The Carbon Trap (The Carbon Series Book 1)

by Randy Dutton

  Meanwhile, from the restaurant’s outside corners, the Cuban and Corsican surveilled the four men. Being unable to position themselves at already occupied adjoining tables, Jacques raised his cellphone and surreptitiously took photos of their targets.

  “See that frigate bird?” Ed pointed to a solitary bird far off in the distance, its huge wings outstretched and unmoving. “I feel like him after the conference. Alone...drifting in the wind.”

  “That’s poetic, Ed,” Tom Heyward said. As CEO of Profit Oil Exploration Corp. he was here representing several petroleum enterprises. He turned to watch the light blue water lapping the white sand beach on either side, noting that past the reef’s concrete wave break 12 meters out, the plunging depths turned deep blue.

  “So what’s their end game?” Ed turned back to his guests. “I used to think the UN was about helping people, not helping themselves. Are they seeking prosperity or calamity? Our large farms and advanced agricultural technologies have helped impoverished nations expand food production capacity, yet now, we’re being attacked by the UN as not sharing enough?”

  Tom grimaced. “Come on Ed, at least they acknowledge agriculture is necessary. Sure they want to reverse the calendar to a more natural time when chemicals…I mean non-organic means, weren’t used to grow food.... You’re lucky.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The UN wants to eliminate my industry, and hit us for penalties for past emissions. We’re the CO2 emitters they claim are threatening all life on Earth. They couldn’t even have gotten here but for the oil they burned.”

  “And moneybags there is pulling the strings.” Tom gestured to the megayacht offshore the island’s small harbor just 100 meters south, then poured water from the green bottle into a glass. Tall, with broad shoulders and a weather-beaten appearance, Tom had been an oil roughneck who 40 years earlier gambled on his own outlier oil field and struck black gold. The money put him through college, where he met his future bride. After 37 years of marriage, he and his wife had two boys and two girls, a small Texas ranch, and a corporate helicopter to ferry him to his Dallas highrise. Now head of one of the world’s largest oil exploration and services companies, he was at the pinnacle of his industry.

  “Moneybags?” Art Middleton asked. He was the 45-year-old vice president of United Global Mining Corporation, and had attended on behalf of a mining consortium.

  “Yeah, that’s Alexis Swanson’s boat,” Tom replied. “It’s over 120-meters long, has two helicopters, each on its own pad, two submarines, and a pool. It’s quite the hypocritical statement about shared sacrifice with the poor. It’s not even at anchor – too deep – it’s maintaining position with its positioning thrusters. Burning oil to go nowhere.”

  He squinted at the yacht. “It’s supposed to have a 20-meter tender.... Must be in use somewhere. And both choppers are gone, so I’ll wager he’s still on the island or sightseeing. I can’t imagine him staying at the resort bungalows. Not enough security...paranoid SOB.” He chuckled.

  “What’s the yacht’s name?” Art asked.

  “The Spider. Appropriate isn’t it?”

  The men paused when the waiter approached with a tray of drinks and a platter of mas-roshi, a Maldivian tuna pastry appetizer vaguely resembling an English muffin with something red on top. The exotic aroma of tuna, onion, curry, lemon, coconut, and ginger was strong and very enticing. Each took one of these hot appetizers, while the waiter refilled water glasses, understanding that not all westerners were ready for such spicy food.

  “Why’s the name Spider apropos?” Art asked, as he savored the appetizer.

  “Because Swanson’s got a thousand threads ensnaring the world, all leading back to him. He’s bankrolling foundations, think tanks, lobbyist firms, political action committees, and God knows what else.”

  “Sounds generous,” Sam Chase said. He was CEO of Universal Power Utility, a power generation company.

  “Not at all. He enacts a high price and usually reaps it through his hedge funds and venture capital companies,” Ed remarked, reaching for another pastry.

  “Tom, how’s his philanthropy make him money?”

  “Sam, this guy funds political campaigns, sics media and issues groups on his opponents, and has research papers written, often skewed to benefit his issues. Rumor has it that even movie scripts are revised promoting his ideas.”

  “Sounds Orwellian.”

  “Yes, it is. A candidate so beholden to him has to respond with favors, such as embedding the old man’s employees into the administration. Once his moles are in place, information flows out to help him bet on currency and stock trades.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Sam put down his half eaten pastry, and winced at the taste that wasn’t quite as inviting to his palate as he had anticipated.

  “Well, first someone has to prove it...then someone has to prosecute.” Tom grinned at Sam’s less than iron stomach.

  “With this Administration, selective prosecution’s the watchword,” Ed commented. He had eaten one pastry and decided he, too, had had enough. “You guys ready to order?”

  With nods from all, his raised hand signaled the waiter.

  “Tom, getting back to burning oil, my industry is pretty much in the same boat as yours,” Art stated matter-of-factly. “You heard how the UN presenters described mining as raping the land. Why, when they started the conference with that native chant asking mother earth to forgive us our transgressions after we’ve violently abused her, I nearly lost it.”

  “What, their three points? Honor the earth, because we are co-dependent on all physical forms of existence from plants to humans. Then we must endeavor to soften our impact on her. And finally, we must be respectful of life in all its forms.”

  Art added sarcastically, “Yes, those.... I’d have more respect for them if they all were vegans, but the girth of many of them suggests red meat and lots of fried food.” He paused as the waiter arrived, replaced the empty water bottle with a new one, and took their orders.

  “Funny, I would have guessed caviar and brie.”

  Chapter 3

  June 15, 1700 hours

  North Malé Atoll, Maldives

  Anna re-entered the cabana at the end of Sven’s presentation, and remained by the door. A slight nod and smile to Sven was her apology for having missed part of his presentation.

  Sven nodded back – apology accepted – then having been thoroughly satisfied with his presentation, sat down and sipped his ice water.

  Swanson rose. “Thank you Sven. Let’s take a 15-minute break.” His head motioned toward the door. “Sven and Devon, please walk with me.”

  The four approached the water’s edge.

  Swanson stayed focused on the reef while talking. “My sources tell me there will be too much resistance in the oil and gas industry to follow through with the sealing process. We need a strategy to force the microbe strain into the wells.” He turned to the younger man. “Devon, infiltration’s your specialty. Come up with a plan.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Sven, you’re to provide the product and any technical assistance necessary he needs to accomplish it.”

  Sven nodded.

  “I don’t want any comebacks. Nobody else in the group is to be in on this and nothing is to point to me. You need something, go through Anna.”

  Swanson’s stare would have given weaker men a cardiac arrest. “Am I clear?!”

  “Yes sir!” the men answered.

  Anna’s natural smile didn’t fade.

  As the two men walked back to the cabana, Sven glanced back to see Anna hovering near Swanson. He knew Swanson relied upon her to execute his plans without question and without further input.

  Once alone, Anna spoke softly, “Alexis, there are four disgruntled industrial delegates sitting at the ocean-side restaurant.”

  “Most likely licking their wounds.”

  “They also sat together in the conference.”

  “What makes them so impo
rtant? They’re only four companies.”

  “Each represents their trade associations.”

  “Ah, their clout grows. Keep them under surveillance. They represent the very people we’ve defeated.”

  “They may not know they’ve lost,” she said.

  “Ah, but when Operation Prion causes the financial systems and global currencies to crash, then they’ll know. It’ll be hard for them to reorganize when carbon credits become the new currency.”

  “We’re watching them but there is too much ambient noise to monitor conversation. Two of Jared’s guys are getting their fingerprints, which we’ll run them through the database to get positive ID.”

  “Good. Find out what they plan, before they implement it, and we can stymie them. We’ve not only got the right, but now the might, to thwart their resurgence. With today’s UN conference, we have international law on our side.”

  She removed her sunglasses, and hung them on the front of her blouse. She raised an eyebrow. “Laws can be challenged. Many countries may defy the UN if they feel it’s in their best interests, and they can fight off the implementation. I’d venture some will try it.”

  Swanson looked into her deep blue eyes. “Anna, you well know that your brains and looks weren’t the primary reason I hired you 12 years ago.”

  “Here I thought you were allured by my Harvard law degree and language proficiency.” She batted her eyes. Then, tongue-in-cheek, added, “Yes, I know, it was my earlier profession that provided the hook.”

  Swanson demurred. “Actually, it was the personality type that led you to that profession that most interested me. It showed you wanted control, wealth, danger, and weren’t concerned about the means. That you did it discretely during law school, without losing control or being identified, was the major selling point. And you got top academic honors to boot.”

  His eyes wandered from top to bottom appraising her athletic body. “The difference between most lawyers and you is that when they sell themselves, they pretend to have scruples. I can’t afford employees with a conscience different from what I instill in them.”

  “I get your drift. Where legality fails, use other means.” She paused and looked him in the eyes. “Alexis...was it wise to bring up the death of Peters and Schwartz?”

  “They died in separate accidents.” He grinned. “To not mention their names as part of our historical effort would be an affront to their memory.”

  “I sense some of the executives aren’t convinced they were accidents.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then, my dear, you’re slipping.”

  “Alexis, you misunderstand. I don’t mean the details are questionable, just the timing. You and I know Schwartz was about to talk to the Attorney General’s office. It’s possible one or more of the others did too.”

  “Then find out who else suspects,” he growled. “If we can’t convince them otherwise, you may have some more culling to do. I can’t risk another possible breach.... Lives are cheap. My agenda isn’t.”

  She nodded. “I’ll review the files on the older tablets they turn in, and the new tablets will allow us to monitor them more closely. But for Schwartz’s accident to be arranged on the heels of Peters’ insulin pump failure—”

  Swanson interrupted sharply, “Peters was a fool who talked too much when drunk. He knew too much about our political payoffs....”

  His expression lightened. “I have to say I thought it was rather ingenious of you to figure out how to remotely control embedded medical devices. How could anyone think it was anything other than an accident?” he asked rhetorically.

  His large hand touched her shoulder. “Oh, and good job stopping the Beecher speech.”

  The tone of her voice lowered. “And apparently unnecessary since the UN decided hours earlier to cancel it.” She shrugged. “Oh well, just another mission. What’s done is done.... I’ve been drafting some contingency ideas I’ll go over them with you later.”

  “Good.” Swanson lowered his voice still further. “It’s time we initiated Operation Prion the first of August.”

  “Are you sure?” her voice wavered slightly. “Once I initiate Prion, I doubt I can control the hackers. Money doesn’t mean much to those guys, and they see threats as a challenge to be defeated. They think they’re invulnerable.”

  “Everyone’s vulnerable, but I’m counting on their egos,” he hissed. “Make sure you give them enough Krugerrands for their crews. After all, this was your idea.”

  She nodded with a cunning smile. “I’ll soon have 300 modified and ready to go.”

  “We have enough?”

  “I can have more GPS chips with a week’s notice if need be. Each gold coin will ping once per day when below 80 degrees and hourly when above 80. That will differentiate between storage and when carried in a pocket.”

  “Why not ping more frequently?”

  She grinned. “Then a scanner might pick up the signal.”

  “Smart girl! And no sense sending out a kill team to a...dead end.” Swanson grinned. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.... We need to identify when we need to clean up the Prion Teams. Coordinate the timeline with Jared.”

  “I’ll have something on that for you in France.”

  “I’m flying out tomorrow. Will you be at your villa in two weeks?”

  “Technically, it’s your villa, Boss.” Anna smiled, fondly recalling eight years ago, when after a very financially successful mission, Swanson had asked her to describe her dream house and location. At the time, she thought he was making small talk, but with some time on her hands, she went through the intellectual exercise. Up to then, she had been a content uptown New York City apartment dweller. A month after giving him detailed preferences – size, general location, climate, view, design, and privacy, Swanson called her for a meeting on his yacht. He picked her up at Nice Airport in the corporate helicopter and had it fly just offshore the French Riviera towards Monaco.

  She recollected how suddenly excited she became when the helicopter slowed abreast a one particular villa. It was a small but elegant house sandwiched between two larger estates. With mouth agape, she had glanced at Swanson like an expectant child. He seemed not to notice, which made her feel somewhat embarrassed at her overly emotional reaction to a piece of real estate the helicopter, by then, had passed.

  Mouth clamped closed, her dreamy expression turned wistful as they passed much larger villas. It was then she detected something odd in her benefactor. His nonplus expression, one she hadn’t quite fathomed at the time, hadn’t changed. When he faked a cough, the helicopter swung around and returned to hover just offshore the small villa, positioning itself so Anna could again gaze upon the property. With wide eyes, she turned towards Swanson who was holding out a set of keys.

  He said just one thing. “Want to see your new home?”

  She unbuckled her seat belt and flung her arms around his neck, and unleashing an untold number of thank-yous, then planted a kiss on his cheek. The helicopter skids no sooner touched the front lawn than she was out its side door and running to the villa to explore.

  Later that night, happily camped out in the furniture-less villa, a scene came to mind from the movie ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ when the young girl got her dream house. Anna had half expected to see Santa’s cane leaning against her villa’s large sandstone fireplace. Swanson had upped the gift with a two hundred thousand euro account for furnishings, and a month off to make it hers.

  It’s ironic that I haven’t really celebrated Christmas since I was fifteen, and yet I recount a Christmas classic connected to what may have been the happiest moment of my life…well…as an adult anyway.

  Breaking Anna out of her reverie, Swanson spoke up. “It’s yours for as long as you’re faithful.”

  “I wouldn’t dare be otherwise.” She gave him a coquettish look. Life’s not precious with Swanson – I’m okay with that. It’s all just a game.

  She had learned soon after receiving the gift, the implied threat was real
. Swanson held the title to her soul and doing his bidding was her mortgage payment. All his key employees had received similarly elegant Snath-owned residences, but she didn’t think most suspected the ultimate price of the gift. Betrayal meant elimination, something she’d had to do twice over the last year to executives who had violated Swanson’s trust.

  As the real owner of the properties, Swanson’s representative, had the legal right to enter, so sudden appearances kept his staff off balance. Snath security used the pretense of ownership as a means of updating security equipment and surreptitiously surveilling its people. The GPS-enabled tablets, and the daily login, made it doubly easy to locate his staff.

  “I’m grateful to have such a benevolent boss. And yes, I’ll be there next Friday. Southern France suits me better than this tropical paradise,” she said facetiously, again tugging on her blouse. “But I want to stick around for a couple days to talk to some people.”

  “The yacht will stay for as long as you need it.... You can take it for a spin if you like. When you’re done, it’ll return to Monaco.”

  Swanson glanced back at the cabana. None of his staff were outside. “Well, back to work.” He offered his arm for hers to slip into for the escort back.

  She patted his crooked arm. “Boss, I’ll let you guys talk about the consortium’s financials, I’ve got to go check on something. I’ll be back later.”

  “You would miss the group brain-storming session?”

  “About the new cement processes to reduce CO2 and new construction materials to absorb it?”

  “We get government to mandate them, they’ll be moneymakers.”

  She shook her head. “Good ideas but nothing I haven’t read in the briefing papers. Some are practical...some, like putting reflectors in space are just bizarre, and frankly, I think will cause more harm than good.”

  He chuckled. “Harm is relative.... You’ll join us for dinner later on the Spider?”

  “Of course. You’ve got the best wine cellar within a thousand kilometers.”

  Chapter 4