Siberian Treasure

Siberian Treasure Page 5

“You okay?” Vince asked.

“Got hit in the eye. Jesus, God, will you look at that?”

The inferno reached into the air like brilliant orange claws against the blue sky of early evening, and a tower of black smoke ribboned toward the puffy white clouds. They had to crane their heads back to get a good look at it.

“Any of your men in there?” Vince asked, dreading the answer.

Blake shook his head. “By some blessing, no, none of’em. Shift change.”

“One thing to be thankful for.”

“Yeah. But there’s at least five people still unaccounted for, last report I had. I hope to God they were either found or beyond help before that.”

Before Vince could reply, the renewed wail of sirens drowned out any further conversation. The fire truck that had been parked at the back of the parking lot trundled toward them as fast as its bulk would carry it. He nearly smiled, but couldn’t quite get his lips to move in that direction. Good guys, Blake’s men. Already on the scene.

Shit. He shook his head, that urge to smile evaporating. How many lives gone?

Someone handed him a cell phone, warm from overuse. “Someone from the USGS on the phone for you, Captain Bruger.”

“The who?” He took the phone. “Vince Bruger.”

“Charlotte Messing, US Geological Survey, Earthquake Hazards. Captain Bruger, I understand there’s a report of an earthquake in your precinct.”

Vince tore the phone away from his ear to stare at it. Was this some kind of fucking joke? He was about to slam the phone back into the hand of whoever’d given it to him, but figured he’d at least better find out what the lady wanted. “By the looks of the city center, and the way one of our manufacturing plants have collapsed, it sure as hell looks like you’re right. And, oh, the crevices in the ground too. Yep, looked and felt like an earthquake to me.” Jesus Christ.

“I’m calling you, Captain Bruger,” the woman continued, and she had that same tone in her voice that the wife had when she was about to lecture him about something stupid he’d done, “because we have no report of any true seismic activity in the vicinity of Allentown, and—”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell we felt here if it wasn’t seismic activity. Look, I have a fire to put out, a town to clean up, and a whole fucking crew of television and news reporters waiting for me to tell them why we just had an explosion on the top of everything else … .plus a whole slew of families who are wondering where the hell their husbands and wives are. I don’t have time to talk with you. Watch the news, and in the meantime, maybe you better check your equipment to make sure you didn’t miss it, because we sure as hell felt it here.” With that, he did jam the phone into the abdomen of the guy standing next to him, who had been barking orders into another cell phone.

Vince stormed off, not waiting to see what happened to the phone. Crazy scientist. What the hell did she mean there wasn’t any real seismic activity? It sure had felt real to him.

He tramped over to the team of rescue workers who stood watching the blaze as the fire crew blasted it with streams of water. It occurred to him, briefly, that he ought to call Maureen and let her know he was all right, but then he figured that the statement he’d given the press about an hour ago would tell her that he was alive and well—and busy. He was just glad she and the kids hadn’t been around when this all happened.

“We got one over here!”

Vince turned as a shout of triumph came from a cluster of workers on the other side of the rubble. It would be nice if he had some good news when he gave the press an update. In about, he looked at his chipped, scratched wristwatch, ten minutes.

Sure enough. A bloody, dirty figure lay on a stretcher, but the man was breathing. Thank God. One down, four to go, if Blake’s last report was still right. Maybe even less.

“Where’d you find him?” he asked one of the doctors. Couldn’t remember his name; he wasn’t from around there.

“Behind where the plant stood,” the man replied. His green eyes were piercing and serious. Man, Vince’d never seen eyes that green before. Maybe he hadn’t met him. “Down inside a big gap in the earth. He must have fallen in when it shifted. We got him out before it all blew.”

“Great news.” Vince nodded. “Any chance there’s anyone else down there, doc?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t believe so. However, it’s far enough away from the fire that we could look. By the way, my name’s Varden.” He had a faint accent that sounded European, but he spoke English fluently and easily. Must have studied here in the States.

“Dr. Varden. Vince Bruger, Chief of Police.” Vince shook his hand. He didn’t remember meeting the guy after all; he’d have remembered those eyes and that accent.

“People here are lucky. The death toll could have been a lot worse,” Varden commented, peering toward the mess.

“Yep, coulda been.” He was stating the obvious, and the conversation was superficial, but Bruger didn’t care. Lord-a-Moses, he was tired. It crashed into him all of a sudden, kind of like it did after he’d had one beer too many. As soon as he stood, he felt the results. His legs would hardly move. His brain’s function had fizzled. He didn’t want to have to think.

“But the plant itself … a big pollutant, wasn’t it? They’d been fined. For environmental violations. Good thing if it had to happen, it happened on a Friday afternoon when so few people were there.”

Vince smashed his hand over his eyes and rubbed like hell. It eased a little of the tension. But not nearly enough. “Er … yeah, I guess that’s a way to look at it. But one life lost is more than I’d like.”

“And I as well. But it is the way of the world—nature takes its toll, goes its course. And earthquakes … they are a natural event. They can’t be tracked, or prevented, can they? It’s almost as if it was a sign, do you think?”

“A sign?” Vince knew he was at the end now. The doctor’s conversation wasn’t making any sense, and he couldn’t form the words to reply coherently. He’d best get some sleep before getting back to this hellhole tomorrow. “Listen, doctor, it was my pleasure. I’ve got to finish a report and get home for some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.” It was an effort just to get those words out, but he did.

And as he walked away, still rubbing his dry, creaking eyelids, the image of Dr. Varden’s intense green gaze stayed in his mind.

-5-

June 30, 2007

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

It was nearly two hours after Israt Medivir and his guest had disappeared into his office that Konal, secretary to the company president himself, took it upon himself to interrupt them.

It wasn’t that Medivir was late for a meeting, or that there was some urgent matter that must be addressed. Nothing like that. It was just that … Konal had a feeling. An odd, squirrelly feeling that he should knock on the door.

It had been so quiet. No voices. No laughter. No orders for food or drink or copies or reports or files.

So he did. He knocked and there was no answer.

He waited and then five minutes later knocked again, louder.

A warm rivulet of sweat rolled down his back. Did he dare open the door?

Fifteen minutes later, he could no longer contain his curiosity and the odd nervousness worming itself around in his belly.

Konal knocked one more time, and then turned the knob slowly, oh, slowly, so that if he heard the sound of voices, he could stop, pull the door back, and be satisfied and protected at the same time.

There was no sound of voices, and Konal became bolder. He turned the knob and pushed the door open three centimeters. And was greeted by silence.

“Mr. Medivir—” his hesitant greeting slapped to a stop when Konal saw the toe of a shiny black shoe protruding from the side of the desk that belonged to Israt Medivir.

Konal flung the door wide, dashing to the side of his employer. He did not need to touch the clammy, cold skin to know he was dead.

Working quickly, he scrabbled through the pockets of his inert employer and found the cash he always carried there. Only after stuffing the wad of riyals into his own pockets did Konal run screaming from the office to alert security.

Under the circumstances, it did not bother him one bit that his scream sounded like that of a woman.

Hamid al-Jubeir did not wear the traditional red beret that many of his colleagues in the muhabith, the secret police, sported. He preferred, when conducting his criminal investigations, not to call attention to himself.

He almost regretted that decision to be unexceptional when he reached the Medivir Building and was nearly trod upon by a collection of reporters and photographers. The word that Riyadh’s most successful rags to riches story had been found dead in his office had spread more quickly than the assignment to Hamid had been given. Not that that was saying much; for Hamid’s superior, Tirat al-Haebir, who was the director of the General Directorate of Investigation, was known for crossing every T and dotting every I, as the Americans would say, when he made his assignments.

It was fortunate for the GDI’s slow and deliberate director that his staff was quick and efficient, most particularly Hamid al-Jubeir. Which was, of course, the reason he’d been assigned to this most grievous task.

Hamid had never met Israt Medivir, but of course he knew as much about the self-made petroleum magnate as anyone else; including the fact that the dead man was younger than the investigator by more than ten years. And that he’d been a coffee importer before moving into oil and making billions of riyals in less than ten years.

Hamid had always wondered about the correlation between coffee beans and black gold.

The body was sprawled on the floor of his expansive office, ostensibly as he had been found; but from the unblinking, innocent eyes and the shiny, damp forehead of the man who found him, Hamid had reason to question that assumption. But later. First, the victim.

The reason Tirat al-Haebir had crossed so many Ts and dotted extra Is on this case was because it wasn’t evident that Israt Medivir was a victim of anything other than a bad heart or a faulty brain. So setting the GDI’s top homicide investigator on the case was a risk in itself for the Ministry of the Interior, which did not wish to have the word out that the oil magnate had died from foul play until and unless it was to its benefit to have that be common knowledge.