Pipeline

by Peter Schechter

  “Listen to me, Rudzhin. There is no way to parse the blow. Packard and the Americans arrive this evening. And we will begin our meetings tomorrow with one hand behind our backs. Half of our plan has become unworkable. Compromised. We were discovered in Peru. And by whom?”

  The chairman answered his own question.

  “By the wife of your friend Uggin. The national policies of the Russian Federation have fallen victim to his stupid marital problems. Do you realize the ridiculousness of this? Somehow his German bitch got information out to a friend of hers who leaked it to Senator Matta. And, on top of it, we have been forced to take severe emergency measures against a foreign official. There will be investigations. Inquiries. Medical and police reports. I’ve ordered Schutz and Stradius to clear out of Peru on the first possible flight. Humboldt is finished; the project will be delayed God knows how long. Now we may never get it.”

  Piotr Rudzhin called forth every possible ounce of patience. He had been in Zhironovsky’s office for an hour and a half and the chairman had, by now, repeated the same rant three or four times. Yes, of course the situation in Lima was nothing less than a disaster. But the Americans were arriving in a few hours and Zhironovsky was refusing to think rationally. The man who had, only a few weeks ago, lectured him on strategy was now unable to keep his eye on the ball.

  Rudzhin had to force the old man to prioritize.

  “Chairman Zhironovsky, there is no doubt that what happened in Peru is a huge problem. But let’s thank God that Schutz made the right decision last night. And, while it is true that Volga Gaz may not have a future in Peru, the important thing is that we have prevented the information from going any further. The real disaster would have been a public disclosure. That could have even derailed General Packard’s visit.”

  Piotr Rudzhin lowered his voice to a quiet admonition. “Sir, there will be a lot of noise about Humboldt in the coming days. We must not let it distract us. We cannot lose sight of the fact that the Bering Strait is the truly big prize. We must concentrate on the arrival of the Americans.”

  Hearing Rudzhin actually say that the decision to kill Matta and his press secretary was the right one seemed to calm Zhironovsky down a bit. The balding old man leaned over his desk.

  “What about the American environmentalist woman? We have to do something about her.”

  “Yes, we must,” Rudzhin agreed. At the moment, he had no idea what to do about Blaise Ryan. But there was no doubt that the woman was a loose cannon who had to be silenced. He guessed that they would have only a few days to figure that out.

  “All right, Rudzhin, we will postpone a discussion of what went wrong until after the Americans leave. The minute Packard gets on the plane to go back to America, I want to hear a plan about what to do with this woman Ryan. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing, Rudzhin,” growled Zhironovsky. “I want Uggin off the case. I don’t want him in our meetings. He can’t be trusted.”

  “I don’t think that is a good idea, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Why the hell not?” Zhironovsky’s eyes began to bulge again.

  “Because there is nobody else to do his job. He has studied for the meeting. He knows what he has to do with the young man from the White House. It’s too late to change him for somebody else. Is he guilty of carelessness? Yes. Of not controlling what happens in his own house? Yes. But I am convinced—totally convinced—that he is dedicated to his job and to our cause.”

  Zhironovsky knew that Rudzhin was right. “Then at least, at the very least, arrest the wife,” snapped the chairman.

  “With all due respect, sir, that too would be a mistake. All that would do would be to distract Uggin from his mission. You have my word; I will give immediate orders to transfer a team from Moscow to Kursk. They will keep Anne-Sophie Perlmutter under surveillance. She will not make one phone call that we do not hear. She will not send an e-mail we do not read. If she attempts to leave the country, we will stop her. Is this satisfactory?”

  Zhironovsky just grunted. Rudzhin didn’t know what that grunt meant.

  “Do I have your approval?” Rudzhin insisted.

  “Yes, it’s enough.” Zhironovsky slammed his fist on the table, his eyes boring into Rudzhin’s. “For now.”

  MOSCOW

  SEPTEMBER 2, 10:05 P.M.

  THE METROPOL HOTEL

  Anthony Ruiz walked around his hotel suite in disbelief at the opulence of his surroundings.

  The Metropol Hotel was one of Moscow’s longest-running bastions of luxury. The historic building, built in 1904 by the last of Russia’s czarist art patrons, was one of the best-known addresses in town. The hotel had long served as the destination of choice for kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers.

  Tony Ruiz’s room was huge—the living area had two turn-of-the century, brick-colored sofas and three large Louis XIV classical chairs arrayed in a room big enough to entertain ten visitors. The young White House advisor’s lips curled into a wry grin as he pushed aside the elegant plush curtains to look out over the illuminated spires of the Cathedral of St. Michael the Archangel.

  He knew what his father would say. What the hell is a Latino cop from Chelan County doing in a place like this?

  The Metropol’s suite was perfectly in tune with everything else that had occurred since his arrival at Vnukovo airport. Only ninety minutes earlier, Tony had been staring out the airplane window as the CIA’s triple-engined jet wound down its motors. On the tarmac below, he had noticed a group of men lining up just in front of the airport terminal to greet the four-member American delegation.

  Tony had pored over his briefing books on the flight. So, hurrying down the staircase ten steps behind General Martha Packard, he had recognized most of the members of the Russian greeting committee.

  Viktor Zhironovsky, CEO of Russia’s natural gas conglomerate, and Arkadi Semiant, director-general of the FSB, Russia’s intelligence agency, were slightly ahead of the others. Third after Semiant was Piotr Rudzhin, the deputy minister of the interior. The next two were men whose faces Tony remembered as foreign ministry officials, but he could not remember their names. Last in the six-person line, looking slightly out of place, was a younger, dark-haired man whom Tony did not recognize. He had been absent from the CIA briefing book.

  It had been hard to follow each heavily accented introduction, so Ruiz had paid particular attention to catch the last official’s name. The man stretched out one hand in Tony’s direction while holding an elegantly wrapped package against his chest with the other. But just as Tony took the dark-haired man’s hand, the deafening roll of a snare drum drowned out the words.

  Surprised by the noise, Ruiz had swung his head around to see a military band in the full regalia of the Hussar regiment marching toward them in goose step across the airport tarmac. Once the soldiers, outfitted in the corps’ traditional enormous fur hats, had come to a halt in front of the visitors, the national anthems of Russia and the United States began to play.

  The seven-car motorcade of window-darkened black Audi A8s, followed by Mercedes G-class wagons with flashing blue lights, had sped into the city with an official escort. Blaring two-toned sirens, motorcycle police had struggled to open Moscow’s streets to their passing. It wasn’t an easy job. Traffic was heavy with cars and buses; people were everywhere.

  The slow slog through Moscow’s center allowed Ruiz the time to get a good look at the bars, restaurants, cafés, and shops. All of them were open, crammed with humanity. Tony was amazed by how attractive people were. Gorgeous women in miniskirts—nearly all in unusually high heels—sat at outside tables across from handsome men—nearly all with uniformly slicked-back hair. As the caravan neared the hotel, the cars swerved left, to reveal the wondrous expanse of Red Square. Tony stared out the car window, amazed by the turrets of the Kremlin’s brilliantly illuminated facade.

  Sitting on his suite’s bed, it occurred to Ruiz that all the stereotypes of graying Soviet deca
y had been wiped away in that one car ride. It took just one and a half hours to convince Tony that Russia was a country in bloom, hopping with life.

  As Ruiz changed into blue jeans and began to unpack, he thanked God for his hosts’ warm welcome. The Russian greeting had been a pleasant contrast to the previous eleven hours. The trip over from the United States had seemed a cold hell.

  In the days prior to their departure, Tony had struggled to keep an open mind about the notion of a Bering Strait link. Yet he couldn’t get over his profound belief that everything about the idea was preposterous. He had seen firsthand what energy dependency had wrought in California. In the course of the last twenty years, America’s foreign-energy addiction had risen from a barely manageable 27 percent to 60 percent—most of it from regions of severe instability hostile to the United States. Now he was going to embark on a fact-finding mission designed to heighten his country’s enslavement to foreign energy sources. The whole thing was wrong.

  It sure didn’t help that General Martha Packard was to be his boss over the next four days. From the moment Tony had pulled up in a taxi at Washington’s Andrews Air Force Base, the director of Central Intelligence had done everything possible to make Tony Ruiz understand that his presence in the delegation was unwelcome.

  “Hello, Mr. Ruiz.” The CIA director had hardly deigned to look at him as he entered the air force base’s VIP lounge. Those were the first and only words Martha Packard would send in his direction during the entire eleven-hour flight.

  Once on the airplane, General Packard and her deputy, Stuart Altman, were shown two of the four sleeping quarters on the aircraft. Altman was also the agency’s senior energy expert; he would play an important role on the trip. But somebody had decided that neither Tony Ruiz nor Betty Angler, Packard’s hugely overweight, dark-haired personal assistant, merited the remaining two private rooms. Instead, they were directed to separate seats in the plane’s main section. Any excitement Tony might have felt about international travel on a government jet evaporated with one look at the modest, economy-class surroundings of the CIA plane’s cabin.

  Ruiz tried twice—once an hour after takeoff and again an hour before landing—to meet with the CIA director. Both times the purser had delivered Tony’s request to the forward cabin. And twice he had returned with a rebuff. The first because the director was “resting.” The second because the director was “preparing herself for the arrival.”

  What a bitch, thought Tony.

  The hotel phone’s shrill electronic tones jolted Tony out of his frustrated reveries just as he was debating whether to take a shower now or wait until his 7:00 A.M. wake-up call in the morning. He reached across the bed to grab the receiver.

  “Hello, Tony, this is Daniel Uggin. I’m the international director of Volga Gaz.”

  Ruiz was momentarily confused. His silence prompted the caller to explain further.

  “We met at the airport, remember? Right as the band began to play.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. How are you?” Tony answered quickly, momentarily embarrassed by his forgetfulness. A picture of the last man in the greeting line formed in his head.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at this late hour. You must be tired from your trip. I had a welcoming present for you, but these military guys were too anxious to show their stuff,” Uggin chuckled over the phone line. “They were supposed to wait for a signal before beginning to play ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ But you know what the military is like; they never follow orders.”

  Tony was grateful for the gesture.

  “I will give it to the concierge. Is that okay?” the caller asked.

  “Sure, that is great. Very kind of you.”

  “Good. I’ll ask the hotel personnel to take it upstairs.”

  “Wait, wait, umm…Daniel.” Struggling to remember the man’s name, Tony thought he should be polite and extend an invitation. “Why don’t you come up and I’ll give you a drink. I have an enormous suite and the company will do me some good.”

  “Well, of course. But you are our guest. I should be the one buying the drinks.” Uggin laughed. “I’ll be right up.”

  Minutes later, the suite’s bell rang. Tony opened the door, clothed in blue jeans, a green T-shirt, and sneakers. He was embarrassed to see his visitor dressed in a stiff suit and tie. Shit, thought Ruiz, I should have thought to change my clothes. This international diplomatic stuff was hard.

  Uggin gave Tony the present. A bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka. Retail price was $150 a bottle.

  “Unlike the French, we don’t export our best products. This is liquid gold. We keep it right here. Close by.” Uggin grinned.

  This time Ruiz was not going to be outdone. Before leaving Washington, Mary Jane Pfeiffer, Tolberg’s southern-tongued secretary, had suggested bringing along a few bottles of Jack Daniel’s bourbon to pass out as gifts. “You know, those Russian good ol’ boys over there really know how to throw it down. You’re gonna get a lot of vodka. Let ’em taste some of our better moonshine,” Mary Jane had said to him.

  “I have something for you also,” said Tony Ruiz, pulling a gift-bagged bottle of Kentucky’s finest out of his suitcase.

  Uggin smiled broadly, admiring the American whiskey. He didn’t hesitate.

  “Can we open this one? You know, I’m a big fan of scotch, but I’ve never tried bourbon.”

  Tony grinned as he fetched ice from the suite’s minibar. He felt at a slight disadvantage because it was clear that Daniel knew more about him than vice versa. His Russian guest deftly shortened the distance between them with a quick, initial explanation of his international role at Volga Gaz. After that, the conversation became light and easy, avoiding anything even remotely related to work. They felt an immediate kinship upon realizing that both were originally from smaller cities far from the political buzz of their countries’ capitals.

  Daniel Uggin stayed only fifteen minutes. It was clear he didn’t want to disturb his guest after the long transatlantic trip.

  “Tony, I should go. You need to rest. We start in the morning at eight thirty and have three long days ahead of us. Tomorrow evening, we have a formal dinner with both delegations. But perhaps after the dinner—if you’re up for it—or the next day, I hope you’ll let me take you out to see how this city lives at night. Moscow, you know, has become New York on steroids.”

  “I saw that on the way in from the airport. You’ve got yourself a deal, Daniel.” Tony Ruiz laughed.

  The two men clasped hands warmly before Daniel headed down the hallway toward the elevators.

  Nice guy, Tony Ruiz thought as he closed his hotel door and headed straight to bed. But as he closed his eyes to sleep, the thought occurred to Tony that perhaps Daniel Uggin’s easygoing manner had been just a little too nice.

  MOSCOW

  SEPTEMBER 3, 8:20 A.M.

  TO VOLGA GAZ HEADQUARTERS

  Tony Ruiz had slept profoundly, awakening before the hotel wake-up call. A shower and a room-service breakfast followed in quick succession. He had already been in the lobby a good twenty minutes when Martha Packard strode purposefully off the Metropol’s elevators, followed closely by the obese Betty Angler and Stuart Altman, the CIA’s energy expert.

  Two very contrary impressions struck Tony on seeing General Martha Packard and her trailing acolytes.

  First, the fact that the group had descended in the elevator together gave him the unpleasant impression that they had just concluded a preparatory breakfast meeting without him. The woman had an agenda and she was freezing him out.

  Right then and there, Tony resolved to take the first possible private opportunity with Packard to protest her ongoing efforts to keep him away. Coming on this trip hadn’t been his choice. But he was determined not to be treated as the never-acknowledged Hispanic busboy by the CIA’s WASP ice queen.

  Immediately behind his initial jolt of resentment, a second, more amusing, thought seeped through his mind. Following Packard’s steely pace through the lo
bby, Tony realized that this was the first time he had ever seen her—either in person or in news photographs—dressed as a civilian.

  Packard’s outfit was elegant. A fitted blue jacket and matching skirt that hovered ever so slightly above the knees were mixed with a white brass-buttoned shirt. An antique necklace of small silver squares and colored semiprecious stones accented her long neck. Her dark hair, combed backward and held in place by a hair band with embedded yellow sparkles, contrasted with her white skin, chiseled nose, and glossed red lips.

  Jewelry, makeup, hair band. All that was impressive enough. But what Tony really had trouble keeping his eyes off of were the general’s sheer-hosed legs and her dark blue, high-heeled pumps. Prior to this moment, it would never have occurred to him that this forty-five-year-old military woman could walk in anything but spit-polished, black, tie-up flat shoes.

  Any thought that connected the words “Packard” and “pleasant” in the same brainwave was instantly erased by her demeanor. “Martha” and “menacing” became once again the prevailing synonyms.

  “Let’s move, Mr. Ruiz. Or we’ll be late,” she called his way as she glided past.

  The ride to Volga Gaz headquarters took less than ten minutes. As the Americans alighted, they were whisked off to a fifth-floor boardroom. Tan-colored thick-leather chairs were fitted against an enormous light-colored conference table. In front of each chair was a setting that jumbled dinnerware with office supplies. The sophisticated and the mundane were mixed on place mats, as beautifully crafted, rose-colored Russian breakfast china and crystal goblets lay side by side with sharpened pencils and yellow pads.

  After an initial round of greeting, Viktor Zhironovsky tapped a pencil against the crystal ware, the chiming ring filling the conference room.

  “I would like to officially welcome my friends from America. General Packard, you especially. My colleagues at the FSB warned me about your legendary toughness. But they did not caution me sufficiently about your alluring beauty,” Zhironovsky began unctuously.