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