“That’s what my first husband told me about marriage.”
Nina thought about comments relevant to that, decided there probably weren’t any, and sipped her wine.
She seemed to be drinking a lot of wine these days, but then life was forcing her to do so.
And it was difficult to argue with life, wasn’t it?
Yes, it certainly was.
“So, Liz, you’re keeping on with The Times?”
“Well, they’re offering me my old position back.”
“But?”
“I don’t know. I may not take it.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head:
“Confidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I could be fooled like that one time.”
“Surely everybody makes mistakes.”
“I never had. Never one like that, anyway.”
“But what would you do?”
Another shrug.
“Maybe come to Bay St. Lucy Maybe live with you. How would that be? We could be sea rats together. I like it down here. You need a roommate?”
Nina smiled.
“I could stand a roommate.”
“People would call us lesbians. That might be a kick. I’m not a lesbian though, so—I mean, who do you do it with if you live here?”
“I don’t do it with anybody.”
“Who would I do it with, is what I’m asking.”
“Fishermen.”
“That’s all?”
“How many professions do you need?”
“Well, I…”
And there was a knock at the door.
The two women looked at each other.
“You expecting anybody?”
Nina, getting to her feet, shook her head.
“No, I’m not. But folks seem to drop by here lots these days.”
“Maybe,” said Liz, “it’s Willie Nelson.”
Nina shook her head as she passed through the living room, and said over her shoulder:
“I think Willie has decided to pass on us.”
Then she opened the door.
Standing before her was an entirely nondescript woman, a woman of above average height, who seemed remarkable for nothing at all, except for the fact that she was wearing sunglasses, a beige scarf over her head, and a London Fog trench coat.
It was at least eighty degrees, and, if rain was possible for later in the evening, it was far off right now.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Nina Bannister?”
A soft, shy voice. No accent.
“Yes, I am.”
“I had read about you, and…I wonder if I might come in?”
Educated. Polite. Shy and unassuming.
“Of course. Please.”
Nina stepped aside and let the woman pass into the living room.
“Just go through and out to the deck. A friend of mine and I were having a drink.”
“I am disturbing you! I’m so sorry!”
“No, it’s all right. Just go on out to the deck.”
When they both had reached the sliding glass door, Nina said:
“This is my friend, Liz Cohen.”
Liz rose.
“Hi!”
“Hello, Ms. Cohen. You are the lady who wrote the story about Aquatica for The Times.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Sit down,” said Nina.
“Thank you.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
A shake of the well-covered head.
“No, thank you. I really can’t stay. It’s just …”
They were all three seated now.
“It’s just that…well, I have been keeping up with Ms. Cohen’s story. And the retraction. And…”
Liz sat forward.
“And what? What is it?”
The woman bit her lip.
She was obviously nervous.
“I..I think I know something…that I should tell you both.”
“What?” asked Nina.
The woman was silent for a time.
She seemed to be making up her mind.
Finally, she continued, in a voice both somber and penitent.
“It’s the Tool Master.”
Both of them said, simultaneously:
“What?”
“The Tool Master. It’s so strange. I don’t even know who he is. I’ve never seen him. But his codename is simply ‘the Tool Master’.”
“All right,” said Liz, “so there’s somebody who calls himself the Tool Master. What does that…”
“He coordinates all of our activities. It’s all for the money, you know. None of us has any feelings politically at all. But we’re very talented. And we can be any number of people. There are acting jobs far removed from the stage.”
She sat for a while.
The tide was coming in.
The sky in the East looked ever more lemon.
Squalls certainly.
“The security people have been deceived, you should know, into thinking drugs are involved.”
Nina remembered her conversation with Brewster Dale.
“Okay,” she said. “But what do you mean by ‘deceived’?”
There might have been a smile on that face.
If there had been, though, the sunglasses would have hidden it.
“It has nothing to do with drugs.”
“What?” asked Liz. “What are you talking about? And who are you?”
“I’ve forgotten. I was somebody once. But now I’ve forgotten.”
Nina leaned toward the woman and said:
“Are you all right? Should we call someone?”
A nod.
“Oh I think you should definitely call someone. Yes, no doubt about that. But as for me, I was all right once. Then I lost my conscience and became…well, less than all right. The people dying. All the people dying…”
“What people?” asked Liz.
“Doesn’t matter. Except I can’t stand by and see it happen any more. They will find me of course. They find everyone who tries to leave. And they will find me, too.”
“Who will?”
“It doesn’t matter. At least not to the two of you.”
Nina:
“We just don’t…”
The woman interrupted her:
“Do you know anything about cement?”
Silence for a time.
Then Liz said:
“No. Nothing.”
“All right. Here:”
A sheet of paper upon which had been typed:
“Segment 642C tube #4. Then check 789D tube number 2.”
“That’s where it is; that’s where they put it.”
“Put what?”
But the woman ignored the question and simply asked Nina:
“Do you have a computer?”
“Yes.”
“Could you bring it out here?”
“Certainly.”
Nina went into the shack, unplugged her laptop computer, and brought it out to the deck.
“Could you put it over on that far rail?”
Nina did so.
“Now, Google the word, Cemex.”
Again, Nina did so.
“What does it say?”
“Cemex,” Nina read from the computer screen,” is one of the most commonly used brands of cement. It’s especially useful in…”
“That’s all right. You get the idea. Now…”
So saying, the woman stood bolt upright and ripped off her scarf.
Revealing a mane of bright red hair.
She ripped off her sunglasses too and said:
“It’s nice to see you again, Ma Cher! I’d ask your friend there for a cigar—I do love cigars, those little ones—but I think she’s a cigarette smoker.”
For a time Nina was too stunned to speak.
Finally, she stammered out:
“Annette. You’re Annette Richoux!”
And the woman laughed.
“But how…”
“Naw, if you want to do something important—something damned important—look up something else on that computer of yours.”
“What?”
“You’ve already looked up CEMEX. Now look up SEMTEX. Sounds close, doesn’t it?”
“Is,” asked Nina, “SEMTEX a less expensive brand of cement?”
The woman threw back her head and brayed:
“Haw! No, my chere, it’s a more expensive brand of cement! Helluva lot more! But more effective, too. Now, I’ve got some materials down in my van that will tell you all about the difference between SEMTEX and CEMEX. But why don’t the two of you get a jump on the process by just looking up SEMTEX. I’ll be back in a few seconds.”
So saying, she strode off the porch and into the living room.
“Is that,” Liz asked, “the woman who met you?”
“Yes.”
“Then what the hell…”
“I don’t know, Liz. But let’s look up SEMTEX.”
They bent together over the computer.
As they did so they head a car door slam.
Then they heard the motor start.
Then they heard the car pull away.
“Where did she…”
“She’s gone,” said Liz, quietly.
“But I want to…”
“She’s gone…whoever she is…and we’ll never see her again.”
They were silent for a time.
Then they looked at the computer screen.
Which said:
“SEMTEX is a brand of plastic explosive widely used for industrial purposes. Also known as C-4 or ‘plastique,’ it…”
Plastic explosive
Plastic
Explosive.
Liz bowed her head, and, as though praying, said:
“Oh my God.”
And then again:
“Oh my God! They’re going to blow up Aquatica.”
And then again:
“Tonight. At eight o’clock. With all the world watching.”
And one final time:
“They’re going to blow up Aquatica.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE MANY USES OF PLASTIC
They sat in silence for some seconds.
“So what is this plastique, Liz?”
“It’s bad stuff. I got to know about it in Iraq. Lot of missing legs because of plastique. It’s kind of the weapon of choice in roadside bombings. You only need a tiny amount. Use just a bit more and you’re blowing up buildings.”
“Or oil rigs.”
“Yes.”
More silence.
“Do you believe this woman, Nina?”
‘Yes.”
‘Why?”
“Can we not believe her?”
“No.”
“So what do we do?”
“I have no idea.”
“Call the police?”
“The Bay St. Lucy Police?”
“We’re back to Moon Rivard, and that’s crazy.”
“State police? FBI?”
“I’m always in this position,” said Nina, softly. “I think I know something. And it’s important. And nobody will listen to me. You can’t call your paper, I guess.”
Liz half smiled.
“Right. Call The New York Times, who have just rehired me after I filed a crazy story about Aquatica, with another crazy story about Aquatica.”
“So how many assistant managers have you slept with?”
“Not enough.”
“OK. I have one contact that I always trust. I have my new little phone here. I’ll try him.”
She called Jackson Bennett’s office; no answer. Jackson Bennett’s home; Sonia answered:
‘Bennett residence.”
“Sonia?”
“Ms. Bannister?”
“Yes. Sonia, is Jackson at home?”
“No, ma’am, he isn’t. He’s one of the guests at the big gala on the oil rig. He left an hour ago. I think they wanted to fly him out a little early, because there was some legal problem between the company and Bay St. Lucy. I guess he should be on the helicopter now.”
Nina felt her heart fall.
She was silent for a time.
Finally, Sonia said:
‘It’s really exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Nina answered, quietly, envisioning Jackson getting off the helicopter.
All of them, all the guests, getting off the helicopters.
Drinking champagne.
Having a good time.
Seven o’clock.
Seven thirty.
Somehow she knew eight o’clock would be the time.
She knew this.
“Thank you, Sonia.”
“Sure. Shall I take a message?”
A message, she found herself thinking.
Jackson, you’ve just stepped onto a time bomb.
And I know this, and I know when the bomb is going off.
And I can’t do a damn thing about it, because most people already think I’m crazy.
“No, Sonia. No message.”
And she clicked the phone closed.
So they sat for a moment or so more.
Then Nina:
“Ok, so let’s go to the airport. We’ve got to tell somebody about this.”
“You want to take my rental car?”
“Let’s do it.”
And they did.
Ten minutes later they were navigating the streets of Bay St. Lucy, watching the huge beige helicopters land at the airport a mile in front of them.
“It’s brilliant, when you think about it,” said Liz, gripping the wheel hard.
“I don’t know. I’m still confused.”
“Well, they’re not. Whoever ‘they’ happens to be.”
“So explain all of this to me.”
“From what the woman told us, I would say we’re dealing with a highly professional group that works for some international terrorist organization.”
“Which organization?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of them. But they’re often tracked by the FBI, and they have difficulty getting access to planes or buildings. So other organizations spring up to help them. The terrorists pay these organization huge amounts of money. And the organizations, in turn—being comprised of faceless people with no criminal records––”
“Blow up buildings.”
“Or they blow up Aquatica. What a terrorist coup this will be, Nina. And we helped them put it together.”
“I still don’t see…”
“I know, and I’m only beginning to. But let’s say there’s a team of pro’s out there, working on the rig. Somehow they’ve gotten hired, despite Aquatica’s security.”
“Well, that’s conceivable. Brewster Dale, would-be Faulkner expert and security man. What a joke. They’ve gotten him to believe––him as well as the people working for him—that this whole thing has to do with drugs. Which we know now, is ridiculous, and at most a cover up for what’s really happening.”
“Okay, so they’ve gotten through Mr. Dale. From what I know of these rigs—and I’ve had a little experience with them—the drilling tubes have to be lined with cement. Some of the spillage problems in other rigs have happened because the company used a lower grade cement than is recommended. Also, sometimes water gets mixed with the cement, and the resulting mixture—impure and too soft—has to be chipped away. A guy has to be physically lowered into the tube to do this.”
“So if the guy is one of these…”
“…these ghosts, for want of a
better word.”
“Good,” said Nina. “These ghosts, then. If he’s working for them…”
“He simply attaches, somehow, a small packet of plastique in the well wall and plasters it over with cement.”
“How large a packet?”
Liz merely shrugged.
“I’ve seen four ounces destroy a building.”
‘Oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
“How does the plastique get set off?”
“A detonator of some kind. It can be very simply rigged. If they know what they’re doing…”
“And they seem to.”
“Yes, they do. At any rate, you can detonate the explosive with a cell phone. That’s how it’s usually done in Afghanistan.”
“But wouldn’t you have to be close by?”
“Within half a mile.”
“So what are we saying? One of them is out there now.”
“Probably,” said Liz, “The leader. The woman you knew as Annette referred to him as ‘the tool master.’”
Nina nodded.
“I know the tool master. Tom Holder. He’s got a kind of cockney accent.”
“For the time being. Actually, he probably is no more British than ‘Annette’ was Cajun.”
“So our job,” Nina continued, “is somehow to get out to Aquatica and unmask this guy.”
“Yes.”
“But Liz, what did you mean about our being ‘used’ in all of this?”
“Don’t you see? The way everything worked out—it turned out perfectly for them.”
“Go on.”
“Edgar found out about the plastique. I don’t know how. Maybe those bewildering numbers on the disk were the answer all the time. Maybe, chemical engineer that he was, he could get a reading back from the ‘cement’ that was being put in, that didn’t match the viscosity reading of actual cement. At any rate, he figured out what was going on, and he may have also figured out that a team of…”
“Ghosts,” said Nina, quietly.
“Yes, ghosts, were responsible for setting up the whole scheme, getting the plastique on board Aquatica, plotting the explosion.”
Nina continued:
“He was terrified though, because he didn’t know which people out there he could trust.”
“Right. There was only one man he actually did think he could trust.”
“And that was Holder, Liz. The tool master is, I think they said, the second highest-ranking man on board—but the one most likely to understand about cement and its application.”
“Right.”
“So Edgar flew into town. He wanted to get off the vessel, maybe not sure if the gang was onto him or not. He called Holder, who had also flown in, probably on a separate helicopter flight, and set up a meeting in the early morning hours.”
Oil Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 4) Page 21