Siberian Treasure (Page 3)

Paul gestured to the university’s seismograph mounted directly on the ground outside of the lab. “Many people confuse the purpose of the seismograph and believe it can be used to help predict earthquakes. And while this machine can record even the most sensitive of ground movements, it can only do so after the fact.

“As you can see, it’s placed directly on the ground, and if the earth shifts, the needle will record even the slightest of the earth’s movement. We’ll talk more about what normal seismic activity looks like next week.”

Most of them had little real interest in the studies; they elected the class during the summer term as a last-ditch effort to fulfill a science credit in the liberal arts program at Princeton. He tried not to let the apathy bother him; after all, he taught three other, more advanced classes for geology or biology majors. They not only looked at the seismograph readings; they had a clue what the readings meant.

“I’ll cover Chapter Ten in next week’s lecture. Come with questions because that will be the last class before the exam.” His last few words were lost as they rose fairly en masse to sling backpacks over shoulders and stampede out of the room.

He turned to switch off his laptop, hoping to get out and on the road in time to beat the weekend traffic, and noticed one of his students standing next to the seismograph. The young woman was actually looking at it.

“Professor Everett, what is that?” she pointed to the paper roll that showed a series of red markings. Etched with gentle peaks and valleys was the activity in a fifty-mile radius around Princeton.

And there, on the seismograph, were big spikes coming from an area in the middle of low hills and valleys.

Big damn red spikes.

Paul swallowed the words he’d planned to give: a quick answer, before he’d seen what she was pointing at. He looked at it again.

Big damn spikes right in the middle of nowhere.

Paul frowned and peered at the little needle radiating up and down with its etchings. It appeared to be working.

“Shouldn’t there have been some kind of warning before such big spikes? And what would cause something like that? There aren’t any earthquakes around here, are there?”

Apparently someone had been listening, even though she’d spent half the class flirting with a young man across the room.

Paul adjusted his trifocals. Damn glasses; couldn’t trust them to see when he needed to without having to move them around to get the right lens.

But, yes, the spikes were still there, like upside-down icicles. And as he watched, several smaller peaks jumped up— little aftershocks, they would be, if indeed it was an earthquake.

But an earthquake … of maybe seven or eight on the Richter scale, he guessed … in eastern Pennsylvania?

Incredible.

“Professor Everett?” She was staring at him.

He realized he’d never answered her question. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an earthquake. But … there aren’t any major fault lines in this area that would cause such a large response.” He shook his head, scratching at the flimsy wisps covering the top of his scalp. “I don’t know what else would create a graph like that … .”

He froze. He did know of something else.

Paul frowned, his brows drawing together. The last time he’d seen something like this, it was decades ago. Hundreds of miles away.

He’d have to find his old papers, his old records of seismic activity from thirty years ago.

Because if it was what he thought it was, he was going to be on the phone to the USGS and not heading for the Poconos.

Darlene was going to kill him.

***

Barbara Melton, PhD, President and Chief Executive Officer of the closely-held AvaChem, had just sunk a beautiful putt when her IPhone vibrated against her hip.

“Perfect timing,” she muttered, glad it hadn’t come moments before. The birdie put her two strokes ahead of her partner and lover, and that much closer to the wager they had riding on today’s game: who was going to be the submissive during their sex play that night.

Tempted to ignore the insistent buzz, she nevertheless pulled the phone from its clip and noted the number of the incoming call. Theo Meadows, the COO of AvaChem, wouldn’t call during her Friday golf time unless there was something important going on.

“It’s Meadows. I’d better answer it,” Barbara replied, flipping the sleek phone open. “Melton.”

“Jesus, Barb, have you heard?”

Barbara’s heart stuttered as she slid her putter back into her custom tooled-leather bag. The last time Meadows had started a conversation with that question, the news AvaChem was dumping toxic chemicals into the Delaware River had just hit the press. “I’ve heard nothing. I’m on the fifteenth hole. What is it?” she snapped, nervous and impatient.

“Allentown, Terre Haute, and Hays—the plants are gone.”

“Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? In flames?” She leaned against the golf cart, and began to fumble for her nitroglycerine tablets. There was always the risk at a chemical plant for an accident to occur, but three of them at once … . “Bombs?” Barbara heard the squeak in her voice that made her sound like a teenybopper.

“You won’t believe it … .Earthquakes!”

She paused, her hand inside her pocketbook. “You’re joking.” She started to laugh, strained, but feeling the relief that trickled through her.

“Turn on the fucking news, Melton! It’s all over the country! Three earthquakes, all of them where our buildings are located. They’re completely destroyed. Everything’s gone.” Meadows’ voice spiraled into a hysterical wail. “The IPO’s shot, and we’re fucked. We’re fucked, Barb, do you hear me? And those federal fines … .they’re coming out of your pocket and mine, now, do you hear me?”

Barbara heard him, but she didn’t believe him. Three plants, leveled by earthquakes—in the most unlikely places all over the country? All on a Friday afternoon?

All at once?

It couldn’t be a coincidence … .pure, unadulterated bad luck.

It had to be those damn Greenies.

And there was no way Barbara was going to be stuck for two mil because of their tree-hugging antics.

She snagged her driver out of the bag and turned to the sixteenth tee.

-3-

June 30, 2007

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

Dannen Fridkov had always heard Riyadh described as an island, a refuge, in the center of barren desert; and indeed, the Saudi Arabian capital was exactly that.

Located in the middle of the Kingdom, the city sported an eclectic combination of mud-dabbed buildings and fortresses, courtyards with palm-tree-trunk pillars, and modern white spires. And the only greenery to be spotted for hundreds of miles.

Doors to traditional and modern buildings alike were ornate with Islamic art and designs in colorful geometric and organic shapes, often repetitious in their patterns. The streets were generously wide and busy, thronged with pedestrians, limousines and the brown and yellow commuter buses available to women and those with limited funds.

Fridkov had visited the city only once before, at night, briefly; so this mid-day visit in the cloak of desert heat was quite a different experience. He would have preferred time to wander a bit, shopping for rugs on Talateen Street, but his mission was clear, and, of necessity, must be quick. He settled back into the seat of his chauffeured car, adjusting the unfamiliar skirts of the thobe he had donned in an effort to blend in as a native rather than a Western businessman.

The Lincoln Town Car moved smoothly through the streets, and Fridkov eyed Riyadh’s Water Tower looming above the city. It rose like a flower toward the sun, with a long stem and a flat, fan-like top, glowing dirty yellow in the radiating heat. It was ironic that one of the most prominent landmarks in a city made from oil wealth was that of a water tower.

The industrialized world might be dependent upon oil, but in the end, water was the greater need—and something she gave more freely.

The minarets of The Great Mosque speared the sky, and Fridkov mused to himself that the devotion of the Arabians to their daily scheduled prayers was akin to that of the Americans to their television and French fries. He identified several members of the muttawa patrolling the streets, screening for violators of Islamic fundamentals.

Fridkov realized that he was not so unlike the muttawa himself. However, he would draw the line at removing the nipples from the mannequins in a women’s clothing store. Fridkov’s style was much more subtle—yet direct.

The car turned onto Al Matar, and now he must focus on the task at hand—-the meeting with Israt Medivir, the president of Medivir Petroleum. The Medivir Building, though not nearly as tall and grand as the Ministry of Petroleum, still displayed the great wealth and success of the company. Success and wealth that had come purely by happenstance and not because of any great effort or planning on the part of Israt Medivir.

It was only his name that Medivir had given the company; the rest had come to him as nothing less than a gift—a gift that had now turned into a threat.

Looking in a well-positioned mirror, Fridkov arranged the traditional headscarf, ghuttera, over his dark hair so that it framed the sides of his face like a curtain. He placed the aqal around the crown of his head to hold it in place and adjusted the moustache and goatee he’d donned on the airplane. With his naturally swarthy skin, dark eyes, and thick brows, Fridkov would blend in perfectly.

His briefcase rested comfortably against his calf, not so heavy, for it didn’t even contain a laptop. No. What Fridkov needed for his meeting wasn’t any burden to bear.

At last, the car eased to a halt in front of the Medivir Building. A tall, glistening glass spear, the offices of one of Saudi Arabia’s largest petroleum companies clearly bespoke its prestige. Fridkov paid his driver with riyals and stepped from the cool comfort of the Lincoln into a wall of heat that made him gasp audibly.