The Icarus Prediction: Betting it all has its price (21 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Armenian-Turkish Border
Three Days Until Options Expiration

Shamil Basayev held onto the door grip as the truck rocked back and forth on the pitted dirt road. The headlights bounced in the darkness, illuminating what Basayev was convinced was little more than a trail.

“How much farther?” he snapped. Lack of sleep always put him in a foul mood.

“Ten kilometers at least,” replied Kasimir Lupkin, his longtime aide and driver. “It is an old smuggling route. Goes back centuries, I’m told.”

Basayev grumbled. “I do not see why we could not simply bribe our way through.”

“It is safer this way. The Turks, I hear, are in a frenzy and have tightened up security everywhere.”

Basayev made a guttural sound. “Is the equipment in the safehouse?”

“For the eighty-seventh time, Shamil, it is there. I am not going to answer that question again.” The older man was an early mentor to the terrorist, and one of the few who could talk back to the Commander in that tone of voice.

They had left Tbilisi and used forged Georgian passports to cross into Armenia without incident. Basayev, with his clean-shaven face, was not recognizable. They did not even have to bribe the guards.

After a respite in a safehouse, they headed toward the Turkish border. Once that was done, they had a long drive in front of them to the safehouse where some electronic equipment was stored.

“Stop the truck,” ordered Basayev.

The whipsawing motion came to halt, and Lupkin asked, “What is it?”

“I am seasick,” replied the Commander, and he opened the door to throw up.

*

Pumping Station No. 2

Russian Province of Stavropol Krai

North of the Chechen Border

The acrid smell of burned oil hung in the air, and small wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruins. Jarrod knelt down and probed the sandy soil with his pen. He hit glass, for the heat had been so intense that it transformed the sand into glass.

Sarah surveyed the carnage. “I wasn’t around for the Dresden firebombings, but it must have been something like this.”

Jarrod shook his head. “This thing is a total loss. Plus, twenty miles of pipeline? I just can’t figure how they managed to do all this. I don’t see any remnants of a blast footprint on the ground, it is like it blew up from within.”

The blackened landscape was punctuated by men in Russian uniform. There were a few wearing windbreakers and others wearing civilian work clothes from Edgerton’s team.

Sarah looked around. When she didn’t see anyone within earshot, she said, “How the hell did you get us clearance to fly here? And that Russian militia commander over there? I thought he was going to prostrate himself on the ground for you.”

“Let’s just put it this way: I know someone who knows someone. I’m just glad Rick didn’t pick up on the fact we’re here under Russian, not American, auspices.”

“Two rogue CIA people using the Russians to dupe a station chief. You won’t find this in the manual.”

“Be that as it may, let’s not push our luck. Let’s get this done and go wheels-up before someone starts connecting the dots and figures out we’re a couple of frauds.”

“I agree, but what are we looking for, exactly?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I just have a hunch we’ll know it when we see it.” He peered off in the distance. “Let’s take a walk.”

They walked out of the pumping station grounds and followed the charred path of where the pipeline had been. A hundred yards on, they spied a rotund figure crouching down. He was wearing a windbreaker that had the letters TEDAC on the back. As they drew closer, they saw he was crouched over a tackle box filled with the implements of his profession.

The figure heard their approach and stood to turn around. He was late middle-aged, with horn-rimmed glasses, thinning curly hair, and a walrus moustache.

Jarrod stuck out his hand. “Jarrod Stryker, from Langley. This is Sarah Kashvilli.”

He shook the offered hands. “Barney Fry from the Terrorist Explosive Device Analytical Center, an FBI unit out of Quantico. We go by TEDAC for short. Finding myself on foreign soil quite a bit these days.”

“Find anything of interest?” asked Sarah casually.

“Well, the pumping station was too messy to collect any sample material. All the oil burn and such—sort of like looking for a needle in a haystack. Out here, the burned oil still pollutes the picture pretty bad, but I pulled enough sample to run a field test. Won’t know for certain till we run it through the main lab, but I’m pretty sure.”

“And what’s your view?” asked Jarrod.

“It’s pentaerythritol tetranitrate, or PETN as it’s commonly known.”

“Which is?” asked Sarah.

“Semtex,” replied Barney.

Jarrod looked at the black path going off in the distance. “How on earth could they attach Semtex to twenty miles of pipeline and not be detected?”

“Because they didn’t,” replied Barney.

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah.

He pointed at the twisted fragments of the pipeline. “The blast pattern was pretty clear. This was blown from the inside out.”

Jarrod scratched his head. “You mean, the Semtex was inside the pipeline when it blew?”

“Yep.”

“But how would that be possible?” asked Sarah. “For twenty miles?”

The man shrugged. “I have no idea. All I can tell you is what it was and the blast characteristics.”

Jarrod murmured, “Hmm. Now that I think about it, that is consistent with the video that was broadcast. But how would someone string Semtex internally to the pipeline?”

“Dunno. But I think you’re right about the string.”

“How do you mean?”

He pointed. “I took samples at several points along the pipeline. Formal lab work will have to be done, but it appears the concentration of PETN is remarkably uniform along the blast area. That tells me we’re dealing with det cord.”

“Det cord?” asked Sarah. “Detonation cord?”

“Yep. Looks like a rope to the untrained eye. Or a clothesline, depending on the diameter.”

Jarrod stared at the long black path leading off to the horizon, his mind ricocheting a dozen different ways with permutations and combinations. “So somehow they were able to string twenty miles of det cord inside the pipeline.” It was a statement, not a question. And that led his gaze back to the pumping station. “That must explain the attack on the facility.”

Sarah continued, “Because they had to control the pumping station. Somehow, someway, their point of entry to insert the det cord was there.”

Jarrod nodded as he did some math in his head. “But twenty miles of rope or clothesline—Barney, what would something like that weigh?”

Barney shrugged. “Well, they make this stuff as thick as hawsers or thin as a fishing line. So it would depend on the diameter.”

“Based on the concentrations you found here, would we be talking hawser or fishing line?”

“Fishing line. Clearly. And that’s all you would need, really, since the oil is flammable. Just enough to set it off.”

“Barney, who manufactures Semtex?”

“VCHZ Sythesia in Czechoslovakia, but I don’t think this is from them.”

“How come?”

“Because Semtex that comes from Synthesia under international agreements. It has a chemical detection taggant called p-monoitrotoluene, which leaves a distinctive vapor signature. When I said Semtex, I was speaking generically. PETN is used in det cord manufactured all over the world, from Russia to China to Saudi Arabia.

“Can you zero in on who the manufacturer is?”

He shook his head. “Probably not. Even in the main lab, I’m not seeing any detection taggant. It’s like it was manufactured to be untraceable. Or put another way, whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

Jarrod snorted. “Clearly. Thanks, Barney.”

They walked back toward the pumping station in frustrated silence until Jarrod said, “I’m beginning to like Shamil Basayev less and less.”

Sarah sighed. “It’s frustrating, I know. But at least now we know how it happened.”

Suddenly, Jarrod stopped in his tracks and looked back at the blackened path. “What is it?”

Jarrod turned and looked back at the pumping station. “A pig.”

“A what?”

“A pig. It’s a device to clean out oil pipelines. A kind of plug that’s carried along by the oil flow in the pipeline. I’ll bet they hooked the det cord onto a pig, and that’s how they strung it through the inside of the pipeline. That’s why they took over the pumping station. That’s where they inserted the pig.”

He flipped open his global phone and hit the speed dial button. A sleepy Chet Delaney answered.

“Chet! This is Jarrod. I need to know how many manufacturers of pigs there are worldwide.”

“Do-wha?”

After several minutes of awakening and surfing the Internet, Delaney said, “Looks like the Pigging Products and Services Association has upward of a hundred members, and the bulk of those are domestic.”

Jarrod sighed. “OK. Thanks. Go back to sleep.”

“And?” she asked softly.

“Lots of pig farmers out there. It would take months to track them all down.” He surveyed the carnage once again. “I think we’ve mined everything we can here.”

She concurred. “When you’re undercover it’s best not to linger in any one place.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

US Embassy

Tbilisi, Georgia

The flight back to Tbilisi in the dead of night was a solemn one. In the first half-hour, Jarrod feverishly called and texted all his contacts trying to get a clue on Basayev’s next move. He then let out a scream, perhaps more like a grunt, and slumped back into his seat. Sarah looked over and didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Both understood things would start unraveling quickly for both of them if this mission was a failure…and at present, it appeared that failure
was
an option.

“We need to stay focused,” Sarah said as she scanned through some terrain maps. “Otherwise it’s game over. All we need is one break.”

Jarrod muttered some expletives to himself as he synced his e-mail on his laptop. “Jesus, Sarah, I’m sorry I dragged you into this. This is headed to implode and take us all down.”

“You didn’t drag me in, Jarrod. I’m here on my own,” she replied as she lifted her head to make eye contact with Jarrod.

“I think we should part ways at the embassy. Otherwise, you are going to go down in flames,” Jarrod retorted as he again buried his head in his hands.

“So you really haven’t figured it out yet?”

“I’m trying my best, Sarah. I feel like…”

“No, you idiot, forget it.”

“Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Jarrod, why do you think I signed on for this death march?”

“Because I threatened to expose you,” Jarrod said matter-of-factly.

“Are you kidding? I know you would
never
expose me. Operatives, even ex-operatives, especially you, wouldn’t consider ever outing me.”

“Then why go along on this ridiculous adventure?“

“Jarrod, how do you think you got that job with Blackenford and worked your way up so quickly with no experience at all on Wall Street in a god-awful economy with little experience? Do you think that happened because of your good looks?”

The gears started turning and dots started connecting, but the relevancy still eluded Jarrod.

“So you got me the job somehow, OK? So what, do you want a medal?”

“Jarrod, William Blackenford is my father. Kashvilli is my stepfather’s last name. I took it shortly after the divorce.”

Jarrod sat speechless for a second as it all became clear. Sarah’s sister had not made it out of the South Tower. Sarah was an operative under cover, which was why William never divulged any details about his daughters and why he was so guarded. He knew Jarrod took the fall for Sarah, and that is why he took him under his wing and helped him at Blackenford. It all made sense now.

“So, I guess your first name is Lynn. William…er, your father mentioned you from time to time.”

“Lynn is my real name. Sarah is my middle name. Just as I started at the Agency, they advised I should go by just Sarah Kashvilli and distance myself from my father in any way, shape, or form due to his high profile.”

“This is all a bit much. William is your father? I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t have been so blunt describing his grave condition.” Jarrod said with heartfelt remorse.

The gears continued to turn for Jarrod. The situation, dire before for him and Blackenford Capital but would also ruin Sarah as well. Regardless of whether Sarah was directly involved in William’s bad decisions, the Agency wouldn’t want that kind of attention that rabid reporters could trace back to Langley.

“Sarah, we can’t fail. We have to figure this out before we run out of time. When this is all sorted, we have got a lot to talk about.”

Sarah just nodded as she wiped a tear from her cheek.

Jarrod was compelled to leave his seat. He said nothing. Just sat next to Sarah and surrounded her with his arms in a consuming heartfelt embrace. Sarah didn’t fight it…she didn’t want to fight it. This was the first time in ages she could just be herself without the artificial shield.

The plane’s landing gear whirred in the background as they started their descent back to Tbilisi’s ragged excuse for an airport.