The ethanol pipeline running above their heads was less than a year old and ran from Goiás, five hundred miles to the north, through Paulinia before continuing on to the Japeri Terminal in Rio de Janeiro two hundred miles to the northeast. Three-point-two billion gallons of ethanol per year through a pipeline spanning a quarter of Brazil’s breadth.
While the URC had been unable to discover the pipeline’s precise flow rate, the averages had been enough to convince the Emir that the plan was feasible. With a reported “up time” of eighty-five percent, the pipeline was pumping its 3.2 billion gallons over a span of 310 days, which in turn meant that for every operational day, 10.3 million gallons were flowing from Goiás to Rio. At any given hour of the day, in any given ten-mile stretch of pipeline, there was enough ethanol to fill twenty tanker trucks.
“Four ESD valves between here and the perimeter,” Ibrahim whispered. “One charge to disable each valve, one for the midpoint between the last pylons, and one for detonation. Those two I’ll handle myself. Ahmed, you have the first valve; Fa’ad, the second; Shasif, you have the third and fourth. When I’ve planted my charge, I’ll step out and scratch my head. Start your timers. Four minutes exactly. Remember: Walk back to the truck. Do not run. Anyone not back by the time the first charge goes off, they get left behind. Any questions?” There were none. “Allah be with us,” Ibrahim said.
They took off together, walking casually and chatting, as would any maintenance crew trying to make the best of a night shift. Two hundred yards from the grove, they reached the first ESD. Ahmed peeled off and knelt down behind the barrel-sized valve, then Fa’ad, then finally Shasif.
“See you back at the truck,” Ibrahim said, and kept walking.
The perimeter road was fifty yards ahead. To the right, a white pickup truck appeared, moving slowly as the passenger-side guard shined a spotlight on the fence. Ibrahim checked his watch. Early. Fifteen minutes early! Their agent, Cassiano, had been sure of the facility’s security routes and schedules. He’d either been wrong or the security schedule had changed. If the latter, why? Routine, or something else? This security truck, Ibrahim knew, would make its way along this perimeter road, then exit through the facility’s west gate before swinging north again and eventually pass the cattle gate through which Ibrahim and the others had entered. When the guards saw no pickup truck there, how would they react? Ibrahim decided it was best not to find out.
They had twelve minutes. Say four more minutes to set the charges and eight minutes to run the mile back to the cattle gate. It would be very close. Or, he thought, there was another option.
Heart pounding, he slowed his pace. So did the truck, coming to a near halt. Ibrahim waved his arm in greeting and called out in Portuguese, “Boa tarde!” Good evening. He arched his back ever so slightly to check that the Glock was still in place.
After a long five seconds, the driver waved back. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Ibrahim shrugged. “Bem.” Fine. Casually, he began walking toward the truck. How close? he wondered. To kill both men before they had a chance to reach their radio, he would have to get within ten or twelve meters. Would they become suspicious of his face or uniform before then? Charge them and start firing? No, he decided. The truck would race away. Ibrahim stopped walking.
“What’re you up to?” the driver asked.
“Weld checks,” Ibrahim answered. “Our boss decided we needed something to do.”
The driver chuckled. “I know the feeling. See you later.”
The transmission shifted into gear, and the truck rolled forward. Then stopped. The reverse lights popped on, and the truck backed up until it was again even with Ibrahim. “You came in from the cattle gate?” the driver asked.
Heart in his throat, Ibrahim nodded.
“Was there a truck there?”
“Didn’t see one. What’s the problem?”
“Paiva and Cabral aren’t answering their radio.”
Ibrahim jerked his thumb toward the others spread out along the pipeline behind him. “Ours have been acting up tonight, too.”
“Sunspots or something, probably,” the driver said. “Interesting accent you’ve got.”
“Angola. Lived there until about a year ago.”
The driver shrugged. “Okay. Take it easy.”
The truck drove on and disappeared down the road. Ibrahim waited until he could no longer hear its engine, then let out his breath. Almost there. Allah guide me. He crossed the road, picked his way down into the drainage ditch, then back up the other side. The fence was in sight now, a hundred yards away. He passed the final pylon and began counting steps. At the halfway point, he stopped and knelt down. The pipe was directly over his head. He could hear the gurgling rush of fuel through the steel.
The first of his two charges, the largest of the six, weighed eight ounces but still easily fit in the thigh pocket of his cargo pants. The second charge, at two ounces, fit in the palm of his hand. He set the main charge’s digital timer to four minutes, ten seconds; the second charge to five minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut, said a quick prayer, then stood up, affixed the main charge to the pipe’s underside, then started the timer. He watched two seconds click off, then walked into the open, turned around, and scratched his head. He waited long enough to ensure that all three of them had seen his signal, then started the timer on the last charge and stuffed it into its duct tape and Bubble Wrap cocoon.
He heaved the bundle over the fence, then turned around and started walking.
74
HENDLEY, GRANGER, and Rick Bell spent part of the afternoon and early evening debriefing Dominic in the conference room. Jack Junior and John Clark sat in a pair of chairs along the wall and listened; Jack was family and a good friend, and while Dominic seemed to be holding it together, Hendley had thought Jack’s presence might be helpful. As for Clark, Hendley wanted his professional eye.
Jack watched his cousin carefully as he walked Hendley and the others through the Tripoli mission: their initial meeting with Archie, their foray into the Medina to snatch Bari, their trip to Almasi’s house, and finally Brian’s death. At every step, Dominic answered their questions curtly but thoroughly, never losing his patience and never hesitating. And not showing a trace of emotion, Jack realized. His cousin showed no affect in either his face or his body language. He was flat.
“Tell us again about Fakhoury,” Sam Granger said.
“According to Bari, he was low-level, just an enforcer. We decided Almasi was a better target. We didn’t want any witnesses to Bari’s disappearance, so we talked about what to do with him.”
“Whose decision was it to kill him?”
“We both decided. I wasn’t so sure, but Brian… His argument made sense.”
“Did you do it?”
Dominic shook his head. “Brian.”
“Counting Fakhoury, how many dead?” This from Bell.
“Six. Four by us.”
“Let’s fast-forward to Almasi’s house,” said Hendley.
Dominic went through it again: parking in the quarry… infiltrating Almasi’s house… the computer and the safe… Brian getting shot… the firefight and their exfiltration. Dominic trailed off there. “The rest you know.”
“Body count?” asked Granger.
“Five.”
“No wounded?”
Dominic shrugged. “Not when I left the house.”
“What does that mean?” asked Rick Bell.
“It means I made sure there were no witnesses. No way for the URC to know who or what happened. That’s kind of the point of what we’re doing, right?”
Hendley nodded. “True.” He looked to Bell and Granger. “Anything else?” Both men shook their heads. “Okay, Dom, thanks.”
Dominic stood up to leave.
Hendley said, “Dom, we’re sorry about Brian.”
Dominic simply nodded.
“I’ll get a car to take you home.”
“No, I’m just going to find a couch
and crash.”
Granger said, “If you’d like us to make arrangements for Brian-”
“I’ll do it.”
Dominic left, shutting the door behind him. Hendley said, “Jack?”
“Hard to say. I’ve never seen him like this, but then again, it’s not exactly common. For anybody. I think he’s just numb. He’s exhausted; he watched his twin brother die in his lap; and, right or wrong, he’s probably feeling pretty damned guilty about it. Once it all sinks in he’ll fall apart, then pull himself back together.”
“You agree, John.”
Clark took a moment to answer. “For the most part, but he’s a changed man, that’s for sure. Some switch got flipped.”
Bell said, “Explain.”
“He was on the fence about taking out Fakhoury. Brian had to talk him into it, and probably did the job himself because he knew Dom wasn’t ready for it. Three hours later, they’re at Almasi’s house. Brian gets shot, and before Dom leaves the house, he’s finishing off wounded men. That’s day to night in pretty short order.”
“So assume you’re right about the flipped switch,” Hendley said. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Don’t know. Depends on how or if he rebounds. Right now he’s got that thousand-yard stare in his eyes. This is usually where operators take one of two paths: learn to deal with the job and put it into perspective, or let it eat you up.”
“Is he okay for the field?”
“This isn’t an exact science, Gerry. Everybody’s different.”
“Best judgment. Is he okay for the field?”
Clark thought it over. “Not by himself.”
Hendley asked Rick Bell, “What do we know about what Dom brought home?”
“A flash drive full of Almasi’s computer files, and one CD-ROM. The files are gonna take a while to sift through; the CD was a gold mine: three hundred sixty five JPEG images of onetime pads-nine square by nine square grids with alphanumeric substitution characters. I don’t know how the math works out, but we’re talking about millions of different combos.”
“About a year’s worth,” Hendley said. “One for every damned day. Please tell me they’re dated.”
Bell smiled. “Bet your ass. They go back almost ten months, which means unless they pull the plug, we’ve two months of future OTPs in our hands.”
“That’s how they’re doing it,” Jack muttered.
“What?” Clark asked.
“They’re doubling up. They use steganography to embed the OTP into website images. Recipients pull an image off the site, use a program to peel away the stego layer, and they’ve got the daily OTP. After that it’s just numbers: Go into a forum on a URC website, find the post with a string of a couple hundred letter-number combinations, run them through your OTP, and you’ve got your marching orders.”
“I’m with you on most of that,” Granger said, “but not the forum idea. I don’t think the URC would shotgun a message like that. They’d want to make sure it reached only the recipients they wanted. We know it’s not e-mail, right?”
“Doubtful. URC traffic is all but dead.”
“How about online e-mail?” Bell suggested. “Google, Yahoo!… Agong Nayoan had a Google account, didn’t he, John?”
“Yeah, but the IT nerds sifted through it. Nothing there. My guess is, if the URC went radio-silent with its regular e-mail accounts, they probably banned online accounts as well.”
“So what they’d need,” Hendley said, “is a hub. Someplace a guy could check every day and get messages meant only for him.”
“Holy shit,” Jack said. “That’s it.” He started typing on his laptop. “Online file storage.”
“Come again?” said Clark.
“They’re websites that offer backup file storage. Say you’ve got a bunch of MP3 songs and you’re worried about losing them if your computer crashes. You sign up at one of these sites, upload the files, and they sit there on the servers.”
“How many of these sites are there?”
“Hundreds. Some you have to pay to use, but the majority of them are free if you’re dealing with small file sizes-anything under a gigabyte of data.”
“Which is how much?”
Jack thought this over for a moment. “Take a standard Microsoft Word file… A gigabyte could hold maybe half a million pages.”
“Damn.”
“But that’s the beauty of this. Some URC mutt in Tangiers logs in to one of these sites, uploads a text document with a string of a couple hundred numbers, then another mutt in Japan logs in, downloads the file, erases it from the site, then plugs the numbers into a stego-embedded onetime pad he got from a URC site, and he’s got his message.”
“What’s it take to sign up on one of these sites?” This from Hendley.
“The free ones… an e-mail address, and those are a dime a dozen. Hell, there are places on the Internet that’ll give you an address that self-destructs after fifteen minutes.”
“Talk about anonymity,” Rick Bell said. “Listen, I can buy all this. It makes sense, but what do we do with it?”
The conference door opened, and Chavez walked in. “There’s something you’re going to want to see.” He grabbed the television remote, powered up the LCD flat screen, and switched to CNN. The anchor was in mid-sentence.
“… Once again, this is a live television feed from Record News helicopter in Brazil. The conflagration started just after eight p.m. local time…”
Jack leaned forward in his chair. “Christ almighty.”
The helicopter appeared to be filming from a distance of five miles or more, but still two-thirds of the screen was filled with roiling flames and thick, black smoke. Through the smoke there were glimpses of some kind of vertical structures and crisscrossing pipes, and round storage tanks.
“That’s a refinery,” said John Clark.
The anchor was talking again: “According to Record News, the location of the fire is a refinery run by Petrobras, known as the Paulinia REPLAN. Paulinia is a town of sixty thousand people and is located some eighty miles north of São Paulo.”
Hendley turned to Jack. “Can you-”
Jack already had his laptop open. “Working on it.”
“… The Paulinia REPLAN is the largest refinery in Brazil, covering almost eighteen hundred acres and with an output of almost four hundred thousand barrels a day…”
“Accident?” Rick Bell suggested.
“Don’t think so,” Clark replied. “Eighteen hundred acres is almost three and a half square miles. The complex is almost totally engulfed. Look, back when I was still getting wet for a living, we war-gamed this stuff all the time. Refineries are juicy targets, but just about anything short of half a dozen Paveways wouldn’t be enough to light up a whole complex. Hell, our refineries here are almost thirty-five years old and you can count on one hand how many accidents there’ve been. Too many backup emergency systems.”
Typing at his laptop, Jack said, “Paulinia’s pretty new. Less than ten years old.”
“How many employees?”
“Could be as many as a thousand. Maybe twelve hundred. It’s the night shift, so less staff on duty, but we’re probably talking about at least four hundred people in there.”
“There,” Clark said. “Right there…” He stepped up to the television and tapped an area inside the refinery complex. “Those flames are moving; that’s liquid, and a lot of it.”
As they watched, the Record News helicopter moved closer to the blaze, swinging around the refinery until the north side came into view.
Jack said, “Okay, got it: Paulinia’s also a terminal for an ethanol pipeline. Comes in from the north.”
“Yeah, I see it,” said Rick Bell. He walked to the television and pointed to a spot along the complex’s northern perimeter. Just short of the fence, the pipeline was ripped open, emitting a geyser of flaming ethanol.
“Yeah,” Clark said. “They would have had to knock out some shutdown valves…” He traced his finger nort
h along the pipeline until he reached an isolated pocket of flame. “That’s one.”
“And three more back down the line,” Granger added. “How much pipeline is that?”
“Half-mile, give or take,” Clark replied.
“About ten thousand gallons,” Jack said, looking up from his laptop.
“What?” said Chavez.
“That pipeline puts through over three billion gallons a year. Break down the math and that section probably contained about ten thousand gallons-call it enough to fill a tanker truck. Some of it’ll get soaked up by the soil, but you gotta figure seven, maybe eight thousand gallons were dumped into the complex.”
“The whole thing’ll go,” Clark said. “The blending and storage tanks… the towers. They’ll start to cook off.”
Even as Clark said the words, the helicopter’s camera caught a trio of explosions, each one sending a mushroom cloud of flames and black smoke a mile into the sky.
“They’re going to have to evacuate the whole damned region,” Sam Granger said. “So we’re agreed: This is no accident.”
Clark said, “No chance. A lot of planning went into this. A lot of groundwork and intelligence.”
“URC,” Chavez speculated.
“Why Brazil?” Hendley asked.
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with Brazil,” Jack said. “That’s meant for us. Kealty just signed a deal with Petrobras. Sub-OPEC-priced oil from Brazil. They’ve got it coming out of their ears-the Lara and Tupi block fields alone could put Brazil’s reserves at around twenty-five billion barrels. That’s part of the equation. The other part is how far behind Petrobras is in building refineries. Paulinia was their workhorse. The new complex up in Maranhão will run at six hundred thousand barrels, but it’s not coming online for another year.”
“So Brazil’s got the oil but no way to process it,” Hendley said. “Which means our deal is down the tubes.”
“For a year at least. Maybe two.”
Jack’s e-mail chimed. He scanned the message. “Biery got facial-recognition hits on a couple of Sinaga’s passport photos. Two are Indonesians that came into Norfolk two weeks ago-Citra and Purnoma Salim.”
Dead or Alive Page 57