Текст книги "Blue Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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"He's still alive?"

"There seems to be some disagreement on that. The Pentagon says he died in a plane crash in 1949. This new information says just the opposite."

"A mistake?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Humans are fallible. I'm not."

"Does he have a phone?"

"No. But I have an address."

A printout came out of a slot on the console. Still puzzled, Austin looked at the name and address as if they were in vanishing ink. He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. "Thanks, Hiram and Max. You've been a great help." He started for the door.

"Where you off to now?" Yaeger said.

"Cooperstown. This may be my one and only chance to get into the Baseball Hall of Fame."

Chapter 21

Across the Potomac at the new CIA headquarters building in Langley, Virginia, an analyst in the Directorate of Intelligence was wondering if his computer was having the hiccups. The analyst, an eastern European specialist named J. Barrett Browning, stood up and peered over the partition into the adjacent cubicle.

"Say, Jack, do you have a second to look at something really weird?"

The sallow-faced man at the cluttered desk put aside the Russian newspaper he had been marking up and rubbed his deep-set eyes.

"Sex, crime, and more sex. I don't know what could be weirder than the Russian press," said John Rowland, a respected translator who had joined the CIA after the agency's dark Nixon days. "It's like U.S. supermarket tabloids on hormones. I almost miss the tractor production statistics." He rose from his work station and came around into Browning's cubicle. "What's the problem, young man?"

"This crazy message on my computer," Browning replied with a shake of his head. "I was scrolling some historical material on the Soviet Union, and this popped up on the screen."

Rowland leaned forward and read the words: "PROTOCAL ACTIVATED FOR SANCTION WITH EXTREME PREJU DICE."

Rowland tugged his pepper-and-salt goatee. "Extreme prejudice? Nobody uses language like that anymore."

"What's it mean?"

"It's a euphemism. Goes way back to the cold war and Vietnam. It's a polite way of referring to a hit."

"Huh?"

"Don't they teach you anything at Yale?" Rowland said with a grin. "Sanctioning someone is setting him up for assassination. Real James Bond stuff."

"Oh, I get it," Barrett said, looking around the room at the other cubicles. "Let's guess which of our esteemed colleagues is the practical joker."

Rowland was in deep thought and didn't reply. He slid into Browning's chair and studied the underlined file number at the end of the message. He highlighted the number and hit the enter key. A series of digits appeared.

"If this is a joke, it's a good one," he muttered. "No one has used this encoding since Allen Dulles was agency director after World War II."

Rowland hit the print button and took the copy of the message to his cubicle with his puzzled colleague right behind him. He made a quick phone call, then fed the code into his computer and tapped the keys. "I'm sending this down to a pal in the decoding division. It's pretty antiquated stuff. He can decipher it in a matter of minutes with the programs available today."

"Where do you suppose it came from?" Browning said.

"What were you reading when the message appeared?"

"Archives material. Mostly diplomatic reports. One of the Senate staff guys needed it for his boss who's on the armed ser vices committee. He was looking for patterns of Soviet behavior, probably so he could jack up the defense budget."

"What was the context of these reports?"

"They were from field agents to the director. It had to do with Soviet nuclear development. They were in the old files that Clinton ordered declassified."

"Interesting. That tells us that that the material was meant for eyes only at the highest level."

"Sounds plausible. But what's this business with the protocol?"

Rowland sighed. "I don't know what the agency is going to do when old war horses like me get put out to pasture. Let me tell you how the protocols worked back in the old covert action days. First a policy would be approved, usually at the highest levels, with the director, NSA, joint chiefs all signing on. The president would be kept out of the loop officially, for purposes of deniability. The policy would generate a course of action in response to a given threat or threats. That was the protocol. The action was distilled into an order. The order was broken down into a number of parts."

"Makes sense. That way those who carried out the order only knew their small part of it. You preserve secrecy."

'Aha, I guess they did teach you something in the halls of Eli, even if it's all wrong. Those nutty plans like whacking Castro or Iran-contra were set up that way, and they all fell apart."

"So why have a protocol at all?"

"The prime reason is so the guys at the top can disallow responsibility. A protocol was usually reserved for the most serious type of action. In this case, we're talking about a political assassination. It was not something taken lightly. Heads of state are not supposed to plot the demise of other heads of state or people in their own government. It makes for bad precedent. So the order would be multilevel. It was designed not to leave finger prints. No one gave orders that could be traced back. A number of predetermined circumstances had to come about for the command to be followed through to its end."

"It sounds like the fail-safe system they used with the nuclear bombers. There were several steps involved, and the mission could be aborted up until the very last."

"Something like that. Let me give you another analogy. A threat is perceived. One hand takes out the gun. The threat grows. Another hand loads the bullet. The threat escalates. A

third hand cocks the hammer. Next, the trigger is pulled and the threat is eliminated. All those action-reaction steps would be necessary for the gun to fire."

Browning nodded. "I understand what you're saying, but I can't figure out how the bloody thing got onto my computer."

"Maybe that's not as mysterious as it seems." Most of Row land's days were spent in the boring task of reading and analyzing newspapers, and he relished the chance for intellectual exercise. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.

"The protocol originally would have been recorded on paper, probably broken down into parts. It is never carried out. Then the agency goes from paper to computers. The protocol becomes encoded in the agency's database. It sits there for decades, until all the triggering mechanisms are in place to activate it. The director is supposed to be notified automatically, only the files have been declassified and the computer doesn't know that a lowly analyst will be reading a file meant only for the director."

"Brilliant," Browning said. "Now we have to figure out what could have set a fifty-year-old protocol in motion. I was looking at these same files yesterday. This was not there."

"That means the protocol was activated in the last twenty four hours. Wait-" The e-mail was blinking. Rowland retrieved the message.

"Dear Rowland. Here's your message. Ho-hum. Please send something more challenging next time."

The words on the screen simply said, "Sanction under way."

"It's a coded reply from the hit man," Rowland said. Browning shook his head. "I wonder who the poor bastard was."

"I don't think we have to worry about the past; it's the future I'm concerned about."

"Hey, c'mon, Jack, it's been half a century since this protocol was approved. Everyone involved must be long dead. Hit man and victim alike."

"Maybe," Rowland said. "Maybe not." He tapped the words on the screen. "This reply has just been sent. It means the hit man is still alive, and so is his victim. At least for now."

"What do you mean?"

Rowland reached for the phone, a grave expression carved into the usual cheery face.

"The director didn't countermand the order, so it goes to the next step. The killing." Rowland held his hand up to cut off Browning's question. "Please put me through to the director," he barked into the phone. "Yes, it's urgent," he said, his voice rising in a rare display of emotion. "Damned urgent!"

Chapter 22

The blaze had been extinguished and the firefighters were mopping up when Zavala re turned to Hanley's office building. Zavala bluffed his way past the yellow police tape with officious flashes of his NUMA identification card. He waved the laminated card with his picture close to the arson investigator's nose, then quickly tucked it back into his billfold. He didn't want to explain why someone from a federal ocean science agency was at a San Diego disaster scene.

The investigator, whose name was Connors, said witnesses had told him about the hovering helicopter and described a strange flash of light before the explosion, but he hadn't eliminated the possibility that the detonation was internal. Zavala couldn't blame him. It's not every day an armed helicopter at tacks an office building in San Diego.

"How is the injured woman?" Zavala asked.

"Okay last I heard," Connors said. "A couple of guys dragged her out of her office before the fire got going."

Zavala then thanked Connors and walked to the next block to catch a taxi. As he raised his hand to hail a cab, a plain black Ford sedan pulled up to the curb. Agent Miguel Gomez was be hind the wheel. The FBI man leaned across the seat and opened the door. Zavala got in.

Gomez gave Zavala his world-weary look. "Things sure have gotten busy since you and your partner arrived in town," the agent said. "A few hours after you walk into my office the Farmer and his sleaze ball lawyer go up in smoke. Why don't you stick around a few more days? The whole Mexican mafia and their pals will self-destruct, and I'll be out of a job, which will suit me fine."

Zavala chuckled. "Thanks again for watching our backs in Tijuana."

"In return for risking an international incident by bringing a sniper team across the border, maybe you'll tell me what in God's name is going on."

"I wish I knew," Zavala said with a shrug. "What's the story on Pedralez?"

"He was in his armored car going through Colonia Obrera, a cutthroat neighborhood west of Tijuana. He's got bodyguards in SUVs in front and behind. The lead vehicle gets hit first. A second later Pedralez's car explodes. It must have been slammed real hard because that thing was built like a tank. The driver of the third vehicle does a quick U-turn and gets the hell out."

'An antitank missile would have done the job."

Gomez affixed Zavala with dark, probing eyes. "The Mexican police found the loader for a Swedish Gustav antitank missile in an alley."

"The Swedes are attacking Mexican drug lords?"

"I wish. The hardware is available on the world arms market. They're probably giving them away on the backs of cereal boxes. You can fire the thing from the shoulder. They tell me two guys can get off six rounds a minute. What do you know about this thing with Hanley?"

"Kurt and I had just left the building when we saw a green helicopter hovering outside Hanley's office. We went back inside and heard the blast while we were in the elevator. Some wit nesses saw a flash of light. It could have been from a missile launcher."

"How many missiles does it take to wipe out a shyster? Sounds like a lawyer joke."

"I don't see Hanley laughing."

"Guy never did have a sense of humor. Talk about overkill. Someone really wanted him dead real bad to go through all that trouble." He paused. "Why did you go back into the building?"

"Kurt thought the helicopter looked like one he had seen after the explosion in the Baja."

"So you already talked with Hanley?"

Gomez might look sleepy, but he didn't miss a trick, Zavala thought.

"We asked him about the tortilla plant. He said a Sacramento business broker contacted him for a client who wanted to get a cover operation going in Mexico. Hanley hooked his client up with Pedralez."

"What was the broker's name?"

"Jones. Save your dime. He's dead."

Gomez smirked. "Don't tell me. His car blew up."

"He drove off a cliff. It was supposedly an accident."

A man in a dark blue suit came over and tapped on the car window. The agent nodded and turned back to Zavala. "They want me inside. Let's keep in touch." He switched to Spanish. "We Mexican-American chili peppers have to stick together."

"Definitely," Zavala said, opening the door to get out. "I'll be heading back to Washington. Call me at NUMA headquarters if I can be of help."

Zavala had been truthful with Gomez up to a point. He purposely hadn't mentioned Hanley's disclosure about the Mulholland Group. He doubted the FBI would blast its way through the front door warrant in hand, but he hadn't wanted to complicate his investigation. On his return to the hotel he called Los Angeles directory assistance and tried the number he was given for the Mulholland Group. The pleasant-sounding receptionist who answered the phone gave him directions to the office. He asked the hotel concierge to arrange a rental car, and before long he was driving north to Los Angeles.

Later that morning he pulled off the Hollywood Freeway into a typical California maze of close-built residential blocks interspersed with commercial plazas. Zavala wasn't sure what he expected, but after the explosion in Baja and the bizarre deaths of Hanley and Pedralez, he was surprised to find a well-marked office in a professional building sandwiched between a Staples office supply store and a Pizza Hut.

The lobby was open and airy. The cheery receptionist who greeted him was the same one who had given him directions on the phone. He didn't have to exert his Latin charm. She readily answered questions about the company, showered Zavala with brochures, and said to call if he ever needed hydraulic engineering services. He went back out to his rental car and sat behind the wheel staring at the unassuming facade, wondering what to do next. His cell phone buzzed. Austin was calling from his office at NUMA headquarters.

"Any luck at your end?" Kurt said.

"I'm sitting outside the Mulholland Group as we speak," Zavala said. He filled him in on his findings. Austin in turn told Joe about his visit to the Garber center, his conversation with Buzz Martin, and the revelations from Max.

"You've accomplished a hell of a lot more than I have," Zavala said.

'All blind alleys so far. I'm heading to upstate New York this afternoon to see if I can clear up the mystery of the flying wing pilot. While you're in L.A. maybe you can poke around on Gogstad."

They agreed to compare notes back in Washington the next day. Zavala hung up and called information for the Los Angeles Times. He got through to the newsroom, where he gave his name and asked for Randy Cohen in the business section.

Moments later a boyish voice came on the phone.

"Joe Zavala, what a nice surprise! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. How's the best investigative reporter west of the Mississippi?"

"Doing what I can with the limited brain cells left from our tequila sunrise days. Are you still keeping NUMA afloat?"

"As a matter of fact I'm in town on NUMA business and wondered if you could give me a hand."

"Always ready to do what I can for an old college pal."

"I appreciate that, Randy. I need some information on a California-based company. Have you ever heard of the Gogstad Corporation?"

The other end of the line went silent. Then Cohen said, "You did say Gogstad?'

"That's right." Joe spelled the name so there would be no mistake. "Does it ring a bell?"

"Call me back at this number," Cohen said, and abruptly clicked off. Zavala did as he was told. Cohen answered. "Sorry to cut you off. We're talking on my cell phone. Where are you?"

Zavala described his location. Cohen was familiar with the neighborhood and gave him directions to a nearby coffee bar. Zavala was sipping on his second espresso when Cohen walked in. The reporter saw Zavala sitting at the counter and gave him a big grin. He strode over and pumped his hand.

"God, you look great, Joe. Haven't changed a bit."

"Neither have you." Zavala was telling the truth. The re porter looked much the same as when they had worked together on their college newspaper. Cohen had put a few pounds on his lean frame, and his black beard was tinged with flecks of gray, but he still walked like a giant crane, and the blue eyes blinking from behind horn-rimmed glasses were as intense as ever.

Cohen ordered a double latte and herded Joe to a table re moved from the others. He took a sip, pronounced the coffee a ten, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, "So tell me, old friend, what's NUMA's interest in Gogstad?"

"You probably heard about the pod of gray whales that was found dead off San Diego." Cohen nodded. "We've tracked the possible cause of death to an operation on the Baja peninsula. There was a link to the Mulholland Group. Gogstad is the parent company."

Cohen's eyes narrowed. "What kind of operation?"

"Don't laugh. It's a tortilla plant."

"I don't laugh at anything having to do with this outfit."

"Then you know it."

"Intimately. That's why I was stunned when you called. I've been on an investigative team digging into Gogstad for almost a year. We're going to call the story series 'The Water Pirates.' "

"I thought piracy went out with Captain Kidd."

"This is bigger than Kidd could ever have imagined."

"What turned you on to the story?"

"Dumb luck. We were looking into corporate mergers, the quiet ones that don't always make the headlines but have just as much impact on the average citizen. We started crisscrossing the same faint trail. It was like a hunter coming across snow-blown tracks in the woods again and again."

"The tracks were Gogstad's."

Cohen nodded. "It took us months to pin it down, and we still only have a partial picture. Gogstad is enormous! With holdings in the hundreds of billions, it may be the biggest world wide conglomerate in history."

"I'll admit I don't read the Wall Street Journal every day, but I'm surprised I never heard of this outfit if it's as big as you say."

"Don't feel bad. They've spent millions to keep their dealings a secret. They use back-room deals, straw and dummy corporations, every trick in the book. Thank God for computers! We fed the stuff through a Geographic Information System. The GIS connects the info in the database to points on a map. The cops use the same system to keep tabs on gang connections. We've got some great graphs that show Gogstad's holdings around the world."

"Who's behind this super-corp?"

"We're pretty sure the reins of power are held by one person. Her name is Brynhild Sigurd."

Zavala had a deserved reputation as a ladies' man, so his ears perked up at the mention of a woman. "Tell me about Ms. Sigurd."

"There isn't much I can tell. She's never made the Fortune magazine list of most powerful women, although she deserves to be at the top. We do know she was born in the U.S. of Scandinavian parents, that she went to school in Europe and

later started an engineering company called the Mulholland Group." "I was just there. I should have asked to see the lady."

"It wouldn't do you any good. She's still listed as company president, but nobody sees her."

"I'm not clear on the company name. The office isn't on Mulholland Drive."

Cohen smiled indulgently. "Have you ever heard of the Owens Valley scandal?"

"It had to do with the Los Angeles water system, I believe."

"That's right. It's hard to believe today, but L.A. was just a small desert town back in the 1920s. The city needed water to grow. The nearest major source of fresh water was sleepy little Owens Valley two hundred miles to the north. L.A. quietly sent guys to the valley to buy out the water rights to the river. By the time the valley people figured out what was going on it was too late to do anything. Their water was on its way to Los Angeles."

"What happened to the Owens Valley?"

"Drained dry." He chuckled evilly. "Most of the water the taxpayers paid for went to the San Fernando Valley, not the city. A bunch of local businessmen bought land cheap there. Prices skyrocketed when water came in and made the speculators mil lions. The man who engineered the coup was William Mulholland."

"Interesting. How does the Mulholland Group fit in with Gogstad?"

"Mulholland was the seed company for Gogstad. Now it's a subsidiary that provides engineering services for the parent corporation."

"What exactly does Gogstad do?"

'At first they acquired interests in pipeline, energy, and construction companies. Since then they have branched out into financial institutions, insurance, media. For the last several years they've concentrated on one product: blue gold."

"I'm only familiar with the fourteen-karat stuff."

Cohen lifted the tumbler in front of him.

"Blue gold is water?"

"Yep." Cohen held the glass to the light like a fine wine, then took a hearty gulp. "Water is no longer a natural right, it's a commodity that can fetch a higher price than refined gas. Gogstad is the dominant player in the world water business. It has the controlling interest in water companies in one hundred and fifty countries on six continents and distributes water to more than two hundred million people. Their biggest coup was engineering passage of the Colorado River privatization bill."

"I've read something about that. Fill me in."

"The Colorado River is the main source of water for the western and southwestern states. The system has always been operated by the feds, the people who brought you the big dams and reservoirs, working with the states and cities. The bill took control away from the government and placed it in the hands of private companies."

"Privatization is pretty common these days. You've got private companies running prisons. Why not water systems?"

"Exactly the argument advanced for the bill. The states have been fighting over water rights for years. Tons of money have been spent on lawsuits. The proponents said privatization would end this. Water would be distributed more efficiently. The investors would shoulder the costs of big capital improvements. What pushed it into the win column was the drought. Cities are running out of water, and people are scared."

"Where does Gogstad fit in?"

"The way it was set up, the Colorado River system would be run by a bunch of separate companies working together."

"Spreading the wealth?"

"That was the idea. Only problem is, every one of these companies is secretly owned by Gogstad."

"So Gogstad has control of the Colorado River?"

He nodded. "They've been doing the same thing on a smaller scale all over the country. They've got contracts to extract glacier water in Alaska. They've expanded their reach into Canada, which has the major sources of water in North America. They've nailed

down control of most of British Columbia's water. Before long the Great Lakes will become Gogstad reservoirs."

Zavala let out a low whistle. "That's scary, but it fits right in with globalization, the concentration of economic power in fewer hands."

"Sure. Taking ownership of a country's most precious re source is entirely legal whether we like it or not. But Gogstad doesn't play by the rules, and that's even scarier."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll give you one example. Congressman Jeremy Kinkaid fought the Colorado River bill tooth and nail and was threatening congressional hearings to rescind the legislation. He died in an accident."

"Lots of people die in accidents."

The reporter extracted a map of the world from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. Speaking almost in a whisper, he said, "See these red squares? Don't bother counting them. There are dozens."

"Gogstad acquisitions?"

"In a manner of speaking. As Gogstad expanded it ran into established players, the companies and municipalities that con trolled the water in other countries. In many cases a rival resisted Gogstad's overtures." He tapped the map. "We correlated the data on the acquisitions with information on company personnel. Every place where you see a red square the acquisition coincided with fatal 'accidents' among the corporate hierarchy. Sometimes top executives simply disappeared."

"Either Gogstad is using street gang methods or it is very lucky."

"You figure it out. In the past ten years it has assimilated transnational water companies in France, Italy, Britain, and South America. It's like the Borg, that alien race in Star Trek that grows in power by absorbing other species into its collective. It's acquired water concessions in Asia and South Africa-" Cohen stopped his breathless recitation. His eyes darted to the door. He relaxed when a woman and a child walked in.

Zavala raised a brow, but he said nothing.

"Sorry," Cohen said. "This whole thing has me as paranoid as hell."

"A little paranoia can be a healthy thing, my friend."

Cohen dropped his voice to a whisper again. "We may have a mole in the news department. That's why I had you call on my cell phone." He fidgeted nervously with his spoon. "A lot of weird stuff has been happening at the paper."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Nothing I can put my finger on. Files out of the order you put them in. Strangers in the building. Odd glances."

"Are you sure it's not your imagination?"

"Others on the team have noticed the funny stuff, too. Hell. Are my jitters that obvious?"

"You're even making me nervous."

"Good, I want you to be nervous. I don't think Gogstad would think twice about getting rid of anyone standing in the way of its goal."

"Which is?"

"It's clear to me that they want to control the world's fresh water supply."

Zavala pondered the pronouncement. "That's a tall order. What they've done in North America and Europe is pretty impressive, but can any one company corner the world's fresh water?"

"It's not as hard as you might think. Fresh water is less than one half of one percent of the world's total water stock. What remains is seawater, or it's locked up in ice caps or in the ground. A lot of our water is too polluted to use, and the world needs more of it every day."

"But isn't most of that water still controlled by all sorts of people and governments?"

"No more. Gogstad locates a likely water source, then offers to run it, making all sorts of generous concessions. Once it has its foot in the door it uses bribery, extortion, or more to convert it to private ownership. In the past five years Gogstad has

stepped up the pace of privatization tremendously. It's been helped by the fact that under the new international trade agreements, a country no longer owns its water. For Godsakes, Joe, this is Owens Valley all over again, but it's happening world wide!" "Your megacompany sounds like a very big octopus."

"Nice analogy even if it is a little cliche." He took a red grease pencil from his pocket and drew lines and arrows on the map. "Here are your tentacles. Water will flow from Canada and Alaska to China. From Scotland and Austria it will go to Africa and the Mideast. Australia has contracts to export water to Asia. On the surface separate interests are involved. But Gogstad calls the shots through its shadow corporations."

"How do they intend to move all that water?"

'A Gogstad company has already developed the technology to transport millions of gallons across the oceans in huge sealed bags. In addition, Gogstad shipyards have been building fifty thousand-gross-ton tankers that can serve double duty hauling oil and water."

"That's got to be pretty expensive."

"They say water flows uphill to money. The customers will pay any price. Most of it won't quench the thirst of some poor bastard scratching a living in a dust bowl. It's for high tech, one of the biggest polluters, incidentally."

"The whole thing is incredible."

"Hold on to your seat, Joe, because that's only part of it." He tapped the map of North America with his finger. "Here's the big market. The U.S.A. Remember what I said about Gogstad controlling the Canadian water supply? There's a plan to divert massive quantities of water from Hudson Bay through the Great Lakes to the U.S. Sun Belt." His finger moved to Alaska. "California and the other desert states have sucked the Colorado River practically dry, so another scheme would take glacier water from the Yukon and move it to the American West through a vast system of dams, dikes, and giant reservoirs. A tenth of British Columbia would be flooded, and there would be massive

natural resource and human disruptions. The new hydroelectric plants would garner huge amounts of energy. Guess who is strategically placed to benefit from the energy and construction money?" "I think I know the answer."

"Uh-huh. They'll reap billions! The plans for this boondoggle have been around for years. They've never advanced be cause they're so destructive and expensive, but they are getting some powerful support, and there's a chance they'll go through."

"Gogstad again?"

"Now you're getting it," Cohen said. He was becoming more excited. "This time the opposition won't be there. Gogstad has bought up newspapers and TV stations. It can create a drumbeat that won't be easy to resist. The political clout Gogstad can bring to bear is phenomenal. They've got ex-presidents, prime ministers, secretaries of state on their boards. There's no way to fight it. You put that kind of political and financial clout in the hands of someone willing to use street gang methods, and you'll know why I'm so damned nervous."

He stopped to catch his breath. His face was flushed with excitement. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He stared at Zavala as if daring him to argue with him.

Then Cohen's whole body seemed to deflate. "Sorry," he apologized. "I've been close to this mess for too long. I think I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. This is the first chance I've had to get it out of my system."

Zavala nodded. "The sooner the story is published, the better. How soon before you run it?"

"Soon. We're putting the final pieces in place. We want to know why Gogstad has built so many supertankers."

"That certainly fits in with their plans to ship bulk water."