by RD Gupta
“Barney, who manufactures Semtex?”
“VCHZ Sythesia in Czechoslovakia, but I don’t think this is from them.”
“How come?”
“Because Semtex that comes from Synthesia under international agreements. It has a chemical detection taggant called p-monoitrotoluene, which leaves a distinctive vapor signature. When I said Semtex, I was speaking generically. PETN is used in det cord manufactured all over the world, from Russia to China to Saudi Arabia.
“Can you zero in on who the manufacturer is?”
He shook his head. “Probably not. Even in the main lab, I’m not seeing any detection taggant. It’s like it was manufactured to be untraceable. Or put another way, whoever did this knew what they were doing.”
Jarrod snorted. “Clearly. Thanks, Barney.”
They walked back toward the pumping station in frustrated silence until Jarrod said, “I’m beginning to like Shamil Basayev less and less.”
Sarah sighed. “It’s frustrating, I know. But at least now we know how it happened.”
Suddenly, Jarrod stopped in his tracks and looked back at the blackened path. “What is it?”
Jarrod turned and looked back at the pumping station. “A pig.”
“A what?”
“A pig. It’s a device to clean out oil pipelines. A kind of plug that’s carried along by the oil flow in the pipeline. I’ll bet they hooked the det cord onto a pig, and that’s how they strung it through the inside of the pipeline. That’s why they took over the pumping station. That’s where they inserted the pig.”
He flipped open his global phone and hit the speed dial button. A sleepy Chet Delaney answered.
“Chet! This is Jarrod. I need to know how many manufacturers of pigs there are worldwide.”
“Do-wha?”
After several minutes of awakening and surfing the Internet, Delaney said, “Looks like the Pigging Products and Services Association has upward of a hundred members, and the bulk of those are domestic.”
Jarrod sighed. “OK. Thanks. Go back to sleep.”
“And?” she asked softly.
“Lots of pig farmers out there. It would take months to track them all down.” He surveyed the carnage once again. “I think we’ve mined everything we can here.”
She concurred. “When you’re undercover it’s best not to linger in any one place.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
US Embassy
Tbilisi, Georgia
The flight back to Tbilisi in the dead of night was a solemn one. In the first half-hour, Jarrod feverishly called and texted all his contacts trying to get a clue on Basayev’s next move. He then let out a scream, perhaps more like a grunt, and slumped back into his seat. Sarah looked over and didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Both understood things would start unraveling quickly for both of them if this mission was a failure…and at present, it appeared that failure was an option.
“We need to stay focused,” Sarah said as she scanned through some terrain maps. “Otherwise it’s game over. All we need is one break.”
Jarrod muttered some expletives to himself as he synced his e-mail on his laptop. “Jesus, Sarah, I’m sorry I dragged you into this. This is headed to implode and take us all down.”
“You didn’t drag me in, Jarrod. I’m here on my own,” she replied as she lifted her head to make eye contact with Jarrod.
“I think we should part ways at the embassy. Otherwise, you are going to go down in flames,” Jarrod retorted as he again buried his head in his hands.
“So you really haven’t figured it out yet?”
“I’m trying my best, Sarah. I feel like…”
“No, you idiot, forget it.”
“Sarah, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Jarrod, why do you think I signed on for this death march?”
“Because I threatened to expose you,” Jarrod said matter-of-factly.
“Are you kidding? I know you would never expose me. Operatives, even ex-operatives, especially you, wouldn’t consider ever outing me.”
“Then why go along on this ridiculous adventure?“
“Jarrod, how do you think you got that job with Blackenford and worked your way up so quickly with no experience at all on Wall Street in a god-awful economy with little experience? Do you think that happened because of your good looks?”
The gears started turning and dots started connecting, but the relevancy still eluded Jarrod.
“So you got me the job somehow, OK? So what, do you want a medal?”
“Jarrod, William Blackenford is my father. Kashvilli is my stepfather’s last name. I took it shortly after the divorce.”
Jarrod sat speechless for a second as it all became clear. Sarah’s sister had not made it out of the South Tower. Sarah was an operative under cover, which was why William never divulged any details about his daughters and why he was so guarded. He knew Jarrod took the fall for Sarah, and that is why he took him under his wing and helped him at Blackenford. It all made sense now.
“So, I guess your first name is Lynn. William…er, your father mentioned you from time to time.”
“Lynn is my real name. Sarah is my middle name. Just as I started at the Agency, they advised I should go by just Sarah Kashvilli and distance myself from my father in any way, shape, or form due to his high profile.”
“This is all a bit much. William is your father? I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t have been so blunt describing his grave condition.” Jarrod said with heartfelt remorse.
The gears continued to turn for Jarrod. The situation, dire before for him and Blackenford Capital but would also ruin Sarah as well. Regardless of whether Sarah was directly involved in William’s bad decisions, the Agency wouldn’t want that kind of attention that rabid reporters could trace back to Langley.
“Sarah, we can’t fail. We have to figure this out before we run out of time. When this is all sorted, we have got a lot to talk about.”
Sarah just nodded as she wiped a tear from her cheek.
Jarrod was compelled to leave his seat. He said nothing. Just sat next to Sarah and surrounded her with his arms in a consuming heartfelt embrace. Sarah didn’t fight it…she didn’t want to fight it. This was the first time in ages she could just be herself without the artificial shield.
The plane’s landing gear whirred in the background as they started their descent back to Tbilisi’s ragged excuse for an airport.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Blackenford Capital
Manhattan, New York
As Sergei walked into the building lobby, he remembered how much he had dreaded work these past few days. He walked towards the elevator and started the ascent up to the to Blackenford headquarters. His coworkers had effectively turned into packs of overzealous paparazzi stopping by every few milliseconds asking on Jarrod’s whereabouts. Sergei had stuck to story as instructed, saying Jarrod was in Eastern Europe wooing a big time client… but the natives were getting restless. With William Blackenford still in a coma and Jarrod nowhere to be found, rumors of the firm’s imminent demise were rampant. The ironic thing was that outside of the handful of Jarrod’s team that were “in the know” on Blackenford’s precarious financial position, the rest of the company was actually in the dark on the broader situation. The elevator doors opened with a loud chime on the Blackenford floor and Sergei strategically waited a second or two extra to see if he could chart a path to his cube without being bothered by his intellectually inferior coworkers. He started the journey to his desk hoping to duck through the kitchen area when he saw a group of higher ups convening in the main conference room with a well-dressed “lawyerly” gentleman he did not recognize. He wanted to listen to his inner self who told him to keep walking and avoid social contact with the ego driven partners, but he had an inkling that something of interest was going on.
Sergei pushed open the glass doors causing everyone to room to turn their heads his direction. Don Pippin quickly piped up, horribly misprono
uncing Sergei’s name. “Sergio, what are you doing here?”
Sergei, fed off the tension. In fact, deep down, he loved these awkward situations. “You tell me why I shouldn’t here be!” he commanded as he scoped the room. In the next 2 seconds he canvassed the room and noticed all the limited partners were present and hence surmised there was something quite important that was about to occur. “All partners are here, and you know Jarrod is out of town. I am acting on his behalf.”
Pippin started turning tomato red when he fired back. “Jarrod is not needed here, he is suspended anyway.”
A neatly dressed attorney was at the head of the conference room table shuffling through papers. His eyes paused for a second and made eye contact with Sergei. He then stood up and addressed the whole room. “Suspended or not, each limited partner needs to have a representative present. After all there are legal implications if we do not follow company bylaws when determining a potential successor to Mr. Blackenford.” Sergei quickly put 2 and 2 together, given William Blackenford’s incapacitated state, a succession plan would have to be enacted very soon to put someone in charge. And an absence of a clear successor would lead to more chaos and a sure power struggle.
“Let’s get started,” the lawyer continued. With that everyone took a seat at the table, with a few of the more annoying employees, Don Pippin and Sheila Madsen taking a seat practically in the lawyer’s lap. The next 28 minutes were sheer hell for Sergei as a result of the exceptionally boring minutia discussed regarding procedures and policies that no one cared about. The 29th minute, however, was worth the wait. “And now, we will name the successor as head of Blackenford Capital in the event that William Blackenford is permanently incapacitated,” announced the lawyer. “As the company bylaws state, if Mr. Blackenford is permanently incapacitated, or, is otherwise no longer able to function as the President of Blackenford Capital, then a new individual pre-appointed by William Blackenford will assume the role of President of Blackenford Capital. And indeed William has previously appointed this individual and escrowed it with our firm.” The lawyer then picked up a plain vanilla envelope from the desk and carefully reviewed the signature and date that adorned the back where the flap was. He then opened the letter slowly as if he was revealing an Oscar winner. Donald Pippin and Sheila Madsen both seemed to clench up like they were ready to be announced as best actor.
“And Mr. Blackenford has official pre-appointed Jarrod T Stryker as successor in the role of President of Blackenford Capital. This decision and action will be executed and in full force in as of next Friday if Mr. Blackenford continues to be in an incapacitated state.”
Both Sheila and Don looked as if they had just had a bowel movement. Don piped up “But Jarrod is suspended.” The lawyer quickly scanned the details of the bylaws for a few moments and then pointed to a specific clause halfway up the page.
“Not anymore. The suspension is officially rescinded in accordance with the bylaws.”
With unadulterated disgust, they both simultaneously stood up and stormed out of the conference room. Sergei smiled a little and then muttered under his breath “If Jarrod pulls this off, then I will ask for new shiny office. One with fancy humidor for my Cubans.”
*
Sarah and Jarrod sat in a cloud of frustration and melancholy in a dimly lit conference room in the basement of the US Embassy in Tbilisi during the early morning hours. CIA Station Chief Rick Edgerton paced back and forth. “This is goddamn ridiculous. These idiots blow a whole pipeline to hell, and we don’t have a solid lead on where they are and what they are doing next?”
“What intel did you get from the site? Did our other agents on the ground find anything yet?” Sarah chimed in. “We know they used a Semtex-based explosive from the inside of the pipeline, and the blast indicators show that the explosion force was very consistent across the entire section of affected pipeline.”
Rick interjected, losing his cool, “So you guys don’t have a single good lead on where Basayev is? Do I understand that correctly? I could have him sitting right behind me wiring a bomb to my ass and…”
Before he finished his sentence, Rick’s secretary nonchalantly poked her head in and said, “Mr. Edgerton, there’s a man calling himself The Merchant at the security desk asking for you.”
Rick was indeed puzzled. The Merchant was supposed to be under deep cover! “Well, what are you waiting for? Bring him down here right now!”
*
Elbruk Matsil (aka The Merchant), out of breath and looking a bit pale, was hurried into the room by a guard and took a seat at the conference room table. He blurted, “They almost killed me, I had to put a grenade in the cabbage. Basayev…I think he is going to strike again and very soon.”
Rick coaxed him on a bit, hoping that the reference to cabbage didn’t infer that Elbruk had a screw loose.
“OK, where? Tell me where.”
“I don’t know, well, I have an idea, He will strike along the Baku-Tbilisi pipeline. Something about it being hidden in plain sight.”
Edgerton instinctively fired back “Matsil, my three-year-old daughter knows he may strike along the pipeline. It’s over a thousand goddamn miles long! I need to know how and where?”
“Wait, wait,” Elbruk said as he closed his eyes. “I remember there was a thirteen. There was a thirteen on the station post. It must be there!”
Rick lifted his head to bark orders toward Jarrod and Sarah, but before his lips moved, Sarah announced, “Found it!” as she looked at her phone.
“It’s about forty kilometers from Nevsehir.” She looked at her watch. “If you can arrange a flight, we can make it in three hours.”
“I’ll have Koksol meet you there. Oh, and one of my contacts from the Mossad may be able to help with logistics. He has a lot of access inside Turkish borders.”
Sarah seemed surprised. “From the Mossad? I thought the Israelis stopped collaborating with the Turks after that spy ring fiasco a few years ago?”
“You would be surprised who is in bed with who when money is on the line. Now stop wasting time and get out!” Edgerton barked as he waved them out of the room and picked up the phone to arrange the logistics.
*
The flight to Nevsehir seemed to take five minutes; Jarrod and Sarah spent the flight in contact with the Turkish antiterrorism team and Bulent Koksol, charting every hotspot along the pipeline in that region that they would need to cover. They arranged for a team of Turkish agents to drive them to Station Post 13 over the rocky countryside.
Jarrod turned. “If we can pull this off and find this jackass, you owe me dinner.”
Sarah let out a little laugh “You must be joking. If I bail you out of this mess, then you will owe me for life.”
“OK, let’s settle up after Basayev is dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nevsehir, Turkey
Two Days Left Before Options Expiration
As Jarrod and Sarah exited the plane, Bulent Koksol was on the dilapidated runway waiting for them.
“Sorry to meet your acquaintance in such a precarious situation, Ms. Kashvilli and Mr. Stryker. Mr. Edgerton has briefed me on your mission and needs.”
He motioned for another gentleman to join him, An older gentleman dressed in a neatly pressed black suit came out of the shadows and tipped his hat twice, as if he were an actor in an off-Broadway play.
“Sir, madam, I believe I have never met your acquaintance as well. I am Eli Manon, cultural attaché out of the Israeli embassy in Turkey. But my formal title as you know is quite irrelevant. The key is we can exchange information to stop an imminent attack on the pipeline. I am privy to information that could assist you.”
“Pleased to meet you as well,” Sarah responded. “Let’s share intel on the way to the pipeline.” She looked at her watch. “We need to hurry.”
“Right this way,” Bulent responded as he started walking toward a dark green Range Rover parked on the jet way.
Jarrod and Sarah both share
d a glance, mentally sharing notes on whether Mr. Manon was full of hot air.
*
Jarrod took a long, hard look at the vast pipeline stretching to the horizon. Behind him was a stretch of the Taurus mountain range that covered most of southeastern Turkey. He scanned the pipeline and saw nothing obviously out of place. Nothing seemed odd. No vehicle tracks or disrupted dirt that he could see. He was starting to worry that they were in the wrong place. The Turkish National Intelligence Organization (or NIO for short) agents around him continued to probe at the pipeline looking for spots of tampering or for any variations in the black metal monster that stretched as far as the eye could see. Sarah was a few dozen meters away, briefing Koksol and Manon and a bunch of the Turkish agents.
He took a few steps closer to the pipeline. From afar, it looked like a tiny piece of black spaghetti snaking its way through the countryside. From up close, it was massive. It was about fourteen feet tall and was on large steel support beams with the pipe almost the same girth as a tanker truck.
Jarrod felt a buzzing in his pocket. Surprised that he even had signal, he pulled out his phone and saw a text from Sergei.
I’m sorry, boss, but William just passed an hour ago. This is sad, sad day. Let me know if you ok.
Jarrod went numb and his vision became blurred as tears welled up in his eyes. He gazed over toward Sarah, who was about thirty yards away from him. She was directing Turkish agents, intently focused on the task at hand. In other words, she had no idea. He lost his grip on his phone, and it fell forward a few feet under one of the pipeline supports. This news would absolutely crush her. How much death could she take? First her sister, now her father. He stared aimlessly. His mentor, father figure, confidant…was gone. Now more than ever, the fate of the company, Sarah, and his own future were all perilously teetering in the balance.
He heard a yell from the distance. “You goin’ to help out at all?”