The Accidental Spy

by Jacqueline George

  “But you got the flare alight.”

  “Yes. My nasty suspicious mind. I had the mud man start a fire of cardboard and pallets as soon as it started. Thank God. He was a useless piece of -- never mind. He lit the fire after I’d shouted at him enough, then when the well really started to blow, he fell over. Just like that. He couldn’t move. Must have been the shock. One minute he was standing near the pit, and the next he keeled over. I thought the gas had got him but I couldn’t smell anything. When I got to him he was babbling, and as weak as a jelly fish. Just couldn’t move. His arms and legs all floppy. A couple of his friends dragged him off and drove him away somewhere. Useless prick!”

  “Anything I can help you with at the moment?”

  “Well, since you ask, I’d like to get a diesel line over to the pit. Just in case it starts puffing and blowing. I’d hate for that fire to go out. I was thinking of going out now, but it’ll be that much easier with two of us.”

  For the next hour they struggled and sweated, laying a make-shift hose from the diesel tank right across the location to the flare pit. It was worse for Terry. He wore the heavy Scott pack. The Virgin had no protection at all and stayed very close to Terry, near enough to make a grab for the spare mouthpiece in emergency.

  They were walking back to Terry’s office when there was an impact that The Virgin felt through his boots at the same time that it struck his ears. It sounded like a cannon shot followed by the crash and clangour of falling steel. They ran without thought, not looking back but purely sprinting to get out of the reach of the collapsing derrick.

  As they rounded the first buildings, The Virgin risked a look over his shoulder. The derrick was still standing. He stopped and peered around the building trying to make out what had given way. The drilling line was swinging in wild swathes between the legs of the A-frame. It took a moment before he could recognize what he was looking at. The well was blowing up into the derrick, a single thick column of gassy mud that reached up to the crown of the derrick and beyond. Through the spray he could make out the kelly, propped in the derrick and bending beneath the weight of the block jammed crazily on top of it.

  He tried to understand what had happened. The kelly should have been in the hole. They were kelly down when he had arrived on location, and now the whole forty foot or more of the Kelly was out of the well, connected to – connected to nothing. The string had parted. Just below the kelly he guessed, because that had been blown clear. They had felt the shock as hundreds of tonnes of tension released like a rubber band snapping. The kelly and the block, weighing tonnes between them had been thrown up into the derrick and now the well was open and blowing.

  The Virgin looked for Terry. He was fumbling with his face mask, concentrating on getting it fitted over his head. The Virgin grabbed his arm and pulled him into the open. “The string’s broken!” he shouted. “Close the rams!”

  Terry stared for a moment at the mess in front of him. He settled the mask around his face and started out for the remote BOP panel. He walked heavily. The Virgin watched as he pushed the levers across, releasing the stored nitrogen from the Koomey unit to activate the three sets of rams and close the blow-out preventer. The spout of mud stopped immediately. The flames in the flare pit hissed and leapt higher as pressure was diverted back to them.

  Terry was smiling as he returned. “Oh well. It had to happen. At least there’s nothing else much that can go wrong now.”

  The Virgin thought about the parted drill string corkscrewed in the hole like a piece of wet spaghetti. Now they had no way of circulating to the bottom of the hole. Even when the equipment came up from the desert, they would not be able to kill the well. Not until they had run in and managed to fish the broken stub of drill pipe. And even then, the crap that was right now settling around the bottom of the drill pipe would block any chance of circulation of the hole. They would have to shoot some holes in the pipe further up to get circulation. He shook his head. Hitting a gas pocket was enough trouble under normal circumstances; hitting one with a RomDril rig was a nightmare.

  “Right,” said Terry. “Nothing else we can do at the moment. How about pissing off and getting me some lunch? I haven’t eaten since yesterday. And then if you don’t mind sitting here, I’ll get my head down for a few hours. I think this one’s going to go on and on and on.”

  The Virgin spent the next 36 hours on location. Help slowly arrived from the desert. TAMCO had done a whip around of the service companies to get enough Scott packs on site. The two Millers hands had brought up a pick-up load of goodies and together the four of them had strung together a choke manifold. That brought the well more or less under control; they could shut it off at any time but it was better to allow it to continue burning and monitor the pressure.

  On the second day more supplies came in. Gel and barite to mix more mud. More hoses and pipe work. The MacAllans unit and crew. Discussions with the Romanians brought the crew back to work and they were getting ready to start fishing when The Virgin finally left for home. He was tired, dirty and hungry.

  Saturday and he was late out of bed next morning, and late arriving at the office. Abdul had already opened up and Rabka was at her desk. Sitting in his office were Mostyn and Stanford. Stanford was wearing an old fashioned tropical suit in off-white linen. He looked creased, but relaxed and happy. Mostyn jumped up and started to speak quickly.

  “Greg – how are you? Surprised to see us? Here, meet my boss, Mr Houghton, Export Manager for Karelia.”

  They were shaking hands and willing The Virgin to get over his confusion.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I mean, back so soon?”

  “Oh, perhaps Mr Houghton doesn’t trust me out by myself. No, seriously, I had a good time here after I left you. I think I did some real good in Almadi. I had no idea what Tabriz was like… Things look very hopeful, so Mr Houghton has come to see for himself. I’ve got an appointment for him to see Joe this morning – for some background – and we’ll take it from there. I think I’m going to be a hero after this trip is finished.”

  The Virgin left them alone while he made the coffee. His mind raced over what had happened. First the phone call from Elena asking if the container had arrived, and now Stanford was here. Himself; in person. In hostile territory. That must be a significant risk, so why had he come? He carried in their cups and went back for the sugar and powdered milk.

  Stanford was not going to discuss anything important within reach of potential bugs, but he did ask whether Greg had been happy with the chemical delivery, and whether the container had been in good shape. The Virgin took him through to meet Abdul; at least he had seen the container being unloaded even if only from the window of the Customs building. As they left Mostyn asked about the Hash; could Greg pick them up for the run?

  Stanford was in the back seat as Greg drove up to Barani. The Virgin introduced him as ‘a real English gentleman’ which made him fair game for the Polish girls. Danka and Wanda packed in on either side and he sat uncomfortably between them with his hands on his knees. He seemed out of his depth. The run that day was at 19.2 km – a patch of scrubby trees on the way out of town. Stanford was still bemused as the pack set out across the muddy ground, ducking under tree branches and calling out to each other.

  It was good country for a covert meeting. The Virgin padded along behind Stanford until he felt safe and slowed to a walk. “Strange life you live, Greg,” he said. “I never imagined Tabriz would be like this.”

  “Cold and muddy, you mean?”

  “Well, that too. But so many foreigners – and just running about freely. I’d pictured it as more confined, I suppose. You know, guards on every corner and suspicious figures following you.”

  “That sort of thing’s too much trouble for them. And I think they know there’s not much worth protecting anyway. Who really cares about Tabriz?”

  “I do, for one. The Great Man might not be doing much at the moment, but he’s got a history of crazy ideas.
That’s why he’s so frightening. You just never know what piece of idiocy he’ll dream up next.”

  “So – why are you here? Anything to do with me? Oh, look out. They’re coming back.” The pack had run a false trail and were straggling back through the bushes looking for the real one. The Virgin and Stanford stood aside to let them past and followed in their wake.

  “Greg, you must be crazy. I can’t remember doing anything like this since I was in short trousers. And I didn’t volunteer for it then. Now, let’s talk while we’ve got the chance. We’ve lost the container.”

  “What? Lost it? But it’s arrived; everything’s fine.”

  “No it’s not. We want to know where it’s gone. We’ve had a cock-up, I’m afraid. A complete cock-up. We put satellite tracking on the container, but we didn’t anticipate you would cover it with a tarpaulin.”

  “I’m sorry…” The Virgin did not understand.

  “There’s a transceiver hidden on it. In the carrying frame. With batteries recharged by a couple of square centimetres of solar panel. But your ship’s crew wrapped the whole thing up in a tarpaulin and it looks as if the batteries have gone flat. Stupid, isn’t it? A whole operation nearly ruined because of a flat battery. You’d think the technical people would be a bit smarter. So we don’t know where the container was taken. We saw it on the ship. It was right up in the bows and the satellite could see it clearly. But the satellite was over the horizon when the damn thing was unloaded and we didn’t see where it was taken. We’ve got to find it and set it off when it will do the most damage.”

  “Oh Jesus! So it’s still sitting out there. And some-one’s going to open it one day…”

  “Well, at least the Russians have gone, so you don’t have to worry about them opening it. Help us find it, and we’ll blow it straight away.”

  The Virgin’s stomach sank to his shoes. His fingernails, his whole future, depended on no one discovering what was in the container. Oh shit! Now he was in trouble.

  The Bash that night was at the Cypriot camp, a construction camp staffed by Bangladeshi workers and lots of horny young Greek engineers called Georgio. Noddy was in fine form, the beer was not too undrinkable and the girls showed signs of wanting to dance later. Mostyn scored a compulsory drink for being stupid enough to return to Tabriz, and a second one for being stupid enough to bring his boss with him. Stanford was blessed with a drink as an introduction to the Hash and given the name San Francisco as a reference either to his saintly appearance or to Stanford University. Or possibly both. He took the ceremonies in his stride and did not complain too loudly about the beer.

  Thinking about it afterwards, The Virgin decided that Stanford had taken a big chance coming into Tabriz as a representative of Karelia. If the container was unmasked while he was in the country, he would be a sitting duck. And now it had to be found. The satellite could not see it; the whole town had been searched inch by inch and the container was not out in the open. The camp behind the tannery was still the most likely place it had gone, but it must be under cover. Somehow, he would have to get a look inside the camp.

  - 22 -

  He had little time to work on the problem. The well at RomDril-1 had slowly killed itself. The flow of gas had steadily slowed as the well manufactured its own mud from reservoir liquids and debris. After a couple of days the only gas reaching the surface came from the degassing of the mud column. The fates had been kind to them and the hydrogen sulphide had probably come from a small pocket of reservoir rock, no more. They had stripped in and fished for the broken drill pipe, an easy job as fishing operations go because the stub was high in the well and resting against the inside of the casing. As expected, the drill pipe was plugged with debris high above the bit and Revard’s ran in with a cutting charge to part the pipe and allow circulation to resume. Within two days the mud was in good shape again and no more gas was coming back to surface. TAMCO decided to set a cement plug in the hole and follow that up by setting the 9-5/8” casing early, before drilling ahead again. The Virgin was tied up with the job planning and it was several days after Mostyn and Stanford had left before he decided to act.

  He started by picking Danka up after her shift at the hospital and taking her for a walk on the beach at Cape Horn. The autumn night when Dov Nagel had come into their life was far behind them now. Spring was coming to the Mediterranean and they could stroll on the sand wearing no more than light sweaters. Days were longer now and the wind had lost its bite. They struggled past the low dunes where they had sat and watched the soldiers clambering into their boats and disappearing into the darkness. The narrow strip of beach was clean, swept of its debris by the winter storms and ready for the summer visitors who would soon be coming.

  “Was good night, no Virgin?” chuckled Danka.

  “Yes – yes, I suppose it was,” he answered. “The start of a lot of trouble. For me, anyway.”

  “You have problem, Virgin?” They were both breathing heavily as they struggled with the soft sand.

  “Yes, I have. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  “First you tell me,” she said.

  “Right. I think I’ll have to.” He had thought hard about Danka and how much he should tell her. The trouble was that the smallest glimpse of the picture would put her at risk. There was no way of avoiding it. He did not see why she should ever be questioned about what she knew, but if she ever was… Then again, he reflected, if she was ever tied to Dov and the death of the little Palestinian doctor, she would be finished anyway. Not to mention the disappearance of the two Russians, when she just happened to be along for the ride.

  “Do you know why the Russians were really here?” he started.

  “Of course, Virgin. They make chemical bombs for Mr Kowalski.”

  Kowalski. The Polish equivalent of Mr Smith. That was how the Polish staff referred to the Great Man between themselves. They did not want to be overheard saying anything disrespectful about him. “But you got that from the radio, right?” he asked.

  “No – is true. Everyone know. Victor talk too much.”

  “Right – well, that makes it a little easier. Look, I’ll tell you the problem but just don’t ask any questions about why or how or anything like that. I’m looking for a big container of chemical that was coming for Victor. It should have been delivered to him last week, but now I don’t know where it is.”

  She thought for a moment. “Big? How big?”

  “Oh – six metres long – like a shipping container. Probably covered in a green tarpaulin.”

  “What is tarpaulin, Virgin?”

  “A waterproof cover. Made of heavy sheet. Like tent material.”

  “And you think it goes inside the camp for Victor?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it is too difficult for me to go inside…” He could see she was trying to think of a way of getting in herself.

  “No – not you. May be one of the men could look over the wall. How about Janusz?”

  “Ah – Janusz. This is better. Janusz can go inside. He makes work like electrician. What is time? Is after work. Come on, we go to Janusz.”

  They arrived at the tannery soon after work had finished for the day. Janusz, cheerful as ever, was talkative and still sober. They sat in his small cell and drank. The Virgin clutched a glass of neat flash and let the Polish conversation pass over him. He supposed that Danka had been clever enough not to bring up the question directly.

  She patted him on the leg. “Hey, Virgin, wake up. Janusz like to make big barbecue on the beach.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “But he got no meat. He talk with the Tabriz people next door, and they have too much meat. Good meat. From Bulgaria. But they like he fix the lights for play tennis.”

  Janusz got up and rummaged in the drawer next to his bed. He returned with a small halogen tube. It was misty and one end was broken. He tried to talk directly to The Virgin but Danka translated. “He like to have six the same like this one. You can find for hi
m. He say you can buy in souk.”

  Why not, he thought, and took the old tube. Danka continued, “Tomorrow is shopping day for the men here. If you bring to my flat tomorrow after work, he will come to Barani.”

  Next day The Virgin took time out from the office to dive into the souk and buy the halogen tubes. He swung past Barani to have a coffee with Danka and leave the tubes with her. Then it was off to the rig to go over the 9-5/8” casing design with Terry. He would need to start ordering cement and chemicals from the desert in the next day or two and he still had to get the design basics past Tayfun.

  As he drove out to the rig he was thinking of Stanford – Mr Houghton as he had now become. Why had he bothered coming all the way out to Tabriz? Apparently he knew Major Jamal, and there must be a chance that Major Jamal or one of his colleagues would recognize him. Was the missing shipment important enough to justify the risk? Or was Stanford just tired of sitting in London? Of course, there might be other reasons for his trip. You had to hope that Stanford had a contact or two in Almadi as well. Perhaps there were matters of high policy that inspired his trip and The Virgin’s concerns were just a sideshow. The Virgin hoped so. He definitely did not want to be the centre of attention.

  He was the centre of attention when he pulled onto location. Terry and Rene De Groot were standing outside the office, deep in discussion.

  “Here he is!” Terry greeted him. “The answer to a maiden’s prayer.”

  “Hi Rene, Terry. No maidens that I can see.”

  “Never mind that. We were just scratching our heads, but now you’re here. You need to be at the police post on the Cape Town Road at three o’clock. Can you do that?”