by Chris Angus
Chapter Six
Present Day
Much as Ryan hated to admit it, Gudnasson had said one thing that just might prove useful, although for a very different reason.
Because a big part of his business, one that had helped get the concern off the ground, was a contract with British Petroleum, he’d done a great deal of research on the behemoth international company. As a result, he was aware that BP had begun as the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, or APOC, which became BP in 1954.
This might give him an opening. If he approached IranOil as an independent business owner, as Jon had suggested, but with a connection to BP, it would give him an excuse to talk to people on the inside. There was a risk, of course, that they already knew about him. But he was willing to bet against it. He’d been on the job less than a week. The men who were looking for Samantha may have followed him simply because he was staying at the same lodging and they were running out of ideas.
A few calls put him in contact with IranOil’s Reykjavik Director of Community Relations. He made an appointment without any difficulty. It appeared that requests from local business owners asking for handouts were pouring through the doors these days.
IranOil had an enormous fuel depot, along with a small refinery, a few miles outside of the city, but their corporate headquarters was located along the waterfront off Grandagardur Street, an eight-story glass and steel monolith with the company logo on a block of granite out front. Ryan felt a twinge of jealousy. Perhaps someday, renewable concerns like his would be able to go similarly upscale.
Renewables were the future. Everyone acknowledged the fact. But it was still oil that ruled the international roost.
He’d thrown together a briefcase full of papers about his company’s ongoing projects. Now he parked his rental car, complete with new tires courtesy of the agency, along the busy portside street and entered the building.
He was met cordially but firmly at a security station. A beefy guard asked his business, confirmed his appointment, and directed him to pass through a metal detector that was operated by two more men. It seemed like an undue amount of security for a firm in laid-back Reykjavik. Fortunately, he’d left his firearm in the car.
Rather than telling him where to go, one of the men on the metal detector escorted him to the third floor in an elevator and stayed by his side until they reached their destination.
Mohammad Reza was precisely what Ryan would have expected, a lower functionary whose job was to advance good relations with the host country. He was young, perhaps thirty, a small, neat man with a tightly cropped beard and an expensive suit. He had a smile on his face from the moment they shook hands. There was no evidence he knew anything at all about his guest.
Reza poured him a coffee and said, ‘How may I help you, Mr. Baldwin?”
“I run a small concern that facilitates joint ventures in renewable energy, particularly geothermal, between firms here in Iceland and in the United States. I thought you might be interested in investing in the future.” He looked around at the opulent surroundings. “Clearly, you are doing well in the present,” he smiled. “But renewables are the wave of the new century, and you must admit, your oil won’t last forever.”
Reza smiled self-deprecatingly. “We want to be good neighbors. What sort of joint ventures are you working on?”
“There’s a great deal of new research being done at the moment, new techniques for deep drilling and energy generation at the surface. The basics are simple enough. Water is injected deep into the earth, where it absorbs heat from the surrounding rock. As the fluid returns to the surface, the transferred heat is used to generate electricity. Then the water is re-injected. The system forms a closed loop, creates virtually no emissions, and is entirely renewable. As you know, this is what fuels most of Reykjavik, but my firm is also looking into new fuel cell technology. If you’d like I can give you the details.” He reached for his briefcase.
Reza said benignly, “How much would you like?”
Ryan almost choked. The man hadn’t asked to see any plans, hadn’t inquired as to his credentials or even the main thrust of his business. Just, how much do you want? It was breathtaking. And it caught him off guard. The last thing he had in mind was any kind of a figure.
Well, nothing ventured. “We thought something on the order of one hundred thousand dollars would give a start.” He smiled weakly at his own brazenness.
“We do have a policy,” Reza said with a slight sadness in his eyes that such a matter had even to be discussed, “Of providing no more than eighty percent of any request. Will eighty thousand dollars be acceptable? Of course, you can apply for additional funds later on.”
Much as the money would have been welcome for his business, Ryan couldn’t really accept such a payment. Not under the current circumstances. Indeed, he found the meeting almost surreal. He was no stranger to approaching potential investors. But he’d never been handed a check on his first meeting, without ever discussing specifics. He decided to see what might happen if he mentioned something else.
Reza was standing, offering his hand. “If you’ll sign a few papers with our legal department, I’ll have my secretary cut the check. You can pick it up on your way out. I wish you luck in your endeavors.”
Ryan took a deep breath. “You’ve been most generous,” he said. “This will give a big boost to our new geothermal research program on Laki.”
It was as though a light went out in Reza’s face. His eyes grew sad; his very hand seemed to grow heavy in Ryan’s grasp.
“Ah . . . there may actually be a problem,” he said. There followed the most expert bit of waffling that Ryan had ever experienced. Too many research programs in the same area, a requirement that specific research be vetted first, government restrictions, perhaps another program might be more beneficial—money was suddenly tighter than it had been thirty seconds earlier.
Ryan was swept out the door with the same efficiency one might use to get rid of a septic tank salesperson. He found himself standing on the pavement staring at the door, hand empty of the briefly proffered check.
He felt goose bumps crawl on his skin. The reaction left little doubt. Something was happening on Laki that IranOil considered entirely proprietary. He was also worried that he might have left his employees vulnerable. IranOil now believed that his business was planning major research on Laki. What their reaction to that news would be was anyone’s guess.
He’d have to tell Eva what he’d done and why. He didn’t want to bring her in on this. But something was going on and he couldn’t leave her hanging out there completely unaware.
***
David had a pass to leave study hall early so he could make his way across the school to shop class, which was held in a converted portion of the attached bus garage.
He liked shop and was a pretty good carpenter. He’d been making a medicine cabinet out of cherry for his mother’s bathroom.
This part of the school was usually deserted between classes, and he walked at a good clip down a long hall that had the swimming pool on one side and a currently empty gymnasium on the other. Boys’ and girls’ locker rooms were on either side of the gym. He decided to duck into the boys’ locker and use the facilities.
Inside, the place smelled of sweat, wet towels and the usual closeness of probably every locker room since the first caveman bounced the first basketball.
The bathroom was at the back and as he neared it, he heard voices. This wasn’t unusual. It was late in the school day and some of the players sometimes skipped out of class early to begin to get ready for practice.
But then he heard a female voice, which was unusual, to say the least, in the boys’ locker room. It was clearly a girl’s voice, not a teacher, and it was obviously in distress. He followed the voices down rows of lockers and peered around the end.
At the far end of the row were two seniors he knew. One was Sven Svensson, the tall, muscular, crew cut captain of the soccer team. The other was a buddy of Sven
’s named Nils Nilsson. He wore gray workout shorts and had no shirt on.
The two seniors had Sahar pinned back against one of the lockers, their hands all over her. She had her eyes closed and tears stained her cheeks. Sven took something from a folder on the bench beside him and showed it to the girl.
She let out a little moan and slumped down.
Before David could decide what to do, the alarm sounded, announcing the end of the school day. They could all hear the doors to the locker room slam open as students came in to change for after-school athletic programs.
Sven whispered something into Sahar’s ear, ran his hand quickly under her skirt, and then pulled her to a rear exit that led out to the athletic fields and pushed her through the door. Then he and Nils laughed some more and settled down to wait for the locker room to fill up.
David went out another door and looked for Sahar. He found her behind a tree near one of the soccer goals. She was sitting on the ground, her legs pulled up to her chest, her whole body shivering.
She jumped when David appeared, stood up, and stared at him for a moment. Her face was wet with tears and her eyes were blank and glassy, like those of a deer staring at a wolf. Before David could open his mouth, she fled back into the school.
Chapter Seven
Dubai
Ali Akbari sighed contentedly. The prostitute lying next to him had been perfect. Long blonde hair, slim, tan legs, a perfect ass. He would have to ask his host where he got her, or even make arrangements to take her with him.
That might be difficult, given his highly visible position as Iranian minister of oil. Certain sacrifices had to be made when one was on the world stage. Still, he stared at the perfection beside him and began to stroke her long, smooth flank. The thought of going back to his plain, overweight wife made him physically nauseous.
He slipped out of the bed and crossed over to an expansive window that looked out on Dubai. The sky was brilliant blue and the sun shone on the water and gleamed along the metallic struts and supports of more high-rises than he could count. Too many of the buildings were now in limbo, construction halted after the world economic downturn that had hit Dubai hard.
He was here for the meeting of OPEC. Despite the economic malaise, the desert kingdom was the perfect place for such a get-together. Reporters from around the globe, waiting to hear whether another production cut would be ordered, had been denied access to the hotel where the ministers were staying. This allowed for the hard-working members to enjoy the secret amenities provided to them.
Akbari picked up a phone and listened as his assistant, Mahmud Farshidi, gave him the day’s schedule.
“The meeting of ministers will begin at noon,” Mahmud said, “with the final vote on the production cut to be held at two sharp. Then there will be a news conference. Senate Majority Leader Graham has asked you to call him immediately upon knowing the outcome. Also,” Ali heard the rustle of papers, then, “the Laki Working Group has set up a conference call for four PM.”
A frown crossed Akbari’s face. The Laki Working Group was the most secret of his endeavors. It consisted of the head of IranOil, the minister of the interior and the foreign minister. There had been problems. Four Iranian operatives on the ground in Iceland had disappeared. Local officials had little to go on other than that the car belonging to the men had been found. IranOil had denied any knowledge of the incident, of course. That might have been a mistake. Dead men were not always that easy to disavow.
Then there was Senator Graham, a politician of the first order. And one who knew about the Laki Working Group. More than knew about it.
Graham was engaged in a high-wire balancing act. That an American majority leader, indeed the chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee, would possess secret knowledge of an Iranian group led one to consider all sorts of implications. The senator was walking a tightrope. His entire career would be on the line if news ever leaked that he knew what he knew without telling anyone.
The senator was concerned, too, about his troublesome daughter. Indeed, she was becoming a thorn in everyone’s side. But even that was not enough to sway the majority leader’s own, private interests in this matter. Not when so very much was at stake.
Ali knew all about private interests. He too was taking a risk having this exquisite woman in his bed. He glanced back at her. She was sitting up now, naked, wiping sleep from her eyes.
He would worry about these things later. The girl watched him approach and smiled. She turned over onto her stomach and lifted her exquisite behind into the air. She knew just what he liked, and it had taken her only one time to learn it.
Chapter Eight
Ryan returned to Bjorg’s just before lunchtime. He went up to his room without seeing the housekeeper and started to knock on Sam’s door, then heard water begin to run in the bathroom. She was in the shower.
He went to his room and straight out onto the balcony. No new bad guys in evidence. He kicked his shoes off and lay down on the bed. It had been a long day. In a moment he was asleep.
When he woke, he was disoriented. He rarely slept soundly during the daytime. Since there was a lot of daytime in Iceland, he tended to run a sizeable sleep deficit whenever he visited.
He got up, splashed water on his face from the room’s sink and went to find Sam.
When she didn’t answer her door, he tried the knob and found it locked. At least she was taking his warning seriously.
Downstairs, he found Bjorg cleaning in the kitchen, a habitual activity. The small hotel was as spotless as any place he’d ever stayed.
“Do you know where Miss Graham is? I just heard her in the shower a while ago and now I can’t find her.”
Bjorg shook her head. “After lunch she went out. I have not been seeing her since.”
He swallowed hard. It was now mid-afternoon, and Sam had been out there alone for hours.
“I believe . . .” Bjorg said, “she mentioned something about going to see a Professor Hauptmann at the university.”
“Hauptmann,” he repeated. “Do you know what department? Is he German . . . languages, perhaps?”
“No. History, I am thinking.”
She bustled out on some inscrutable cleaning errand.
Uneasy at having Sam out of his protection, such as it was, he made straight for the university’s Main Building, also called the Aðalbygging, in the heart of Reykjavik.
He was familiar with the university, having taken several courses there over the years, mostly on the renewable energy sources of Iceland. The Main Building was an enormous Art Deco construction dating from the Second World War. It reminded him of the huge mausoleums created by the Third Reich.
Inside, he checked the roster and found a Professor Hauptmann listed on the third floor. At the door he heard voices and rapped lightly. There was an immediate silence. In Icelandic, a deep, German-accented voice said to come in.
He opened the door to find a professorial type of perhaps sixty sitting behind a desk covered in papers. He had a baldpate, a fringe of wild, brown hair and coke-bottle-thick glasses. His magnified eyes looked at Ryan questioningly.
“Professor, I’m looking for a friend of mine . . .” He moved into the room and stopped as he saw Samantha sitting in a chair across from the professor.
“Sam! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought we had a deal?”
“Yes, well, I can’t really sit around all day waiting for you to show up, can I?” she said. “I have a few responsibilities of my own, you know.” She waved a hand. “Professor, this is the man I told you about. Ryan Baldwin . . . Professor Ernst Hauptmann.”
Ryan nodded, hardly mollified at Sam having ditched him, but he was too relieved to carry on any sort of high dudgeon. He shook the professor’s hand.
Samantha leaned back in her chair. Ryan could smell lotion from her morning shower, and her hair was pulled back, still looking damp. She wore tight jeans along with a black Liz Claiborne jacket over a cream-colored blouse and match
ing scarf. Very chic. Quite a change from the outfit she’d worn on Laki. She seemed to enjoy his once-over and it made him feel awkward. She motioned him to an empty chair beside her.
“Close the door first,” she said. Then, “Professor Hauptmann was an advisor of mine years ago when I was at school in Germany. He’s a historian and also a linguist who has studied the Icelandic sagas in great detail. Ernst has been working the last couple of years on a book about something quite interesting. Why don’t you tell him, Ernst?”
“I’m all ears,” Ryan said.
“You are, aren’t you?” said Sam with an amused grin.
But Hauptmann needed no further prodding.
“I’ve uncovered information regarding a very interesting plan concocted by Hitler’s scientists during the war,” he began.
Ryan found it disconcerting to look at the man’s enormously magnified eyes topped by a pair of very bushy and expressive eyebrows that went up and down almost as though powered by some sort of battery.
Now the eyebrows were at their full height. “How much do you know about the historical eruptions at Laki?” he asked.
Ryan looked at Sam. “Only what she’s told me, that there were two large ones in recorded history, one in the seventeen hundreds and another much earlier.”
“The 1783 eruption is the one we are most concerned with,” said Hauptmann. “It was studied extensively by the Nazis, by Hitler’s geologists specifically. Before the war, in 1938, the Reich began to see the strategic importance of Iceland next to the North Atlantic sea-lanes. U-boats visited Reykjavik and the Lufthansa attempted, unsuccessfully, to establish an air service. For a time, the Reich even offered free instruction in gliding by German experts. Perfect cover, in the British view, for compiling maps and discovering suitable landing grounds.”
Ryan looked at Sam. “I don’t mean to interrupt the history lesson, but I fail to see what this has to do with . . . anything.”