Pipeline

  As she listened to the journalist, she recalled her two on-camera interviews with Hardaway. Blaise had admired the fact that, throughout the ordeal of the emergency, the news reporter had lost neither her journalistic realism nor her humanity. Anna Hardaway had demonstrated a unique touch, combining a reporter’s dispassionate distance with emotion-laden descriptions that had brought faraway viewers close to—almost into—California’s escalating tragedy.

  Blaise sat up on the bed, now fully attentive to CNN’s story. It wasn’t the content of the correspondent’s reporting that suddenly dragged life back into her fear-induced lethargy. No, Blaise didn’t really pay attention to the substance at all. Instead, an idea was forming in her mind that centered on Hardaway herself.

  Out of gut instinct alone, Blaise scrambled out of bed and turned on her cell phone to look up Anna Hardaway’s mobile number. Without a moment’s reflection, she picked up the room’s phone and began to dial, congratulating herself on having the wherewithal not to make the call with her own cell phone.

  “Anna Hardaway.” A voice answered the phone. Blaise could hear fumbling movements across the line.

  “Anna, this is Blaise Ryan. How are you?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Blaise. It’s four-twenty in the morning.”

  Blaise’s eyes veered to the night table’s alarm clock and saw that it was 7:20 in the morning. Feeling stupid for having forgotten all about the time change with California, she should have known that Hardaway’s presence on television didn’t mean she was transmitting live. But now that the reporter was on the telephone, she couldn’t allow Hardaway to hang up. However impulsive it may have been, this call signified one small step in the right direction. She had to keep moving forward.

  “Anna, I’m sorry about the time. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

  The reporter hesitated. “Come on, can’t we talk in a couple of hours?”

  “No, we need to talk now.”

  “Okay,” Hardaway said, relenting. “Let me get the light on.”

  Blaise could hear more fumbling. She presumed that the reporter was looking for a pen and notepad. That’s what all reporters did when somebody used the magic word “urgent” to get their attention.

  Blaise Ryan was now fully alert. It was strange, she thought. Once her mind had closed on a direction, forty-eight hours of paralysis seemed to dissipate in less than one minute.

  “All right, I’m back,” Hardaway snapped.

  “Okay, I’m calling for some advice—”

  “What! You woke me up so that I could give you advice? I don’t give advice in the middle of the night. I don’t even talk to sources at this hour. I just made an exception. And it better be good.”

  “Hold on, hold on. Don’t blow up. I will give you a story that will bend your mind. But there are two conditions. First, what I’m telling you is off the record and on deep background. And, though I promise that it’s your exclusive story, you can’t use any of it until I give you the green light. I trust you, Anna. But I won’t talk unless you agree to the ground rules.”

  “Fine. Done. It’s off the record and on deep background,” Hardaway grunted. Like any reporter, she hated stories that could not be attributed to a readily identifiable source. “But I won’t agree to the confidentiality. Once you tell me, I’m free to dig.”

  Blaise hesitated. She didn’t play poker, but she thought the bluff might work. “I understand. Good night. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Wait, wait. Okay, fine. As long as I get a promise that you go nowhere else with the scoop.”

  Blaise smiled at the easy win before continuing. “I promise. Second is the advice part. When we’re done, I need you to tell me where I go with what I know. I’m in danger, Anna. Really serious danger. But I don’t know who to talk to.”

  Blaise knew she had her attention now.

  “All right, Blaise, I’ll help in any way I can,” Hardaway said, her voice turning warm with concern. “What the hell is going on?”

  With Hardaway furiously scribbling away on the other side of the continent, it took Blaise nearly a half hour to tell her story. As she chronicled the history of the past days, the newswoman demanded precision, peppering her throughout with an onslaught of questions. How did your friend in Russia find out about Anfang? What is your relationship with this Peruvian senator? Has there been an official coroner’s report about his death or are you relying only on that first news report you read at the airport? How can you prove Anfang’s links to the Russians? What is the volume of gas that Latin America will export to the United States? How much will Peru’s gas help to assuage the gas deficit in California? How will the gas get here? Who is buying it?

  As the questions came, fast and furious, Blaise could nearly touch Hardaway’s mounting interest. She could tell that the journalist was trying to form a news story in her mind, testing it by demanding details and questioning facts. Blaise worried that she was unable to answer some of Hardaway’s hard questions. But she had experience in dealing with reporters; they respected people who admitted not knowing an answer. There was nothing a journalist hated more than a source who blithely slung mindless answers at all oncoming questions.

  Hardaway’s queries died down as Blaise began to wind up the tale. By the time she got to the part about the man identifying himself as a Russian diplomat at the Lima airport, an unexpected silence filled the phone line.

  “Jesus, Blaise,” was all Hardaway could say. “Now I know why you began this conversation by asking for advice.”

  Silence again.

  “Can you help me?” whispered Blaise.

  “I don’t know. I have to think about it. I’m the California correspondent, not the Washington bureau chief. I appreciate the fact that you trusted me with the story. But don’t you remember that I did an interview with Laurence during the campaign that ended up with him walking off the set?

  “You may have chosen the wrong person,” Hardaway continued sadly, nearly apologetic. “I’m persona non grata with this administration. There’s almost nobody who will talk to me.”

  Blaise could feel herself falling back into the dark hole of uncertainty. The one and only determined stroke she had made to liberate herself was going nowhere.

  “Anna, you must know somebody. Please.” It was more plea than question.

  “Well, there is only one guy I can think of. I met him when he was a new campaign hire. A Latino guy from Washington State named Tony Ruiz. Really smart. Really nice. But young. He was sent to try to make nice after his boss walked out on me midinterview. I was nervous; he did a good job of calming me down. I knew I had become radioactive with Laurence. And the big shots at CNN headquarters in Atlanta were beside themselves, thinking that our network would be blacklisted by the Laurence campaign because of my tiff with their candidate.”

  “And?” demanded Blaise. She needed more substance if she was to pin some hope on this young Hispanic.

  “And he fixed it. Within three days, Laurence’s press people offered Ryan Foxman an hour-long interview on economic issues. I’m still pissed at Laurence’s huffiness and they’re still angry with me. But at least Ruiz got the network goons off my back.”

  “What does he do now?”

  “I had heard he was a domestic affairs advisor. Look, at least he’s at the White House. At least I know him. And, most important, at least he’ll take my call.”

  “He sounds perfect,” Blaise lied. She knew that this young advisor was anything but ideal. But Mr. Tony Ruiz from Washington State was the only thing she had going right now. “Here is what I would ask, Anna. Get me in to see him. If he is at the White House, he has the political juice to call in somebody else who can help.”

  She heard hesitation. Blaise imagined Hardaway was worried that the scoop would get away from her.

  “Anna, I gave you my word. The story is yours. I’ll keep you in the loop every step of the way. But you have to help me get to this guy.”

  “Okay, Blaise.
Give me a few hours and call me back,” Hardaway agreed.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 4, 11:40 A.M.

  CNN STUDIOS

  “All right, that’s a wrap,” shouted Steve Orinbach, Anna Hardaway’s cameraman, as the lights switched off. He looked at his watch. Perfect. Right on time for lunch.

  “Nice work, Anna. Just the right tone.” Orinbach smiled her way, his long, stringy hair falling on his face as he leaned over to break down the equipment. His tattoo-covered arms struggled to push the tripod into place.

  “Wanna get a bite?” he asked without looking up. “We have to be in Westwood at two-thirty P.M. So I figure we have some time.”

  “Not today, sweetie pie.” Anna Hardaway smiled. She loved using the most unctuous names to address her talented, punk-loving, camera-wielding toughie. It drove him nuts.

  Anna walked down the paper-strewn hallway to her small office. It was a mess. Just what you would expect of a television reporter.

  She immediately swished the computer’s mouse to bring the machine back to life. Disappointed, she reached for her purse and glanced at her mobile phone, which had remained silent during the broadcast. Nothing.

  Anna was getting worried.

  After hanging up with Blaise, she had put in a call to the White House operator and left an urgent message with her name and cell phone number. It had been way too early on the East Coast to expect Ruiz to be at his desk. But she had figured that he would call back upon his arrival.

  Government working hours in Washington began between 9 and 9:30 A.M. That was barely dawn in California. When she hadn’t heard anything by then, she penned a quick e-mail to Ruiz requesting a return call on an urgent matter. By midmorning California time, she wrote him again. This time she decided to put more oomph in the note.

  “Tony,” she had written. “Need to talk. I’ve got an exclusive on a story that requires White House confirmation. Please contact me. This is my third message. Regards, AH.”

  Anna Hardaway had been sure that her use of journalistic high-priority codes would prompt Ruiz to life. Pressing Send, Anna had gone off an hour ago to talk to her producer. From there, she had walked around the corner to makeup and then ducked under the heavy curtains onto the set next door. Her piece had taken about forty minutes to produce, from start to finish. Returning to her desk, she was now frustrated to find no answer from Tony Ruiz.

  Anna pulled absentmindedly at a wisp of her auburn hair, deep in thought about what else she could do to find Ruiz. The shrill tone of her telephone startled her into an involuntary jump. She grabbed the receiver, expecting a voice from the White House. Instead, it was Blaise.

  “Look, I don’t have good news for you. I have left three messages. Nothing. I don’t know if he is traveling or if he just won’t talk to me.”

  Hardaway could hear the gasp of fear in the phone’s silence.

  “I’m going to keep trying, Blaise. I promise. I will find this guy. I can’t swear he will help. But you have my word that I’ll find him.”

  There was nothing else to say.

  She heard a barely audible “Thank you” as the phone was hung up. Anna Hardaway felt sorry for Blaise. Her scrappy environmentalist acquaintance had become a shadow of her former self.

  Where the hell was Ruiz? She considered, and discarded, the possibility that he had not received the message. Anthony Ruiz worked at the White House. Phone. Blackberry. White House operators. These guys were connected every minute of every day.

  Anna forced her mind to concentrate. Twenty years in journalism had taught her that ratcheting up the pressure was the only way to get reticent government officials to talk. A thought occurred to her.

  She pulled her computer keyboard nearer and started to tap on the keys.

  “Ruiz, damnit. It’s important. Get back to me. Ever heard of Russian involvement in California-bound natural gas? AH.”

  She punched Send.

  Anna made two quick phone calls to confirm this afternoon’s interviews and was on her way to the ladies’ room when she heard the mechanical two-tone announcement of an incoming e-mail. Glancing backward, she could hardly believe what she saw.

  Ruiz. It had taken less than three minutes for him to answer the last e-mail.

  Anna spun around and leaned over the chair to open the message. She immediately noted that it had been sent from a Blackberry.

  “Will call your office in exactly five minutes. Pick up.”

  Anna Hardaway jumped up and ran down the hallway to the bathroom. She had four minutes to get back to her desk.

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

  SEPTEMBER 4, 12:00 P.M.

  CNN STUDIOS

  The phone was already ringing when Anna Hardaway walked back into her office, coffee in hand. She glanced at her watch; Ruiz was early. The last e-mail had clearly made an impression on the young White House advisor.

  “Anna Hardaway.” She did her best to sound officious, pretending to have no clue as to who would be calling.

  “Hey, it’s Ruiz.” His voice was equally nonchalant.

  “Long time, friend.”

  “Yeah. Congratulations on the Pulitzer. Well deserved.” The banter was ridiculous.

  “Ruiz, I’ve been hounding you all morning.”

  “I know. Sorry. I’m not in D.C.”

  Anna’s voice turned sober. “Can we stop circling around each other like hyenas, Tony? I need something from you. It’s important. You know the subject; I put it in the e-mail.”

  “How the hell did you find out about the Russian natural gas negotiations, Anna? It was seriously under wraps.”

  Hardaway’s journalistic radar bleeped. There was something strange about his response. But right then and there, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “I found out the way every reporter finds something out. I have a good source. I’m even going to let you meet the source. But I’m going to hold on to the name for a while yet. Can you confirm that the United States government knows about surreptitious Russian attempts to become one of California’s main suppliers of imported natural gas?”

  “Are we off the record?” he asked cautiously.

  Christ, Anna thought. Here it goes again. Why won’t anybody speak anymore for attribution?

  “Okay, we’re off the record.”

  “There is nothing secret or surreptitious about Russia’s desire to supply natural gas to the Pacific coast of the United States. We’re encouraging the conversation. You know better than most how badly we need the natural gas. The Russians have what we want. I’m in Moscow talking to them now.”

  “What? You’re in Moscow?” Hardaway choked, her body jerking backward in stunned surprise. The revelation of his whereabouts had made her move so suddenly that the coiled phone cord sent her Styrofoam coffee cup flying across the desk. Hot liquid was slowly seeping out of the sealed container.

  “You mean you know about what they did in Peru? And you’re still talking to these bastards?”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Hardaway?” gasped Tony. “I’m in Moscow because…”

  Silence invaded the telephone line as the two suddenly realized they had been talking about completely different things. Anna Hardaway’s radar warnings were now off the charts.

  The truth was dawning on Anna Hardaway. “Jesus, Tony. We’ve been talking past each other. You’re in Moscow on something completely different, aren’t you? You’re making some gas deal with these guys.”

  Hardaway knew she had caught him.

  Had this been just any news story, Anna Hardaway would have pressed on relentlessly. She would have been all over him, like a pit bull. To get him to reveal more, she would have threatened to go on air with the revelation that a senior White House official was in Moscow negotiating a gas supply deal with the Russians. But these weren’t normal circumstances. She had Blaise to think about. She had promised.

  “Tony, can we take a step back? All cards faceup on the table, okay? I’m in a
bind. I’ve got an exclusive here—well, maybe after talking to you, I’ve got two scoops—but I also have a pal in trouble. I’m struggling to be a journalist and a friend at the same time. Maybe the two can’t go together, but I need to try. Can you work with me on that basis?”

  She continued without waiting for an answer.

  “Here is what I know. I’ve found out that a Russian company called Volga Gaz submitted false bids through sham operating companies to operate the principal Latin American gas fields. The gas from those fields was going to be exported to the United States. I suspect the Russian company tried to hide its involvement in Latin America because its real purpose is to gain some type of leverage with the United States. The senior Peruvian senator who was in charge of his government’s decision to award the project found out about the Russians’ secret involvement three days ago. The next day he turned up dead.”

  She heard Tony suck in air.

  “I’m not done,” Hardaway barked. “As if all that isn’t good enough, our little misunderstanding a minute ago made me realize that I’ve stumbled on to an even bigger story. While all this is happening in Peru, I just found out my government has people in Moscow negotiating some other gas deal with the Russians. Connect the dots for me, Ruiz.”

  She could almost feel the whirring of Tony Ruiz’s brain as it strained to compute the calculations.

  “Listen to me, Anna. I can’t connect the dots because what you’ve just told me is a complete mystery. You have got to believe me; I have never heard of these gas projects in Latin America. I have never heard of a Peruvian senator—alive or dead. And I’ve never heard of Russia operating sham companies in our backyard. None of it. Not one goddamn bit of it.”

  Hardaway believed him. He sounded angry and agitated.

  “Can you reveal your source? How did they get this information?”

  “I’ll do better than that. Let me see if my source will get on the line. Can you hold and I will conference the person in?”

  Anna Hardaway put Ruiz on hold and moved the computer mouse to Contacts List to look up Blaise Ryan’s cell phone number. She dialed it quickly.