Crossing Savage Read online

The bartender took Jeremy’s order and promptly placed a gin and tonic in front of him. Jeremy continued to skim through the paper and sip his drink. It had been a long day. He would get to his email in due time, but for now he intended to enjoy his drink and newspaper.

  He came to the international section, which was mostly a collection of one-paragraph pieces picked off the wire services. A story on the lower right corner of the page caught his eye:

  Body Found at London Ritz

  The body of a man, believed to be a hotel guest, was discovered at the Ritz at Piccadilly Circus. According to London police the cause of death is still under investigation, but early reports suggest the man died of ricin poisoning.

  Jeremy was no biochemist, but he was pretty sure ricin was not a substance someone was likely to encounter in daily life. The deceased had been identified as Professor Mark Phillips of Georgia Tech in Atlanta.

  Jeremy read the name again, thinking he had surely made a mistake. After all, he was tired and was on his second drink. But he had made no mistake. There it was, in black and white—Mark Phillips.

  “No, that can’t be…”

  Mark Phillips was a friend and long-time colleague. They often met at conferences, and Mark had offered to host Jeremy’s family should they ever wish to vacation in the States. In fact, Jeremy had expected Mark to be at this conference.

  Mark… dead? How could he come in contact with ricin? It just didn’t make any sense.

  Jeremy was stunned. His arms collapsed to the bar with the crumpled newspaper still clenched tightly in his fists. He stared at the story.

  The bartender approached. “Is everything all right, sir?”

  Jeremy seemed to not hear the bartender as he stared in silence at the crumpled paper.

  “Sir, may I get anything for you?”

  He looked up from the newspaper but not at the bartender. “No. I’m fine.”

  Jeremy continued to nurse his drink. His thoughts went back to his many visits with Mark. They had first met years before at a conference on petroleum exploration. Mark and Jeremy hit it off from the beginning. They often enjoyed discussing their work; Mark was passionate about his theories on abiogenic oil formation—the theory that oil is not derived solely from dead plant and animal material but is also a product of inorganic reactions. Jeremy was part of a small group within British Energy that shared similar ideas.

  In fact, that was why Jeremy was here at the Hedberg Conference. Tomorrow morning he was scheduled to present a paper discussing recent progress on correlating significant new oil-producing fields with predictions from the abiogenic group.

  My paper, yes. Jeremy glanced at his watch—it was almost 8:00 P.M. He decided to finish his drink and go back to his room and try to sleep. Suddenly, Jeremy felt very, very tired.

  Jeremy woke the next morning, five minutes before his alarm. He felt rested despite being upset by Mark’s death. He would contact Mark’s family when he returned to London. This morning, he needed to focus on presenting his paper. He dressed quickly in a gray suit and white shirt with a golden-yellow patterned tie.

  He was scheduled to present his paper in a special breakout session focused on abiogenic theories of oil and gas production. With the theories no longer cast off as nonsense, the professional community now allowed for a small portion of the mainstream conference to be devoted to this rather unorthodox collection of hypotheses.

  Jeremy walked confidently into the meeting room. It was still early; the session would not begin for fifteen minutes. At the front of the conference room was a small stage, elevated maybe twelve inches from the floor, containing a podium in the center with a table and four chairs to its left. The first group of three speakers along with the session chairman would be seated at the table.

  Since Jeremy was scheduled to be the first to present his results, he walked to the front of the meeting room and introduced himself to the man who, he guessed, was the session chair.

  “Hi, I’m Jeremy Hitchcock.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Bill Shell.”

  As they shook hands Jeremy glanced at his name badge. William Shell, Group Leader, Excelon Petroleum.

  “I’ll queue up your first slide after I introduce you to the audience.” Pointing to a small remote controller with two buttons, Bill continued, “Press this button to advance the slide and this button if you want to go back.”

  “Got it,” Jeremy confirmed.

  “You’ll have no more than 25 minutes for your presentation, and I’ll stop you if you go over. There will be five minutes for questions. Be sure to repeat the question so everyone hears it. I think that’s it.”

  Jeremy nodded his head. “Should be fine, thanks.”

  Bill clipped a small microphone to the lapel of Jeremy’s suit and showed him how to switch on the transmitter, a box the size of a pack of cards connected by a slim wire to the microphone. Bill clipped the transmitter to Jeremy’s belt.

  By now the room was beginning to fill up. Forty to 50 people had already arrived and taken seats. Many were sipping coffee from paper cups. Several groups of two or three people each were talking quietly—probably colleagues catching up on the latest gossip.

  After introducing himself to the other speakers, Jeremy sat at his place at the table along with the second and third scheduled presenters. Bill took the podium and addressed the audience to signal the start of the session.

  “Good morning! Welcome to this special session on abiogenic oil formation.”

  The security guard at the back of the room closed the double doors as everyone became quiet and looked towards the front.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree we have an interesting program this morning, one that is certain to stimulate a lot of lively discussion. Our first speaker is Dr. Jeremy Hitchcock. Dr. Hitchcock has been with British Energy for nine years, where he leads a group—”

  Suddenly the double doors at the back of the meeting room burst open and five men stormed into the room. They were dressed in loose-fitting black robes with wide sashes tied around their waists. Their heads were covered in scarves so that only their eyes, noses, and mouths were visible. From where Jeremy was sitting, he could see that the men had dark complexions.

  “What the heck?” Jeremy thought he mouthed the words, but it must have been audible because the lady sitting next to him answered “I don’t know,” as she shook her head.

  The lead man abruptly turned to his right, facing the security guard who had a startled look on his face. In one fluid motion the robed man pulled a pistol that had been hidden beneath his sash and shot the guard in the head, killing him instantly.

  A scream emanated from somewhere in the back of the room, and immediately men and women jumped from their chairs, moving away from the robed intruders like a wave pulsating away from a rock thrown into a pond. The scream was soon replaced by a din of shouts and clattering of chairs knocked over by the human surge seeking distance from the murderous men. But this sound, too, soon died down and was replaced by an eerie stillness.

  The other robed men closed the doors and then moved out around the periphery of the room. The man with the pistol strode confidently down the center aisle, pistol still clutched in his hand; the stunned audience stared at him. No one dared to make a sound. He stepped in front of the podium and nodded to his comrades. They all opened their robes to reveal short automatic rifles.

  At the sight of the weapons, the woman next to Jeremy began to whimper softly. Her mewling sounded mournful, and in the absence of any other sounds a dozen pairs of eyes looked at her curiously.

  Jeremy placed his hand on her arm to comfort her. But she brushed his hand away and pushed back her chair, starting to rise.

  “Sit down and be still,” Jeremy commanded, making no effort to be diplomatic. The man holding the pistol turned and glared at him, and the woman did as she was told, but her sobbing carried on.

  The initial confusion in Jeremy’s mind was rapidly overcome by raw terror. Beads of perspiration formed
on his forehead; he tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Then he noticed a small package strapped to the waist of each of the four intruders who now surrounded the audience. The olive drab packages looked to be made of plastic.

  Jeremy could clearly see the package on the closest man. It had writing molded into it that read: “This Side Toward Enemy”. His blood turned ice cold; he recognized these as mines from scenes in the movie Swordfish—Claymore directional antipersonnel mines—engineered to blast hundreds of steel balls forward in a sweeping arc of death and destruction. Each mine contained about a pound of C4 explosive, and that alone, in the confined space of the conference room, would likely kill everyone.

  The man with the pistol stretched his arms above his head and spoke, “Listen to me!”

  The command seemed to catalyze another wave of fear, and a chorus of sobbing began anew. He spoke again, this time more forcefully. “Quiet! Listen to me!”

  The room quieted, but only somewhat. He continued, “My name is Kaseem. We are here to conduct a simple business transaction. You people are our insurance policy. Do what you are told, and no one else will be harmed.” Despite his foreign appearance, Kaseem spoke English well, and his accent suggested an American education.

  He looked around the room, the pistol still plainly visible in his hand. “Everyone move to the center of the room.” Slowly, three men sitting near the back of the room stood and moved forward toward the center. Bill Shell, Jeremy, and the two other speakers stepped down from the stage and also gathered in the center of the room. Jeremy had his arm around the shoulder of the woman he had tried to calm, her panic seemingly replaced by a state of shock, her face ashen and eyes unfocused.

  “Sit down and shut up!” Kaseem ordered. He then removed a cell phone from under his robe and dialed.

  In a calm voice Kaseem said, “I wish to report a shooting at the Gran Meliá Hotel in Sabana Grande. I have hostages. I will negotiate a ransom for their safe return.” He hung up and addressed the room. “Soon the police will arrive. Then we can conduct our business and be gone.”

  To the side of Jeremy a voice spoke up, “What do you want with us? When can we go?” Jeremy glanced towards the voice.

  Kaseem replied, “I should think our intentions are quite clear. You are our hostages. We intend to ransom you to the Venezuelan government. If you resist or try to escape, you will be killed. We have explosives strapped to our bodies—we are all ready to die if necessary.”

  The room was silent. No one dared speak. Everyone, except for the five terrorists, was seated. Jeremy glanced around at the faces. Terror and shock registered on every one of them. Only moments before these people were proud, confident… even arrogant. Now they were cowering like beaten dogs, heads hanging down and avoiding eye contact with the terrorists.

  Finally, the silence was interrupted by the sound of frantic movement outside in the hall followed by a knock at the door and the sound of a bullhorn.

  “This is Captain Ortiz with the Caracas police department. We wish to speak with whoever is in charge.”

  “I am in charge. I can hear you fine!” Kaseem shouted. “Carefully slide a cell phone past the door. But do not try anything that you will later regret.”

  The door was pushed open slightly and a cell phone slid across the floor, then the door closed again. One of the robed men picked up the phone and carried it to Kaseem. A minute later it rang. “This is Kaseem. We have explosives and we will kill the hostages unless we are paid ten million U.S. dollars. We also want safe passage to any destination of our choosing in South America. We will take several of the hostages as insurance; they will be released after we have escaped unharmed. You have one hour. Have I made myself clear?”

  Captain Ortiz replied, “Yes, I understand. But you must also understand that I do not have the authority to agree to your demands. I must report to my superior.”

  “Then contact your superior. I expect your answer within 60 minutes, or the first hostage will be shot.” Kaseem did not wait for a reply; he simply closed the phone and smiled wickedly.

  Barely 30 minutes had passed since the robed men burst into the room. A paramilitary team arrived and barricaded the circular driveway in front of the hotel, posting two guards with machine guns at the lobby entrance. A man wearing the insignia of an army major emerged from the command vehicle. Above his breast pocket was a patch that bore his name—Muriel. He strode confidently through the lobby and was met by Captain Ortiz.

  “Major, I am Captain Ortiz. I have spoken with the terrorists. They are demanding ten million U.S. dollars plus safe passage. They say they will begin to kill the hostages in…,” Ortiz glanced at his watch, “sixteen minutes, unless we agree to their demands.”

  The major stared, devoid of expression, at Ortiz. He appeared to be deep in thought. Ortiz saw cunning and purpose in the major’s eyes.

  “Take me to these terrorists,” Major Muriel ordered. They turned and marched up the staircase to the door of the meeting room. Captain Ortiz gave a cell phone to Muriel. “We have spoken to the terrorists by phone. Just press #1 and the connect button.”

  As they reached the top of the stairs, the major opened the phone and speed-dialed the terrorists. Kaseem answered. “You are almost out of time. Are you prepared to meet my demands?”

  “This is Major Muriel of the Venezuelan Army. I have spoken with Captain Ortiz; you are asking for a lot. I am not sure we can agree to your demands.”

  “That is too bad, Major, for you and me. We are prepared to die today. Are you prepared to have these hostages die as well? That is what will happen, I assure you. A security guard is already dead. You will have the next body in precisely seven minutes unless I have assurances that my demands will be met.”

  “How do I know that the hostages are still alive and well? Allow me to enter the room and speak with you face-to-face.”

  Kaseem paused for a minute, then, “Very well. But I warn you, no tricks. If you bring a weapon in here, you will be executed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, very clear.”

  Major Muriel gave the cell phone to Ortiz. “I’m going in to check the condition of the hostages and buy us some time. I need to know how many terrorists we have in there and what weapons they have.” Then he unbuckled his pistol belt and gave it to Ortiz.

  Muriel slowly cracked the door open. “I am coming in, alone and unarmed.”

  He walked in slowly and deliberately, hands above his head, fingers interlaced. The door closed behind him. Muriel stood inside the door, slowly looking around the room. The hostages were clustered in the center while the terrorists were stationed so that each had control of a quadrant. All brandished AK-47 rifles with either short or sawn-off butt stocks.

  The terrorist nearest to his left approached with his rifle casually aimed at Muriel’s torso. The terrorist leader walked swiftly to Muriel from the front of the room.

  He spoke softly to avoid being overheard by the hostages. “Praise be to Allah.”

  And the major replied, “Blessed are his children and all who follow the words of the Prophet.”

  “I am Kaseem. You have our money and transportation ready?”

  “All is proceeding according to plan. Are the Claymores armed?”

  “Yes, just as we were instructed. I have the detonator.” Kaseem produced a small remote control device from his waist belt.

  “Very good. Keep your men tightly positioned with the hostages, just in case some macho policeman barges in here trying to be a hero. I will go back out and make a show of our negotiations and explain to the local police captain that you and your men and a handful of hostages will be escorted by me and my team to awaiting transportation. He may object, but he has no authority in the matter. I will calm him by explaining that you have agreed to release the remaining hostages at the airport.

  “I will return in ten minutes with six of my men. Together we will bind the hostages and then place the Claymores. Two minutes after we leave the room you will detonate
the mines. The explosion will confuse the police and soldiers and aid our escape. Your money will be waiting in the escape vehicles.”

  With his brief instructions issued, Major Muriel turned smartly and left the room. Kaseem quickly faced back toward the group of hostages and ordered his men to pull in tight near the terrified scientists and engineers. If they were stormed, either through the main entrance doors or from the back by the stage, no one would dare shoot for fear of killing a hostage.

  Muriel walked down the hallway, and as he reached the staircase to the lobby, Captain Ortiz intercepted him. “Sir, what did they say?”

  “The terrorists repeated their demands, but the hostages are all in good condition. Keep your men posted here and stay alert. I will communicate the situation to my commanding officer and will return shortly. Captain, do not leave your post. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Major Muriel proceeded down the staircase. When he reached the bottom, he turned toward the lobby door and removed a small transmitter from his breast pocket. It was a small black plastic device with a single button—just like the one Kaseem had shown him. Muriel pushed a toggle switch on the side of the transmitter to the on position and a tiny red LED illuminated. Then he moved his thumb to the button and, without a further thought, pressed it.

  The result was instantaneous. There was a deafening sound followed immediately by the blast wave. In the meeting room, all four of the Claymores strapped to the bodies of the terrorists simultaneously detonated, sending their deadly volley of steel balls ripping through the hostages as if they were made of paper.

  The terrorist themselves were killed instantly by the force of the explosives; many of the hostages were not so lucky.

  The police officers in the hall outside the meeting room panicked. The blast and the steel balls were not contained by the flimsy walls of the meeting room. Three officers were on the floor, bleeding from leg wounds where shrapnel had torn into their flesh. The two officers standing guard at the entry doors lay dead, having been hit in the head and back by the doors when they were blasted from their hinges and hurled into the hall.