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.
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".
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Book One
The Santucci Brothers Trilogy, 1999, F. Oboni
