"See, Neil, before it could even be delivered, some equipment that I sold to a client has been stolen,, and I was wondering if you could help me locate it". Irina tried to sound nonchalant, as if this sort of ting happened to her everyday.
"Well, my dear, being a detective isn't one of my specialties" he grunted, knowing full well that he was taunting her.
"I know, but these stolen goods are quite big, and the theft happened between Dubai and Muscat, in a country that you know well -Oman. I've tried myself to find my stuff by helicopter and by private plane, but without any results. Because much of Oman is a desert, I believe satellite imagery would be a very effective tool. I thought perhaps it may be a matter of scale, and therefore the satellite imagery could be successful where my flights have failed".
"Ha! Now I understand why you came to me! You should have said so in the first place”. Neil looked annoyed. Suddenly he dropped the lecherous attitude and became all business.
"Irina, tell me, how big is your stuff? I'm asking because satellite imagery, at least in civilian applications, has very obvious limitations, resolution-wise. As you may know, that means the smallest object that can be discerned from another in the imagery. Five meters is a standard today, but before you start complaining let me remind you that a few years ago we were at one hundred meters! Now, I should also add that those son-of-a-bitch military types keep for themselves technology that can actually recognize car license plates, people's faces and who know what other details. Think about this. While we were outside, they could have taken a satellite picture of us and recognized us, and by comparing our images to a computerized data base, positively identified us. And believe me we are not talking about discerning you from me because of my belly or your tits! We're talking about being able to tell if you are wearing sunglasses! Have a look at this table".
Caputo removed from an already open and overflowing drawer, a laminated table of figures comparing satellites and sensors for earth resources satellite systems.
In the column headings were names of the known satellites, such as Landsat and Spot, respectively US and French satellite, and other lesser known such as IRS-1A and 1B, from India, ERS, a European satellite, the MOS-1 from Japan and others from the States and Japan. Under each name the table displayed technical data such as the orbital parameters, frequency of repetition of the same passage, spectral data, resolution, spread as Neil had anticipated, over a large scatter, ranging from five meters to hundred meters.
"Moreover", added Caputo, "look at these data coming from newly released and commercialized Russian imagery, such as the KVR-1000, capable of producing panchromatic photographs with a resolution within two to three meters, depending on the mission flight requirements. This satellite is flown aboard a Kosmos spacecraft which has a nearly circular orbit at about 220km altitude, with a nominal inclination of 65 degrees. Next year, a private consortium will put into orbit a new bird -in panchromatic- with a one meter resolution for civilian applications"
"OK, Neil, listen, my stuff is quite big. Let's say a convoy of 12 oversized trailers. There shouldn't be any problem in detecting it with the satellite imagery, but before we go any further, let me tell you this: you better consider yourself bound by professional privilege. I want complete confidentiality".
Caputo didn't even listen to the last part, he was already excited by the bit of informaton he had gleaned about the convoy.
"Twelve trailers? My God, Irina, are you dealing with intercontinental missiles, airplanes, or what?".
Caputo licked his thick lips.
"Neil, what is in the containers isn't important, at least for you. I cannot release this information, but if you'll help me I'll make sure that you are properly rewarded!".
"Gee, Irina, if you were to reward me personally, I mean, very personally, I think I would move the world for you".
Caputo sprawled back in his chair, letting his foot casually slide across the floor and touch the toe of Irina's high-heeled boot.
November 7th, Slopes above Montreux, Switzerland, No 45
Irina stopped in front of a chalet at the end of the road. As she got out of the car, she heard noises coming from behind the building. Neil Caputo was in the backyard, chopping wood. Short, fat, and with a beer belly hanging over the waistband of his pants, Caputo was even uglier than she remembered.
"Neil, how are you?"
Without stopping to look at her, he kept swinging the ax high above his bald head.
"Not bad, thanks. So you met Mr. Bolomey" The man's rudeness in failing to look at her or even to inquire about her well-being did not astonish Irina.
"Oh, you mean the guy in the car?"
"Yeah, he is nice, don't you think?" he sneered.
"Well”, said Irina, trying to be tactful, “let just say that he gets the job done! Neil, do you remember me?"
"Of course I do, you are Irina Vassileva, and if hadn't remembered, believe me, you would not be here. I had my, ah, lawyers, run a quick check on you before accepting this meeting. We met in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, right?".
"I'm delighted your memory is so clear".
Irina struggled to keep her tone civil, neutral.
"Well, my dear”, Caputo looked at her for the first time, letting his gaze wander salaciously over her body, “you are not the kind of woman that people easily forget, specially if you show up to a party in one of those countries".
Grinning voraciously he continued, “"What's the reason for this visit? Were you missing me perhaps?" As he laughed, his belly bounced and jiggled.
Despite her revulsion, Irina looked at him blandly.
Evenly and almost sweetly, she replied: "No, Neil, I need your expertise...can we go inside? May be you could offer me a cup of coffee since I didn't get to drink my tea"
As they strode to the house, Irina delicately picked her way though discarded gardening tools, and abandoned cardboard boxes. Inside a kitchen that had not seen a trace of cleaning in a decade, Irina sat on the edge of a chair. She looked at the book shelf along the wall in front of her. It was full of all sorts of objects, as well as discarded plates of food, but no books.
Next to it, a bald, naked female mannequin stood proudly next to the door, watching the threshold, draped with two ammunition belts and a M16 rifle. On the other end of the table Irina saw a pipe that certainly was not used to smoke Dunhill Tobacco. She turned to Caputo, busy at the sink with a kettle.
"Neil, how are you?"
Without stopping to look at her, he kept swinging the ax high above his bald head.
"Not bad, thanks. So you met Mr. Bolomey" The man's rudeness in failing to look at her or even to inquire about her well-being did not astonish Irina.
"Oh, you mean the guy in the car?"
"Yeah, he is nice, don't you think?" he sneered.
"Well”, said Irina, trying to be tactful, “let just say that he gets the job done! Neil, do you remember me?"
"Of course I do, you are Irina Vassileva, and if hadn't remembered, believe me, you would not be here. I had my, ah, lawyers, run a quick check on you before accepting this meeting. We met in Abu Dhabi a few years ago, right?".
"I'm delighted your memory is so clear".
Irina struggled to keep her tone civil, neutral.
"Well, my dear”, Caputo looked at her for the first time, letting his gaze wander salaciously over her body, “you are not the kind of woman that people easily forget, specially if you show up to a party in one of those countries".
Grinning voraciously he continued, “"What's the reason for this visit? Were you missing me perhaps?" As he laughed, his belly bounced and jiggled.
Despite her revulsion, Irina looked at him blandly.
Evenly and almost sweetly, she replied: "No, Neil, I need your expertise...can we go inside? May be you could offer me a cup of coffee since I didn't get to drink my tea"
As they strode to the house, Irina delicately picked her way though discarded gardening tools, and abandoned cardboard boxes. Inside a kitchen that had not seen a trace of cleaning in a decade, Irina sat on the edge of a chair. She looked at the book shelf along the wall in front of her. It was full of all sorts of objects, as well as discarded plates of food, but no books.
Next to it, a bald, naked female mannequin stood proudly next to the door, watching the threshold, draped with two ammunition belts and a M16 rifle. On the other end of the table Irina saw a pipe that certainly was not used to smoke Dunhill Tobacco. She turned to Caputo, busy at the sink with a kettle.
November 7th, Turin, Italy, No 44
Martina woke up in a bad mood. Untangling herself from Carlo's arms and legs of Carlo who, she felt, almost kept her prisoner in the bed, she went to the shower. He slept, oblivious to her departure.
The dark marmoreal floor of the bathroom contrasted vividly with the honey-brown one of the hallway separating the bedroom and the bathroom. Carlo's apartment in Turin, was located in Corso Vittorio, not far from the shore of the River Po, at the foot of the magnificent hills separating the town from the vast agricultural region at the south. The house was an old piemontese baroque mansion which belonged to an old man, a count linked to the Savoy family. The elderly man reluctantly divided the mansion into apartments in order to keep up with at least the most important aspects of his lifestyle. Galloping inflation, new taxes, and a lack of new resources had made it difficult for the very inner circle of the old patrician society to stay alive with the decency formerly afforded by their class.
Even with the help of the soothing warm water caressing her taut body, Martina ached with depression.
She'd spent long hours thinking about the reasons for her pain, and the process had been very unpleasant because, by habit, she was not given to introspection.
Her life up to now had been simple.
Her professional life was far from boring, providing her with intellectual stimulation and an outlet for creativity.
Her private life, though superficially happy, was, she realized, at least content.
But now she was miserable.
Since Zeno had met that woman, Irina, her life had filled with constant irritants.
Martina's emotions vacillated erratically, as first she cursed Zeno, then his brother, then the Russian bitch, as she called the intruder, then herself.
She knew she needed to sort out the shit that was clogging her brain.
Uncomfortable in her own skin, she was furious that she couldn't see through the irrationality of this emotional noise, but deep inside she was floundering, incapable of sorting through the muddle of feelings.
Then, suddenly, shocked as if by a revelation, she began to reach across her own multiple defenses, the protective barriers she'd built in her brain to help her live a simple and agreeable life.
Her arms fell along her body and she stood there, immobile, as rivulets of water streamed over her hard body.
Listening to her inner soul, she finally let go and unpacked deeply inner secrets.
She had forbidden herself to love Zeno, the man that had really captured her hart, because, she rationalized, she didn't want to jeopardize their professional ventures. Now, as she stood there squeezing her eyes shut against the spray, Martina realized there were other, abstruse reasons for not allowing herself to admit she loved him -reasons that painfully defied words.
Having constructed such a shield between herself and Zeno had generated two side effects. The first was that she had launched into a relationship with the man that most resembled Zeno, his brother Carlo, and the second was that Zeno, with the typical lack of sensitivity she thought most men had, was going through life sampling lovers and totally ignoring her.
Up until now, she'd been unaffected by this aloofness or by his recreational affairs, and had found a kind of vicarious pleasure in watching, because Zeno's affair had never lasted long enough to take him from her.
But this time Martina sensed that the opportunistic Russian bitch would steal him away for good.
Zeno could actually be in love with another woman.
The though was too much for Martina.
She turned the shower to an icy jet, and with it her resolve.
Barriers restored once again, she decided that she needed to put even further distance between herself and Zeno -not so much to move on in her life, seeking the pleasure of new solitudes, but to truncate any further anguish.
The dark marmoreal floor of the bathroom contrasted vividly with the honey-brown one of the hallway separating the bedroom and the bathroom. Carlo's apartment in Turin, was located in Corso Vittorio, not far from the shore of the River Po, at the foot of the magnificent hills separating the town from the vast agricultural region at the south. The house was an old piemontese baroque mansion which belonged to an old man, a count linked to the Savoy family. The elderly man reluctantly divided the mansion into apartments in order to keep up with at least the most important aspects of his lifestyle. Galloping inflation, new taxes, and a lack of new resources had made it difficult for the very inner circle of the old patrician society to stay alive with the decency formerly afforded by their class.
Even with the help of the soothing warm water caressing her taut body, Martina ached with depression.
She'd spent long hours thinking about the reasons for her pain, and the process had been very unpleasant because, by habit, she was not given to introspection.
Her life up to now had been simple.
Her professional life was far from boring, providing her with intellectual stimulation and an outlet for creativity.
Her private life, though superficially happy, was, she realized, at least content.
But now she was miserable.
Since Zeno had met that woman, Irina, her life had filled with constant irritants.
Martina's emotions vacillated erratically, as first she cursed Zeno, then his brother, then the Russian bitch, as she called the intruder, then herself.
She knew she needed to sort out the shit that was clogging her brain.
Uncomfortable in her own skin, she was furious that she couldn't see through the irrationality of this emotional noise, but deep inside she was floundering, incapable of sorting through the muddle of feelings.
Then, suddenly, shocked as if by a revelation, she began to reach across her own multiple defenses, the protective barriers she'd built in her brain to help her live a simple and agreeable life.
Her arms fell along her body and she stood there, immobile, as rivulets of water streamed over her hard body.
Listening to her inner soul, she finally let go and unpacked deeply inner secrets.
She had forbidden herself to love Zeno, the man that had really captured her hart, because, she rationalized, she didn't want to jeopardize their professional ventures. Now, as she stood there squeezing her eyes shut against the spray, Martina realized there were other, abstruse reasons for not allowing herself to admit she loved him -reasons that painfully defied words.
Having constructed such a shield between herself and Zeno had generated two side effects. The first was that she had launched into a relationship with the man that most resembled Zeno, his brother Carlo, and the second was that Zeno, with the typical lack of sensitivity she thought most men had, was going through life sampling lovers and totally ignoring her.
Up until now, she'd been unaffected by this aloofness or by his recreational affairs, and had found a kind of vicarious pleasure in watching, because Zeno's affair had never lasted long enough to take him from her.
But this time Martina sensed that the opportunistic Russian bitch would steal him away for good.
Zeno could actually be in love with another woman.
The though was too much for Martina.
She turned the shower to an icy jet, and with it her resolve.
Barriers restored once again, she decided that she needed to put even further distance between herself and Zeno -not so much to move on in her life, seeking the pleasure of new solitudes, but to truncate any further anguish.
November 7th, Les Avants, Switzerland, No 43
Simple instructions were plainly typed on the unassuming white paper:
Drive alone to the village of Les Avants uphill of Montreux. Stop at the Café Le Relais. Order a tea. Say to the waiter "Un thé chaud, pas de crème. Non, amenez de la crème aussi". After five minutes, go to the back of the cafè and call form the public phone the number 928'55'23. You will receive further instruction then.
Irina was surprised by the curt, spare instruction, and by the “password phrase” that, she thought, was really stupid: "A hot tea, no cream. No, sorry, bring some cream too". Whoever had dreamt up that password, she thought, was an idiot because the phrase could have come out fortuitously from anyone of the cafè clients.
Irina pulled out her maps of the region. It took her a little while to locate the small village, actually an hamlet, not too far from Lausanne. She carefully folded the map, exposing the portion that would trace her route. Tossing the map and a phone into her stylish oversized leather bag, she grabbed a fur-lined coat and her sunglasses. As she entered the Lobby, Giovanni ran fetch the Porsche. He shot out of the underground like a bullet, screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel doors, leapt out and held the car's door for Irina. and kept the door of the Porsche open to let Irina in.
Wearing a rose bouclé Escada jacket and miniskirt, Irina gracefully folded her long legs into the car. Like all good Italians, Giovanni strategically placed himself to take advantage of viewing much as he could of Irina's beautiful legs as she lowered herself into the sports car.
And indeed, he got a good peek, as the flash of white thigh above the silky black stockings nearly caused him to choke. In an instant he raised his eyes, only to meet Irina's steady gaze. By then he knew that she knew, and when she smiled at him, keeping her eyes in his just a little bit longer than normal, he thought he would have a cardiac arrest.
Instantly she slammed the Porsche's door, threw the car into gear and pounded the accelerator, skilfully sending the car out of the property.
Irina enjoyed playing these little games with men around her -a little flirt here, a little there- just to confirm her power and control on them. Sex, however, and a few other games she liked to complement the sexual act, she reserved for the men she loved or at least admired. There were very few of them around.
She drove the Porsche along the lake shore to Lutry, one of the numerous villages named after the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. that have a name derived from the name of the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. Lutry, for example, stemmed from the latin name Lucius, Lucii, Cully, the next village to the east from Cullius, Cullii, and Prilly from Prilius, Prilii.
After Lutry she swung onto the Corniche road which runs all along the lake high up in the vineyards. The stretch of highway east of Lausanne is not only an incredible engineering achievement, but also allows to observe some extraordinary panoramic and beautiful views. The French Alps form the backdrop with their scintillating tops, carved with glistening glaciers and dark rock faces.
Luckily for Irina the cloud cover raised just enough for her to get at least a hint of what the full scenery must be on a clear day. From the highway it was possible to see how centuries of human work have manicured the slopes to take advantage of each single square meter of earth to grow grapes.
At the Montreux exit she started a steep ascent to Les Avants. She enjoyed driving the serpentine road with almost no traffic. Dense deciduous forests displayed their multicoloured autumn blanket of yellow, orange purple and brown leaves dramatically contrasted with the dark green, almost black tone of the coniferous stands.
This rich chromatic range was pleasing to the eye, but Irina was not ready to trade in the climate for the colors.
Another ten minutes and she was right in front of the Café Le Relais. Les Avants, like many other villages uphill of Montreux had a magnificent hotel-sanatorium, legacy from the era when rich British people would come to the "Geneva Lake Riviera" to quietly die of tuberculosis and other pulmonary diseases. These mammoth structures, with their elaborate jagged roof lines spiked with chimneys, were now empty and abandoned.
Visible for miles around, they resembled the dead dinosaurs that they are. The surrounding villages seemed dwarfed by comparison.
Quickly parking the Porsche, she walked back to the café and entered the tiny dark establishment.
The few dozen men inside immediately stopped talking, silently examining her from head to toe. It was like a scene in a western movie. They had never seen such an elegant and insolent beauty in "their café".
A waitress, ugly as a stormy night, approached Irina with a twisted grin.
"Bonjour Madame, qu'est-ce-que vous prenez? Good Morning, Madam, what would you like?"
Irina, trying her best shot at French recited the stilted "password".
It had the effect of a bomb on the lady who took off as a turbojet in the direction of the kitchen.
Irina waited patiently for five minutes, then proceeded towards the telephone. Lifting the receiver, she dialled and immediately, almost before the first ring, she heard a man voice.
"Take the road to the Col de Jaman, and drive uphill, until you hit a switch back at the end of a narrow valley. Stop there two minutes, beep the horn three times, then start again. Keep going straight when you find an intersection that shows a way to Caux. Four kilometres after that intersection you will be out of the forest. Cross a cattle grid. After another fifty meters there is a road maintenance garage. Stop there and wait. Be sure that you are alone. We will be checking". The caller rang off.
Irina generously pay for the her tea she never received, raced to the Porsche and took off in the direction indicated by the caller. Little wonder, the road was absolutely empty -no traffic- and happily so, because its width barely accommodated her car.
By the time she got at the appointed spot, she found herself driving on an open prairie, where it was possible to ascertain from a long distance that she was alone. She also understood the trick of the forced stop and sounding the horn. Given the narrowness of the road and the fact that there was no way out on the other side of the Col de Jaman, even if she had been escorted, it would have been a piece of cake to divert or waylay any secret escort.
She stopped her car and waited. If she guessed correctly, the man who gave her the instructions, or a partner of his, was observing her from a few kilometres away, perhaps from the slopes in front of her, already in the shadow. There, under a thick cover of vegetation, he would be practically invisible. She, on the other hand, was a sitting duck.
Indeed, a few minutes later a ramshackle old Opel station-wagon, the classic car of Swiss farmers, crept towards her at very low speed, on a cattle drive. The driver was a non-descript man, probably sixty-years-old, smoking a cigar, and wearing a slouched hat -the perfect stereotype of the Swiss peasant, delivering the milk produced by his cows.
The man didn't even stop, but gestured to her to follow him. Irina started her engine and followed.
After driving backwards down to the intersection marking Caux, they turned driving in tandem along a stretch of about twenty kilometres that completely confused Irina's sense of direction.
Then, suddenly, the man's car slowed to a crawl. He lowered his window and gestured to Irina to take a narrow dirt road that diverged from the main road and ascended very quickly along an oblique slope.
Drive alone to the village of Les Avants uphill of Montreux. Stop at the Café Le Relais. Order a tea. Say to the waiter "Un thé chaud, pas de crème. Non, amenez de la crème aussi". After five minutes, go to the back of the cafè and call form the public phone the number 928'55'23. You will receive further instruction then.
Irina was surprised by the curt, spare instruction, and by the “password phrase” that, she thought, was really stupid: "A hot tea, no cream. No, sorry, bring some cream too". Whoever had dreamt up that password, she thought, was an idiot because the phrase could have come out fortuitously from anyone of the cafè clients.
Irina pulled out her maps of the region. It took her a little while to locate the small village, actually an hamlet, not too far from Lausanne. She carefully folded the map, exposing the portion that would trace her route. Tossing the map and a phone into her stylish oversized leather bag, she grabbed a fur-lined coat and her sunglasses. As she entered the Lobby, Giovanni ran fetch the Porsche. He shot out of the underground like a bullet, screeched to a halt in front of the Hotel doors, leapt out and held the car's door for Irina. and kept the door of the Porsche open to let Irina in.
Wearing a rose bouclé Escada jacket and miniskirt, Irina gracefully folded her long legs into the car. Like all good Italians, Giovanni strategically placed himself to take advantage of viewing much as he could of Irina's beautiful legs as she lowered herself into the sports car.
And indeed, he got a good peek, as the flash of white thigh above the silky black stockings nearly caused him to choke. In an instant he raised his eyes, only to meet Irina's steady gaze. By then he knew that she knew, and when she smiled at him, keeping her eyes in his just a little bit longer than normal, he thought he would have a cardiac arrest.
Instantly she slammed the Porsche's door, threw the car into gear and pounded the accelerator, skilfully sending the car out of the property.
Irina enjoyed playing these little games with men around her -a little flirt here, a little there- just to confirm her power and control on them. Sex, however, and a few other games she liked to complement the sexual act, she reserved for the men she loved or at least admired. There were very few of them around.
She drove the Porsche along the lake shore to Lutry, one of the numerous villages named after the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. that have a name derived from the name of the Roman patrician who had a villa built there a couple thousand years ago. Lutry, for example, stemmed from the latin name Lucius, Lucii, Cully, the next village to the east from Cullius, Cullii, and Prilly from Prilius, Prilii.
After Lutry she swung onto the Corniche road which runs all along the lake high up in the vineyards. The stretch of highway east of Lausanne is not only an incredible engineering achievement, but also allows to observe some extraordinary panoramic and beautiful views. The French Alps form the backdrop with their scintillating tops, carved with glistening glaciers and dark rock faces.
Luckily for Irina the cloud cover raised just enough for her to get at least a hint of what the full scenery must be on a clear day. From the highway it was possible to see how centuries of human work have manicured the slopes to take advantage of each single square meter of earth to grow grapes.
At the Montreux exit she started a steep ascent to Les Avants. She enjoyed driving the serpentine road with almost no traffic. Dense deciduous forests displayed their multicoloured autumn blanket of yellow, orange purple and brown leaves dramatically contrasted with the dark green, almost black tone of the coniferous stands.
This rich chromatic range was pleasing to the eye, but Irina was not ready to trade in the climate for the colors.
Another ten minutes and she was right in front of the Café Le Relais. Les Avants, like many other villages uphill of Montreux had a magnificent hotel-sanatorium, legacy from the era when rich British people would come to the "Geneva Lake Riviera" to quietly die of tuberculosis and other pulmonary diseases. These mammoth structures, with their elaborate jagged roof lines spiked with chimneys, were now empty and abandoned.
Visible for miles around, they resembled the dead dinosaurs that they are. The surrounding villages seemed dwarfed by comparison.
Quickly parking the Porsche, she walked back to the café and entered the tiny dark establishment.
The few dozen men inside immediately stopped talking, silently examining her from head to toe. It was like a scene in a western movie. They had never seen such an elegant and insolent beauty in "their café".
A waitress, ugly as a stormy night, approached Irina with a twisted grin.
"Bonjour Madame, qu'est-ce-que vous prenez? Good Morning, Madam, what would you like?"
Irina, trying her best shot at French recited the stilted "password".
It had the effect of a bomb on the lady who took off as a turbojet in the direction of the kitchen.
Irina waited patiently for five minutes, then proceeded towards the telephone. Lifting the receiver, she dialled and immediately, almost before the first ring, she heard a man voice.
"Take the road to the Col de Jaman, and drive uphill, until you hit a switch back at the end of a narrow valley. Stop there two minutes, beep the horn three times, then start again. Keep going straight when you find an intersection that shows a way to Caux. Four kilometres after that intersection you will be out of the forest. Cross a cattle grid. After another fifty meters there is a road maintenance garage. Stop there and wait. Be sure that you are alone. We will be checking". The caller rang off.
Irina generously pay for the her tea she never received, raced to the Porsche and took off in the direction indicated by the caller. Little wonder, the road was absolutely empty -no traffic- and happily so, because its width barely accommodated her car.
By the time she got at the appointed spot, she found herself driving on an open prairie, where it was possible to ascertain from a long distance that she was alone. She also understood the trick of the forced stop and sounding the horn. Given the narrowness of the road and the fact that there was no way out on the other side of the Col de Jaman, even if she had been escorted, it would have been a piece of cake to divert or waylay any secret escort.
She stopped her car and waited. If she guessed correctly, the man who gave her the instructions, or a partner of his, was observing her from a few kilometres away, perhaps from the slopes in front of her, already in the shadow. There, under a thick cover of vegetation, he would be practically invisible. She, on the other hand, was a sitting duck.
Indeed, a few minutes later a ramshackle old Opel station-wagon, the classic car of Swiss farmers, crept towards her at very low speed, on a cattle drive. The driver was a non-descript man, probably sixty-years-old, smoking a cigar, and wearing a slouched hat -the perfect stereotype of the Swiss peasant, delivering the milk produced by his cows.
The man didn't even stop, but gestured to her to follow him. Irina started her engine and followed.
After driving backwards down to the intersection marking Caux, they turned driving in tandem along a stretch of about twenty kilometres that completely confused Irina's sense of direction.
Then, suddenly, the man's car slowed to a crawl. He lowered his window and gestured to Irina to take a narrow dirt road that diverged from the main road and ascended very quickly along an oblique slope.
November 7th Lausanne, Switzerland, No 42
The plane docked at the satellite terminal in Geneva airport.
Irina grimaced as she gazed through the aircraft window.
A uniform lead blanket covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
“One more of these days with a communist sky”, she thought, “gray from morning to dawn -a real psychological torture. Pure sensory deprivation”.
No wonder she found the Swiss, with their continual bustle and somber characters, tobe among the most boring and indolent people to be found on earth: never smiling, not shining, no nothing -just like their skies.
Irina remembered Zeno telling her that he had married a Swiss woman -his "youth mistake" -as he had conied the whole experience. Poor chap, she thought, but on the other hand, he had stayed married long enough to produce three kids. Irina felt a strong attraction for the man, but, if he had been that stupid and slow reacting once, she should probably observe him carefully before letting her heart go. Irina hated false starts. After all, she was not a teenager, falling in love without even knowing it, and at her age, she was beginning to desire settling down in a long-lasting relationship -but not with an idiot!
It took a while to dock at the satellite gate and when Irina finally got at the door of the plane she felt the humid of the air and that cold bite she hated so much.
In her rented Porsche, the ride took her a little more than 35 minutes from the airport to Lausanne. Her destination was Ouchy, the lake shore portion of the town where the Beau Rivage Palace stands majestically.
She sped past the Roman ruins a Lausanne Bellerive, continued on the lake-shore boulevard, passing adjacent swimming pools, and finally reached the Ouchy area. From Roman times, through all nine hundred years of the Middle Ages, up to the present, the lake-harbour of Lausanne supported commerce, fishing and tourism.
Ouchy had been absorbed by the town of Lausanne and contributed to the tourist industry with several Hotels, among which the most prestigious is the Beau Rivage.
Irina relaxed with the pleasure of driving once again. For Irina, driving the powerful little sports car was like a swim in a cool pool after a long afternoon in the heat of the desert. She savoured the sparkling and refreshing sensation of controlling a couple hundred horse power that responded to her every command.
Being a connoisseur of the good things of life, Irina had a suite booked at the Beau Rivage by Schwayb, her agent. This was not the first time she had enjoyed the luxuries of this Hotel, and from a culinary point of view, she particularly relished a few days in Lausanne.
Pulling up to the front of the Beau Rivage, she left the car for the valet, an old Italian named Giovanni, who remembered Irina from her last visit.
He silently took the Porsche into the brand new underground parking carved into the hill just behind the hotel.
As soon as she reached her suite, Irina noticed a sealed envelope elegantly set in the middle of the fresh fruit basket sent by the management.
At first she thought it was the standard VIP welcoming letter of the house, but when she tore it open she noticed that it was written on standard letter paper, devoid of the flashy, ornamental letterhead generally used for such messages.
Her heart raced. Maybe she had not wasted her trip after all.
Irina grimaced as she gazed through the aircraft window.
A uniform lead blanket covered the sky from horizon to horizon.
“One more of these days with a communist sky”, she thought, “gray from morning to dawn -a real psychological torture. Pure sensory deprivation”.
No wonder she found the Swiss, with their continual bustle and somber characters, tobe among the most boring and indolent people to be found on earth: never smiling, not shining, no nothing -just like their skies.
Irina remembered Zeno telling her that he had married a Swiss woman -his "youth mistake" -as he had conied the whole experience. Poor chap, she thought, but on the other hand, he had stayed married long enough to produce three kids. Irina felt a strong attraction for the man, but, if he had been that stupid and slow reacting once, she should probably observe him carefully before letting her heart go. Irina hated false starts. After all, she was not a teenager, falling in love without even knowing it, and at her age, she was beginning to desire settling down in a long-lasting relationship -but not with an idiot!
It took a while to dock at the satellite gate and when Irina finally got at the door of the plane she felt the humid of the air and that cold bite she hated so much.
In her rented Porsche, the ride took her a little more than 35 minutes from the airport to Lausanne. Her destination was Ouchy, the lake shore portion of the town where the Beau Rivage Palace stands majestically.
She sped past the Roman ruins a Lausanne Bellerive, continued on the lake-shore boulevard, passing adjacent swimming pools, and finally reached the Ouchy area. From Roman times, through all nine hundred years of the Middle Ages, up to the present, the lake-harbour of Lausanne supported commerce, fishing and tourism.
Ouchy had been absorbed by the town of Lausanne and contributed to the tourist industry with several Hotels, among which the most prestigious is the Beau Rivage.
Irina relaxed with the pleasure of driving once again. For Irina, driving the powerful little sports car was like a swim in a cool pool after a long afternoon in the heat of the desert. She savoured the sparkling and refreshing sensation of controlling a couple hundred horse power that responded to her every command.
Being a connoisseur of the good things of life, Irina had a suite booked at the Beau Rivage by Schwayb, her agent. This was not the first time she had enjoyed the luxuries of this Hotel, and from a culinary point of view, she particularly relished a few days in Lausanne.
Pulling up to the front of the Beau Rivage, she left the car for the valet, an old Italian named Giovanni, who remembered Irina from her last visit.
He silently took the Porsche into the brand new underground parking carved into the hill just behind the hotel.
As soon as she reached her suite, Irina noticed a sealed envelope elegantly set in the middle of the fresh fruit basket sent by the management.
At first she thought it was the standard VIP welcoming letter of the house, but when she tore it open she noticed that it was written on standard letter paper, devoid of the flashy, ornamental letterhead generally used for such messages.
Her heart raced. Maybe she had not wasted her trip after all.
November 6th, 23h45 Sheraton Hotel, Muscat, Oman, No 41
Captain Cooper had deployed his satellite telephone/fax and dialling the special numeric sequence that would branch him on a decrypting line at CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
Sitting in a deep arm chair across from his colleague, Deutch sipped a glass of twelve-year-old Glen Livet diluted with tap water. A true connoisseur of all the subtleties of the scotch, he had picked up the habit after receiving a full course on the matter by a British Air Force officer in London. From him, Deutch had learned that the ethers making the aroma of the whisky are water soluble and release their maximum strength at 15-18 degrees Celsius, that is, the usual temperature of tap water. Anything colder, he'd been cautioned, inhibits the solution, thus impairing the development if the aroma. Thus, the British had brilliantly concluded, scotch on the rocks should be banned forever from the face of the earth.
Deutch watched Cooper's fingers flying across the keyboard, entering his simple, factual report:
"Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Our civilian contact has connected us with an individual potentially linked with current operation BABEL TOWER, a Caucasian male, Dr. Zeno Santucci.
Santucci was first-hand witness of telecom and navigational systems' temporary failure in South Oman desert, general Qurum region.
This individual is the first non-military witness.
Note: that disturbance, like the other noticed by US Air Force Command at Al Jasirah Base, was local in time and geographic extension and happened during severe storm conditions, i.e. when the limited amount of air traffic over that portion of the desert was grounded for meteorological reasons.
Ask instructions on witness follow-up"
A few minutes after, just the time necessary to prepare another scotch, the screen lit-up with the message:
"Please enter password: ********"
Immediately Cooper entered the sequence and the screen filled with data from headquarters' operation room:
"REPLY to Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Subject: Santucci Zeno; brother to Carlo, sons of Alberto Santucci (deceased).
Alberto Santucci records show heavy involvement with organised crime syndicate.
Possession of military grade telecom devices and navigational systems to be considered as a possible threat.
Zeno and brother Carlo Santucci to be considered as suspects, until further notice.
Extend scope of operation BABEL TOWER to monitor Zeno and Carlo Santucci worldwide.
Monitor and report daily.
No intervention unless explicitly ordered by this HQ.
Notification of reception of this message is required.
End of transmission"
"Whoah, what d'ya think about this?", Cooper asked Deutch who was peering over his shoulder.
"Well, let me tell you, either this Santucci guy is a real nasty crook, or he's an idiot who has wandered into a scene that he can't even comprehend! And as far as I know, he could pull his brother and God know who into the slaughterhouse"
Sitting in a deep arm chair across from his colleague, Deutch sipped a glass of twelve-year-old Glen Livet diluted with tap water. A true connoisseur of all the subtleties of the scotch, he had picked up the habit after receiving a full course on the matter by a British Air Force officer in London. From him, Deutch had learned that the ethers making the aroma of the whisky are water soluble and release their maximum strength at 15-18 degrees Celsius, that is, the usual temperature of tap water. Anything colder, he'd been cautioned, inhibits the solution, thus impairing the development if the aroma. Thus, the British had brilliantly concluded, scotch on the rocks should be banned forever from the face of the earth.
Deutch watched Cooper's fingers flying across the keyboard, entering his simple, factual report:
"Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Our civilian contact has connected us with an individual potentially linked with current operation BABEL TOWER, a Caucasian male, Dr. Zeno Santucci.
Santucci was first-hand witness of telecom and navigational systems' temporary failure in South Oman desert, general Qurum region.
This individual is the first non-military witness.
Note: that disturbance, like the other noticed by US Air Force Command at Al Jasirah Base, was local in time and geographic extension and happened during severe storm conditions, i.e. when the limited amount of air traffic over that portion of the desert was grounded for meteorological reasons.
Ask instructions on witness follow-up"
A few minutes after, just the time necessary to prepare another scotch, the screen lit-up with the message:
"Please enter password: ********"
Immediately Cooper entered the sequence and the screen filled with data from headquarters' operation room:
"REPLY to Cooper/Deutch report #004: operation BABEL TOWER
Subject: Santucci Zeno; brother to Carlo, sons of Alberto Santucci (deceased).
Alberto Santucci records show heavy involvement with organised crime syndicate.
Possession of military grade telecom devices and navigational systems to be considered as a possible threat.
Zeno and brother Carlo Santucci to be considered as suspects, until further notice.
Extend scope of operation BABEL TOWER to monitor Zeno and Carlo Santucci worldwide.
Monitor and report daily.
No intervention unless explicitly ordered by this HQ.
Notification of reception of this message is required.
End of transmission"
"Whoah, what d'ya think about this?", Cooper asked Deutch who was peering over his shoulder.
"Well, let me tell you, either this Santucci guy is a real nasty crook, or he's an idiot who has wandered into a scene that he can't even comprehend! And as far as I know, he could pull his brother and God know who into the slaughterhouse"
November 6th, Muscat, Medinat Al Quaboos, Oman, No 40
"Well Sir”, Deutch hastened, “you know it was an extremely violent meteorogical event, and it even disrupted some of our equipment, especially some of our planes equipped with radar surveillance systems. It was like a EMP, an Electromagnetic Pulse, hit our systems, quite strange for a meteorological event to generate such a strong pulse! That's why, we have been told, back home there's a preliminary investigation into the effects of that storm currently under-way. You might help us out if you could tell us precisely what you observed and where you were when you got into trouble? I'm sure any detailed information from a person who was on the ground would be precious for our technical people".
"Sure", answered Zeno, becoming curious about why they were so interested in hearing his story, and why they needed to know precisely his position at that time, given the phenomena was apparently of such a large scale to impact the US Air Force in the Indian Ocean.
He shrugged.
Americans could be so intense, and he couldn't see any reason not to be explicit about his experience.
He continued with his story.
"I wasn't far from Qurum, when all of the sudden my G.P.S. went crazy. At first it started oscillating, but then I got consistently wrong information on my screen."
"Well, Dr. Santucci, how do you know that it was wrong, did you get lost?"
"No, luckily, with the help of a local Bedouin, my driver and I eventually found our track out of the wadi where we were almost engulfed by a flash flood. But the reason why I know that the G.P.S. was actually giving wrong information is that I have a special model that allows me to compare the G.P.S. data with a satellite image, on the same screen".
Zeno caught Deutch and Cooper glance at each other a fraction of a second too long. He interpreted their eye movement as a signal that he had either really impressed them with the capabilities of his brother's "toy" or that he'd said something they weren't expecting.
Almost to confirm Zeno's thoughts, Cooper asked quietly:
"Is this G.P.S. An American product?"
"Oh no, it's an Italian prototype, soon to be put into commercial production by a company called TRSI, in Turin, Italy, my brother's company"
"Hmmm”, said Deutch nodding vigorously, “I'd really be interested in earning more about this tool!".
Zeno slipped a business card from a thin gold case in his pocket, scribed TRSI's phone number on the back and handed the business card to Deutch.
"This is my card, and on the back I've marked the number of my brother's company. Call him, he'll give you all the information on his "toys". I'm sure that you will find out a lot of interesting and innovative devices. You certainly realize that European telecom industries are at the leading edge in the field"
Both Cooper and Deutch looked at him like most Americans do, when they learn that the rest of the world has already invented hot water. With a condescending smile, Cooper said:
"Sure, thanks. By the way, here's my card, Dr. Santucci. If you remember anything special about that storm -or any other natural phenomenon that influences your equipment, here or elsewhere, please, don't hesitate to let me know. I'm personally very interested in finding out more about the disturbances affecting your equipment.”
He looked sincerely into Zeno's eyes, a little too sincerely, Zeno though.
Cooper smoothed over the urgency of his request with a boyish grin and an extended hand.
“I'd greatly appreciate you help”, he said congenially.
Grasping the friendly hand and the masked message, Zeno nodded politely, but this time Zeno was sure. All these stories... The two US officers were a bunch of liars. The State Department and the US Air Force knew very well what had happened out there in the desert, and were very curious to learn more about it, beyond finding a remedy to the disturbances experienced by their own equipment.
Zeno spent some more time at the party, then, tired from the journey, he excused himself and went upstairs. A few of the ladies watched his exit longingly, and more than one of them entertained the fantasy of following him. But Zeno slipped into bed -alone- and fell asleep almost immediately, despite the unbelievable clamor from the partying crowd that lasted well into the night.
"Sure", answered Zeno, becoming curious about why they were so interested in hearing his story, and why they needed to know precisely his position at that time, given the phenomena was apparently of such a large scale to impact the US Air Force in the Indian Ocean.
He shrugged.
Americans could be so intense, and he couldn't see any reason not to be explicit about his experience.
He continued with his story.
"I wasn't far from Qurum, when all of the sudden my G.P.S. went crazy. At first it started oscillating, but then I got consistently wrong information on my screen."
"Well, Dr. Santucci, how do you know that it was wrong, did you get lost?"
"No, luckily, with the help of a local Bedouin, my driver and I eventually found our track out of the wadi where we were almost engulfed by a flash flood. But the reason why I know that the G.P.S. was actually giving wrong information is that I have a special model that allows me to compare the G.P.S. data with a satellite image, on the same screen".
Zeno caught Deutch and Cooper glance at each other a fraction of a second too long. He interpreted their eye movement as a signal that he had either really impressed them with the capabilities of his brother's "toy" or that he'd said something they weren't expecting.
Almost to confirm Zeno's thoughts, Cooper asked quietly:
"Is this G.P.S. An American product?"
"Oh no, it's an Italian prototype, soon to be put into commercial production by a company called TRSI, in Turin, Italy, my brother's company"
"Hmmm”, said Deutch nodding vigorously, “I'd really be interested in earning more about this tool!".
Zeno slipped a business card from a thin gold case in his pocket, scribed TRSI's phone number on the back and handed the business card to Deutch.
"This is my card, and on the back I've marked the number of my brother's company. Call him, he'll give you all the information on his "toys". I'm sure that you will find out a lot of interesting and innovative devices. You certainly realize that European telecom industries are at the leading edge in the field"
Both Cooper and Deutch looked at him like most Americans do, when they learn that the rest of the world has already invented hot water. With a condescending smile, Cooper said:
"Sure, thanks. By the way, here's my card, Dr. Santucci. If you remember anything special about that storm -or any other natural phenomenon that influences your equipment, here or elsewhere, please, don't hesitate to let me know. I'm personally very interested in finding out more about the disturbances affecting your equipment.”
He looked sincerely into Zeno's eyes, a little too sincerely, Zeno though.
Cooper smoothed over the urgency of his request with a boyish grin and an extended hand.
“I'd greatly appreciate you help”, he said congenially.
Grasping the friendly hand and the masked message, Zeno nodded politely, but this time Zeno was sure. All these stories... The two US officers were a bunch of liars. The State Department and the US Air Force knew very well what had happened out there in the desert, and were very curious to learn more about it, beyond finding a remedy to the disturbances experienced by their own equipment.
Zeno spent some more time at the party, then, tired from the journey, he excused himself and went upstairs. A few of the ladies watched his exit longingly, and more than one of them entertained the fantasy of following him. But Zeno slipped into bed -alone- and fell asleep almost immediately, despite the unbelievable clamor from the partying crowd that lasted well into the night.
November 6th, Muscat, Medinat Al Quaboos, Oman, No 39
Just before leaving Qurum Zeno received a detailed fax describing a new job in Vancouver, British Columbia. The job came with a somber story concerning an apparent real estate scam involving two international groups. From his experience in Switzerland he recognized one of them -ROTHIDA International Holding AG -a company known to swim in the international real estate markets like a shark in a sea lions' kindergarten. He didn't blink an eye when he learned that his new clients, a Japanese group, suspected ROTHIDA was behind a plot to defraud them of a massive amount of money.
The air shuttle trip was as uneventful as it could be. Though tossed about the last few minutes before landing, Zeno again had the opportunity to take in the breath taking city scape adorned by a cobalt blue sea meeting the dark green palm gardens along the shore.
After the camp in Qurum, Muscat looked like a metropolis, a mirage in the desert with its gleaming white houses of the luxury neighborhoods in the outskirts of the old town.
After a quick phone to the Al Bustan, Zeno knew tha Martina had left for Europe on the 4th. He felt a strange liberation; she kept him far too preoccupied these past few days. Time to turn his mind to other things. Zeno gladly accepted the invitation to stay with his business agent in Oman, Steve Falcon, a giant of a man with Texan-Australian heritage. Falcon's house looked more like a castle than a house. Surrounded by sumptuous walled gardens, the mansion's foyer opened on a majestic hall from which a monumental stair case cascaded from an airy-filled second floor.
Formally greeted by one of Falcon's assistants, who apologized for his boss's delayed arrival, Zeno followed a house boy across the cool marble floor to the plush-carpeted stairs. Beckoning from beyond the hall there was a full-sized bar, a replica of a classic British pub, with towering dark mahogany panels and an expanse mirror behind the ever-present barman. The stock of booze was as impressive as the bar, and several fine beers were on tap. Zeno smiled as he glanced into the bar's darkened interior. Falcon needed such a logistic support for his parties, which were famous all over Muscat.
After settling into the elegantly appointed guest room Zeno took a moment to contact the key ESR personnel in his Vancouver office. Using his brother G.P.S unit, which had redeemed itself by working smoothly as ever, he began organizing the first details for his newest clients.
Zeno folded down the machine'slid as Falcon stroded into the room, two beer cans in his enormous hands. Blending a cheery greeting with snapping open the cans, Falcon sank in a chair opposite his old friend. Their conversation seemed to pick up exactly where it had left off the last time they saw each other six weeks ago. There had never been pretense or awkwardness in their friendship. Zeno relaxed, comfortable in familiar, hospitable surroundings. They chatted easily for an hour or so, downing several more beers.
Falcon rose to leave, then turned to his friend: "Zeno, tomorrow I'm throwing a party here. A few friends, nothing special, but there are a couple people I'd like you to meet".
Zeno knew very well what Falcon meant by "a few friends". The guest list would be neither modest nor random.
Of course, it went without saying that important and influential guests would enjoy his friend's lavish hospitality.
"Who are these people you want me to meet?"
"Well, there are two US military officers you may find interesting. These guys work in the embassy smoothing out any possible problems araising from the massive US presence in the Arabian Peninsula, and particularly on the islands of the Arabian Sea.
The next night, the party was indeed, as Zeno had foreseen, an immense gathering of people, all enjoying sumptuous food as well as the vast stock of liquor and beer Falcon had laid in for the occasion.
In the crowded room, a few women, mostly wives of executives, shimmered like exotically colored flowers around the shallow dark pools of oil field conversations. As Zeno entered the room, each glanced his way, intrigued by the handsome stranger.
Totally saturated with the boredom of compound living, these women probably would have welcomed the company, if not the attention of a man like Zeno.
But unfortunately for the ladies, Zeno was not at all interested in them. Quickly enveloped by a group of prospecting engineers who had worked with him or knew him by reputation, Zeno found himself conversing passionately about his latest experiences in the water treatment field.
The conversation was in full flight when Falcon, with the lack of tact and discretion that sometimes characterizes a man of his stature, unceremoniously interrupted the group.
"Sorry guys, I need to introduce Zeno to some friends of mine". He grasped Zeno's elbow, and guided him toward a lone man standing at the end of the bar.
"Hey mate, this is Zeno, the guy I told you about yesterday that almost got lost in desert two days ago."
Zeno was used to Falcon's informal introductions, but he was a little taken back by the fact that Falcon had apparently been telling stories about his adventures in the desert. Before Zeno could utter a word, the man thrust out a hand and with a wide grin said: "Sir, my name is Dave Cooper, Captain Dave Cooper, nice to meet you Mr...?" .
"Oh, sorry", fumbled Zeno, still a little taken aback by Falcon's offhand introduction,"Dr. Santucci, ESR, Earth Systems Research” he glanced at Falcon who was oblivious to Zenos's mild annoyance. Turning back to Cooper, he smiled, “Yes, indeed, I happened indeed to be out in the field on November 4th in a severe storm, and my G.P.S. got all messed up"
Before Zeno could finish his explanation, the three men were joined by a tall red-haired man with piercing blue eyes. Extending a hand, he leaned towards Zeno, never breaking eye contact. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Santucci, my name is Kenneth Deutch, US Air Force".
"Ah, two military people in civvies...are you guys working with the Omani government?" said Zeno without letting them know that Falcon had filled him earlier in the afternoon.
"Well not exactly. Let's just say we're facilitators and, ehm, you know, it is a lot easier if work without the formality of uniforms -we're a little less conspicuous and we avoid too much attention and talk"
"Yeah, I understand", added Zeno,"so, going back to the storm the other day..."
The air shuttle trip was as uneventful as it could be. Though tossed about the last few minutes before landing, Zeno again had the opportunity to take in the breath taking city scape adorned by a cobalt blue sea meeting the dark green palm gardens along the shore.
After the camp in Qurum, Muscat looked like a metropolis, a mirage in the desert with its gleaming white houses of the luxury neighborhoods in the outskirts of the old town.
After a quick phone to the Al Bustan, Zeno knew tha Martina had left for Europe on the 4th. He felt a strange liberation; she kept him far too preoccupied these past few days. Time to turn his mind to other things. Zeno gladly accepted the invitation to stay with his business agent in Oman, Steve Falcon, a giant of a man with Texan-Australian heritage. Falcon's house looked more like a castle than a house. Surrounded by sumptuous walled gardens, the mansion's foyer opened on a majestic hall from which a monumental stair case cascaded from an airy-filled second floor.
Formally greeted by one of Falcon's assistants, who apologized for his boss's delayed arrival, Zeno followed a house boy across the cool marble floor to the plush-carpeted stairs. Beckoning from beyond the hall there was a full-sized bar, a replica of a classic British pub, with towering dark mahogany panels and an expanse mirror behind the ever-present barman. The stock of booze was as impressive as the bar, and several fine beers were on tap. Zeno smiled as he glanced into the bar's darkened interior. Falcon needed such a logistic support for his parties, which were famous all over Muscat.
After settling into the elegantly appointed guest room Zeno took a moment to contact the key ESR personnel in his Vancouver office. Using his brother G.P.S unit, which had redeemed itself by working smoothly as ever, he began organizing the first details for his newest clients.
Zeno folded down the machine'slid as Falcon stroded into the room, two beer cans in his enormous hands. Blending a cheery greeting with snapping open the cans, Falcon sank in a chair opposite his old friend. Their conversation seemed to pick up exactly where it had left off the last time they saw each other six weeks ago. There had never been pretense or awkwardness in their friendship. Zeno relaxed, comfortable in familiar, hospitable surroundings. They chatted easily for an hour or so, downing several more beers.
Falcon rose to leave, then turned to his friend: "Zeno, tomorrow I'm throwing a party here. A few friends, nothing special, but there are a couple people I'd like you to meet".
Zeno knew very well what Falcon meant by "a few friends". The guest list would be neither modest nor random.
Of course, it went without saying that important and influential guests would enjoy his friend's lavish hospitality.
"Who are these people you want me to meet?"
"Well, there are two US military officers you may find interesting. These guys work in the embassy smoothing out any possible problems araising from the massive US presence in the Arabian Peninsula, and particularly on the islands of the Arabian Sea.
The next night, the party was indeed, as Zeno had foreseen, an immense gathering of people, all enjoying sumptuous food as well as the vast stock of liquor and beer Falcon had laid in for the occasion.
In the crowded room, a few women, mostly wives of executives, shimmered like exotically colored flowers around the shallow dark pools of oil field conversations. As Zeno entered the room, each glanced his way, intrigued by the handsome stranger.
Totally saturated with the boredom of compound living, these women probably would have welcomed the company, if not the attention of a man like Zeno.
But unfortunately for the ladies, Zeno was not at all interested in them. Quickly enveloped by a group of prospecting engineers who had worked with him or knew him by reputation, Zeno found himself conversing passionately about his latest experiences in the water treatment field.
The conversation was in full flight when Falcon, with the lack of tact and discretion that sometimes characterizes a man of his stature, unceremoniously interrupted the group.
"Sorry guys, I need to introduce Zeno to some friends of mine". He grasped Zeno's elbow, and guided him toward a lone man standing at the end of the bar.
"Hey mate, this is Zeno, the guy I told you about yesterday that almost got lost in desert two days ago."
Zeno was used to Falcon's informal introductions, but he was a little taken back by the fact that Falcon had apparently been telling stories about his adventures in the desert. Before Zeno could utter a word, the man thrust out a hand and with a wide grin said: "Sir, my name is Dave Cooper, Captain Dave Cooper, nice to meet you Mr...?" .
"Oh, sorry", fumbled Zeno, still a little taken aback by Falcon's offhand introduction,"Dr. Santucci, ESR, Earth Systems Research” he glanced at Falcon who was oblivious to Zenos's mild annoyance. Turning back to Cooper, he smiled, “Yes, indeed, I happened indeed to be out in the field on November 4th in a severe storm, and my G.P.S. got all messed up"
Before Zeno could finish his explanation, the three men were joined by a tall red-haired man with piercing blue eyes. Extending a hand, he leaned towards Zeno, never breaking eye contact. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Santucci, my name is Kenneth Deutch, US Air Force".
"Ah, two military people in civvies...are you guys working with the Omani government?" said Zeno without letting them know that Falcon had filled him earlier in the afternoon.
"Well not exactly. Let's just say we're facilitators and, ehm, you know, it is a lot easier if work without the formality of uniforms -we're a little less conspicuous and we avoid too much attention and talk"
"Yeah, I understand", added Zeno,"so, going back to the storm the other day..."
November 4th, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman-Amsterdam Schipol, No 38
It was a stab in the dark: first to find Caputo, and then to convince him to help her, but, given her desperate situation, it was worth trying. She remembered prodding him with questions about his whereabouts and his enterprising endeavors, that he was somewhere in Switzerland -and of course- that she has still the fax number.
Catapulting from the bed Irina rushed to the adjoining room, shedding the peach silk negligée as she snapped open the lid of her laptop. After quickly retrieving a number from her PC's database, she fired off a fax that she hoped would connect her with the elusive Caputo.
A few phone calls later, she emerged dressed, packed, and on her way to the airport. Her agent, Schwayb, had arranged a reservation for her on the first flight to Europe, connecting to Geneva on a KLM flight departing at 00:45AM. As Irina's limousine slipped silently through the velvet night she calmly reviewed her plan.
Logically, she knew that the trip was probably a waste of time -she hadn't seen or heard from Caputo in years- but she had to do something, because she was going crazy in Muscat, frustrated by the curtain of silence that had been drawn around the disappearance of her containers.
Irina hated flying, especially flying at night, because she couldn't see anything. It was vulnerability that she concealed from everyone, for fear of revealing a personal weakness. On the plane she drowned her anxiety in a bottle of Moët Chandon while she observed the boring Dutch oil engineers that filled most of the cabins. They had been carefully segregated in the three passenger classes, mirroring their positions in the oil company's hierarchy. Bored, Irina took a pill that put her to sleep for a solid six hours.
From Amsterdam-Schiphol, the cleanest and more efficient airport in continental Europe, at least from Irina's point of view, she called her hotel in Lausanne and inquired about messages. Anticipating her arrival, they confirmed her suite, but relayed that there were no messages. Feeling the void of disappointment, she began wondering if she had reacted too quickly; perhaps the attempt to connect with Caputo would be a waste. Quickly she left the VIP lounge for an impromptu appointment at the newly installed massage parlor in the intercontinental wing.
After delicious pampering, Irina was fresh and full of energy. She wandered into the DeBeers shop, the emerald eyes expertly appraising the glittering array.
But Irina was restless, not at all in the mood for shopping. A nagging voice in her soul reminded her that diamonds on her fingers would be of little use where her partner was going to send her if she couldn't get the stuff back -indeed, if she had any fingers left at all.
The obsequious shop manager, recognizing Irina's lithe elegance, hastened to the floor, only to see his prized customer briskly vanish into the faceless throng beyond the gilded glass doors.
Catapulting from the bed Irina rushed to the adjoining room, shedding the peach silk negligée as she snapped open the lid of her laptop. After quickly retrieving a number from her PC's database, she fired off a fax that she hoped would connect her with the elusive Caputo.
A few phone calls later, she emerged dressed, packed, and on her way to the airport. Her agent, Schwayb, had arranged a reservation for her on the first flight to Europe, connecting to Geneva on a KLM flight departing at 00:45AM. As Irina's limousine slipped silently through the velvet night she calmly reviewed her plan.
Logically, she knew that the trip was probably a waste of time -she hadn't seen or heard from Caputo in years- but she had to do something, because she was going crazy in Muscat, frustrated by the curtain of silence that had been drawn around the disappearance of her containers.
Irina hated flying, especially flying at night, because she couldn't see anything. It was vulnerability that she concealed from everyone, for fear of revealing a personal weakness. On the plane she drowned her anxiety in a bottle of Moët Chandon while she observed the boring Dutch oil engineers that filled most of the cabins. They had been carefully segregated in the three passenger classes, mirroring their positions in the oil company's hierarchy. Bored, Irina took a pill that put her to sleep for a solid six hours.
From Amsterdam-Schiphol, the cleanest and more efficient airport in continental Europe, at least from Irina's point of view, she called her hotel in Lausanne and inquired about messages. Anticipating her arrival, they confirmed her suite, but relayed that there were no messages. Feeling the void of disappointment, she began wondering if she had reacted too quickly; perhaps the attempt to connect with Caputo would be a waste. Quickly she left the VIP lounge for an impromptu appointment at the newly installed massage parlor in the intercontinental wing.
After delicious pampering, Irina was fresh and full of energy. She wandered into the DeBeers shop, the emerald eyes expertly appraising the glittering array.
But Irina was restless, not at all in the mood for shopping. A nagging voice in her soul reminded her that diamonds on her fingers would be of little use where her partner was going to send her if she couldn't get the stuff back -indeed, if she had any fingers left at all.
The obsequious shop manager, recognizing Irina's lithe elegance, hastened to the floor, only to see his prized customer briskly vanish into the faceless throng beyond the gilded glass doors.
November 4th, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman, No 37
Geneva....Switzerland...., her mind began to click in a series of free associations; Switzerland....watches, jewels, diamonds, no that wasn't it. Amsterdam, jewels again. Her brain raced, tugging at her memory, sorting old facts, scattering past experiences: jewels -jewelers -rich Arabs -no! She exploded on the logical connection her mind had been seeking: jewelers -expatriate Americans!...Of course!
Switzerland -jeweler -expatriate American! She'd triggered the memory of an old acquaintance of hers -that son of a bitch of Neil Caputo! He was a foolish, but crafty American scientist of obvious Italian origin, an oil engineer, who dabbed in jewellery as a hobby. He had previously worked in the field of satellite imagery, but had gotten into trouble several years ago, after violating his corporation's policies. He had been discovered using his company's telecom network to deal in gold and semiprecious stones from a Middle Eastern country.
Caputo had sampled various clients for his “hobbies” in Europe and the US. There had even been rumours that he was not only dealing jewels, but also “other substances” -not exactly the kind of publicity oil companies love! To top it off, he'd apparently also "built" his own library of satellite imagery, thanks to his employer, and had marketed his services to many very private clients. In a few short years Caputo had advanced enough in his extracurricular activities to be thrown in jail and kept there for life. But oil companies, and large multinational companies in general, abhor the potential publicity surrounding this kind of white collar crime more than they despise the perpetrator.
Caputo's employer convinced him to resign from his position.
A couple weeks after his unceremonious departure, an anonymous telephone call had alerted the police that Caputo had become a drug dealer -after the caller emphasised he'd left the company.
Though failing to contact Caputo himself, the police search of his home had been very successful, turning up over a kilo of heroin stored in a kitchen closet. One of his “normal” clients had alerted Caputo -the same client who provided a private jet to take him out of the country. After that, Caputo vanished, and the case got stale.
Irina remembered that the Caputo was brilliant in the field of remote sensing and satellite imagery - no wonder his former employers were so pissed off at him, Irina thought. He'd stolen enough to take that brilliance into the marketplace as a free agent and make a killing on his own. His marketing plan was well executed. He knew he would carry out all the work he needed to do while remaining a phantom, hidden not only from the authorities, but from most of his clients as well. He only had to arrange for delivery of extravagant retainers and the supply the products of his fine and devious mind. His clients were never disappointed by his efforts, and they never quibbled about his fees or his fugitive status.
A few years earlier, Caputo had contacted Irina from his hiding place to give her a fax number that she could dial in Switzerland, “just in case” she might one day need some high-tech satellite work for her business. Irina had figured out that orchestrating his disappearance may have cost him an arm and a leg, and naturally, he'd be trying to ay back a few of his debts, support his “hobbies”, and sustain his invisibility.
Perhaps, if she could locate him, this was just the genius she needed to help find her stolen goods. Irina wasn't without resources.
Where helicopters and planes had failed her, maybe satellites were the answer.
Switzerland -jeweler -expatriate American! She'd triggered the memory of an old acquaintance of hers -that son of a bitch of Neil Caputo! He was a foolish, but crafty American scientist of obvious Italian origin, an oil engineer, who dabbed in jewellery as a hobby. He had previously worked in the field of satellite imagery, but had gotten into trouble several years ago, after violating his corporation's policies. He had been discovered using his company's telecom network to deal in gold and semiprecious stones from a Middle Eastern country.
Caputo had sampled various clients for his “hobbies” in Europe and the US. There had even been rumours that he was not only dealing jewels, but also “other substances” -not exactly the kind of publicity oil companies love! To top it off, he'd apparently also "built" his own library of satellite imagery, thanks to his employer, and had marketed his services to many very private clients. In a few short years Caputo had advanced enough in his extracurricular activities to be thrown in jail and kept there for life. But oil companies, and large multinational companies in general, abhor the potential publicity surrounding this kind of white collar crime more than they despise the perpetrator.
Caputo's employer convinced him to resign from his position.
A couple weeks after his unceremonious departure, an anonymous telephone call had alerted the police that Caputo had become a drug dealer -after the caller emphasised he'd left the company.
Though failing to contact Caputo himself, the police search of his home had been very successful, turning up over a kilo of heroin stored in a kitchen closet. One of his “normal” clients had alerted Caputo -the same client who provided a private jet to take him out of the country. After that, Caputo vanished, and the case got stale.
Irina remembered that the Caputo was brilliant in the field of remote sensing and satellite imagery - no wonder his former employers were so pissed off at him, Irina thought. He'd stolen enough to take that brilliance into the marketplace as a free agent and make a killing on his own. His marketing plan was well executed. He knew he would carry out all the work he needed to do while remaining a phantom, hidden not only from the authorities, but from most of his clients as well. He only had to arrange for delivery of extravagant retainers and the supply the products of his fine and devious mind. His clients were never disappointed by his efforts, and they never quibbled about his fees or his fugitive status.
A few years earlier, Caputo had contacted Irina from his hiding place to give her a fax number that she could dial in Switzerland, “just in case” she might one day need some high-tech satellite work for her business. Irina had figured out that orchestrating his disappearance may have cost him an arm and a leg, and naturally, he'd be trying to ay back a few of his debts, support his “hobbies”, and sustain his invisibility.
Perhaps, if she could locate him, this was just the genius she needed to help find her stolen goods. Irina wasn't without resources.
Where helicopters and planes had failed her, maybe satellites were the answer.
November 4th, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman, No 36
Irina had no doubts her partner would make his threats a reality and that he could fulfill his promise for retribution without fearing any kind of punishment. His highly visible position in the most prestigious political circles and the control he exerted in the most important sectors of the Omani economy guaranteed his immunity.
Irina felt like a fly in a bottle, suffocating from the lack of information about the whereabouts of the missing shipment.
Curiously enough, none of her powerful Middle-Eastern "friends" had been able to provide her with even the smallest clue. She had called everybody, including the sleazy Mr. Zandar, obliquely searching for detaiks to shed light on her plight without revealing to anyone either the extent of her involvement, or the specifics about the shipment, and clearly without exposing her silent partner. But the inner circle of highly-placed individuals, who normally relished intrigue and gossip, were completely mute.
From all appearances, the theft of her equipment had been carried out by some alien force from another planet. In a world where even the most guarded secret leaks out -a fact of life especially true in the Middle-East- Irina was met with deafening silence. There's always someone greedy enough to sell out a lead -someone who always appears out of the blue.
But with all her skillful probing not a whisper of insight came her way.
In Irina's eyes, the total blackout that had enshrouded the shipment's disappearance could mean only two things: either the reason was other than commercial or political, or this was the job of a group from who-knows-where outside the Middle-East. In the first scenario, the only reasons outside commercial or political motives she could envision was a religious one, and she was starting to wonder if some group of fundamentalists could possibly have any interest in owning her equipment. But that idea defied logic, for she surely would have heard of such an emerging group by now.
Considering the second possibility, she was at loss in conjectures about what kind of foreigners would take the risk of infiltrating Oman with a commando to hijack her convoy...or why? If they had done it, where would they take it? Hide it in the desert; ship it away?
Irina knew that all these theories were, for the moment, just that: fragmented hypotheses, none of which could be substantiated by any kind of data.
Irina hated being ineffective...and helpless.
Her rational approach had yielded nothing and at this moment she could have sliced apart any son of a bitch she suspect of knowing even the slightest detail.
But what infuriated her the most was that she was quickly exhausting logical places to look or people to ask; her resourcefulness was approaching bankruptcy.
No one even knew that she had been the victim of a massive theft.
Hour by hour, the trail was growing colder; evening closed in on her darkening prospects.
Perched in the middle of her gigantic bed in the very private suite on the seventh floor of Hotel Al Bustan, Irina distractedly lathered jasmine-scented lotion on her improbably long tanned legs.
Wearing only a tiny nightgown of tender-peach silk, she glanced occasionally at the CNN World News report on the wide screen TV.
Suddenly her eyes locked on the screen, focusing on a reporter describing the last of an endless series of Balkan peace talks taking place in Geneva.
Irina felt like a fly in a bottle, suffocating from the lack of information about the whereabouts of the missing shipment.
Curiously enough, none of her powerful Middle-Eastern "friends" had been able to provide her with even the smallest clue. She had called everybody, including the sleazy Mr. Zandar, obliquely searching for detaiks to shed light on her plight without revealing to anyone either the extent of her involvement, or the specifics about the shipment, and clearly without exposing her silent partner. But the inner circle of highly-placed individuals, who normally relished intrigue and gossip, were completely mute.
From all appearances, the theft of her equipment had been carried out by some alien force from another planet. In a world where even the most guarded secret leaks out -a fact of life especially true in the Middle-East- Irina was met with deafening silence. There's always someone greedy enough to sell out a lead -someone who always appears out of the blue.
But with all her skillful probing not a whisper of insight came her way.
In Irina's eyes, the total blackout that had enshrouded the shipment's disappearance could mean only two things: either the reason was other than commercial or political, or this was the job of a group from who-knows-where outside the Middle-East. In the first scenario, the only reasons outside commercial or political motives she could envision was a religious one, and she was starting to wonder if some group of fundamentalists could possibly have any interest in owning her equipment. But that idea defied logic, for she surely would have heard of such an emerging group by now.
Considering the second possibility, she was at loss in conjectures about what kind of foreigners would take the risk of infiltrating Oman with a commando to hijack her convoy...or why? If they had done it, where would they take it? Hide it in the desert; ship it away?
Irina knew that all these theories were, for the moment, just that: fragmented hypotheses, none of which could be substantiated by any kind of data.
Irina hated being ineffective...and helpless.
Her rational approach had yielded nothing and at this moment she could have sliced apart any son of a bitch she suspect of knowing even the slightest detail.
But what infuriated her the most was that she was quickly exhausting logical places to look or people to ask; her resourcefulness was approaching bankruptcy.
No one even knew that she had been the victim of a massive theft.
Hour by hour, the trail was growing colder; evening closed in on her darkening prospects.
Perched in the middle of her gigantic bed in the very private suite on the seventh floor of Hotel Al Bustan, Irina distractedly lathered jasmine-scented lotion on her improbably long tanned legs.
Wearing only a tiny nightgown of tender-peach silk, she glanced occasionally at the CNN World News report on the wide screen TV.
Suddenly her eyes locked on the screen, focusing on a reporter describing the last of an endless series of Balkan peace talks taking place in Geneva.
November 4th, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman, No 35
As usual, Irina was following her own very plans. Years of experience in the tough world of international dealing, brokerage and "special consulting" to whoever had the will and the money to pay for her services had taught her to follow a rational, cynical approach to reality. Rather than always attending to her intuitive side, she relied on her exceptionally quick rational mind to seek logical patterns in the most fuzzy and scrambled situations. Unluckily, in Oman, Irina's every effort had yielded no results at all in shedding light on her stolen goods.
After the mysterious disappearance of the equipment her first reaction had been to hire a helicopter, then a small plane, to check out all the possible roads and sites where her stolen goods could have been diverted. The air searches had been futile.
She couldn't understand what had gone wrong -she had so carefully planned every phase, each minute detail of the operation. She had refused any support or participation of the Omani army in order to minimize attention to the shipment and avoid the inevitable information leaks. Again and again, she went over every aspect of her plan, looking for flaws, searching for weak links or possible oversights. The boat used to cross the Pacific Ocean had been a nondescript freighter with Panamanian registration. She'd artfully designed a false shipping manifest for the containers, and absolutely impeccable papers for the rest of the loading, transiting the shipment through Hong-Kong and Bombay.
There was nothing that would arise suspicion, because, for all appearances, the freighter was conducting normal business for this kind of ship. The supplier was certainly “secure”, her silent partner had taken all the financial risks, and Irina was acting just as a broker and a “special adviser” to the final client whose identity had to be totally secret.
When the "problem" became apparent, Irina had immediately informed her partner. Of course she had avoided contacting either the buyer, who actually was the Omani Ministry of Defence, or the vendor. She had no choice but to report to her partner that the shipment had vanished. As she had expected, he was furious. For him -and for Irina, the immediate consequences were very simple indeed. She was at fault and, unless the shipment was recovered soon, she had cost him a fortune.
To pay for his loss, he told Irina coldly, she would either die, or, better yet, pay him back working in a Far-Eastern bordello “until time would come for decommissioning her used carcass”.
After the mysterious disappearance of the equipment her first reaction had been to hire a helicopter, then a small plane, to check out all the possible roads and sites where her stolen goods could have been diverted. The air searches had been futile.
She couldn't understand what had gone wrong -she had so carefully planned every phase, each minute detail of the operation. She had refused any support or participation of the Omani army in order to minimize attention to the shipment and avoid the inevitable information leaks. Again and again, she went over every aspect of her plan, looking for flaws, searching for weak links or possible oversights. The boat used to cross the Pacific Ocean had been a nondescript freighter with Panamanian registration. She'd artfully designed a false shipping manifest for the containers, and absolutely impeccable papers for the rest of the loading, transiting the shipment through Hong-Kong and Bombay.
There was nothing that would arise suspicion, because, for all appearances, the freighter was conducting normal business for this kind of ship. The supplier was certainly “secure”, her silent partner had taken all the financial risks, and Irina was acting just as a broker and a “special adviser” to the final client whose identity had to be totally secret.
When the "problem" became apparent, Irina had immediately informed her partner. Of course she had avoided contacting either the buyer, who actually was the Omani Ministry of Defence, or the vendor. She had no choice but to report to her partner that the shipment had vanished. As she had expected, he was furious. For him -and for Irina, the immediate consequences were very simple indeed. She was at fault and, unless the shipment was recovered soon, she had cost him a fortune.
To pay for his loss, he told Irina coldly, she would either die, or, better yet, pay him back working in a Far-Eastern bordello “until time would come for decommissioning her used carcass”.
November 4th, Zeno and Mahmoud get caught in a storm, No 34
Mahmoud glanced across the screen, which was again displaying a snarl of letters and numbers. Stoically, he kept driving throught the howling downpour.
"I agree with you Mister," he mumbled, tanking in the obvious, but displaying no emotion.
"Well,“ said Zeno, snapping shut the G.P.S. Monitor with frustration, “that makes two men in agreement. It also makes a useless tool and two men in a machine lost in the middle of nowhere! I knew I shouldn't have listened to my brother! I should have taken the standard machine instead of this damn prototype."
Zeno was now becoming nervous, and his uncertainty quickly turned to anger.
"Mahmoud, stop the car!" ordered Zeno, almost fiercely.
"Mr. Santucci," Mahmoud wailed, pausing the vehicle and using Zeno's name for the first time, "if we stop, we lose time...this is not a joke. We do not want to be caught in the middle of the Wadi when the flooding will come. I would prefer to face the Hagari than that...".
Zeno had no trouble believing Mahmoud. Once, on the southern slopes of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco he had almost been killed by a flash flood, and had seen a heavy fully-loaded heavy personnel carrier disappear into the swirling waters, taking with it at least twenty poor souls.
"Listen, Mahmoud, the GPS is giving wrong directions. I think the static from the storm is causing the trouble, and I can't get a reliable reading. The memory may have been completely erased! If we keep going now, we might really get lost and find ourselves in the middle of Wadi Zherat when the flood comes! But I don't believe that we are much off course, perhaps only by thirty or fourty meters, since we were OK up to that last sharp turn. I suggest that we try to take the vehicle back to the last position before the turn and resume our route as well as we can from there. I do not think that..."
The rest of Zeno's statement was drowned out by a thunder clap that shook their vehicle. "OK,” shouted Mahmoud, “Let's go! Now!" His voice was almost inaudible over the drumming of rain on the top and sides of the vehicle.
They started driving in reverse, both trying to remember the bumps and shocks that had accompanied the diversion from their path.
"It's here," Mahmoud affirmed. The two men looked at each other.
"I recognize those two rocks and the one behind them." added Mahmoud "This must be the direction."
Zeno nodded assent, silently hoping that his driver was right. He himself had no recollection whatsoever of any rocks, and he could not see what it was about these stones that had triggered Mahmoud's memory. But Mahmoud was a son of the desert, and if anyone could get them back safely, it would be him.
They drove on for some time, slowly and cautiously. By now there was almost twenty centimeters of water on the ground, but somehow it seemed like the depth was not increasing, although the storm was howling around them at peak intensity.
Zeno turned to Mahmoud.
"The water is not rising because we are driving on a crest,” he shouted, almost screaming to be heard above the rain, “Let's hope that our course stays on top. If we hit a deep point...”
"Yes, Mister, you pray to your God, I pray to mine - we need both of them right now to make it back to the camp!"
A moment passed. Then Mahmoud shouted again and pointed.
"Look, there are flashing lights on our left"
"Shit!” though Zeno, if it's the Hagari we are done for...maybe we forgot our prayers... or perhaps we sinned too much..."
Mahmoud seemed to read his mind.
"We must take the risk,” he cried, “if it is the Hagari they will sit on the bank and watch us die. It would be a sign from Allah to them. They say that in His great plan there is no room for infidels like you, and most likely for me! I think these are not Hagari."
He turned towards the lights. In what seemed an eternity, the 4x4 crawled cross terrain that had quickly become a river bed. It took all of Mahmoud driving skills, for in some spots, the water was so high and so fast that water lapped against the car's windows. Zeno gratefully recalled that all the oil company's cars were equipped with roof exhausts, a feature that always made non experienced visitors laugh at what they thought was the stupidity of a large administration.
They pulled up to a truck sitting on a crest, its headlights frantically blinking. Stopping their vehicle parallel to the truck, Mahmoud and Zeno got out of the 4x4 as the other driver emerged into the downpour.
"Salaam wha alekum" shouted Mahmoud in greeting above the water's roar.
"Alekum salaam" answered the Bedouin.
"Thank you for your signals, without you, we would probably be dead by now".
"It is because I saw you in the middle of the Wadi, before the storm...when the storm came I drove back a few miles...I thought that you would be in trouble and I know that there are Hagari knights around. They are dangerous – bad. I do not like them. They kill our brothers; they have no respect for anyone. Recently I lost a cousin in the village they destroyed. My whole family works at the oil company. I know what the company is doing for my country by trying to avoid wasting all the water that comes up with the oil and to grow trees with it. That is good. We want to help people that understand what we need.".
"Well, we owe you,” said Zeno, “I hope we will see you tomorrow in the camp"
"Yes, I will probably be there. My name is Rachid".
"OK Rachid. Insha-allah, good bye"
"Insha-allah, good bye".
"I agree with you Mister," he mumbled, tanking in the obvious, but displaying no emotion.
"Well,“ said Zeno, snapping shut the G.P.S. Monitor with frustration, “that makes two men in agreement. It also makes a useless tool and two men in a machine lost in the middle of nowhere! I knew I shouldn't have listened to my brother! I should have taken the standard machine instead of this damn prototype."
Zeno was now becoming nervous, and his uncertainty quickly turned to anger.
"Mahmoud, stop the car!" ordered Zeno, almost fiercely.
"Mr. Santucci," Mahmoud wailed, pausing the vehicle and using Zeno's name for the first time, "if we stop, we lose time...this is not a joke. We do not want to be caught in the middle of the Wadi when the flooding will come. I would prefer to face the Hagari than that...".
Zeno had no trouble believing Mahmoud. Once, on the southern slopes of the Atlas Mountains in Morocco he had almost been killed by a flash flood, and had seen a heavy fully-loaded heavy personnel carrier disappear into the swirling waters, taking with it at least twenty poor souls.
"Listen, Mahmoud, the GPS is giving wrong directions. I think the static from the storm is causing the trouble, and I can't get a reliable reading. The memory may have been completely erased! If we keep going now, we might really get lost and find ourselves in the middle of Wadi Zherat when the flood comes! But I don't believe that we are much off course, perhaps only by thirty or fourty meters, since we were OK up to that last sharp turn. I suggest that we try to take the vehicle back to the last position before the turn and resume our route as well as we can from there. I do not think that..."
The rest of Zeno's statement was drowned out by a thunder clap that shook their vehicle. "OK,” shouted Mahmoud, “Let's go! Now!" His voice was almost inaudible over the drumming of rain on the top and sides of the vehicle.
They started driving in reverse, both trying to remember the bumps and shocks that had accompanied the diversion from their path.
"It's here," Mahmoud affirmed. The two men looked at each other.
"I recognize those two rocks and the one behind them." added Mahmoud "This must be the direction."
Zeno nodded assent, silently hoping that his driver was right. He himself had no recollection whatsoever of any rocks, and he could not see what it was about these stones that had triggered Mahmoud's memory. But Mahmoud was a son of the desert, and if anyone could get them back safely, it would be him.
They drove on for some time, slowly and cautiously. By now there was almost twenty centimeters of water on the ground, but somehow it seemed like the depth was not increasing, although the storm was howling around them at peak intensity.
Zeno turned to Mahmoud.
"The water is not rising because we are driving on a crest,” he shouted, almost screaming to be heard above the rain, “Let's hope that our course stays on top. If we hit a deep point...”
"Yes, Mister, you pray to your God, I pray to mine - we need both of them right now to make it back to the camp!"
A moment passed. Then Mahmoud shouted again and pointed.
"Look, there are flashing lights on our left"
"Shit!” though Zeno, if it's the Hagari we are done for...maybe we forgot our prayers... or perhaps we sinned too much..."
Mahmoud seemed to read his mind.
"We must take the risk,” he cried, “if it is the Hagari they will sit on the bank and watch us die. It would be a sign from Allah to them. They say that in His great plan there is no room for infidels like you, and most likely for me! I think these are not Hagari."
He turned towards the lights. In what seemed an eternity, the 4x4 crawled cross terrain that had quickly become a river bed. It took all of Mahmoud driving skills, for in some spots, the water was so high and so fast that water lapped against the car's windows. Zeno gratefully recalled that all the oil company's cars were equipped with roof exhausts, a feature that always made non experienced visitors laugh at what they thought was the stupidity of a large administration.
They pulled up to a truck sitting on a crest, its headlights frantically blinking. Stopping their vehicle parallel to the truck, Mahmoud and Zeno got out of the 4x4 as the other driver emerged into the downpour.
"Salaam wha alekum" shouted Mahmoud in greeting above the water's roar.
"Alekum salaam" answered the Bedouin.
"Thank you for your signals, without you, we would probably be dead by now".
"It is because I saw you in the middle of the Wadi, before the storm...when the storm came I drove back a few miles...I thought that you would be in trouble and I know that there are Hagari knights around. They are dangerous – bad. I do not like them. They kill our brothers; they have no respect for anyone. Recently I lost a cousin in the village they destroyed. My whole family works at the oil company. I know what the company is doing for my country by trying to avoid wasting all the water that comes up with the oil and to grow trees with it. That is good. We want to help people that understand what we need.".
"Well, we owe you,” said Zeno, “I hope we will see you tomorrow in the camp"
"Yes, I will probably be there. My name is Rachid".
"OK Rachid. Insha-allah, good bye"
"Insha-allah, good bye".
November 4th, Zeno and Mahmoud get caught in a storm, No 33
Thus absolved of responsibility, and flashing a big smile, Mahmoud shifted into a lower gear, floored the gas pedal and propelled the 4x4 out of the well-marked track. Now they were driving on a smooth section, where the desert ground was made of almost horizontal slabs of limestone. Little by little the terrain changed as they moved, until they found themselves driving through a maze of ravines and small valleys.
Suddenly, the closely pressing rock walls opened up, and before them lay a vast flat area. Filled with waves of sandy and gravelly soils, the opened space seemed to form a kind of earthen "lake," so large and with banks so flat that the eye could find nothing to grasp until the sky met the earth. Although he had expected the change, Zeno was awestruck, and for a moment forgot where he was. Such forgetfulness was easy in desert so vast, and it was for this reason that he had carefully recorded the position of the vehicle at regular intervals on the G.P.S. He glanced at the machine in his lap. Reassuringly, a light yellow beam on the screen charted their path as it was superimposed over satellite imagery of the area that Zeno had retrieved from his CD-ROM.
They drove almost to the middle of the basin, periodically stopping to take samples of the surface soil for later analysis, and to set signals - square sheets of aluminum for use in satellite pictures. This was work for which Zeno was certainly overqualified, but since he was there to get a general feel for the development potential of several sites, it would have been ridiculous not to perform the sampling. After all, mused Zeno as he dug his sixth sample, engineers are not like lawyers. Engineers know what reasonable fees are, they look for constructive solutions to human problems, they are humble from working with the forces of nature, and, above all, they generally know that when they mess up, they are putting the lives of people at risk. Of course, thought Zeno, looking on as Mahmoud watched the clouds passing overhead, it is for this last reason that some engineers feel to do everything by themselves...Smiling to himself, Zeno glanced up at the horizon.
Clouds. Clouds in the desert. Zeno interrupted his train of thought to look at this odd phenomenon. Mahmoud looked pensive, then called to Zeno, "Mister, we should be heading back...look at the weather! It is early for the season, but I would not be surprised if we get a storm."
Then, as if to punctuate and confirm his statement, a distant clap of thunder slowly rumbled across the desert. Zeno ignored Mahmoud and kept on digging. Soon, however, he glanced up at the horizon to see a line of dark clouds could in the distance, advancing quickly. Zeno hurriedly finished his last sampling, and as he climbed back into the 4x4 the first huge, warm drops started to hit the desert floor. In seconds the ground was soaked.
Mahmoud was not pleased. "Now. Let's go, Mister! We are right in the middle of the Wadi. By the time we get out of here, there will be water everywhere. It will come here, too, and it will flood. We must get to the top of the jebel!
As he spoke, he revved the engine, and pulled a fast "U-turn," setting them exactly on the same course they had come from. The visibility had dropped considerably as heavy sheets of rain engulfed them.
By now, the sun had disappeared. Based on the information stored the G.P.S. Memory, Zeno adeptly gave directions allowing Mahmoud to backtrack the route they had taken.
Then, without warning, the yellow line on the GPS became faint, and began to undulate across the screen. A series of random figures and characters followed on the display. When the screen finally stabilized, the yellow line meandered wildly, not at all reflecting the course Zeno had remembered taking. Only the background satellite imagery was still there, showing just how wrong the new yellow line was. They had never crossed jebels by climbing and descending cliffs, nor had they taken so many turns. They were lost, and at such a moment!
Zeno turned to Mahmoud, “ I'm afraid the G.P.S. is gone."
Suddenly, the closely pressing rock walls opened up, and before them lay a vast flat area. Filled with waves of sandy and gravelly soils, the opened space seemed to form a kind of earthen "lake," so large and with banks so flat that the eye could find nothing to grasp until the sky met the earth. Although he had expected the change, Zeno was awestruck, and for a moment forgot where he was. Such forgetfulness was easy in desert so vast, and it was for this reason that he had carefully recorded the position of the vehicle at regular intervals on the G.P.S. He glanced at the machine in his lap. Reassuringly, a light yellow beam on the screen charted their path as it was superimposed over satellite imagery of the area that Zeno had retrieved from his CD-ROM.
They drove almost to the middle of the basin, periodically stopping to take samples of the surface soil for later analysis, and to set signals - square sheets of aluminum for use in satellite pictures. This was work for which Zeno was certainly overqualified, but since he was there to get a general feel for the development potential of several sites, it would have been ridiculous not to perform the sampling. After all, mused Zeno as he dug his sixth sample, engineers are not like lawyers. Engineers know what reasonable fees are, they look for constructive solutions to human problems, they are humble from working with the forces of nature, and, above all, they generally know that when they mess up, they are putting the lives of people at risk. Of course, thought Zeno, looking on as Mahmoud watched the clouds passing overhead, it is for this last reason that some engineers feel to do everything by themselves...Smiling to himself, Zeno glanced up at the horizon.
Clouds. Clouds in the desert. Zeno interrupted his train of thought to look at this odd phenomenon. Mahmoud looked pensive, then called to Zeno, "Mister, we should be heading back...look at the weather! It is early for the season, but I would not be surprised if we get a storm."
Then, as if to punctuate and confirm his statement, a distant clap of thunder slowly rumbled across the desert. Zeno ignored Mahmoud and kept on digging. Soon, however, he glanced up at the horizon to see a line of dark clouds could in the distance, advancing quickly. Zeno hurriedly finished his last sampling, and as he climbed back into the 4x4 the first huge, warm drops started to hit the desert floor. In seconds the ground was soaked.
Mahmoud was not pleased. "Now. Let's go, Mister! We are right in the middle of the Wadi. By the time we get out of here, there will be water everywhere. It will come here, too, and it will flood. We must get to the top of the jebel!
As he spoke, he revved the engine, and pulled a fast "U-turn," setting them exactly on the same course they had come from. The visibility had dropped considerably as heavy sheets of rain engulfed them.
By now, the sun had disappeared. Based on the information stored the G.P.S. Memory, Zeno adeptly gave directions allowing Mahmoud to backtrack the route they had taken.
Then, without warning, the yellow line on the GPS became faint, and began to undulate across the screen. A series of random figures and characters followed on the display. When the screen finally stabilized, the yellow line meandered wildly, not at all reflecting the course Zeno had remembered taking. Only the background satellite imagery was still there, showing just how wrong the new yellow line was. They had never crossed jebels by climbing and descending cliffs, nor had they taken so many turns. They were lost, and at such a moment!
Zeno turned to Mahmoud, “ I'm afraid the G.P.S. is gone."
November 4th, Zeno and Mahmoud collide with a Hagari knights posse in the desert, No 32
They were now on a windy stretch of the track, pushing into a rougher terrain. Rounding a blind curve on a jebel (hill) Mahmoud brutally hit the brakes of their 4x4.
A group of at least 30 Hagari knights with their camels, obstructed the road.
Mahmoud had trouble stopping the car, skidding to a stop to avoid striking one of them. Running over a Hagari would have meant sure death for Mahmoud and most likely for Zeno too. Even hitting a camel would probably have had the same consequence, unless the Hagari believed that they could get enough money to assuage the pain of losing of a beloved and most certainly a unique animal.
Zeno knew that anytime a camel collided with a car, that precise animal suddenly became the "best racing camel around since generations" and was, of course, very very valuable.
The Hagari, he knew, would not tolerate any offense to their dignity real or perceived, regardless of the situation. The desert was their home, and they were not ready to accept any infringement from a non Hagari, no matter who he was.
As the dust settled around the car, Zeno and Mahmoud stared at each other.
Zeno asked quietly:
"So...should we step out of the car?"
"No, do not move...they like to take the initiative".
Immediately one of the men came towards them, his camel wand in his hands
"Salaam wha alekum"
"Alekum salaam" Mahmoud and Zeno responded in chorus.
"Where are you taking this foreigner?" demanded the man pointing at Zeno with his camel wand.
Zeno had a lot of trouble understanding the Hagari intonation...he had acquired some basic knowledge of Arabic, but the Omani accent was really something else. He did not move, looking as stupid as possible, believing it as the appropriate posture for the situation.
"My friend is working for the water conservation program" explained Mahmoud.
"We are going to inspect a site where trees could be grown".
The Hagari slapped the side of the 4x4 with his long camel wand: "You cannot go any further! We have set camp not far from here, behind this jebel. You may not even come close to it. Women and children are there! Turn around your car and get back to Qurum!"
The weapons of his comrades glinted ominously in the sun.
Mahmoud nodded consent, humbly conceding with a string of polite phrases. The Hagari remained in a motionless wall across the road.
"Well,” said Mahmoud to Zeno in a whisper, “it looks like we have received our orders for the day. I do not think that you want to challenge these people. Halas, let's go."
He put the 4x4 in reverse.
They started to retrace their route. Zeno waited for a few minutes until the Hagari were out of sight, then turned his anger and frustration on Mahmoud: "Look, I understand that they have set a camp there and I have no intention of challenging them, but they do not own the whole Al Wusta desert! Take the north path through these jebels and reach the Wadi Zherat basin. We can do our our inspection there; we have the GPS to make sure we do not get lost".
"Mister,” replied Mahmoud evenly as he fixed his eyes on the road, “I really do not want to have trouble with the Hagari. I have heard that they have destroyed a village in Al Wusta a few days ago, apparently for no reasons. They waited until the Wali was not there so that no one would dare to stop them, and they killed everybody, women, children. They are dangerous barbarians!"
"I understand Mahmoud, but if we go in the direction of Wadi Zherat there is no chance of encountering them. They have told us that their camp was in the other direction."
Mahmoud slowed the vehicle to a stop.
He thought for a few moments.
Then he said, "OK, Mister, let's go, but let's not take too long. I do not want to be caught in a storm, and the sky shows signs of getting upset. Also, we didn't mark our intention to go there on the travel plan blackboard at the camp. If we get into an accident, no one will look for us in Wadi Zherat, and if we are late and the night comes, the Operation Manager in Qurum is going to start emergency procedures to fetch us. They have lost many people because of stupid accidents in the desert, and have become very strict about travel and security."
"OK Mahmoud,” said Zeno with a wink at his driver, “I understand, and I do not want you to get into trouble because of me. Let's go and be quick!"
A group of at least 30 Hagari knights with their camels, obstructed the road.
Mahmoud had trouble stopping the car, skidding to a stop to avoid striking one of them. Running over a Hagari would have meant sure death for Mahmoud and most likely for Zeno too. Even hitting a camel would probably have had the same consequence, unless the Hagari believed that they could get enough money to assuage the pain of losing of a beloved and most certainly a unique animal.
Zeno knew that anytime a camel collided with a car, that precise animal suddenly became the "best racing camel around since generations" and was, of course, very very valuable.
The Hagari, he knew, would not tolerate any offense to their dignity real or perceived, regardless of the situation. The desert was their home, and they were not ready to accept any infringement from a non Hagari, no matter who he was.
As the dust settled around the car, Zeno and Mahmoud stared at each other.
Zeno asked quietly:
"So...should we step out of the car?"
"No, do not move...they like to take the initiative".
Immediately one of the men came towards them, his camel wand in his hands
"Salaam wha alekum"
"Alekum salaam" Mahmoud and Zeno responded in chorus.
"Where are you taking this foreigner?" demanded the man pointing at Zeno with his camel wand.
Zeno had a lot of trouble understanding the Hagari intonation...he had acquired some basic knowledge of Arabic, but the Omani accent was really something else. He did not move, looking as stupid as possible, believing it as the appropriate posture for the situation.
"My friend is working for the water conservation program" explained Mahmoud.
"We are going to inspect a site where trees could be grown".
The Hagari slapped the side of the 4x4 with his long camel wand: "You cannot go any further! We have set camp not far from here, behind this jebel. You may not even come close to it. Women and children are there! Turn around your car and get back to Qurum!"
The weapons of his comrades glinted ominously in the sun.
Mahmoud nodded consent, humbly conceding with a string of polite phrases. The Hagari remained in a motionless wall across the road.
"Well,” said Mahmoud to Zeno in a whisper, “it looks like we have received our orders for the day. I do not think that you want to challenge these people. Halas, let's go."
He put the 4x4 in reverse.
They started to retrace their route. Zeno waited for a few minutes until the Hagari were out of sight, then turned his anger and frustration on Mahmoud: "Look, I understand that they have set a camp there and I have no intention of challenging them, but they do not own the whole Al Wusta desert! Take the north path through these jebels and reach the Wadi Zherat basin. We can do our our inspection there; we have the GPS to make sure we do not get lost".
"Mister,” replied Mahmoud evenly as he fixed his eyes on the road, “I really do not want to have trouble with the Hagari. I have heard that they have destroyed a village in Al Wusta a few days ago, apparently for no reasons. They waited until the Wali was not there so that no one would dare to stop them, and they killed everybody, women, children. They are dangerous barbarians!"
"I understand Mahmoud, but if we go in the direction of Wadi Zherat there is no chance of encountering them. They have told us that their camp was in the other direction."
Mahmoud slowed the vehicle to a stop.
He thought for a few moments.
Then he said, "OK, Mister, let's go, but let's not take too long. I do not want to be caught in a storm, and the sky shows signs of getting upset. Also, we didn't mark our intention to go there on the travel plan blackboard at the camp. If we get into an accident, no one will look for us in Wadi Zherat, and if we are late and the night comes, the Operation Manager in Qurum is going to start emergency procedures to fetch us. They have lost many people because of stupid accidents in the desert, and have become very strict about travel and security."
"OK Mahmoud,” said Zeno with a wink at his driver, “I understand, and I do not want you to get into trouble because of me. Let's go and be quick!"
November 4th, Zeno and Mahmoud leave Qurum, travelling to the desert, No 31
Zeno met Mahmoud, his driver, in front of the Operations Building. The air was cool and there was no trace of light in the eastern sky. The heat would come in about half an hour, when the morning sun began caressing the Omani.
After filing their travel plan data on the Operation Building blackboard, a safety rule strictly enforced on the camp, they left, they left, traveling northeast. By six thirty, they were already at least fifty kilometers away from Qurum. Mahmoud was fighting a particularly nasty stretch of the track, as Zeno's mind drifted towards Irina, and the incredible story she had revealed to him. Shifting in his seat, he felt uncomfortable about his confused feelings for her.
Without taking his eyes away from the track, Mahmoud's voice brought him back to reality: "Mister, the device that you have in your bag, it is one of these things that tell you where you are?"
Zeno smiled "Yes, Mahmoud, this is a Global Positioning System, a G.P.S."
"But Mister, this is big, too big. Other men have smaller DPX"
"GPS Mahmoud, GPS"
"OK, Mister. They told me you are important, but important people have small things. Yous have big GPS. Then you are not so important?"
Mahmoud flashed a witty smile erasing any possible bad feeling from what he had just said. Zeno chuckled. Here we go, he thought, miniaturized technology correlated to the importance of people as seen by an Omani driver in the desert. Enough for a sociology PhD. He remembered the kind of debates that some kids have in school -at least in Italy: "mine is bigger than yours.." Now, entire generations' wisdom destroyed by technology! Even a driver in the desert knows it, smaller is now the way to go, not bigger!
Before replying to Mahmoud, Zeno extracted his device from its protective bag and turned on the machine.
"Mahmoud, you are right, this is a very big machine when compared to others you may have seen, but, you see, this is a prototype of a new model developed by my brother Carlo"
"Mister, you mean that people make these machines"
"Yes, of course, they do not grow on trees!"
"Well, no, I know, but I thought that they were made by machines"
"Not this one. See this machine is a complex integration of several devices, that is why it is so big. I am sure in a few years machines similar to this one will be built in large series by machines and sold to many people, but for the moment it is a very expensive prototype. It is a GPS, a fax, a powerful satellite telephone, a CD-ROM and a rather large screen. There is no keyboard, because the tactile screen is used to communicate with the machine."
"Mister, I do not understand, can you explain to me what all this things are?"
"Yes, of course. For the GPS, you know already. The fax..."
"I know what a fax is"
"Ok, a satellite telephone is a telephone that can work in any place you are by using a direct telecommunication satellite link. I used it to query databases that are in my office"
"What is a data base?"
"Well, it is like a closet full of drawers, and every drawer contains, for example, a map of a region or information."
"OK, it is like a picture book, on a computer"
"Yes, exactly, do you know about computers?"
"Yes, my cousin works for the company, he has explained to me; there are even games, one can play cards".
"Exactly. As far as the CD-ROM, that's basically like a disc that has music on it, but it contains numbers and images instead. I can travel around with maps and other information stored in my CD-ROM, without needing to used the satellite phone all the time. Obviously the screen shows you the information from the CD-ROM or from the satellite phone. There is no keyboard because this screen can "feel" your fingers and accept instructions when you point to things that are displayed on it"
"Mister, after all, you must be very important if your brother gives you this thing" said Mahmoud very seriously. Satisfied with Zenos explanations, he turned his attention back to the road.
After filing their travel plan data on the Operation Building blackboard, a safety rule strictly enforced on the camp, they left, they left, traveling northeast. By six thirty, they were already at least fifty kilometers away from Qurum. Mahmoud was fighting a particularly nasty stretch of the track, as Zeno's mind drifted towards Irina, and the incredible story she had revealed to him. Shifting in his seat, he felt uncomfortable about his confused feelings for her.
Without taking his eyes away from the track, Mahmoud's voice brought him back to reality: "Mister, the device that you have in your bag, it is one of these things that tell you where you are?"
Zeno smiled "Yes, Mahmoud, this is a Global Positioning System, a G.P.S."
"But Mister, this is big, too big. Other men have smaller DPX"
"GPS Mahmoud, GPS"
"OK, Mister. They told me you are important, but important people have small things. Yous have big GPS. Then you are not so important?"
Mahmoud flashed a witty smile erasing any possible bad feeling from what he had just said. Zeno chuckled. Here we go, he thought, miniaturized technology correlated to the importance of people as seen by an Omani driver in the desert. Enough for a sociology PhD. He remembered the kind of debates that some kids have in school -at least in Italy: "mine is bigger than yours.." Now, entire generations' wisdom destroyed by technology! Even a driver in the desert knows it, smaller is now the way to go, not bigger!
Before replying to Mahmoud, Zeno extracted his device from its protective bag and turned on the machine.
"Mahmoud, you are right, this is a very big machine when compared to others you may have seen, but, you see, this is a prototype of a new model developed by my brother Carlo"
"Mister, you mean that people make these machines"
"Yes, of course, they do not grow on trees!"
"Well, no, I know, but I thought that they were made by machines"
"Not this one. See this machine is a complex integration of several devices, that is why it is so big. I am sure in a few years machines similar to this one will be built in large series by machines and sold to many people, but for the moment it is a very expensive prototype. It is a GPS, a fax, a powerful satellite telephone, a CD-ROM and a rather large screen. There is no keyboard, because the tactile screen is used to communicate with the machine."
"Mister, I do not understand, can you explain to me what all this things are?"
"Yes, of course. For the GPS, you know already. The fax..."
"I know what a fax is"
"Ok, a satellite telephone is a telephone that can work in any place you are by using a direct telecommunication satellite link. I used it to query databases that are in my office"
"What is a data base?"
"Well, it is like a closet full of drawers, and every drawer contains, for example, a map of a region or information."
"OK, it is like a picture book, on a computer"
"Yes, exactly, do you know about computers?"
"Yes, my cousin works for the company, he has explained to me; there are even games, one can play cards".
"Exactly. As far as the CD-ROM, that's basically like a disc that has music on it, but it contains numbers and images instead. I can travel around with maps and other information stored in my CD-ROM, without needing to used the satellite phone all the time. Obviously the screen shows you the information from the CD-ROM or from the satellite phone. There is no keyboard because this screen can "feel" your fingers and accept instructions when you point to things that are displayed on it"
"Mister, after all, you must be very important if your brother gives you this thing" said Mahmoud very seriously. Satisfied with Zenos explanations, he turned his attention back to the road.
November 3rd, Vancouver, B.C. Canada, Gary Morton talks to Stuart McIntyre, No 30
Gary lifted the phone, hoping his young friend, Stuart McIntyre, a Scottish -Canadian asset manager, would be in his office.
"Stuart."
"Yeah. Gary. Hi, How ya doin' buddy?"
"Stu, are you available...like in five minutes...I really need your help...it's a question of life or death."
"Jesus, Gary, are you kidding me?"
"No, can I come over now?"
"Of course you can. I'll wait for you to get here."
It took Gary less than five minutes to leave his twentieth floor office facing the harbor -one of the most beautiful views of down-town Vancouver, cross the road, and walk two short blocks in the rain. It was one of those pernicious morning rains characterizing the time of year that some Vancouverites call "the west coast monsoon." Soaking wet, he entered Stew's building, grabbed the express elevator, and within moments, landed in one of the two magnificent leather couches in Stew's office.
Although Stuart was one of the biggest asset managers in Canada, his office looked like a closet, compared to Gary's -who at this moment was shaking at the idea of descending the social ladder a lot faster than he had climbed it. Eventually, if this job soured, the descent would put him six feet under.
"Stu, I'm in deep shit..." Gary summarized the situation in a few chopped sentences, enough time for Stu to hand him a stiff drink.
"So, if I get it, you think your clients got stung by these Swiss bad guys...Jeeze, aren't they all honest in Switzerland?" He smiled like someone in the habit of dealing with poisonous snakes, "...and you need to find someone who will be able to demonstrate they did it knowingly...and you need to do this before closure, so your clients can walk out of this deal without losing a fortune?"
Gary looked at him with resignation. Stu had the ability to synthesize the most complex situations. He admired that. Gary shook his head, and stared at the carpet. Now he wished Stu would synthesize an answer to this mess.
"Yeah, exactly. Look, you know me -I don't lose my cool easily, but this job is putting me in a terrible bind. Don't you see? I could be ruined, totally ruined, out of the scene!"
"Well, there're a number of very good and competent experts working in very reputable firms out there."
"Yeah, yeah. But Stew, I don't want a local guy. I had some advice by a local who was supposedly reliable. Now I don't know if this guy was already in the Swiss's pocket before I came in the picture. Hell, I don't know if the Swiss paid half of Vancouver in order to make sure they'd get rid of that damned property!"
"Well, being a geological consultant is becoming a dangerous profession. Did you see today's newspapers?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"Have a look." Stew handed Gary The Vancouver Sun. The headlines read:
Vancouver Police Investigate Beating and Sabotage
Last night at 8P.M. city firemen and police responded to a smoke alarm at 825 West Georgia Street. Officials found the body of a badly beaten man in the back alley. The identity of the man has not been released by the police, but reportedly he was the victim a of severe beating, with multiple fractures to his arms and legs. Sources at St. Paul Hospital report he is in a coma. They will not release his name until next of kin are notified. According to witnesses at the scene, the victim is a geological consultant whose offices are in the building. The fire apparently started on the same floor as the victim's office. A Fire Department spokesperson said the fire alarm system had been tampered with and arson investigators are being called.
Gary's hands trembled, his face drained of color to the point where he resembled a cadaver. A thin string of perspiration beaded on his upper lip.
"Stu, that's him!"
"Who?"
"That's him," choked Gary, "that's the consultant I hired to advise me on the land!"
"My God," said Stuart, "do you think your client did it?"
"Well, it doesn't seem like a particularly Swiss technique does it? They drop people in melted cheese, don't they?" replied Gary with strained sarcasm. Then, in a cynical, detached tone, he continued, more to himself than to Stuart. "Masuyama and Miyahata, the right arm of Tatsuya, arrived in town less than a week ago." Gary suddenly sat up straight on the couch. "Now, I'm not saying they did this themselves, believe me, these people have a network of extremely efficient and well -trained specialists that they use whenever they feel it's more expedient to use their methods instead of lawyers and courtrooms -but I've got the feeling the guy tried to get some quick bucks out of them, without understanding who he was dealing with. He certainly knew something that he didn't tell me, the bastard. So, you see, Stu, I really need someone, and it has to be an outsider."
"Well, if you're willing to pay the price, there is an acquaintance of mine who could fit the profile...but let me tell you, I don't think he'll come cheap, and he's very busy."
"Stu, just get him here. Money is not an issue now!"
"Right. OK, Gary, I'll try my best to get in touch with him. He's Dr. Zeno Santucci. He works for a company called ESR, Earth Systems Research. They have an office here in Vancouver, but they work world-wide, have offices all over the place. They opened the office here not too long ago just to pamper one of their big international mining clients. Zeno's the kind of guy who lives in a plane, and has at least three fully-equipped apartments strategically positioned around the globe so he can survive the kind of life his success writes for him."
"Is he married? Does he have a family?"
"What the hell's that got to do with anything, Gary?"
"Well, I'm putting my life in the hands of a stranger. I'd at least like to know something about the man who could save my life-or sentence me to death!"
"Well, he must have been married once, or something, because he has three kids. One of them is actually here in Vancouver, the other two, I believe are in Switzerland."
"That's certainly a strange family arrangement, isn't it." Gary closed his eyes.
He was beginning to feel calmer, in control again.
"Well, yeah I guess, it is, but the guy maintains a very close relationship with his kids. He has a couple hobbies -cooking, and skiing. Actually he could have been a professional in both." Stew paused with his hand on the phone. "I've known him for many years now, we met on the slopes, in Verbier, Switzerland, and we're still very good friends."
"Well, Stew, it seems like you know him well enough, and if you trust his capabilities, then I guess I do too."
"Stuart."
"Yeah. Gary. Hi, How ya doin' buddy?"
"Stu, are you available...like in five minutes...I really need your help...it's a question of life or death."
"Jesus, Gary, are you kidding me?"
"No, can I come over now?"
"Of course you can. I'll wait for you to get here."
It took Gary less than five minutes to leave his twentieth floor office facing the harbor -one of the most beautiful views of down-town Vancouver, cross the road, and walk two short blocks in the rain. It was one of those pernicious morning rains characterizing the time of year that some Vancouverites call "the west coast monsoon." Soaking wet, he entered Stew's building, grabbed the express elevator, and within moments, landed in one of the two magnificent leather couches in Stew's office.
Although Stuart was one of the biggest asset managers in Canada, his office looked like a closet, compared to Gary's -who at this moment was shaking at the idea of descending the social ladder a lot faster than he had climbed it. Eventually, if this job soured, the descent would put him six feet under.
"Stu, I'm in deep shit..." Gary summarized the situation in a few chopped sentences, enough time for Stu to hand him a stiff drink.
"So, if I get it, you think your clients got stung by these Swiss bad guys...Jeeze, aren't they all honest in Switzerland?" He smiled like someone in the habit of dealing with poisonous snakes, "...and you need to find someone who will be able to demonstrate they did it knowingly...and you need to do this before closure, so your clients can walk out of this deal without losing a fortune?"
Gary looked at him with resignation. Stu had the ability to synthesize the most complex situations. He admired that. Gary shook his head, and stared at the carpet. Now he wished Stu would synthesize an answer to this mess.
"Yeah, exactly. Look, you know me -I don't lose my cool easily, but this job is putting me in a terrible bind. Don't you see? I could be ruined, totally ruined, out of the scene!"
"Well, there're a number of very good and competent experts working in very reputable firms out there."
"Yeah, yeah. But Stew, I don't want a local guy. I had some advice by a local who was supposedly reliable. Now I don't know if this guy was already in the Swiss's pocket before I came in the picture. Hell, I don't know if the Swiss paid half of Vancouver in order to make sure they'd get rid of that damned property!"
"Well, being a geological consultant is becoming a dangerous profession. Did you see today's newspapers?"
"No, what do you mean?"
"Have a look." Stew handed Gary The Vancouver Sun. The headlines read:
Vancouver Police Investigate Beating and Sabotage
Last night at 8P.M. city firemen and police responded to a smoke alarm at 825 West Georgia Street. Officials found the body of a badly beaten man in the back alley. The identity of the man has not been released by the police, but reportedly he was the victim a of severe beating, with multiple fractures to his arms and legs. Sources at St. Paul Hospital report he is in a coma. They will not release his name until next of kin are notified. According to witnesses at the scene, the victim is a geological consultant whose offices are in the building. The fire apparently started on the same floor as the victim's office. A Fire Department spokesperson said the fire alarm system had been tampered with and arson investigators are being called.
Gary's hands trembled, his face drained of color to the point where he resembled a cadaver. A thin string of perspiration beaded on his upper lip.
"Stu, that's him!"
"Who?"
"That's him," choked Gary, "that's the consultant I hired to advise me on the land!"
"My God," said Stuart, "do you think your client did it?"
"Well, it doesn't seem like a particularly Swiss technique does it? They drop people in melted cheese, don't they?" replied Gary with strained sarcasm. Then, in a cynical, detached tone, he continued, more to himself than to Stuart. "Masuyama and Miyahata, the right arm of Tatsuya, arrived in town less than a week ago." Gary suddenly sat up straight on the couch. "Now, I'm not saying they did this themselves, believe me, these people have a network of extremely efficient and well -trained specialists that they use whenever they feel it's more expedient to use their methods instead of lawyers and courtrooms -but I've got the feeling the guy tried to get some quick bucks out of them, without understanding who he was dealing with. He certainly knew something that he didn't tell me, the bastard. So, you see, Stu, I really need someone, and it has to be an outsider."
"Well, if you're willing to pay the price, there is an acquaintance of mine who could fit the profile...but let me tell you, I don't think he'll come cheap, and he's very busy."
"Stu, just get him here. Money is not an issue now!"
"Right. OK, Gary, I'll try my best to get in touch with him. He's Dr. Zeno Santucci. He works for a company called ESR, Earth Systems Research. They have an office here in Vancouver, but they work world-wide, have offices all over the place. They opened the office here not too long ago just to pamper one of their big international mining clients. Zeno's the kind of guy who lives in a plane, and has at least three fully-equipped apartments strategically positioned around the globe so he can survive the kind of life his success writes for him."
"Is he married? Does he have a family?"
"What the hell's that got to do with anything, Gary?"
"Well, I'm putting my life in the hands of a stranger. I'd at least like to know something about the man who could save my life-or sentence me to death!"
"Well, he must have been married once, or something, because he has three kids. One of them is actually here in Vancouver, the other two, I believe are in Switzerland."
"That's certainly a strange family arrangement, isn't it." Gary closed his eyes.
He was beginning to feel calmer, in control again.
"Well, yeah I guess, it is, but the guy maintains a very close relationship with his kids. He has a couple hobbies -cooking, and skiing. Actually he could have been a professional in both." Stew paused with his hand on the phone. "I've known him for many years now, we met on the slopes, in Verbier, Switzerland, and we're still very good friends."
"Well, Stew, it seems like you know him well enough, and if you trust his capabilities, then I guess I do too."
November 3rd, Vancouver, B.C. Canada, Gary Morton has a rude awakening, No 29
Gary Morton was stunned by the idea his career could come to an end just like that. Bad news had reached his office like a lightening bolt out of the clear sky. The situation he faced was difficult and potentially very damaging. Bad news had reached is office like a lightning bolt out of the clear sky. On October 30th, just before the weekend, his stupid secretary had not forwarded a fax, believing that it wasn't urgent -or so she said, just before dashing from his office in tears to seek refuge in the women's room.
Gary Morton's face had flushed with anger then turned pale with humiliation. His brain constantly replayed a movie of his life, as he desperately tried to devise a plan to help him minimize the damage. The pain in his chest became so acute, for a moment he wondered if he was going to have a cardiac arrest.
Gary had started as a young university student interested in the Japanese culture and language. An idealist, his twelve years spent studying Japanese literature and culture at the University of British Columbia had left him jobless, but fluent in Japanese -capable of reading any text in one of the three writing styles: Hiragana, Katakana, and Ganji. One day, a friend suggested Gary should get his act together, and perhaps embark upon some other studies -something that would bring in an income. So, he entered law school, with little enthusiasm, though by the time he was finished, Gary's Japanese studies turned to be the best investment of his life.
About the time Gary had been admitted to the bar, and had hung up his shingle, the Japanese had indeed started showing an incredible interest living, investing and buying real estate in Vancouver. The Japanese needed a Japanese-speaking Canadian lawyer, of which there was only one specimen in town -Gary Morton. In a few years, despite the fact he was a foreigner, a gaijin, he won the confidence of small private businessmen as well as large corporate clients. His Japanese clients brought in a few million dollars over the years. It was money he didn't have time to spend even now that he was reaching fifty-five.
Currently, Dipak Malhotra, an Indian broker based in London, had placed Gary's best clients, a group of very honorable and well-respected Japanese developers and business people in contact with an international group of investors based in Switzerland. Through a London organization controlled by ROTHIDA International Holdings of Zürich, the Swiss owned a large piece of pristine property near the very wealthy community of West Vancouver. Strategically located, the property was bound to become extremely desirable for development.
The Swiss wanted to sell. The Japanese wanted to invest. Malhotra was earning brokerage fees for bringing the two groups together, and Gary had been charged to write the contract. Piece of cake. A couple hundred thousand in his pocket, everybody happy, routine work, big bucks. But this time the shit had hit the fan.
Unbeknown to Gary, the Swiss company was a group of nasty crooks, as Gary had now learned.
A few years earlier they had acquired a property that was severely endangered by a potential geohazard which could jeopardize future chances of developing the land. He knew from prior experience that geohazard is a technical term encompassing all the hazards due to the particular geology of a site, including earthquakes, landslides, rockfalls, flooding, and many other phenomena. Since Vancouver was known all over the world as a seismic zone, Gary thought it was probably an earthquake-triggered landslide problem indicated here, probably a dormant phenomena. Dormant slides are particularly nasty geohazards. They may be the result of ancient geological activity, in some cases as old as the last glaciation, and may have been stable for generations. In this case, it would have been very difficult to detect in the field, until it manifested itself and destroyed whatever had been built on it. In order to make sure they could unload the land on someone else, the Swiss had apparently engaged in a broad-based conspiracy including corruption, lies, falsifying documents, and intimidating local witnesses in order to sell this rotten apple to Gary's Japanese clients without them even suspecting the existence of the geohazard. They stood to lose a fortune on the deal.
Gary as usual had foreseen the need for protective clauses in the contract, but to get out of this underhanded deal, his clients had either to prove there was a deliberate intention to hide evidence by the seller, or face a financial penalty. In this case, several million dollars were on the line. Time was of the essence. There was a contractual deadline-noon, November 28th -the standard 30 day clause. If his Japanese clients lost, Gary knew his career, and probably his life, would come to an unfortunate end.
Curiously enough, Masuyama and Miyahata, the assistants of his long-term client,Tatsuya, had brought up the subject themselves, in a very direct way, contrary to traditional Japanese practice. Under these circumstances, it would be difficult to save face -for Gary or for his clients. So many years of work in the Japanese culture had changed Gary's way of seeing the world to such an extent that most of the time he felt very nihonjin, very much like a Japanese man.
If the clients had not detected the problem, there were lots of chances they could have developed the land without ever knowing about the hidden natural menace. The geohazard could have remained dormant for years, maybe never manifesting itself -if a strong earthquake didn't hit the area. Even if it did happen, most likely no one would have bothered trying to prove the phenomenon was preexisting. By that time, his clients would have already sold all the units and been long gone. The Swiss would have made their money, and the clients wouldn't even have known they'd been stung.
On the other hand, Gary despaired, the worse case scenario would have occurred if something happened before the end of construction. His clients would incur enormous losses. They would probably start questioning the soundness of the geology, and anyway, they would never forgive Gary for leading them into trouble. He knew Japanese organizations only too well to realize his career would not be the only thing to come to an end.
He knew it was futile to toy with these ideas. Unfortunately for him there was no other option than getting out of the deal at any price. The Japanese had not really detected the problem by themselves. They had let slip, intentionally or by mistake, the fact that someone from Vancouver had warned them. This was bad, very bad news from Gary's point of view, because it probably meant his clients had already brought in another advisor.
He lifted the phone...
Gary Morton's face had flushed with anger then turned pale with humiliation. His brain constantly replayed a movie of his life, as he desperately tried to devise a plan to help him minimize the damage. The pain in his chest became so acute, for a moment he wondered if he was going to have a cardiac arrest.
Gary had started as a young university student interested in the Japanese culture and language. An idealist, his twelve years spent studying Japanese literature and culture at the University of British Columbia had left him jobless, but fluent in Japanese -capable of reading any text in one of the three writing styles: Hiragana, Katakana, and Ganji. One day, a friend suggested Gary should get his act together, and perhaps embark upon some other studies -something that would bring in an income. So, he entered law school, with little enthusiasm, though by the time he was finished, Gary's Japanese studies turned to be the best investment of his life.
About the time Gary had been admitted to the bar, and had hung up his shingle, the Japanese had indeed started showing an incredible interest living, investing and buying real estate in Vancouver. The Japanese needed a Japanese-speaking Canadian lawyer, of which there was only one specimen in town -Gary Morton. In a few years, despite the fact he was a foreigner, a gaijin, he won the confidence of small private businessmen as well as large corporate clients. His Japanese clients brought in a few million dollars over the years. It was money he didn't have time to spend even now that he was reaching fifty-five.
Currently, Dipak Malhotra, an Indian broker based in London, had placed Gary's best clients, a group of very honorable and well-respected Japanese developers and business people in contact with an international group of investors based in Switzerland. Through a London organization controlled by ROTHIDA International Holdings of Zürich, the Swiss owned a large piece of pristine property near the very wealthy community of West Vancouver. Strategically located, the property was bound to become extremely desirable for development.
The Swiss wanted to sell. The Japanese wanted to invest. Malhotra was earning brokerage fees for bringing the two groups together, and Gary had been charged to write the contract. Piece of cake. A couple hundred thousand in his pocket, everybody happy, routine work, big bucks. But this time the shit had hit the fan.
Unbeknown to Gary, the Swiss company was a group of nasty crooks, as Gary had now learned.
A few years earlier they had acquired a property that was severely endangered by a potential geohazard which could jeopardize future chances of developing the land. He knew from prior experience that geohazard is a technical term encompassing all the hazards due to the particular geology of a site, including earthquakes, landslides, rockfalls, flooding, and many other phenomena. Since Vancouver was known all over the world as a seismic zone, Gary thought it was probably an earthquake-triggered landslide problem indicated here, probably a dormant phenomena. Dormant slides are particularly nasty geohazards. They may be the result of ancient geological activity, in some cases as old as the last glaciation, and may have been stable for generations. In this case, it would have been very difficult to detect in the field, until it manifested itself and destroyed whatever had been built on it. In order to make sure they could unload the land on someone else, the Swiss had apparently engaged in a broad-based conspiracy including corruption, lies, falsifying documents, and intimidating local witnesses in order to sell this rotten apple to Gary's Japanese clients without them even suspecting the existence of the geohazard. They stood to lose a fortune on the deal.
Gary as usual had foreseen the need for protective clauses in the contract, but to get out of this underhanded deal, his clients had either to prove there was a deliberate intention to hide evidence by the seller, or face a financial penalty. In this case, several million dollars were on the line. Time was of the essence. There was a contractual deadline-noon, November 28th -the standard 30 day clause. If his Japanese clients lost, Gary knew his career, and probably his life, would come to an unfortunate end.
Curiously enough, Masuyama and Miyahata, the assistants of his long-term client,Tatsuya, had brought up the subject themselves, in a very direct way, contrary to traditional Japanese practice. Under these circumstances, it would be difficult to save face -for Gary or for his clients. So many years of work in the Japanese culture had changed Gary's way of seeing the world to such an extent that most of the time he felt very nihonjin, very much like a Japanese man.
If the clients had not detected the problem, there were lots of chances they could have developed the land without ever knowing about the hidden natural menace. The geohazard could have remained dormant for years, maybe never manifesting itself -if a strong earthquake didn't hit the area. Even if it did happen, most likely no one would have bothered trying to prove the phenomenon was preexisting. By that time, his clients would have already sold all the units and been long gone. The Swiss would have made their money, and the clients wouldn't even have known they'd been stung.
On the other hand, Gary despaired, the worse case scenario would have occurred if something happened before the end of construction. His clients would incur enormous losses. They would probably start questioning the soundness of the geology, and anyway, they would never forgive Gary for leading them into trouble. He knew Japanese organizations only too well to realize his career would not be the only thing to come to an end.
He knew it was futile to toy with these ideas. Unfortunately for him there was no other option than getting out of the deal at any price. The Japanese had not really detected the problem by themselves. They had let slip, intentionally or by mistake, the fact that someone from Vancouver had warned them. This was bad, very bad news from Gary's point of view, because it probably meant his clients had already brought in another advisor.
He lifted the phone...
November 3rd, Muscat, Oman, Zeno flies to the oil fields, No 28
Zeno left Muscat in a bad mood. He wasn't too happy about taking this damn propeller shuttle. The plane was an old Fokker operated by the Omani Civil Aviation Company, a company that only existed to service the oil fields spread out all over the Omani desert.
A few weeks before, two ESR engineers almost died when another of these Fokkers had trouble landing in Dahla, one of the hubs in the south Oman oil development. Of course, no one would never know if human error or mechanical failure was responsible for the accident, but nevertheless, the plane had been completely destroyed. It was a miracle there were no victims. Zeno reminded himself the Fokker was perfectly adapted to rough desert conditions, and was designed to land on the unpaved runways that constituted the backbone of the personnel transport network.
After experiencing the standard first five minutes of abject terror, when the plane fights to get enough altitude to hop over the mountains rising steeply just behind the coast, Zeno started to admire the view.
From the air, the Omani desert was absolutely magnificent, changing by the season. It still bore the marks of violently erosive fluvial activity. The mountainous areas were decorated by emerald oases shaped like huge immobile snakes hiding in the valleys and ravines.
These contrasted with the moonscape features of the low lands with their amorphous dunes, and disturbed flats where markings from old exploratory tracks would stay imprinted forever. The plane passed over successions of rocky jebels, or desert hills, etching a shadow along their craggy surfaces.
In Marmul, Zeno was picked up by his driver, Mahmoud, and driven to the Qurum Production Station. He was getting sick and tired of these trips in the desert. Travelling at a maximum speed of 80 km/h, the speed of their journey was regulated by the car's electronic circuitry set to deliver a five second alert if the regulatory maximum speed was exceeded, and then cut off the engine for twenty minutes if the speed was not reduced.
Good drivers would go between 75 km/h and 85 km/h, letting the bloody device whistle for 3.5 seconds and slowing down to the regulatory speed just before cut-off. It was a delirant game, in a desperately flat desert, with the whistle slowly hypnotizing the driver and the passengers.
In southern Oman, all the vehicles were equipped with roof engine exhausts to handle the sudden floods triggered by rare but violent storms. Each vehicle was linked by radio to the Operation Manager's Office, and the roads were of exceptionally good quality, 15 meters and more wide, with ample roundabouts at crossings designed to accommodate the drilling towers and derricks constantly moving among different locations in the desert.
Loaded on huge, low platform trailers after being disassembled, the towers, derricks, barracks, pipes, ancillary mud treatment pools, and pumping stations were all transported the same way. For the first-time visitor to the Omani desert, fifteen to twenty such trailers, pulled in convoy by huge triple-axle trucks with blazing white headlights, and rotating yellow roof lights, were an unforgettable vision.
Built out of nothing in the flat rocky desert, Qurum Production Station rose as a vast Club-Med-type village with a large swimming pool, tennis courts, a football field, and a club that even served beer and booze. Exploration and the resulting implementation of the oil fields in central-south Oman had proven to be very challenging. In the beginning, there were no roads crossing over the mountains. Everything was shipped by boat to Dumq, on the Arabian Sea.
From Dumq, roads similar to the one Zeno had taken from Marmoul to Qurum had been created to penetrate the interior of Al Wusta. With the extreme desert conditions hundreds of miles away from anything resembling a town, the landscape was all rocks and sand; working there was almost like colonizing the moon.
This was a dangerous environment. Curiously enough, the chance of sudden death by drowning was high -the last thing most visitors would expect- but, extremely violent rains could provoke flash floods in the wadis, those low topographic channels that looked like dried creek beds. A wall of water, suddenly cascading down a wadi, was capable of wiping out roads, vehicles and any other man-made constructions set in its path.
Unluckily, the infrequency of these rainy events, one every four to six years, was not sufficient to create underground drinking water reserves. The water found in the underground in the Al Wusta region was brackish, and extremely saline in some areas. To sustain life in the oil field camps, water was extracted from wells and treated by a desalination-purification process called reverse osmosis, a fairly common but expensive water treatment method that uses synthetic membranes to separate clear water and concentrate in a much smaller portion all the impurities.
Because of the cost involved in the operation, great care was taken in making sure water was reused for maintaining, at great effort, some vegetation within the camp limits. Outside the camp, there was no vegetation except maybe a forest of Prosopsys Trees growing in a semi-arid oasis along one of the major wadis of the region, Wadi Runib. Runib Forest, as it was sometimes called, was distinctive in satellite photographs, the only green patch for hundreds of miles around.
At the moment the car stopped in front of the Operation Building, the oil field's nerve center, Zeno turned to his driver: "Mahmoud, I shall not leave the camp today, but please be ready early tomorrow morning -we'll leave at five thirty." Smiling broadly at the early close to his day, Mahmoud registered the departure time. His smile vanished.
A few weeks before, two ESR engineers almost died when another of these Fokkers had trouble landing in Dahla, one of the hubs in the south Oman oil development. Of course, no one would never know if human error or mechanical failure was responsible for the accident, but nevertheless, the plane had been completely destroyed. It was a miracle there were no victims. Zeno reminded himself the Fokker was perfectly adapted to rough desert conditions, and was designed to land on the unpaved runways that constituted the backbone of the personnel transport network.
After experiencing the standard first five minutes of abject terror, when the plane fights to get enough altitude to hop over the mountains rising steeply just behind the coast, Zeno started to admire the view.
From the air, the Omani desert was absolutely magnificent, changing by the season. It still bore the marks of violently erosive fluvial activity. The mountainous areas were decorated by emerald oases shaped like huge immobile snakes hiding in the valleys and ravines.
These contrasted with the moonscape features of the low lands with their amorphous dunes, and disturbed flats where markings from old exploratory tracks would stay imprinted forever. The plane passed over successions of rocky jebels, or desert hills, etching a shadow along their craggy surfaces.
In Marmul, Zeno was picked up by his driver, Mahmoud, and driven to the Qurum Production Station. He was getting sick and tired of these trips in the desert. Travelling at a maximum speed of 80 km/h, the speed of their journey was regulated by the car's electronic circuitry set to deliver a five second alert if the regulatory maximum speed was exceeded, and then cut off the engine for twenty minutes if the speed was not reduced.
Good drivers would go between 75 km/h and 85 km/h, letting the bloody device whistle for 3.5 seconds and slowing down to the regulatory speed just before cut-off. It was a delirant game, in a desperately flat desert, with the whistle slowly hypnotizing the driver and the passengers.
In southern Oman, all the vehicles were equipped with roof engine exhausts to handle the sudden floods triggered by rare but violent storms. Each vehicle was linked by radio to the Operation Manager's Office, and the roads were of exceptionally good quality, 15 meters and more wide, with ample roundabouts at crossings designed to accommodate the drilling towers and derricks constantly moving among different locations in the desert.
Loaded on huge, low platform trailers after being disassembled, the towers, derricks, barracks, pipes, ancillary mud treatment pools, and pumping stations were all transported the same way. For the first-time visitor to the Omani desert, fifteen to twenty such trailers, pulled in convoy by huge triple-axle trucks with blazing white headlights, and rotating yellow roof lights, were an unforgettable vision.
Built out of nothing in the flat rocky desert, Qurum Production Station rose as a vast Club-Med-type village with a large swimming pool, tennis courts, a football field, and a club that even served beer and booze. Exploration and the resulting implementation of the oil fields in central-south Oman had proven to be very challenging. In the beginning, there were no roads crossing over the mountains. Everything was shipped by boat to Dumq, on the Arabian Sea.
From Dumq, roads similar to the one Zeno had taken from Marmoul to Qurum had been created to penetrate the interior of Al Wusta. With the extreme desert conditions hundreds of miles away from anything resembling a town, the landscape was all rocks and sand; working there was almost like colonizing the moon.
This was a dangerous environment. Curiously enough, the chance of sudden death by drowning was high -the last thing most visitors would expect- but, extremely violent rains could provoke flash floods in the wadis, those low topographic channels that looked like dried creek beds. A wall of water, suddenly cascading down a wadi, was capable of wiping out roads, vehicles and any other man-made constructions set in its path.
Unluckily, the infrequency of these rainy events, one every four to six years, was not sufficient to create underground drinking water reserves. The water found in the underground in the Al Wusta region was brackish, and extremely saline in some areas. To sustain life in the oil field camps, water was extracted from wells and treated by a desalination-purification process called reverse osmosis, a fairly common but expensive water treatment method that uses synthetic membranes to separate clear water and concentrate in a much smaller portion all the impurities.
Because of the cost involved in the operation, great care was taken in making sure water was reused for maintaining, at great effort, some vegetation within the camp limits. Outside the camp, there was no vegetation except maybe a forest of Prosopsys Trees growing in a semi-arid oasis along one of the major wadis of the region, Wadi Runib. Runib Forest, as it was sometimes called, was distinctive in satellite photographs, the only green patch for hundreds of miles around.
At the moment the car stopped in front of the Operation Building, the oil field's nerve center, Zeno turned to his driver: "Mahmoud, I shall not leave the camp today, but please be ready early tomorrow morning -we'll leave at five thirty." Smiling broadly at the early close to his day, Mahmoud registered the departure time. His smile vanished.
November 2nd, 23:00: Al Bustan Palace Hotel Gardens, Muscat, Oman, Zeno and Irina are observed, No 27
"You getting any reception?" asked Ahmed, assistant to the Leader, through the miniaturized mike hidden in the collar of his gardener's uniform. His comrade, Muhammed, was posted near the shore, pretending to rake the sand not far from Irina and Zeno's table. He turned his back to the couple and answered after a long moment.
"Tawak kalto al Allah," cursed Muhammed,"No, I'm trying, but there is too much noise from the patrons and from the sea. These bloody infidels have all abused wine and liquor, they scream instead of talking. Have you seen all these half-naked sharmuta? Western whores. I could kill them all-dirty creatures! The Leader and his allies are going to be pissed off if we can't get any information. Allah praise the Leader and burn to ashes these people and all the gadgets they have brought here."
"Muhammed, take it easy," hissed Ahmed, "Insha-Allah, in a few days the Jihad will wipe this country clean of these infidels and their whores."
"Look, do you recognize the guy under the tree?" urged Muhammed.
"Yes, it is Schwayb, the Russian sharmuta's agent." whispered Ahmed. "Can you hear anything?"
"No. But look, she is leaving the table with Schwayb...and look, she..." Muhammed almost choked as Irina kissed Zeno on the cheek.
Unaware of being observed, Zeno wandered back to his room feeling dully contented. While slipping the knot from his tie, he walked by the window. Glancing below he saw Irina, Schwayb, and a third man, a giant, probably an East Indian, walking briskly towards a Mercedes 600 rakishly parked right in the middle of the Hotel drive.
"Tawak kalto al Allah," cursed Muhammed,"No, I'm trying, but there is too much noise from the patrons and from the sea. These bloody infidels have all abused wine and liquor, they scream instead of talking. Have you seen all these half-naked sharmuta? Western whores. I could kill them all-dirty creatures! The Leader and his allies are going to be pissed off if we can't get any information. Allah praise the Leader and burn to ashes these people and all the gadgets they have brought here."
"Muhammed, take it easy," hissed Ahmed, "Insha-Allah, in a few days the Jihad will wipe this country clean of these infidels and their whores."
"Look, do you recognize the guy under the tree?" urged Muhammed.
"Yes, it is Schwayb, the Russian sharmuta's agent." whispered Ahmed. "Can you hear anything?"
"No. But look, she is leaving the table with Schwayb...and look, she..." Muhammed almost choked as Irina kissed Zeno on the cheek.
Unaware of being observed, Zeno wandered back to his room feeling dully contented. While slipping the knot from his tie, he walked by the window. Glancing below he saw Irina, Schwayb, and a third man, a giant, probably an East Indian, walking briskly towards a Mercedes 600 rakishly parked right in the middle of the Hotel drive.
Posts
All Comments
Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
