wow. Looks like they were going at it pretty hot and heavy until Tommy shut down his comm system. Don’t have a last name on her here, but we could check British Airways records and see who’s scheduled for that flight.”
“Not necessary. Probably not even important. But I may see what she knows.”
Besides, it would give him something else to think about than his upcoming reunion with Lia.
Ice Station Bear
Arctic Ice Cap
82° 24' N, 179° 45' E
0538 hours, GMT–12
The snowmobiles rested on their wooden racks at the far end of the aisle. The barking of the dogs was so shrill and loud, Benford could hardly hear himself think. Which, as he thought about it, wasn’t a bad thing at all. Damn it, how had he gotten himself into this? . . .
He set the gasoline cans down, then reached into the canvas shoulder bag. Inside were two items—the pry bar, stuck halfway out of the bag, and a heavy canvas belt with a black holster dangling from its length. Holding the bar in one hand, he set the belt and holster on the floor.
Benford stepped back, moving into a niche formed
by stacks of supply crates, which placed him out of sight. Holding the pry bar in both hands, he hefted it, getting the feel of its weight.
“Commander Larson!” he shouted. “Can you come here?”
There was no answer. Peeking around the corner of the crates, Benford could see both Larson and Richardson at the far end of the building, their backs to him. The damned dogs were making so much racket, the men couldn’t hear him.
This was bad. He was sweating, now, and his heart was pounding. He hadn’t anticipated the possibility of not being heard against the racket.
“Hey!” he screamed, bellowing as loud as he could. Startled, the dogs stopped barking for just a few seconds, long enough for him to shout, “Commander Larson!”
The barking started up again, but not as loudly, for now. Benford heard Larson moving just behind the sheltering corner, heard him say, “What the hell?” as he found the gun belt on the floor. That holster was Larson’s own, holding his 9mm service Beretta. Benford had taken the weapon from Larson’s personal locker hours before, along with a loaded magazine, hiding them in the satchel. “Benford! What the hell is this?”
In the next moment, Larson came into clear view as he stooped over the holster, reaching for it, his head at about the level of Benford’s waist.
Benford had been gripping one end of the pry bar with both gloved hands, holding the bar to one side and low, next to his leg. As Larson bent over the holster, Benford swung the bar, pivoting, coming around hard and up, across his body, the pry bar first catching Larson awkwardly on his arm but then slamming up into his face.
Stephen Coonts' Deep Black: Arctic Gold Page 15
