Sabotage (21 page)

When the voice on the line spoke, workers sat motionless, apparently fearful of any sound that might provoke Chatham.

“Employees of Glitnir Defense,” said the voice, “no doubt you've spent the morning in a dither over a certain missing satellite. Not to worry. You have the power to win it back.”

Center stage, Chatham held the phone over his head. Engineers and other Glitnir employees in proximity leaned in from behind their desks, keying in on the call.

“Who is this?” Chatham demanded.

“I am the man who has taken the satellite from you. My ownership is temporary. In several days' time it can be yours again.”

“I require a name. A name, an organization, a cause. I refuse to speak with an anonymous terrorist.”

“I am no terrorist,” said the voice. “You may call me ‘the Viking.'”

*   *   *

“Baldr is safe,” the Viking declared after his summary, “but depending on who wins the auction, your homeland may not be.”

“Let me get this straight,” Chatham said. “You've stolen our technology, and now you're auctioning it off? Who are we playing against?”

“Several bidders. Your biggest rival is a former Algerian oil minister now residing in Tripoli. He is the primary financier of a radical terrorist army called al-Nar. The army prides itself on being a new breed of religious revolutionaries, an intellectual breed. They are striving to harness advanced weaponry to establish a worldwide caliphate ruled by sharia law.”

“I'm perfectly familiar with al-Nar, thank you,” Chatham spat.

Quickly usurping an engineer's computer, Dirgo tried to contain her alarm as she refreshed her memory with a search on al-Nar. Founded by Othman al-Zayfi, the group called for global jihad beginning in Algeria, and had made several attempts to replace the Algerian government with an Islamic state. In response to unheeded demands in 1998, al-Nar had initiated a campaign of civilian exterminations in satellite villages to Algiers, the bloodiest of which took place in Casbah. Cloaked guerrillas had reportedly arrived at two
A.M.
in trucks and cars, armed with machetes, shotguns, and grenades. They had systematically murdered men, women, and children for five hours, cutting throats of animals and leaving pyres of corpses. Most young girls were abducted rather than immediately killed. Severed limbs and mutilated bodies were thrown through windows, infants flung against walls. Homes were burned and bombed. Females both living and dead were raped, the stomachs of pregnant women machine-gunned. Amnesty International had reported a death toll of 429.

Dirgo kept reading. In 1999, in response to Algeria's recommendation that other states make aggressive efforts to disable al-Zayfi's networks abroad, al-Nar had conducted a series of bombings in France and the United States. During this time, they were responsible for the hijacking of a ferry between Belgium and England; seventy-nine were killed. In 2000 Othman al-Zayfi's soldiers had created and dispersed a video intended to be seen by the entire Islamic world, in which he condemned his own army's past massacres: “Small arms are ineffective. We will not make progress raiding a village or blowing up a bus. We must strive for technology that can dismember perennial powers of the Western Crusader world.”

Dirgo printed off the page and wrote in felt marker at the top:
Other bidders.
She tried to hand the paper to Chatham, who waved it away.

“You said they're financed by a former oil minister?” Chatham said into the phone.

“Correct. One of my agents, a facilitator of this auction, will soon meet with him. He will want to know your starting bid. That is why I call.”

Chatham could hardly think over the drumming pulse in his head. It was hard enough to admit to himself that he needed Malcolm's help.

“Which minister?” he said.

“I have agreed to bidder privacy, but you might deduce his identity. His days with OPEC were marked with turbulence.”

“I'll give you an answer now,” Chatham said. “The answer is no. Our company designed and built the satellite. Baldr belongs to us.”

“Seems not,” said the Viking. “Refusal to comply is the natural response to a sudden demand like this one. But think it over, and you should come around. It's in your best interest to offer a bid. And I can recommend a reasonable start.”

“What?”

“Eight hundred million.”

“Outrageous.”

“The figure doesn't far exceed your expenses. If you factor in your cost of materials, launch, manpower, and nuclear warheads alone, you arrive at a number close to that.”

“That's irrelevant.”

“Ah, but how about value to country? I'm sure I needn't explain the ramifications of losing this auction. The millions you'd save would mean little without an economic infrastructure. I encourage you to bargain seriously.”

“Is this how you make a living? Nuclear blackmail?”

“I haven't blackmailed anyone, nor have I threatened injury. I've done you favors by informing you of your opponent's affluence and mind-set. I have no intention of using Baldr against the United States.”

“There's not a court in the country that wouldn't call you a terrorist.”

“I have no interest in international politics. My actions are in the name of no religious jihad or revolution. I have no ideology, and I promise violence can be avoided.”

“What are you after then?”

“Money, Mr. Chatham. Whether it's yours or the minister's, I'm after money. I assure you and everyone listening, I am a man of my word. Bid highest, and Baldr will return to Glitnir. I'll simply deliver a laptop and pass-code, returning control to you. I will not inflate your rivals' bids when relaying them. I promise to conduct a fair auction, as one would a piece of art. Frankly, I hope Glitnir wins. A shift in political and economic power so large would unsettle me.”

Chatham spoke through a tight jaw. “You've stolen our weaponry and offered to give it to a terrorist organization.”

“Not give. Sell.”

“You're no better than they are.”

“What I've done is create a market. You and the minister have been offered the same opportunity to participate. No gifts in my repertoire, Mr. Chatham.” He paused, then continued. “I congratulate you on a masterful engineering feat. Baldr works beautifully.”

“How do you know?”

“I've used it.”

Chatham fought off full-blown panic. “Where? On whom?”

“The al-Nar sponsor asked for a demonstration,” the Viking said. “I gave him one. I could tell you the location if you accepted my suggested starting bid.” Chatham turned to his secretary and started to mouth,
Turn on the news,
but was cut off by a disturbingly prescient remark: “You won't find reports on any channel.”

As Chatham scanned the room for help, it was no coincidence he didn't cross eyes with Dirgo; hers were too penetrating, too severe—too judgmental. He never turned to her when searching for an emotional crutch. Finding no inspiration, he sipped his water.

“I remind you, Mr. Chatham,” Dirgo said from the sidelines, “our nation does not negotiate with—”

“What the hell do you suggest I do?” he retorted. “Do you see what's at stake here?” And why did Kate always think she could do his job better than he? Maybe the stupid Marine wanted it. He turned to the phone. “Goddamn it, tell me what you've done.”

“I take it you're offering the bid?” said the Viking.

Chatham ignored Dirgo's wrathful crossfire. “Just … tell me the damages.”

“Very well. I acknowledge your initial offer of eight hundred million. Rather than inflict damage on land, I decided to conduct a smaller experiment at sea by disabling a cruise ship. A group of seafaring mercenaries will soon arrive to keep order on the luxury liner. I chose to experiment on the high seas so as not to provoke war or political skirmish, which could only complicate my bottom line.”

“What bottom line?”

“My auction.”

“Where's the ship?”

“I won't tell you that,” the Viking said. “It's not in your interest that I do. Neither of us wants an unwarranted military response.”

“Someone's going to find you.”

“The ship is uniquely positioned near little traffic. I doubt it will get much attention from other vessels. And if the auction goes quickly, the cruise ship needn't remain there long.”

“If you dare harm anyone onboard—”

The Viking went on. “You'll take the blame for whatever happens at home or at sea. Baldr belongs to your company. How will you explain to your government and people that you lost it? Should another bidder win the auction, how will you explain that your people's safety wasn't worth the cost? Failure to partake in this auction will expose your secret ‘defense' corporation. Millions of Americans will learn Glitnir was too cheap to protect them. And they'll find out it was you who refused to buy their lives, Mr. Chatham.”

Chatham hated perspiring while standing perfectly still. It was mortifying. A pool had collected under his chin, and it was no use trying to hide the stains under his armpits or the new ones that were beginning to bleed from his chest and back.

“You heard my colleague,” he said. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

“You can spare me the bromide, Dan. Terrorists negotiate with me.”

“How can we even be sure you'll return the satellite if we transfer funds?”

“Trust.”

“Not a chance.”

“I don't think you understand. You don't need to trust in my conscience. I'll be trusting in yours.”

“What gives you faith in me?”

“My mercenaries have been instructed to place several dozen explosive charges around the hull of the cruise ship…” Dirgo's eyebrows leapt. She stared at Chatham in apparent shock as the Viking resumed speaking. “… And I will be inclined to detonate should I meet resistance on your end. I now speak to everyone in Glitnir. This is your warning: Don't cross me. I'm a simple auctioneer, but I have terms.”

“What terms?” Chatham asked.

“No doubt you've considered pinpointing Baldr's location and shooting it out of the sky. You may have contemplated getting the Department of Defense involved. Don't try either. The moment I smell military cooperation, I sink the cruise liner.”

“What happened to no violence?”

“No outside parties means no necessary violence. Complicate things, and I'll know. Alert the Navy or the Coast Guard, and you'll wish you hadn't. Do you understand?”

“Yes…” Chatham began to say. “But you can't—”

“Thank you for submitting your starting bid of eight hundred million USD. My facilitator will convey your offer to the Algerian minister and other players. After their meeting, I will notify you of the counteroffer. The whole process may take a few days. I will only call you during regular business hours. Whenever I do, I expect you to put the phone on speaker. I want everyone in Glitnir headquarters privy to our parley … and your promises. Good-bye.”

Click.

There was no pity in Dirgo's glower at Chatham. He stared back, empty and out of focus, feeling the weight of a look he couldn't avoid.

“What could I do?” he said to her, suddenly aware of his own pallor. “He's a lunatic.”

Dirgo crossed her arms, pursed her lips. “You're doing business with him.”

“He has us in tight clutches.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Play his game. That's the only way. We have to bargain.”

“With what? Glitnir's piggy bank?”

“We'll come to a compromise.”

Her eyes drilled into his as if glazed with kerosene. She must have been aware of how it made him feel—that her glare nearly caused his knees to fold.

“You won't do that,” she declared.

“There's no other way.”

“You aren't thinking very clearly. Or have you ignored the responsibility of thinking altogether?”

“It's not exactly easy when … why are you being so hostile?”

“I don't appreciate the fact that bending over is your default.”

“Stop antagonizing me. We need to work together here.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Let's hold hands and smile at the situation we're in. Give in to his demands, that's all we have to do.”

“Jesus, Kate, I have no recourse. Never pick a fight with someone who
wants
a fight.”

“He doesn't want a fight. He wants money. We can stop him.” She pressed a stiff forefinger to his abdomen. “Take control. What would Malcolm do?”

Her question angered him. He wanted to ball a fist and punch her. She could take it, if she wanted to be such a man.

He felt too crowded by thoughts to care that the entire office was listening to her rebukes. He slid his feet together to determine whether he had regained physical balance, deciding he had.

Chatham opened his eyes for a pronouncement.

“I need everyone to listen. This lunatic is determined to squeeze us for every penny we've got. He's using thousands of innocent lives as leverage to broker a deal. I need information before the bidding gets out of hand. If we're to determine the magnitude of the effects of the pulse he's unleashed, we need to know where and when he detonated the nuclear warhead in space. Folks, I want to know the exact coordinates of the Baldr satellite. Find it.”

 

NINETEEN

A chunk of driftwood would have had its benefits over a cruise liner without power—maneuverability, for one, the ability actually to paddle somewhere. Leaning over the rail, Jake Rove felt like a castaway, the
Pearl Enchantress
his island.

The alcohol had begun to wear off, and he returned to his senses. He paced the deck, mentally replaying phrases from the ship-wide announcement.