Liquid Gold

by James Phelan

  “These are all my engineering documents, everything I have on the project,” he said. “There are schematics that show the main pumping station, and where the underground water system diverts. That’s as far as my work went.”

  “I know that, but there’s more, Omar. There’s got to be. How did—”

  “Lachlan,” Hasif said. “I’ve been over everything a hundred times—dredging history like this never helps. Before this, I worked on the Libyan water project. That got me noticed by Umbra Corp. When my country discovered oil in the desert in the fifties they also discovered a massive aquifer underneath much of Libya and northern Africa—the Nubian Sandstone Aquifer System. The water in this aquifer predates the last ice age and the Sahara desert itself. There’s enough water to turn Libya into an oasis for centuries, but it’s by no means infinite.”

  “So it doesn’t get recharged,” Fox asked. “It’s what they call fossil water?”

  “That’s right. The aquifer in Kashmir is even bigger, and it gets significant recharge from the Himalayan run-off and the rain belt. This is a resource that will transform the region forever—no more desert, no more disease, no more drought. Poverty there will eventually cease.”

  “For Libya, and now for Pakistan,” Fox said. “Maybe not for their neighbours, who lose out as the shared groundwater table drops.”

  Hasif nodded.

  “But there’s more,” Fox said. “There’s something else we haven’t uncovered. They want to silence us all—what haven’t we revealed? The relay station? The final destination in Pakistan of the water?”

  Hasif shrugged. “The project’s construction was divided into three separate phases. First phase was the pipeline network, completed over many years. My phase started in 2006—the pumping stations that relay the water. The third phase is the existing pipeline that then linked up southern and western areas—that, I had no input on, only on the volumes of water getting through to there.”

  Fox flicked through some of Hasif’s files. Brown & Root and Price Brothers were responsible for the original design, and the primary contractor for all phases was an Umbra Corp subsidiary.

  “Art Kneeshaw built a pipeline for oil, under the main highway running north–south. But oil has never flowed through it. For years many have wondered why the old government would have built that kind of pipe there.”

  “And?”

  “It’s been converted to a water pipe. It may never have been designed for oil for all I know,” Hasif said. “They built it across a span of hundreds of kilometres but they ran out of money, and then the Kargil War hit near the region where they needed to build the relay station. It’s been shelved ever since.”

  “So, really, you were finishing this project?”

  “In a sense, yes,” Hasif said. “But to be much bigger and more efficient than the original plans would have been. My system is self-powered by the water—the hydro power, you see?”

  Fox nodded.

  “And you were paid by Vritra Utilities?” the State guy asked, reading over the documents on the table. “A company based in Italy?”

  “Yes,” Hasif said. “That’s what they are called at the site—I am not sure where the company is registered. I did work for them there in Pakistan, also a desalination plant in Malta, and I consulted on a Caspian gas pipeline through Georgia.”

  “They’re one of the biggest utility companies in the world,” Fox said, opening a map of Pakistan, India and the disputed area in Kashmir. He spread it out on the table.

  “And a subsidiary of Umbra Corp?” State asked.

  Fox and Hasif nodded.

  “Most of the water heads south, to Karachi, but far too much—ten times more than the city needs,” said Hasif.

  “To safeguard against the future?” Fox closely watched Hasif’s reactions.

  “Perhaps. Another team, Sardar’s team, handled that third phase. He had already been doing gas pipeline work there for years.”

  “Sardar Yusufzai,” the FBI man said, making notes. “He was killed yesterday.”

  “Yes. His team headed from the west, laying underground pipe that can carry the water southwest.”

  “So, what—Pakistan’s going to irrigate the western part of their country?”

  Hasif looked into the middle distance. He seemed to be thinking about his answer. Fox wondered if he knew more than he was letting on.

  “That’s about two-thirds of their country’s mass out there,” he replied. “All arid, for now.”

  “I’d reported that pipes head to the Peshawar region?” Fox asked, looking at the map.

  Hasif seemed unsure whether to go on. His brother-in-law, his son, his wife—Fox could sense he was weighing up how far Umbra could reach.

  “Omar?” Fox prodded, hoping that Hasif took comfort in the resolute looks the three men at the table gave him.

  “They dump into another aquifer that naturally drains into Pakistan’s side,” he said finally. He leaned forward and penned a line along the map as he spoke: “The main pipeline heads southwest; it runs for over 250 kilometres along a mountain road—here—where it splits—here—most draining into the water plant at the Tarbela Reservoir.”

  “And that feeds Islamabad?”

  “Yes, and Rawalpindi, they’re the big cities there, but it’s also a hub in Pakistan’s major water network. Tarbela presently irrigates tens of thousands of acres of land via canals, pipelines and dams—soon it will be ten, twenty times that. It also feeds tributaries, and they’re using the natural river system to transport much more water south, to their main areas of life and infrastructure.”

  Fox looked up from his notes and passed his notebook to Hasif. “What’s the location of that terminal—the pumping station?”

  Hasif checked through his own notes and wrote in an exact GPS coordinate.

  39

  NORTHERN AREAS, PAKISTAN

  It was a speck on a map, a GPS coordinate transmitted via the mail system in an online computer game.

  They were known as the avatar Darkforcer, one of the most proficient killers World of Warcraft had ever seen. In the real world, especially in this part of the world, they were feared even more, and the fear was palpable.

  The four SUVs rumbled into the shanty town under full cloud cover; a mist had settled over the land and the snow was falling hard. All the inhabitants, most of them temporary, were indoors.

  The men disappeared into the town. It was dark and cold. One stayed in the street near the vehicles, thermal-vision on. They all had silenced submachine guns. They were all well-trained, hardened operators.

  The signage of the town read Vritra Utilities. Earth-moving equipment sat bare. They had nothing against the people here. It wasn’t personal; the job was straightforward and the pay was good. As the armed men worked their way through the town, the sound of suppressed gunfire was like a crowd clapping.

  House by house, room by room, shell casings hit the floor. A few people managed to run into the street, where they were picked off, one by one, with deadly accuracy.

  Within fifteen minutes the kill team emerged into the street. Two operatives placed timed incendiary charges around the temporary and permanent structures. Another tipped a drum of poison into the water supply. Clean-up and containment. They then packed back into the cars and headed east.

  As their vehicles left the scene, the dust and debris and ash fell with the snow; fires burned hot enough to melt metal. A green flag burned free and floated through the air—it flapped, then lay dead, still on the ground. The town became a distant, silent glow in their rearview mirrors.

  40

  MORÓN AIR BASE, SPAIN

  “Mr Hasif, do you have any idea why someone would want you dead?” The FBI Legat looked as if he felt stupid voicing the question, but it had to be asked.

  “No,” Hasif said. “I’ve done hundreds of these kinds of projects, and a few of this kind of scale. I mean, from what I read in t
he papers, this has become such a big political issue—this is tapping water in a disputed area of land, and we’re talking a lot of water…”

  “Do you know where we can find Art Kneeshaw?” Fox asked.

  “No, I never met him, although I asked them repeatedly to consult him, or at least his project specs. They gave me nothing. He knew what he was doing, though; it was a good set-up.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?” Fox asked. “How he got involved in the original project?”

  “He worked in the area—retired there afterwards, I think. He’s an expert in engineering pipelines. He knew exactly where to place the main plant, which I built according to the sparse details given to me when I signed on, and the feeder lines.”

  “We’re working on finding him,” State said, taking notes of his own. “Did you work with anyone else on this?”

  “A local engineer and construction firm; its workers were stationed and recruited from the closest town, here,” Hasif said, tapping the map. “That’s at the location I just gave you. It’s a very remote site; the roads in and out are barely navigable during winter.”

  “And the workers are mainly locals?”

  “Mainly, and they were good—they’d just come off building a treatment plant nearby, but … You could get better information from Umbra,” Hasif said. “Why aren’t they giving you all this information instead of me?”

  “We’ll be speaking with them,” State said. He looked at Fox, and wondered how much the government guy knew about all this. Probably just another asylum case for him to process.

  “You really think Umbra might be behind this?” Hasif asked.

  “From their standpoint,” the Fed spoke, “they know we can’t prove anything illegal, so they’re unlikely to go out of their way to cooperate. We’ll keep at this, don’t worry about that.”

  “Russians…” Hasif said. “I’ve never had problems with anyone else in all my years working around the world. In hindsight, maybe their secrecy all the way through this caused these problems, but—what, it could be an Indian group out to get me. It could be anyone who sees this work I’ve done here, in this disputed area, as a threat.” Hasif circled the GPS spot on the map in the disputed Kashmir region—on Pakistan’s side of a dotted line—and traced a road southwest.

  “The project is now fully online?” Fox asked.

  “We ran tests, it’s operational,” he replied. “As to whether they’re running it and at what capacity, I have no idea; you’d need to see it for yourself. But it’s big—the dual pipeline, which is diverted here—” he tapped the circled point on the map—“was big enough to carry water on a scale I’ve never worked on. Are they splitting the diversion further? You’d need to speak to Art Kneeshaw about that. They never allowed me to see the earlier documents in full, and the Pakistani government has no official record of them—I tried to find out, checked everywhere. The capacity is huge, though. I mean, we wondered why on earth they’d need pipes of such magnitude. Who knows, that much water could be used for anything—it’s nation-building quantities.”

  “Thanks,” Fox said. “I know you’re scared.”

  “Not for myself. But my family … How do I protect them?”

  “They’ll be safe,” the Fed said.

  “We’ll take you into the US,” State said. “We’ll discuss the details on the flight, but we’ve granted temporary residence to your family with the view to upgrading that to permanent status ASAP.”

  “You’ll be guarded by federal agents,” the Fed said. “For now, the people who did this believe you died in the explosion, and as long as they continue to believe that, the heat is off you. Mr Hasif, make no mistake, we’ll protect you and your family.”

  Fox put a hand on Hasif’s shoulder.

  “These guys here and a few Feds on the ground in DC are the only ones who know that it wasn’t you who was killed in Libya. When these guys hide someone, they stay hidden.”

  41

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  The CIA man heard about the attack in Spain, saw the footage: the hit on Fox failed. He felt some responsibility—he had been tasked with organising the Fox and Gammaldi hits here in the States, and he had passed on their location in Spain—but then, he wasn’t going to take the heat for the work of amateurs.

  Using an online game as a dead-drop site was a good system—he knew no one was really looking closely into that area yet. Like all communications, it left a trace in the servers, but it was not as easily intercepted as a dummy email account. It was an area he was constantly learning about, and he was in the business, surrounded by the best. It was an easy way to communicate, and fine for the short term. This business was all about survival, and survival meant keeping ahead of the pack and adapting before being outdated.

  His computer was a standard CIA tool with software developed by the NSA to avoid detection—specifically for use by agents and staff abroad. As far as anyone knew, it could only be breached by its own engineers at the NSA, by some kind of quantum cryptography system they were still developing. It was good, and maybe the Brits would one day be able to access it, too, but not for a long time—this technology was being kept close, much like the F22 fighter jet. Being the greatest nation on earth had to have some benefits.

  That Hutchinson was closing in on Babich was forcing his hand on a course of action he had hoped—for financial reasons—was still a way off. It was no loss, though, and he hoped to be able to do business with the next guy who came through and filled the leadership void in Umbra.

  He checked his secure email. Still nothing from his FBI contact about that numbered file in Fox’s jacket. The longer it took, the more convinced he was of its contents. His man would find it, though—he was SAC of a Field Office and owed him a lot; it was the kind of relationship he had built a career on, first as an agent in Europe and then driving a desk here at home.

  Whatever was going to happen over the coming days, he was taking steps to ensure that when the music stopped, if Hutchinson managed to get his man, he wasn’t going to be the one left without a seat.

  PART TWO

  42

  GORI, GEORGIA (EASTERN EUROPE)

  “Sir, this ain’t Russia.”

  “Yeah? Tell a Russian that. Or a Nicaraguan.”

  “Huh?”

  “Anyway, it says so on this NATO map: ‘Russian-occupied South Ossetian territory since October 2008.’” The US Army Captain dropped into his Senior Sergeant’s dialect: “Anyway, Top, the hell you know, you ain’t never been past the Rockies.”

  “Hell, me never been yonder the Ozarks.”

  They both laughed.

  “What’s your GPS say?” A smile from the Captain.

  Checked. Double-checked. “Smart-ass. Sir.”

  “The maps are changing all the time—been more border moves around here than you’ve had pussy. Anyway, five hundred metres back that way and we’re definitely in Georgia.”

  “This is Georgia, too—occupied, yes, but it’s still Georgia, my map and GPS say so.”

  “And the Nicaraguans say otherwise, don’t forget them. Let’s just get out of Russian-occupied territory.”

  “You’re the boss, Captain, sir.”

  Captain Garth Nix and Senior Sergeant Top of 10th Mountain’s 1st Brigade Combat Team were part of the vanguard of what would soon be a blue-helmet peacekeeping force set up to monitor the fuzzy border between South Ossetia and Georgia. Until the full complement of troops deployed, however, their main objective was to train and arm Georgian forces.

  Nix and Top weren’t much interested in who started the 2008 war; who did what during the conflict; who killed how many civilians. But if Nix knew anything for certain, it was that the Russians were the undisputed heavyweight champs when it came to disinformation and denial, spinning a line to the world’s media about how they were the innocent party in the whole mess. Their political lies knew no bounds, were told b
y men not so much because it was their job but because of an indoctrinated idea that no one deserved the truth, especially when it ran contrary to the national interest.

  Light snow began to fall.

  “Captain, we’ve got trouble, north zone,” Nix’s Radio Telephone Operator said as they approached their waiting Humvees. The RTO spoke rapid-fire, filling in his CO as they piled into their vehicles and tore off towards trouble. Life in the Blue Zone.

  43

  SRINAGAR, INDIA

  “The FBI guys will be here later today,” Fox said over his shoulder to Gammaldi.

  They had been choppered back to San Pablo Airport, from where they’d taken their G650 jet nonstop to India, while Geiger had hitched a military flight back to the US with Goldsmith’s body.

  Fox and Gammaldi were met on the ground by a local reporter and sometime GSR contributor, Thomas Singh, who was escorting them to the Line of Control at the India–Pakistan border. Thomas’s Land Cruiser was flanked in front and behind by private security contractor vehicles.

  “Do you live here?” Fox asked Thomas. He fitted the ideal of the tall, handsome, strong, proud Indian.

  “No,” Thomas said.

  Fox waited for more, but instead the three men shared silence for the next few minutes.

  “Amritsar?”

  Thomas looked at Fox, then back to the road. “Yes,” he said.

  More silence followed.

  “Any tigers around here?” Gammaldi asked from the back seat.

  Thomas looked at him in the rearview mirror, his face cracking into a faint smile. “None that I have seen,” Singh said. “Once, they would have been plentiful.”

  The outskirts of Srinagar bustled with colourful humanity. Vendors, rickshaws, cars, bikes, trucks and cell phones and desperation—the full kaleidoscope.