But an earthquake … of maybe seven or eight on the Richter scale, he guessed … in eastern Pennsylvania?
Incredible.
“Professor Everett?” She was staring at him.
He realized he’d never answered her question. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an earthquake. But … there aren’t any major fault lines in this area that would cause such a large response.” He shook his head, scratching at the flimsy wisps covering the top of his scalp. “I don’t know what else would create a graph like that ….”
He froze. He did know of something else.
Paul frowned, his brows drawing together. The last time he’d seen something like this, it was decades ago. Hundreds of miles away.
He’d have to find his old papers, his old records of seismic activity from thirty years ago.
Because if it was what he thought it was, he was going to be on the phone to the USGS and not heading for the Poconos.
Darlene was going to kill him.
Barbara Melton, PhD, President and Chief Executive Officer of the closely-held AvaChem, had just sunk a beautiful putt when her IPhone vibrated against her hip.
“Perfect timing,” she muttered, glad it hadn’t come moments before. The birdie put her two strokes ahead of her partner and lover, and that much closer to the wager they had riding on today’s game: who was going to be the submissive during their sex play that night.
Tempted to ignore the insistent buzz, she nevertheless pulled the phone from its clip and noted the number of the incoming call. Theo Meadows, the COO of AvaChem, wouldn’t call during her Friday golf time unless there was something important going on.
“Nice shot,” her lover, Roger Brady, complimented as he dropped the pin flag back into the hole. “Haven’t you trained your husband not to call you when you’re on the course?” he joked. “Of course, if he’d called sooner, during your shot, I might be the one handling the whip tonight.” His eyes gleamed wickedly.
“It’s Meadows. I’d better answer it,” Barbara replied, flipping the sleek phone open. “Melton.”
“Jesus, Barb, have you heard?”
Barbara’s heart stuttered as she slid her putter back into her custom tooled-leather bag. The last time Meadows had started a conversation with that question, the news AvaChem was dumping toxic chemicals into the Delaware River had just hit the press. “I’ve heard nothing. I’m on the fifteenth hole. What is it?” she snapped, nervous and impatient.
“Allentown, Terre Haute, and Hays — the plants are gone.”
“Gone? What the hell do you mean, gone? In flames?” She leaned against the golf cart, and began to fumble for her nitroglycerine tablets. There was always the risk at a chemical plant for an accident to occur, but three of them at once …. “Bombs?” Barbara heard the squeak in her voice that made her sound like a teenybopper.
“You won’t believe it ….Earthquakes!”
She paused, her hand inside her pocketbook. “You’re joking.” She started to laugh, strained, but feeling the relief that trickled through her.
“Turn on the fucking news, Melton! It’s all over the country! Three earthquakes, all of them where our buildings are located. They’re completely destroyed. Everything’s gone.” Meadows’ voice spiraled into a hysterical wail. “The IPO’s shot, and we’re fucked. We’re fucked, Barb, do you hear me? And those federal fines ….they’re coming out of your pocket and mine, now, do you hear me?”
Barbara heard him, but she didn’t believe him. Three plants, leveled by earthquakes — in the most unlikely places all over the country? All on a Friday afternoon?
All at once?
It couldn’t be a coincidence ….pure, unadulterated bad luck.
It had to be those damn Greenies.
And there was no way Barbara was going to be stuck for two mil because of their tree-hugging antics.
She snagged her driver out of the bag and turned to the sixteenth tee.
3
Dannen Fridkov had always heard Riyadh described as an island, a refuge, in the center of barren desert; and indeed, the Saudi Arabian capital was exactly that.
Located in the middle of the Kingdom, the city sported an eclectic combination of mud-dabbed buildings and fortresses, courtyards with palm-tree-trunk pillars, and modern white spires. And the only greenery to be spotted for hundreds of miles.
Doors to traditional and modern buildings alike were ornate with Islamic art and designs in colorful geometric and organic shapes, often repetitious in their patterns. The streets were generously wide and busy, thronged with pedestrians, limousines and the brown and yellow commuter buses available to women and those with limited funds.
Fridkov had visited the city only once before, at night, briefly; so this mid-day visit in the cloak of desert heat was quite a different experience. He would have preferred time to wander a bit, shopping for rugs on Talateen Street, but his mission was clear, and, of necessity, must be quick. He settled back into the seat of his chauffeured car, adjusting the unfamiliar skirts of the thobe he had donned in an effort to blend in as a native rather than a Western businessman.
The Lincoln Town Car moved smoothly through the streets, and Fridkov eyed Riyadh’s Water Tower looming above the city. It rose like a flower toward the sun, with a long stem and a flat, fan-like top, glowing dirty yellow in the radiating heat. It was ironic that one of the most prominent landmarks in a city made from oil wealth was that of a water tower.
The industrialized world might be dependent upon oil, but in the end, water was the greater need — and something she gave more freely.
The minarets of The Great Mosque speared the sky, and Fridkov mused to himself that the devotion of the Arabians to their daily scheduled prayers was akin to that of the Americans to their television and French fries. He identified several members of the muttawa patrolling the streets, screening for violators of Islamic fundamentals.
Fridkov realized that he was not so unlike the muttawa himself. However, he would draw the line at removing the nipples from the mannequins in a women’s clothing store. Fridkov’s style was much more subtle — yet direct.
The car turned onto Al Matar, and now he must focus on the task at hand — the meeting with Israt Medivir, the president of Medivir Petroleum. The Medivir Building, though not nearly as tall and grand as the Ministry of Petroleum, still displayed the great wealth and success of the company. Success and wealth that had come purely by happenstance and not because of any great effort or planning on the part of Israt Medivir.
It was only his name that Medivir had given the company; the rest had come to him as nothing less than a gift — a gift that had now turned into a threat.
Looking in a well-positioned mirror, Fridkov arranged the traditional headscarf, ghuttera, over his dark hair so that it framed the sides of his face like a curtain. He placed the aqal around the crown of his head to hold it in place and adjusted the moustache and goatee he’d donned on the airplane. With his naturally swarthy skin, dark eyes, and thick brows, Fridkov would blend in perfectly.
His briefcase rested comfortably against his calf, not so heavy, for it didn’t even contain a laptop. No. What Fridkov needed for his meeting wasn’t any burden to bear.
At last, the car eased to a halt in front of the Medivir Building. A tall, glistening glass spear, the offices of one of Saudi Arabia’s largest petroleum companies clearly bespoke its prestige. Fridkov paid his driver with riyals and stepped from the cool comfort of the Lincoln into a wall of heat that made him gasp audibly.