Ghost Force (5 page)

Jaan was a Siberian by birth, a billionaire by choice, from Surgut way back south on the banks of the Ob, the fourth largest river in the world. His mission today was secret, and he traveled in the truck to preserve his anonymity. Out here in the purpose-built dormitory towns that surround the oil rigs, the icicles have ears and the clapboard walls have eyes.

Jaan Valuev wanted no one to know of his presence in Noyabrsk. So far only the driver knew he was on his way, except for Boris and Sergei. And the big truck kept going, fast, the speedometer hovering at 120 kilometers, great tracks of pine and birch forest occasionally flashing past, but mostly just bleak white flatland, bereft of human life, the icy wilderness of the West Siberian Basin.

They came rolling into Noyabrsk shortly before nine a.m. The weather, if anything, had worsened. The sky was the darkest shade of gray, with lowering thunderheads. The temperature was–10C, and malicious snow flurries sliced down the streets. The locals call them
bozyomkas
, and, as
bozyomkas
go, these were on the far side of venomous.

They say there is no cold on this earth quite like that of Siberia, and those gusts, 50 mph straight off the northern ice cap, howling in off the Kara Sea, shrieked down the estuary of the Ob River and straight into downtown Noyabrsk. That’s cold.

In the wild lands beyond the town, men were already struggling with the drilling pipes, manhandling the writhing hydraulics, trying to control them, heavy boots striving to grip the frozen steel of the screw-drill rig, forcing the pipe into the steel teeth of the connector mechanism that joins it to the next segment, lancing two miles down,
into the earth. Jaan’s corporation alone, OJSC, drills ninety of these wells every year and accounts for 13 percent of all Russian oil production.

Russia, showing the dividing line of the Ural Mountains. To the east lie the vast plains of Siberia, all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

The fifty-two-year-old Siberian oil boss disembarked from the truck and nodded his thanks curtly to the driver, who had brought the massive vehicle to a halt outside the main doorway of a three-storey wooden office building on a side street right off the main throughway of the town.

Jaan hurried inside, brushing the snow off his fur coat as he entered the warm corridor. He walked briskly upstairs to the first floor, where a large wooden door bore the lettering SIBNEFT, the Russian name for the gigantic Siberian Oil Company, whose refineries in the city of Omsk, down near the Kazakhstan border, and in Moscow, produce 500,000 barrels of oil product every day.

Inside, behind a large desk, in front of a roaring log fire, sat Sergei Pobozhiy, the fabled Chairman of SIBNEFT. Neither man had been to this oil frontier town for at least two years, and they gave each other great bear hugs of recognition. Sergei had arrived by helicopter from the city of Yekaterinburg, which stands, in its infamy, in the foothills of the Urals.

The next visitor, who arrived at 9:30, had traveled up from the same city, also by helicopter. The mission was too secret for the men to travel together. Like Sergei, Boris Nuriyev, first Vice President of Finance at the colossal, restructured LUKOIL Corporation, had traveled alone in the corporate helicopter.

Boris Nuriyev was a stranger to Jaan and Sergei, but all three of them were Siberian-born, and all three of them had been close friends with the late Mikhallo Masorin. They shook hands formally and sat down with black coffee to await the arrival of the fourth and final member of the meeting.

He came through the door at 9:40, direct from the rough little Noyabrsk airport, having landed in a private corporate jet directly into the teeth of the wind, and was almost blown off the runway. The government car that picked him up was a black Mercedes limousine, with chains already fitted to the tires. The automobile was a gift from the Chinese government.

Roman Rekuts, a big man well over six feet three, issued no bear
hugs, mainly because he might have crushed the spines of the other men. But Jaan, Sergei, and Boris each shook hands warmly with the last arrival, welcoming the new head of the Urals Federal District, the man who had replaced Mikhallo Masorin. A Siberian-born politician, he had served under Masorin for four years.

Sergei Pobozhiy motioned for Roman to remove his coat and to sit in the big chair behind the desk. The SIBNEFT boss poured coffee for them all, and suggested that the new Urals Minister begin proceedings. Nothing written down, just an informal chat among four of the most influential men in Siberia.

“Well,” he began, “I understand we are unanimous that Moscow agents assassinated Mikhallo Masorin. The American newspapers confirm the findings of the autopsy, and the coroner in Washington is expected to deliver a verdict that he was murdered by person or persons unknown.

“I imagine the Russian security contingent that traveled to the United States with the President will maintain the Americans must have done it. But of course no one is going to believe that. At least the Americans won’t, and neither will we.

“Gentlemen, we are discussing here a matter of approach. And we should perhaps decide among ourselves what it is we want. And the short answer is plainly revenge, and then money. The taxes on Siberian export oil levied by Moscow are very high, and we do not get even a reasonable share of it.

“It would obviously suit us much better if the oil corporations—your good selves, that is—paid a higher tariff to Siberia, and made Central Government pay a higher price for domestic oil, and then share some of their huge export tax revenues with the country of origin. That’s us.”

“Of course, we are not really a country,” said Boris thoughtfully. “We are, and always have been, a part of Russia.”

“A situation that could probably be changed,” said Sergei. “Let’s face it, Siberia really is a separate country. The Urals form a great natural barrier between us and European Russia. We’re talking a twelve-hundred-mile range of mountains stretching north-south all the way from the Arctic Circle to Kazakhstan. That’s a barrier, a true break point. Enough to discourage anyone from using force against us.”

“True enough,” said Jaan. “And the Russian government knows it has no possibility of suppressing us by force. Even the mighty army of Germany never penetrated the Urals. We’re safe from invasion, and the Chinese love us, so we don’t have that much to fear. If we demand financial justice, Moscow essentially will have to give it to us.”

Sergei, who, with Masorin gone, was probably the most militant of them, suddenly said flatly, “We could just round up the other two Siberian Federations and inform Moscow that we do plan to secede from the Russian Republic. Just like the smaller countries did from the Soviet Union.

“We ought not to do this in any spirit of malevolence, and we should inform them we would like to continue with trade agreements, much like the status quo. But in the absence of cooperation from Moscow, and in light of their compliance in the murder of the leader of the Ural Federal District, we intend from now on to call the shots financially on our own oil, and increase our trade with China.”

“To which they will say, No, out of the question,” said Roman, mildly.

“Then we issue our first veiled threat that there may be some interruption in production,” replied Sergei.

The room fell silent. The snow squalls lashed against the double-glazed windows, and the wind howled.

“You hear that weather out there?” said Sergei. “That is our greatest strength. Because you have to be Siberian to work out here, to cope with the terrible conditions. I know we ship in labor for the rigs from Belarus and other cold climates. But the bedrock of our workforce is Siberian. Without native labor the entire oil industry would collapse. No one else is tough enough to stand it.”

“Gentlemen, how serious are you about a declaration of independence?” Roman was pensive.

“Not very, I don’t think,” said Boris. “But I think we all believe the threat would send a lightning bolt through the Russian government. And that would quickly bring an agreement that the Siberian Federations deserve more from the treasure that lies under their own lands. It’s really the only compensation the people have.”

“I believe the intention of opening up increased trade with China would really frighten them,” said Jaan. “We already have shortages
and bottlenecks on the pipelines. If Moscow thought we intended to ship more and more oil down the new pipeline to China, I think they’d be very nervous. Especially if we were getting a much better price for it.”

“And of course we ought not to forget the new tanker terminal in Murmansk,” added Boris. “Right now we’re shipping one point five million barrels of Siberian crude a day to the United States directly from the Barents Sea to the U.S. East Coast. Moscow would hate to jeopardize that, and Murmansk is a real outpost, way down at the end of a very long pipeline. Everyone knows they’re what the Americans call ‘low man on the totem pole.’

“Any shortages up there would infuriate them. But they already know the danger. And they know the sympathies of the big oil corporations are very much in favor of the Siberians. Especially as so many of us
are
Siberians. The truth is, Siberia not only owns the oil, Siberia also controls it.”

Outside, the ice storm continued to blow out of the north. Sergei stood up and placed another couple of logs on the fire, saying quietly as he did so, “Moscow is fifteen hundred miles from us—and if we decide to increase our production to China, there’s nothing they can do about it. Except negotiate, on our terms. And the murder of Mikhallo has not helped their cause, both in this room and out there among the people.”

“Gentlemen, I think this calls for a summit meeting, in the next ten days. Is that likely to be possible?” Roman was getting down to brass tacks.

“Yes. I think we could manage that,” replied Sergei. “Say four or five top oil executives, ourselves and perhaps three more, plus four or five major Siberian politicians, Roman and the other two Federation leaders, plus two Energy Ministers from the Ural Federation and maybe Mikhail from the Far East.”

“Place?” said Roman.

“Well, it can’t be out here,” stated Boris. “We’ll be lucky to keep this little gathering under wraps, even if we get out the moment the weather slows down. I’d suggest Yekaterinburg, because it’s bigger, more anonymous, and we can arrive from several different directions. It doesn’t matter if any one of us is recognized, so long as no one knows we’re meeting together.”

“It’s important we show Moscow a united front that truly represents the will not only of the Siberian oil industry, but that of the people,” said Roman. “They can’t assassinate us all, can they?”

“I suppose not,” muttered Sergei.

0800 (LOCAL), SAME DAY
WASHINGTON, DC

Lenny Suchov was on the secure line from CIA headquarters early. Lt. Commander Ramshawe took the call.

“Guess you heard the verdict, Jimmy. It’s in all the papers this morning.”

“Sure did. Murder by persons unknown.”

“Well, I called you for two reasons. First of all we got a picture of the guy who probably shot the curare into Mikhallo’s neck. Only from the back. But he’s a big guy, and he’s leaning over talking. We’ve checked every inch of the surveillance film. No one else got that close all evening, at least not while Masorin was dining.

“The FBI are making formal inquiries at the Russian embassy, showing them our film, but the guy is back in Russia. And word is the White House does not want this to go much further. We got major oil trade agreements with Moscow, and the new export route from Murmansk is working well and profitably for everyone.

“Guess the President doesn’t want to piss ’em off any more than we already have.”

“That’d be right,” said Jimmy. “Anyway, in the end, it’s nothing to do with us really. It’s a Russian murder and a Russian matter…what else?”

“One of our guys in the Siberian oil fields thinks something is brewing up there, politically.”

“Yeah?”

“Apparently, earlier today—”

“You can’t get much bloody earlier…”

Lenny chuckled. “They are nine hours in front…”

“Oh, yeah, that’s different. Carry on.”

Lenny laughed out loud. “Pay attention, young Ramshawe,” he
said. “Otherwise I have you assassinated…as I was saying, one of our guys was out at the little airport in Noyabrsk when a private jet landed, bearing none other than Boris Rekuts. That’s the new political chief who’s replaced Masorin as boss of the Urals Federal District.