by Ty Patterson
The speakers and delegates included ministers from various oil producing nations and the keynote speaker was the U.S. energy czar. Zeb wasn’t conversant with the workings of the oil industry, but he knew that targeting such an audience would create chaos in the oil markets.
He didn’t need to look at his watch to know Clare would be awake. Even if she wasn’t, she would take his call.
Clare dashed his train of thought.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘You kill one oil minister or kill an entire lot, nothing earth shattering is going to happen. The respective governments will just appoint another one. I doubt the markets will even register the event.’
He heard her coffeemaker gurgle and her voice came from a distance. ‘But you have picked out the right event. No other event in Texas has a national flavor, let alone an international one.’
‘Do you know who Saudi Arabia has appointed as their oil minister?’
She answered after a deep swallow. ‘They haven’t yet. As you can imagine, such an appointment is a high profile one and I suspect the usual political games are being played out in the royal family. The Defense Secretary spoke to the king a few days back and he just said that an announcement would be made in days.’
Her voice sharpened. ‘Who’s the Saudi attendee?’
Zeb scrolled down the list and read out the name and title. A junior minister.
‘I’ll have him checked out. You’re proceeding to Dallas?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Zeb made another call while driving through a never ending expanse of flatland through which asphalt twisted and turned like a ribbon.
Prince Abdul picked his call on the first ring. ‘My brother, I was thinking of you just yesterday,’ he greeted Zeb in Arabic.
Bwana and Roger would have had a hard time stifling their snorts.
‘I am flattered, Sir. What made you think of me?’
Levity fled his mind at the Prince’s reply. ‘We tracked the assassin to the person who had recommended him.’ He mentioned a name that Zeb recognized, a billionaire philanthropist who had made his money in mining and in oil
‘He did a lot of work for the kingdom and was like an unofficial ambassador for us.’
Did? Was?
‘His body was found ten days after my brother’s death, in an industrial park.’
He paused for Zeb to comment and carried on when he got silence. ‘There are no coincidences in your world, are there, my brother?’
‘No Sir. Can you…?’
‘It’s already on its way, my friend; Khalili has sent you a copy of the report. I have instructed him to cooperate with you fully should you need anything.’ The smile in the prince’s voice quickly disappeared at Zeb’s next question.
‘Can you send me a dossier on your junior oil minister?’
Wasserman and Studelander were happy, but their impassive expressions and dark glasses didn’t give that away. They were in Fremont County, in Colorado, having just bought out a fracking well. In fact they had bought an entire family-owned petroleum company that owned the rights to several wells in Colorado, but the company was known for, and named after its largest well, The Big One.
Fracking, or the hydraulic fracturing of rock by highly pressurized liquid, had allowed the United States to achieve energy independence. The process involved pumping of water, sand and a bunch of chemicals into wells dug in shale deposits of gas and oil. The high-pressure stream caused the surrounding rock to rupture and the gas and oil to seep into the well, which was then pumped out.
Colorado was known for the Rockies, but also had one of the largest natural gas reserves in the world. The Piceance Basin, in northwest Colorado, alone was estimated to have more than a trillion barrels of shale oil and substantial reserves of natural gas. Fracking wells dotted the state but for Wasserman and Studelander, The Big One was of particular interest.
The company held the rights to fifty wells, was very low profile and from the outside, was a very profitable entity. What very few people knew was that just one well, the Big One, was producing enough to compensate for the rest of the wells. The company was in financial trouble, lines of credit were running out and investors were hard to come by. There were other more profitable companies and wells to invest in.
The principal knew of the company’s troubles; he had made it his business to know everything about the fracking world and its players. He approached the company using several layers of law firms to disguise his identity. The company turned his offer down. They were not selling. They had a long and proud tradition in the oil industry and had no slick law firm was going to end up owning them.
The principal made a call to Wasserman.
Wasserman studied the problem for three months and decided there had to be an accident at one of the wells. He made his round of calls. For an accident of this nature, he needed specialists. His team of mercs didn’t have the skills.
His search took time, but he finally found the right men, three of them, on another well in Alaska. He approached the men via his cutouts and put forward the proposition to them.
The men jumped at the opportunity. A million dollars per person just for looking the wrong way and doing the job the slightest bit incorrectly? Hell yeah!
They moved to Colorado and found jobs with The Big One. Their skills were in demand and the right words in the right ears made the recruitment easy.
The blast at The Big One happened at four p.m., one month after the three men joined. The explosion, caused by a gas pump rupturing, killed two men and the oil well was shut down immediately.
The accident heaped more pressure on the company and when its few credit guarantors disappeared, Wasserman and Studelander made their approach. They used a law firm to front for them and spun a story to the law firm. They were oil financiers with an enviable pedigree. The firm tabled the first offer that was rejected. Another offer was made, it too was rejected.
Wasserman made the law firm drop the velvet glove and their lead partner spoke plainly about the company’s situation. It sent ripples of shock through the board room.
‘Your company will fold in two months.’ The partner told the owners of the company, baldly. ‘You don’t have enough reserves and now with this shut down, you aren’t making any money. The Big One is your only producer, but with oil prices what they are, you’re barely covering your costs.’
They accepted his offer that evening and the next day the lawyers from both sides got to work.
Wasserman and Studelander stood outside the hotel and accepted the lead partner’s congratulations. They shook hands with each other once the lawyer had disappeared. It wasn’t a self-congratulatory moment. The job was still unfinished. The Big One wasn’t the first well they had acquired, that process had started a while back. The principal had sent Wasserman a list of other companies he wanted acquired.
Wasserman made a call to the partner and instructed him to commence burying the ownership of The Big One under layers of offshore companies. There was one more task pending.
The three oil men had to die.
News of The Big One’s acquisition didn’t make the national news. Werner didn’t spot it since the event didn’t tickle his algorithms. The takeover didn’t appear in the ticker on the TV behind the reception desk as Zeb checked in at a hotel in Dallas, two days later.
Zeb had driven the thousand odd miles from Casper to the large city of Dallas, through some of the best country in the United States, past towns and counties in Colorado, many of them benefitting from fracking.
He stopped several times, spoke to bartenders and gas station attendants, store clerks and garage mechanics, and many of them mentioned shale oil and gas, but not one mentioned The Big One. It just wasn’t big enough.
The twins had reserved a suite for him in the same hotel as the oil industry convention. He was attending the conference as a delegate from a well-known oil company; he had rescued their operation director from a gang in Nigeria who specialized in high
value kidnapping.
Broker had hacked into the hotel’s reservation system – why ask when it could be hacked into - and had sent him a list of delegates and room numbers. Prince Abdul had told him where the junior minister was staying. Zeb had everything he needed to make a plan.
The problem was he didn’t know what would go down.
He also didn’t know that the Venezuelan oil minister and the assassin had already checked in a week back.
The oil minister had come early to sample the wares of the city and was in a room that was booked in one of his flunkies’ name. The minister planned to indulge himself, an orgy of food and sex, and that was best conducted undercover.
The assassin was registered as Abbas Karim, an official from Brunei. He observed the minister from near and far, and on one occasion had shared the same table with him at breakfast. They had indulged in small talk and the assassin has spouted enough facts about the industry to impress the minister.
Two days from checking in, the assassin knew of the minister’s habits and knew of the woman who came every night to his room.
He followed the woman after one such rendezvous, watched her for a whole day, followed her home and learned which car she drove. He made an anonymous call to the escort service, went through a surprisingly robust credentials check and asked for the woman. He was politely told she was booked for a week, but they had other companions in their stable.
He checked out the minister’s room when it was empty, securing an entry using a duplicate card. There were cameras in the hallway, but the uniform of a hotel employee was very easy to procure and he kept his face concealed throughout.
The minister’s suite had a king-sized bed facing a wall-to-wall mirrored wardrobe, behind which lay the bathroom. The suite branched out to a smaller, reception room. The suite overlooked the hotel’s swimming pool and garden.
The assassin looked at the furnishings on the bed, recalled the services offered by the escort services and smiled.
He knew how the minister would die.
Zeb slept for a straight eight hours and the next day he hit the data that his crew had sent.
He identified the minister’s room on the hotel’s layout and then looked at guests surrounding the minister. There were forty rooms on each floor that spread out in an oval. The four rooms immediately around the minister’s rooms were occupied by bodyguards and flunkies. Their dossiers were in the pack Broker had sent.
The rest of the floor was occupied by conference delegates. All of them seemed to be genuine, none looked like a threat.
Given the high profile of the attendees, security at the hotel was high and Zeb had seen the security apparatus in action when checking in. It was good.
Whatever goes down will be close contact. Or a sniper.
He went to the conference room and ruled it out immediately. There was no hiding place for a sniper and besides it had cameras in the ceiling. The outside of the hotel gave no cover to a sniper.
Broker slammed shut another door in the evening; Wasserman’s voice prints had no match. His news didn’t end there. Cisco had been found dead in Los Angeles, suspected victim of a rival gang killing. Felix Domingo and Barrow were found dead in a house in Casper. The police had found bags of cocaine in the house and suspected the deaths to be drugs trafficking related.
‘Wasserman is tying up loose ends,’ Broker voiced Zeb’s thoughts. ‘Either that or he’s conveying a message that failure will not be tolerated.’
‘Any luck with Helmut Kranz?’ Kranz was the German billionaire, now dead, who had recommended the assassin to the Saudi royal family.
Broker sighed in frustration. ‘Nope. Khalili did a good job, unfortunately the assassin’s trail ended with Kranz. You think it’s worth warning the organizers?’
Zeb walked to his window and watched traffic flow past the hotel, tiny specs of light that moved to known destinations, followed well defined routes.
Unlike me.
‘We’ve already warned them. Clare arranged that, but you can imagine the organizers response. We have nothing specific and all they can do is tighten security.’
‘Maybe that will be enough,’ Broker said hopefully, but his voice lacked conviction.
It wasn’t enough.
The first siren at six in the morning was faint through the thick window, but loud enough to draw his attention. He glanced out and saw the ambulances and cruisers in the drive, far below. The hurrying hotel staff in the hallway outside, ignored his questions. He turned on the news on TV and got no clue. All the hotel lines were busy.
He grabbed his holster, covered it up with his jacket and made his way swiftly to the elevator bank and when he entered the lobby, he was met with chaos.
Cops and medics rushed purposefully, hotel staff tried to quieten the ever growing crowd of residents, a security cordon held back people approaching the reception.
The Saudi minister!
Zeb whipped out his phone and called him and closed his eyes for a second in relief when the man answered promptly.
Yes, he was fine. Yes, he too had heard something was up, but didn’t know any details.
His protection detail? They were with him in the room.
Zeb ordered him not to leave his room, thrust through the crowd and when a cop fended him off announced himself as an off-duty cop. Something in his eye and body language must have convinced the rookie since he let Zeb pass.
The reception desk ignored him for several moments till Zeb pinned a nervous woman down with laser eyes.
‘Who is it?’
‘The Venezuelan Oil Minister, Sir.’ She didn’t bother to evade. ‘He was found dead in his room earlier today by his security detail.’
‘How?’
Her pale cheeks flushed. ‘It seems to be a sexual act that went wrong. Along with him was a woman.’
Zeb swung away, her words fading out.
Sexual act. Call girl. Kranz.
He dug out his phone punched Broker’s number, stared blankly at the outside of the hotel as the call made its way over the air and to Broker.
Broker’s voice came over the phone, but Zeb didn’t reply. He was moving, threading his way through the crowd, ignoring shouts.
That hair. That posture. Something about him.
The man he was following was thirty feet away, walking swiftly, without hurrying, to the exit. He was dressed in a dark brown jacket over blue jeans, a valise in his left hand. His right hand kept close to his body. He was the only man heading purposefully towards the exit in the lobby, everyone else was aimlessly milling around.
He could be anyone. Got to be sure, though.
Zeb hurried after him, kept in the man’s blind spot and reduced the gap to ten feet. Something must have given him away. Maybe it was the reflection in the glass doors. Maybe the man had a sixth sense like Zeb had.
He whirled smoothly and his right hand crept up to the inside of his jacket.
Zeb recognized the posture and paused, and caught the man’s eye.
Dark eyes, black or brown, tanned face, almost Middle Eastern in appearance. Black hair. Lean build. Wiry arms. It was the eyes, though, that caught him. They were deep pools that concealed what lay beneath. He recognized the man from the eyes.
It was the assassin from Saudi Arabia, the personal trainer, Mohammed Rauf.
‘Gun,’ the assassin shouted as he held Zeb’s eyes and pointed at him.
‘HE’S GOT A GUN. WATCH OUT.’
Some women took up the chorus and screamed. ‘OH MY GOD, HE’S GOT A GUN!’
The assassin’s voice rose over the women’s and over the chaos in the enormous lobby. He pointed at Zeb, hurried backward, his voice rising into a shout.
‘GUNMAN IN THE LOBBY.’
Chapter 16
People began screaming and hurling themselves away from Zeb. Cops appeared hard eyed, guns at the ready and barrels trained on him.
Zeb stood motionless and expressionless and watched as the assassin reached the
glass doors, look back once and disappear. There was no mocking look in the man’s face, no smirk, no satisfaction.
‘ARMS UP, SPREAD YOUR FEET.’
A HK MP5’s barrel poked out and spread his jacket. ‘No explosives,’ a cop called out. The barrel probed further and the holster was revealed and a gasp escaped the watching crowd.
A hand reached out, removed his Glock and patted him swiftly and when he was declared clean, hands reached out and cuffed him. A police sergeant went through his belongings, found his key card and ordered a team to check his room out.
Just as he was being led away, a voice yelled, ‘Wait,’ and the junior minister came running and panting, his thobe flowing around him. He walked right up to the sergeant and shouted at him.
‘He’s one of yours, you idiots. You have got the wrong guy.’
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Stand back, Sir. Let us do our job.’
The minister jabbed the air in rage and impatience. ‘You’re doing it wrong. I can vouch for him. He’s Zeb Carter, a security consultant.’
The sergeant glanced down at the credentials in his hand and back again. His eyes sharpened. ‘That’s not what he goes by. Just who are you, Sir?’
The minister drew himself to his full five feet eight inch height and tried to stare down the sergeant who glowered at him from a foot above.
‘I’m Sheikh Abdul Yunus Salah, the junior oil minister of Saudi Arabia.’
The sergeant was nonplussed for a moment, recovered and said smoothly, ‘Step back, Sir. We’ll take your statement later, let us do our jobs now.’
The minister drew a breath to let rip when Zeb stopped him. ‘Let it be, Sir. It will get cleared up later.’ He realized his error the moment the words left his mouth.
I shouldn’t have spoken in Arabic.
‘Terrorist!’ a woman screamed and the lobby erupted in a burst of sound.