The Alexandria Connection (32 page)

O’Connor waited until it was dark, and drove down the narrow roads to the waterfront. On either side, the stone fences around the container storage areas were topped with barbed wire, but O’Connor had already reconnoitred an area about 400 metres from the Super Terminal wharf, and he parked under a clump of trees that gave him enough cover. He pulled on his wetsuit and scuba gear, putting any thought of piraña out of his mind, reminding himself that although they were curious, piraña were not the biggest threat to swimming or diving in the Amazon. Notwithstanding Hollywood’s best efforts, attacks by piraña were rare, and usually only in specific circumstances – if the swimmer was bleeding, wearing shiny jewellery, or swimming where there was very little food. The candiru catfish was a far bigger threat – a primitive species of catfish that literally ripped a hole in its prey, allowing the rest of its school to enter the body. O’Connor put that out of his mind as well, and concentrated on the task ahead. He did his final checks, crossed a strip of sand and slipped into the dark waters of the Rio Negro.

O’Connor checked his wrist compass and swam easily, heading toward the
EVRAN I
. Visibility was poor and after what he judged to be 200 metres, O’Connor quietly surfaced. Another 200 metres out into the river, the lights on board the
EVRAN I
were burning brightly, casting long pencil-like flickers across the water. He checked his compass bearing again and slipped beneath the surface. Swimming more slowly now, lest he crash into a wharf pier, he approached cautiously. Above him, the cranes had fallen silent, but there was still movement on the
EVRAN I
’s deck. O’Connor resisted any temptation to switch on his powerful torch. Instead he slowed as he felt his way past the first of the piers. Twenty metres further on, he reached the
EVRAN I
’s hull. He moved carefully down toward the stern and felt his way around the ship’s massive propeller blades and the rudder, swimming to the exposed river side of the hull.

O’Connor released a small, fibreglass limpet mine from his belt, the same type used by the SEAL teams. He activated the magnet and positioned it on the hull. Satisfied it was secure, he worked his way back to the pier side and attached a second limpet mine to the starboard hull. The mines contained just one kilogram of high explosive, but they were in the form of a shaped charge, designed to concentrate the energy of the explosion so that it would punch a hole through the hull. O’Connor worked his way back to the propeller and spent the next fifteen minutes tamping plastic explosives around the shaft. He attached the detonator and preset timing device and quietly swam back along the hull. O’Connor surfaced under the pier, checked his bearing and headed back to the beach.

Three hours later, three muffled explosions rocked the waterfront.

C
rowley arrived on the eighty-second floor in a foul mood. ‘Where’s Reid at the moment,’ Crowley demanded, his face flushed with fury.

‘He’s in Area 15,’ Miranda replied, taken aback.

‘Get him in here now and get Costa on the secure line!’

‘What the fuck is going on down there?’ he demanded of Costa moments later, as Reid took a seat in front of his desk. ‘Who the fuck’s responsible for this?’

‘We’re not sure, yet, Mr Crowley,’ Costa replied, ‘but the police are investigating and I’m leaning on them . . . hard.’

‘What the fuck was Security doing, apart from sitting on their fat asses?’

‘Security’s tight, Mr Crowley, but as far as we can tell, explosives were planted below the waterline, so there’s no doubt it was a professional job. We had a large protest here yesterday – the usual bunch of tree-huggers, but I doubt they were responsible.’

‘What’s the damage?’ Crowley growled.

‘I only have the initial divers’ and engineers’ reports, but the hull was breached on the port and starboard sides, flooding the aft shaft compartments, and the propeller’s been badly damaged as well. We’ll know a little more in another twenty-four hours or so, but this ship is not going anywhere for several months. We’ll probably have to find a way to tow it to a much larger port with dry-dock facilities . . . which leads me to the question of the sensitive cargo. Do you want that shipped to Karachi separately?’

‘No. That’s too fucking dangerous. Karachi will have to wait. In the meantime, I want a full report on the damage, and I want the perpetrators of this outrage found and dealt with!’

‘We’re on it, Mr Crowley.’ Costa was wasting his breath. Crowley had already slammed the phone into its cradle on the scrambler.

‘Any ideas, Reid?’

The head of Area 15 shook his head. ‘I’ve done some preliminary searching, but there’s nothing on the radar.’

‘Keep looking. In the meantime, what’s happening with that bitch Campbell?’

‘She and her campaign team are staying at the Carlyle hotel in New York. We’ve managed to bug the suite,’ Reid said, glancing at Crowley’s new PA. ‘They’re heading for the Iowa caucuses tomorrow, but they’re scheduled to have a strategy meeting about now, if you want to listen in real time.’

Crowley took a seat at a desk surrounded by a dizzying array of powerful computers. The meeting at the Carlyle was just getting underway and the audio was coming through on the headphones as clearly as if they’d been in the room.

‘In summary,’ Chuck Buchanan concluded, ‘for this campaign, we have to keep in mind what America and the world will look like in 2016.’ The arrogant ex-White House chief of staff spoke in crisp tones, addressing the small group of powerful Democrats who had assembled in the Empire Suite of the Carlyle, one of New York’s finest hotels. Along with their star candidate, Hailey Campbell, and the environmentalist Professor Megan Becker, ten of the Democratic Party’s top political operatives had gathered for what would be the first of hundreds of meetings in Campbell’s attempt to win the Democratic nomination, and ultimately, the White House. The campaign team was already in high gear.

‘We need to focus on
our
strengths, and the Republicans’ weaknesses,’ said Buchanan. ‘Last time round, they lost out big time with the Hispanics, so we have to continue with a moderate line on immigration. Right now, the Hispanics are onside, and we need to keep it that way. They’re the fastest growing minority in the country. They make up 16 per cent of the population, and there are twenty-four million of them registered to vote. You only have to look at the ’96 vote to see what a difference they can make – Bill Clinton garnered a whopping 72 per cent, trouncing Bob Dole’s 21 per cent. They matter. Ditto gay marriage, for the simple reason that, regardless of what we might think, gay marriage is supported by the majority of Americans.’

‘I support it,’ Hailey Campbell interjected, well aware of Buchanan’s homophobic views. ‘Around nine million Americans are gay, lesbian or bisexual, and most of those are of voting age, and they deserve our support. If the GOP and the Evangelicals carry on about marriage being between a man and a woman, that’s more power to us,’ she reminded them.

‘And finally, our trump card,’ said Buchanan. ‘The GOP lost out to women, and notwithstanding the appeal to women voters in Montana of their latest entrant, Carter Davis, unless the Republicans come up with a female candidate, we can capitalise on the female factor.’

‘I’m not in this race because I’m a woman,’ Hailey Campbell snapped, her piercing blue eyes defiantly cold. She had never liked the egotistical staffer, but had acceded to pressure from the Democratic National Committee to have him lead the campaign.

‘Of course,’ Buchanan replied unsmilingly, ‘but it’s a GOP weakness that we have to exploit at every opportunity.’

‘You haven’t mentioned global warming at all,’ Campbell replied, just as unsmilingly.

Buchanan struggled to control his frustration. ‘For very good reasons,’ he said. ‘Not only is it not a vote winner, but if you bring that up, it could cost you the White House. Last week’s research might have indicated that 54 per cent of Americans think that global warming is due to human activity, but a sizeable number of those are Democrats. Undecided Republicans – those who might be swayed to vote for you for other reasons – will be put off in droves if you start putting a carbon tax front and centre. You’ve only got to look at what happened in Australia – it cost two prime ministers their office. This campaign has to be designed on what America is going to look like in the future, not today,’ Buchanan insisted, ‘and the whole thrust of the campaign has to be on the economy and jobs, jobs, jobs.’

‘On the contrary, Chuck, the most recent research says 65 per cent of Americans
support
a price on carbon,’ Professor Becker challenged, ‘because they know it’s the only way we’re going to force the big emitters like EVRAN to put their house in order.’ The environmental scientist angrily brushed her red curls from her forehead. She was more than a match for the ideological Buchanan, both in height and intellect. In return for joining the campaign team, Campbell had promised her that together, they could have a powerful impact on the world’s intransigence toward global warming.

Buchanan glared at Becker. ‘I’ve seen that tree-hugger research too,’ he said, unable to hide the sneer in his voice, ‘but you’re leaving out the qualifier: they support putting a price on emissions that would help
create
jobs and
decrease
pollution, and if you believe a carbon tax will create jobs, you’re on something illegal from the bottom of the garden. You can make statistics say anything if you phrase the question the right way. None other than the Nobel Laureate, Professor Marcus Ahlstrom, is now supporting Davis to the hilt. And when there’s backing from someone of Ahlstrom’s standing, even a moron like Davis is going to make mincemeat of any tax on carbon. By the time you’re running for the White House, Hailey, if this economy doesn’t pick up, fifty million Americans will be receiving food stamps, so any policy that remotely threatens jobs needs to be either ditched or kept under wraps.’

‘I think Chuck’s right, Hailey. You need to put climate change on ice until you get into the White House.’ Adlai K. Washburn, the portly, red-faced chair of the Democratic National Committee, was as well known in Washington as any of the Kennedys, and notwithstanding his fondness for Tennessee whiskey, his authority was almost as powerful.

‘Well, I think he’s wrong,’ Hailey countered defiantly. ‘If the United States doesn’t provide a lead on global warming, there aren’t going to be any jobs . . .
period
.’

‘It’s at best a second-term issue, when you’re no longer facingre-election,’ said Washburn.

‘And I don’t have to remind you, Hailey,’ Buchanan insisted, ‘when it comes to jobs, the latest data from the Department of Commerce shows that multinationals like EVRAN and CEOs like that asshole Crowley – the companies that used to provide jobs for over twenty per cent of Americans – have cut the workforce here by over three million in the last decade on the basis of their so-called efficiency drives. In reality, those jobs have just been sent to low wage countries overseas, mostly to Asia – and while our economy’s struggling and we’re paying off trillions in debt, China’s economy is rising fast. Guys like Crowley, who have a substantial interest in Chinese polluters, couldn’t give a shit about global warming. The only time the big polluters in China clean up their act is when they’ve got the Olympics and the world is watching.’

‘Don’t talk to me about Crowley,’ said Campbell, a steely edge to her voice. ‘His latest venture is up in Alaska, where EVRAN’s now prospecting for oil in one of the world’s last pristine wildernesses, where the ice is melting so fast that by the middle of this century, the polar bears won’t have any ice to hunt seals from.’

‘Polar bears don’t vote,’ Buchanan griped.

Campbell gave her campaign manager a withering look, and she and Becker exchanged glances.

It had just gone nine p.m. when Crowley reclined on the couch and flicked on Walter Cronkwell and CNC’s coverage of the Iowa caucus.

Miranda appeared, bra-less and dressed in a hip-hugging slinky black gown, the scanty neckline barely covering her breasts.

‘You’ve changed,’ Crowley said, admiring her cleavage.

‘As you said, Sheldon, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together, so I thought I might as well dress for the occasion.’ Miranda bent over the low coffee table, exposing what little her dress had hidden, placing two glasses and an icebucket containing a bottle of Montrachet Grand Cru 1995, one of the world’s great chardonnays.

Walter Cronkwell’s voice filled the room.

‘Some big surprises and not so big surprises in Iowa, Susan?’

‘One very big surprise, Walter,’ said Susan Murkowski, ‘but in what was generally considered to be a lacklustre Republican field, the entry of the governor of Montana, Carter Davis, has electrified Republicans around the country. And even though he didn’t feature in the straw poll or the debates last year, Davis has had a lot of exposure since he announced his decision to run, particularly in the powerful Centauri media.’

‘Yes. Davis’s critics would say the questions on Omega Centuari News interviews were nothing but meatball pitches, but the Iowans love him.’

‘And that showed in the results,’ said Murkowski. ‘With all 1781 precincts in, Davis took an astounding 47.3 per cent of the vote.’

‘So explain to our viewers why the Iowa caucus is so important. Why does a quiet, largely agricultural state have such an impact on the political process in Washington?’

‘Perhaps the simplest way to understand the importance of Iowa in choosing the Republican and Democratic candidates, Walter, would be the notion that it’s the first in the nation. It’s a chance for candidates to get the party heavies in Washington to sit up and take notice, and that goes back to Senator George McGovern when he was running in the 1972 election. McGovern did a lot better than expected, which attracted the media’s attention, and it’s been that way ever since.’