by Dave Edlund
Peter was transfixed, absorbing all Jim was saying and trying to make sense of it. His father had never spoken much about his research, so Peter really didn’t know if Jim’s facts were correct or not.
Finally Peter shook his head. “I’m not following you. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re right and Dad’s work is aimed at figuring out how oil is made. So what? Why would that make him a target?”
“We don’t know. There are too many pieces missing from the puzzle. What we do know is that in the last six months, many prominent researchers in the field of abiogenic oil formation have been murdered or have died under very suspicious circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“In June, 45 delegates at the Hedberg conference in Caracas were blown up by terrorists. Those delegates were all attending a special conference session on theories of abiogenic oil production. Many of those murdered were American citizens.”
“Suicide bombers are blowing up innocent people every day. Why do you think that was different?”
“The terrorists had made a demand for ransom, and while the authorities were putting together a response, the bombs were detonated. Why would they do that? Why detonate the bombs when there was still a chance of negotiating the ransom and safe passage?
“And there are others. A professor from Georgia Tech was murdered in London in early June—ricin poisoning. He was a close collaborator of many of the delegates murdered at the Hedberg conference. And before that, in May, a leading theorist in abiogenic oil production was shot—execution style—on the streets of Kiev. There have been many others. Do I need to go on?”
Peter sat stunned, not knowing what to say. Jim finished his Scotch and looked at Peter. “I can see that your father is stubborn, and he’s very skeptical that his work has any significance on the scale I’ve described to you. I need your help to convince him to lay low for a while and let my team have time to figure this all out. I can put a 24 hour guard on him, but that only works if we have his cooperation.”
“All right,” Peter replied. “I’ll go along with you, and we’ll talk to Dad together. What time is your appointment?”
“Just before lunch, 11:00 A.M., at his office in Gleason Hall.”
“We’ll need to be on the road early in case we hit traffic. Perhaps we should call it a night.”
Peter finished his Scotch in one gulp, and the two friends retired to their rooms. But it would be a fitful night for Peter.
Chapter 3
September 12
Moscow, Russian Federation
Sitting comfortably in his oversized black leather office chair, Grigory stared out the large window at the cold rain, considering the timing of the next operation. His office overlooked the Moskva River and beyond that, the Kremlin. As befits a man of his stature and power, he had visited the Kremlin many times. While he gazed at the golden domes decorating this seat of power, his thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his cell phone.
“Yes?” he said.
“Sir, we have learned that the target is meeting with an American intelligence operative tomorrow at his office.”
“Hmm. What do we know about the American agent?”
“Very little, sir. I have resources looking into it as we speak. The man’s name is Commander James Nicolaou. He does not appear to work for the CIA or NSA.”
“Then he must work for the Pentagon. Check the military databases. Stay on it, and let me know immediately when you have more information.”
“Yes, sir.” There was a pause, then the man spoke again. “Shall I have a local operative tail the agent after his meeting tomorrow?”
Grigory thought for a moment. This was an unwelcome intrusion into his plan. “Have two teams at the university, well in advance of the meeting. I don’t want any mistakes. And record the conversation—all of it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Chairman,” said the voice over the phone.
Grigory narrowed his eyes. “You know the protocol, do you not?” It was not a question that he expected to be answered.
“Sir?” The inflection of voice betrayed concern, even a hint of fear.
“Security demands that names not be used. You know these rules… and the punishment for violating them.”
Even though they were speaking on a secure connection, it was sloppy to use names or titles. For as long as people had been encrypting communications, others had found ways to defeat the codes. One could never be absolutely certain that the encryption was secure, so extra precautions were used in the rare event that the communication was compromised.
“But I did not mention your name—” the voice pleaded.
“Enough!” shouted Grigory. He had no tolerance for insubordination.
“Do not make this mistake a second time. Do we understand each other?”
“Of course, sir. It will not happen again.” The voice was conciliatory. Grigory would have ordered the man’s execution if he were not an experienced and valued operative.
“In light of this new development, I think it prudent to accelerate our schedule. As I recall, the target is planning to leave on a field expedition in a little more than a week.”
“Yes, sir. Our sources tell me that the purpose of the expedition is to collect specific rock samples and to perform a geological survey on a small island in the North Pacific. The Americans seem to think there is something important about this location’s proximity to a junction between two continental plates.”
“Hmm,” Grigory mumbled as he thought. Although he was a businessman, he understood the science and engineering of petroleum, including more than a basic knowledge of geology. “A thorough survey of the underlying rock will require use of explosive charges… perhaps many.”
Grigory recalled how effective the Ramirez brothers were at the Hedberg conference in Caracas. Pablo Ramirez’s idea of posing as Army Major Muriel was very creative. The Venezuelan officials would never have uncovered his true identity, even if their investigation had not been sabotaged. Grigory mused at how little money it took to bribe public servants.
“I will contact the brothers and instruct them to plan the operation to coincide with the expedition.” The voice on the cell phone was silent.
Grigory smiled slightly, even though he knew it was lost to the man on the phone. “You know how dangerous these geological surveys can be, especially when poorly trained students and professors are using seismic explosive charges. It is not uncommon for terrible accidents to happen.
“Make sure the necessary resources are put into play. I want this done; the American government is getting too close.”
“Sir, there is also the colleague in Japan, a mathematics professor. He is scheduled to participate in the field expedition along with four students.”
“As I understand their roles, the mathematician plays a minor part. Nevertheless, he too must be eliminated—all of them. Make the arrangements. I do not want any loose ends. This thread of research must be terminated.”
Grigory ended the connection, not waiting for a reply.
Chapter 4
September 13
Bend, Oregon
Jim was up and enjoying a cup of coffee in the kitchen when Peter walked in. “Sleep well? What time did you get up? I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m an early riser—been up since 0500. Already read your newspaper and have been enjoying your coffee.”
Peter laughed. “Let me get some breakfast cooking—you hungry?”
“Always.”
Peter fried a pound of bacon, scrambled six eggs with cheese and toasted four English muffins. They sat in the dining room and enjoyed the meal without talking much. Finally, looking out the picture windows toward the Three Sisters, Jim spoke, “It sure is beautiful here. I don’t imagine you would ever get tired of that view.”
“Nope, I don’t. You can be up in those mountains within an hour. It’s truly beautiful country. I go up there on the eastern slopes of those mountains and just walk for hours, enj
oying nature at its finest. Plenty of lakes, and the fishing is not half bad—lots of trout.”
“That sounds nice,” Jim answered. But Peter sensed that it was a programmed reply and Jim’s mind was preoccupied with other concerns.
They finished eating and Jim helped clear the dishes from the table, loading them into the dishwasher while Peter wiped down the counters.
“Thanks for the tour of your shop yesterday. Your work is fascinating.”
Peter nodded. “I enjoy it. As I mentioned, the mark-nine is our first product. We’re working on some other concepts, including a more advanced belt-fed version. We’re also developing a special type of ammunition that comprises a cluster of steel darts. When the round is fired, the darts spread somewhat, like shot from a shotgun.
“Oh, by the way, my contract officer at DARPA speaks very highly of you.”
Jim tilted his head, acknowledging Peter’s unexpected comment.
Peter smiled inwardly. “I emailed him last night at his Pentagon office. I knew he would get the message this morning, and he got back to me right away. He doesn’t know you personally, of course, but says you have a very high security clearance.”
“You didn’t waste any time,” commented Jim.
“Just wanted to be sure I was cleared to talk to you about our work at EJ Enterprises.” Peter glanced at his watch. “We should be going.”
They grabbed their jackets and Jim said, “I can drive if you want to be navigator. I’ve got a government car.”
“Thanks, but I just bought a Hummer H3T truck. I haven’t had a chance yet to take it on a road trip.”
“Cool, never ridden in a Hummer before.”
“Well, you can tell me how it stacks up against the military HUMVEE. I’m sure you’ve ridden in those.”
“Yeah, rough ride, but beats walking.”
Parked on the street in front of Peter’s place, in a slot reserved for EJ Enterprises, was Peter’s extended cab H3T. It was dark metallic red, with a black interior except for red inset panels in the front and rear seats. It looked rather sporty with its roof rack and black trim. Jim whistled. “Now she’s a real beauty!”
“Almost too pretty to take off-road,” replied Peter. “I haven’t yet, but I will. There’s a dirt road, poorly maintained, that runs north from the Cascade Lakes Highway at Todd Lake along the east side of the Tamm McArthur Rim into Highway 242. It’s closed this late in the year, but come next summer I’m going to test the off-road capabilities of this baby.”
“Sounds like fun. Can I come along?” said Jim, still smiling.
“Anytime, just don’t forget the Scotch.”
After topping off the gas tank at a convenience store, Peter drove onto the parkway heading north towards Sisters. So far, there wasn’t much traffic. Peter hoped his luck would hold.
After driving for a while with just the sound of the tires humming against the pavement, Peter asked, “So, what’s it like to be a SEAL? Lots of adrenaline, I suppose.”
Jim was quiet for a moment as he considered the question. Then he answered, “Yes. Enough, anyway. I’ve been to Iraq, Afghanistan, and other places I can’t name. Saw a lot of good men die. Spent five years in-country leading a SEAL team. It was the same shit every day, just different bad guys to take out. Then one day I got a call, and the voice on the other end made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. So, I took up residency at The Office. I lead a team there too, doing all kinds of interesting and challenging intelligence stuff that I’ll never be able to tell you about. But I can tell you this. It is every bit as challenging as what I did in the field. Except now I make a real difference.”
Peter registered a degree of bitterness in Jim’s voice. “And you don’t think you made a difference as a SEAL team leader?”
Jim shook his head. “We always completed our missions—killed a lot of really bad people. But did it change anything? The Taliban is resurgent; Al Qaeda is just as active as ever, maybe more so. And now Pakistan’s tribal area is sheltering and giving birth to new generations of terrorists and groups we’ve never heard of. We fought the battles, but we didn’t win the war.”
“How about the guys in your old SEAL unit? Do you stay in touch with them?”
“Yeah, the ones who made it out, anyway. They’re good men… the best of the best—SEAL Team Six.”
They drove on in silence for a while; Jim was deep in thought, struggling with demons he might never defeat. Peter had never imagined anything could get to Jim. He had been a tough kid, seldom challenged and never backing down. But Peter had never been to Iraq or Afghanistan—for that matter he had never been to a war zone anywhere. He assumed the old saying to be true—war is hell.
They arrived in Corvallis right on schedule and found their way to the Oregon State University campus. They parked next to the campus bookstore, not far from Gleason Hall where his father’s office was on the second floor.
Peter knocked and from inside a familiar voice said, “Come in.”
He opened the door, and his father glanced up with a neutral expression. Upon recognizing his son, his face broadened into a wide, radiant smile.
“Hello, Peter!” he said, rising from his desk chair. “I certainly didn’t expect to see you today. What brings you here?”
Peter entered the office with Jim close behind. “Hi, Dad,” he grinned and gave his father a big hug. “You remember Jim Nicolaou? He was my best friend from high school.”
“Yes, I do remember. Hello, Jim. You are right on time; 11:00 A.M.” Professor Ian Savage was full of energy and very sharp at an age when many other men would be retired. He stood straight and was just under six feet tall. His physique was best described as tough and wiry—not an ounce of excess fat, yet not thin. With his gray hair and a short, gray beard, he looked very much like a distinguished gentleman, the stereotypical professor.
“Pleased to see you again, Professor. It’s been a long time. I drove into Bend yesterday and stopped by to see Peter and ended up staying at his place so we could tell stories and catch up. I asked Peter to join me for this meeting with you. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Well, sir, as I mentioned on the phone, I work for the government—military intelligence—and we’ve been tracking several global incidents that suggest to us that your life may be in danger.”
“You could have simply told me that over the phone and saved yourself a lot of time.”
“Sir, I believe I did.”
Professor Ian Savage smiled ever so slightly at Jim’s reply. He remembered the boy who had been his son’s best friend so many years ago. But now the boy was a man. And he wasn’t easily intimidated or pushed around. The professor respected that, but he would never admit it to Jim. He motioned for them to have a seat at the round conference table tucked into a corner of his office.
As Jim moved toward the table, he quickly scanned the room, taking note of small details as was his practice. The office was large enough to hold the Professor’s desk and the conference table comfortably. A small table just to the side of the door supported an old-style percolator coffee pot and three cups, none of them matching. There was a modest sofa along one wall, and the opposite wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with books and journals tucked haphazardly on shelving supported by black metal brackets clipped into tracks placed every couple of feet on the wall. It wasn’t very neat, and Jim wondered how Professor Savage could ever find anything on those shelves.
A large, antique mahogany desk with carved details on the drawer fronts was placed at a right angle to the window, affording the professor a view of the campus common area below without having his back to the door. The top of the desk was littered with papers, including one stack that must have been just shy of a foot tall. Protruding above this chaotic sea of notes and papers was a large flat-panel monitor. At the moment, it was filled with a piping and instrumentation diagram.
Peter voiced his concern; he knew very well how stubborn his father could be.
“Dad, Jim outlined his reasoning last night, and it seems there is a connection to your research. It sounds plausible to me, and I’d like for you to hear him out. What if he’s right?”
“Oh, come now. I’m a Professor Emeritus of Chemical Engineering at a state university. My work is hardly that well known. I seldom even publish now that I’m not under pressure to do so. I have a few colleagues that I collaborate with, but again, that work is not well known at all. Who would possibly want to kill me? And what does my work have to do with any of this?”
“Sir,” Jim replied, “the team I work with has been following a string of killings of prominent researchers in the field of petroleum science—more specifically, the field of abiogenic oil formation.”
The professor stared at Jim, silent.
Jim continued, “Thirteen months ago, a Ukrainian by the name of Dimitri Raznitsyn was poisoned by a lethal dose of dioxin in Paris. About eleven months ago, Professor Stephen Spangler and his post-doctoral student Marissa Kerry died under suspicious circumstances in an explosion and fire that also destroyed his lab at the University of Texas. All his research results were destroyed. Five months ago, Dr. Detlev Zurmegeda was murdered on a street in Kiev. Less than three months ago, Dr. Mark Phillips was murdered in London, poisoned by ricin.” Jim paused, eyes locked with the professor’s.
Professor Savage did not convey any emotion as he spoke. “And the common thread is?”
“The common thread is that all these people were distinguished researchers in the field of abiogenic oil formation. Also, within the last three months, 45 delegates were murdered in Caracas at the Hedberg conference. Many of those killed were Americans.”
Professor Savage pushed away from the table and walked toward the office door. For a second Jim thought he was leaving, but he stopped at the chromed percolator and poured a cup of steaming coffee. “Would either of you care for some coffee?” His gaze remained fixed on the cup he was pouring as he asked the question.
