Sabotage (24 page)

Austin turned on the faucet and rinsed. “Then we're only one hotel away from the answer. If we could get him to leave his room without taking the computer with him, if only for a matter of seconds, we could break in and—”

“Shhh. Don't distract me.… I'm trying to see where he puts the laptop. He opened it and typed a few things, as if he was checking something.… Now he's slipping it back into the briefcase. He's standing up…” She lowered her binoculars and narrowed the blinds even more before glancing up again. “He's making for the exit…”

She said nothing for a while.

“What now?” said Austin.

“Lights out. He's on the move.”

 

TWENTY-ONE

Greetings, luxury lovers,

This message comes from your hijacker. Read carefully and entirely.

Power will not return.

My reasons for disabling this ship do not involve and should not concern you. I am no petty thief. Armed guards patrolling the halls will not come after your jewelry. Given your cooperation, we will not confiscate your valuables or threaten your lives individually.

Cancellations have been made at future ports. Foreign port authorities no longer expect your arrival. A virus infecting computers at the main offices of Pearl Voyages will falsely report our location. A dot representing the
Pearl Enchantress
will appear on a map and move according to the planned itinerary. “Official” calls will be made to assuage doubts. Corporate headquarters will detect nothing abnormal and find no reason to investigate.

It is regretful my negotiations should disrupt your vacations. Do not panic. If my associates adhere to plan, nothing will compromise your safety.

I have three rules.

One. Do not leave your cabins. Your doors will remain closed and locked at all times, unless you hear the knock of a guard delivering rations. Violators caught loitering or skulking will be shot. Anyone responsible for or complicit in organizing a counterattack will be shot. Anyone who communicates with passengers in another cabin will be shot. Anyone who physically assaults a guard will be shot. Anyone who riles a guard will be shot. Anyone who causes unnecessary disturbance will be shot. Stay in your cabins. You, too, crew members.

Two. Passengers with balcony rooms may jump ship without fear of pursuit. Several hundred miles separate us from land. Happy swimming.

Three. Obey Ragnar Stahl. He is my strong right arm, my fidus Achates. He currently commands the ship. You will recognize him if and when you see him.

The
Pearl Enchantress
is mine.

I wish the best for you, truly.

Regards,

The Viking

 

A patroller had slipped the letter-sized message under Rove's door. No doubt the hijackers were distributing thousands of copies. He folded the paper and set it on his nightstand.

His initial energy had dulled to restlessness. He squinted through his door's peephole, hearing voices and shouts that abated in time. Occasionally he'd hear lumbering footsteps and see one of the guards up close. They were gold-haired Goliaths, bred for piracy. Despite his excellent shape, Rove knew he was no match for their raw strength. If he stood a chance in hand-to-hand combat, it would be agility against size.

A rifle butt clicked against the outside wall railing as one of them paced near. Rove barely glimpsed the face, but he did notice the guard's bicep. For the first time he had a clear view of the tattoo. He studied the design, trying to place it, then copied the pattern onto a notepad for later reference—a horned helmet and double-edged ax.

He ogled the gun slung over the patroller's shoulder and recognized the classic automatic assault rifle. The gas-operated weapon was originally developed in the Soviet Union for the Red Army. Over sixty years later, regular armed forces, as well as revolutionaries and terrorist groups around the world, still fired its 7.62x39mm cartridges.

Rove jotted down the detail.
They carry AKs.

These weren't their only weapons. He'd seen others, among them Uzi submachine guns, and he'd recognized their Belgian make: Fabrique Nationale d'Herstal. This he jotted, too; the pirates had access to quality arms dealers.

He reread the Viking's note at his bedside. Who was this joker? He looked up at the portrait of Clifford Pearl hanging over his bed, taking in the regal uniform, picturing that severe face colored with rage. If only Pearl knew what was happening on his ship, he thought, and for a moment he imagined something in the solemnity of the captain's expression—a dare, a nod of permission that said:
No harm goes unpunished.

Rove retrieved a map of the
Pearl Enchantress
from a drawer and slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping. Then he tapped on Fawkes's wall, punctuating his taps with breaks to spell out a message. After ten seconds of silence, he heard tapping from the other side and decrypted the answer.

Yes, I know Morse.

Rove tapped a few more sentences. They took a painfully long time to convert, as neither was an expert. But the messages were unmistakable, nothing lost in translation.

Will communicate this way,
Rove encoded.
May need your help soon.

For what?

Don't know yet. Must work together.

Could rig rope chute outside for note passing.

Dangerous. They might see. Letter said no communication.

True.

Stay tuned for my taps. Back later.

 

TWENTY-TWO

Negotiations would take place in the heart of medieval charm at La Taverne Brugeoise. Austin and Victoria had followed the man to a small restaurant with a tearoom and outside seating. The setting provided a clear view of the bell tower, while the din of the marketplace made eavesdropping difficult.

Briefcase in hand, Vasya took a seat beside a dark, oversized man. His neck was covered in a checkered keffiyeh, his skin deeply pocked and flecked with birthmarks. His beard was tamed but thick, the kind that grew scraggly in a day. And his nose slanted gently before ending at a radical hook, as if a wood plank had smacked him at childbirth and forever disturbed the natural slope.

After shaking hands with Vasya, the man pulled up a chair, filling it with his mass. Austin and Victoria observed the interaction from the market square.

“Let's move in closer,” Austin said. “I'd like to hear what they say.”

Victoria glanced at the lunch companions, who had begun to converse. “Vasya might recognize us,” she said.

“We'll sit behind him. We'll be fine. Remember, he only saw us in the dark.”

“You don't know that. He might have seen our faces before the run-in at the Hotel Dostoevsky.”

“Then we'll be careful.”

They moved in toward the tavern, Austin taking a seat at a table not ten feet from Vasya. He had a clear view of Vasya's companion. Victoria joined him moments later. They went through the motions of reading the menu.

A waiter came to their table and greeted them. “Welcome to La Taverne Brugeoise. Would you like to start with drinks?”

“Just water for me,” Victoria said.

“I'll have a Sam Adams,” Austin said.

“Sorry, we don't—”

“How about a Grolsch?”

The waiter bowed his head. “On its way.”

They watched peripherally as Vasya opened the briefcase and removed Malcolm Clare's laptop along with a satellite uplink device. He booted the computer and placed it on the table. Austin and Victoria tried to filter out extraneous noise and capture snippets of the conversation. Vasya was speaking, his demeanor genuine—too genuine, his affectation and oversold sincerity what one would expect of a fly-by-night charlatan.

*   *   *

“This was given to me by Ragnar at the fjords after he obtained it from Stanford University,” Vasya said to the man across from him.

“I would like to see how it works.”

“Sure, Farzad.”

“Have you tested it yet?”

“The demonstration you asked for has shown Baldr to live up to expectations. Have a look.” Vasya tapped the keys. “Here you input coordinates, adjust altitude, et cetera—or you click on the world map, zooming here, and the satellite will alter course, compensating for the presence of other objects in space to avoid collision. Data required for safe navigation feeds from the United States Strategic Command, an agency that tracks satellites and orbital debris.” Vasya pointed to a spot on the screen. “Here you select the desired yield. Based on your inputs, the program will extrapolate expected damages, shading a region on the map most likely to be affected. Alternatively, you can highlight an area of geography, and the Baldr program will compute the detonation coordinates, altitude, and yield necessary to address the selected region.”

“What does Glitnir offer?”

“Eager, I see.”

“It's for my own good.”

Vasya nodded. Having researched all participants in the auction, he was well aware of Farzad Deeb's reasons for being here. Originally from Oran, Deeb had worked at the World Bank on petrochemical projects for five years before joining a large Algerian oil consortium created to exploit the country's hydrocarbon resources. He had spent twelve years there, becoming the vice president of operations at the Hassi Messaoud oil refinery, before his election to the People's National Assembly of Algeria. In 1983 he was appointed Minister of Energy and Mines and became an oil minister for OPEC living in Algiers. His years in OPEC had been marked by disintegrating cohesion among participating states. The First Persian Gulf War and the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait led to divisive fears over a massive supply disruption. Deeb's proposed reductions in production quotas—which would bolster Algerian revenues in the short term—had conflicted with the Saudi concern that raising prices would compel nations to cultivate petroleum alternatives.

Deeb had dissented against Saudi policies. In 1996 Saudi intelligence had accused him of employing al-Nar operatives to infiltrate and sabotage Saudi Arabia's Ghawar and Shaybah oil fields—attacks which had caused $320 million in damage. The claims were substantiated by evidence confirming he had contributed $100 million of his own to support the group's activities. Deeb had denied allegations but resigned from office, moving to Tripoli to escape imprisonment. He had bribed away most Algerian investigations, but remained among Saudi Arabia's most wanted.

In Tripoli he'd befriended Othman al-Zayfi, the founder of al-Nar, and sponsored the group's endeavors as a means of protection and power. Though he remained apathetic toward the group's religious motives, in return for money and armaments, they would defend him from the Saudis and implement his wishes abroad.

Vasya leaned in. “Glitnir bid eight hundred million.”

The bushes that were the former minister's eyebrows crawled like mice when he moved his forehead. “I will take them higher.”

“How much?”

*   *   *

Deeb's fingers were hidden in his beard. Before he answered, the waiter returned to Austin and Victoria's table with their drinks, blocking their view.

“Ready to order?” he asked.

“We're just having drinks,” Victoria said.

“You sure? We have some really fabulous entrees.”

“Drinks will do for now, but thank you.”

“Okay,” said the waiter. “Enjoy.”

They isolated the two voices again, trying to fill in the gap in continuity.

“… healthy offer, Farzad.”

“I think it will send the company a message of my intent.”

“Glitnir faces serious competition.”

“Something that worries me,” said Deeb. “There is a chance Glitnir would try to shoot down the satellite before I could use it. How can I be assured of its safety?”

“The satellite's designer, Malcolm Clare, built in a safety provision,” Vasya answered. “Glitnir lost its trace on Baldr the moment I opened the overriding program. They won't be able to find it. And even if they did, the Viking has spun your demonstration into a bargaining tool.”

Austin was revolted by the feral look on Deeb's face. And who was this “Viking”?

“I see,” the man said.

The dialogue continued for minutes. Vasya closed the laptop and locked it in the briefcase. The same waiter tended to their table, jotting down their orders, then disappeared into the kitchen. To Austin and Victoria's chagrin, a gang of tourists moved in between their tables, filling the tavern with spates of laughter and clamoring silverware. She frowned at them. Austin shifted in his seat to get a better look at Deeb, who had folded his fingers on the tablecloth and begun to glance about with the paranoia of a man who didn't want to be found.

“The briefcase is between Vasya's feet,” Austin said. “It's so close. If we could give him a reason to leave the table for a second, I'd have time to grab it.”

Victoria saw that he was right.

He tried to be inconspicuous as he watched Farzad Deeb fingering his fork and gawking at the dishes being served around him. Apparently the sweet concoction of aromas, combined with wafts from the tavern's brew, were difficult for the man to endure.

Deeb's gaze fell upon Austin, who looked away. He still sensed the Algerian's stare boring a hole into his profile, weighing and measuring him.

“What's the matter?” Victoria asked.

“Don't turn back. He saw me.”

“Who, Vasya?”

“The man he's with, this Farzad Deeb.” Austin sipped his Grolsch. “He's watching me right now.”

“Do you think he suspects anything?”

“Maybe. He just turned away, but he studied me a good while.”