Doc Ford 19 - Chasing Midnight (14 page)

The background summaries I’d reviewed before leaving Sanibel hadn’t come right out and said that it was true. But the insinuation was there, between the lines, along with a lot more:

Talas and Armanie each claimed to be “conventional modern” Muslims, yet they also tacitly endorsed fundamentalist causes with their checkbooks. Both had gotten rich piping fossil fuels out of the Caspian Sea, which is the Earth’s third-largest reservoir of oil and natural gas.

Talas was a shareholder in Turkmenia’s largest petroleum company. Armanie was one of five in a consortium that managed seventeen oil rigs off the Iranian port of Neka. Black market caviar was a lucrative enterprise for both men—fifty million euros a year was a conservative estimate, according to profile summaries I’d received. But oil was their primary source of wealth. Which suggested that if Talas or Armanie wanted Kazlov dead, it had more to do with fossil fuel than a dinosaurian fish.

It was more than just a theory. There was something else I had learned from my sources: the three men despised one another. The reasons weren’t given, of course. No way for anyone to know them all. Kazlov’s, Talas’s and Armanie’s families had been competitors for
decades, so they had probably all been scarred by past dealings. And some wounds never heal.

But if Kazlov truly had made a breakthrough discovery regarding caviar, Armanie and Talas had more battle scars coming. There were several reasons, but one was that the news would invite international attention to the Caspian Sea and its dwindling beluga population. That’s the last thing two men who profited from caviar and oil wanted.

Oil companies in the region despise media attention because they don’t want the world to know the truth about the Caspian. The truth is that it has become an environmental cesspool since the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991. No longer is the oil industry governed or policed. Soviet regulations were never strict by Western standards, but now there are none. None that are enforced, anyway.

The same is true of the sturgeon fishery, which is why the venerated wild beluga is being slaughtered into extinction.

While the five bordering nations squabble about territorial rights and whether the Caspian legally is a sea or the world’s largest freshwater lake, a Wild West mentality controls the region. International petroleum companies are rushing to capitalize on a rare opportunity to pump millions of barrels of oil without the expense of minimizing or even monitoring pollution.

With the same hyenalike fervor, international caviar procurers are looting the Caspian fishery because they know better than anyone that, soon, the last mature female beluga will be netted and that will be the end.

Armanie and Talas were burning both ends of the Caspian Sea candle and profiting hugely. I didn’t blame them for making a profit. I’m a realist. It’s what businesspeople do. But I found their methods contemptible and their superior attitudes galling.

Which is why when Armanie goaded me by saying my questions
were ridiculous, I smiled and gave him a pointed look that read
Anytime, anyplace—asshole.

That’s when the real trouble between us started.

The man was unused to being challenged by inferiors, so it turned into a stare-down. After he finally contrived a way out by lighting a cigarette, I said, “If you won’t talk to me about it, maybe you’ll let me tell you what I already know. You can fill in the blanks, if you want, or tell me where I’m wrong.”

“Dr. Ford, you remind me of one of those stubborn detectives in an American film.” Talas laughed, jowls shaking. In my mind, the Pillsbury Doughboy instantly became Sydney Greenstreet in
Casablanca
.

Talas pretended to be interested. Armanie glowered, smoked and checked his wristwatch. It took me about five minutes to tell two of the world’s most ruthless suppliers of black market caviar how their organizations worked.

I began by asking, “How many fishermen along the Caspian coast do you employ? Six or seven hundred? No—let’s count Kazlov’s organization, too. So we can double that. Together, your organizations probably own about fifty percent of the international market, which means you sell how much illegal caviar annually? A hundred and fifty metric tons at least, from what I’ve read.”

I paused long enough for Talas to nod, as if impressed with his own success, before continuing.

“You sell the product on the gray market to five-star restaurants, exporters, whoever will buy it. Your wholesale price is around eight hundred U.S. dollars a pound, right? So eight hundred dollars multiplied by one metric ton—which is what? Around twenty-two hundred pounds? That comes to about”—I let the men watch me struggle with the math—“just under two million dollars per ton. Multiply that
by a hundred and fifty tons annually and”—I looked to check their facial reactions—“and we’re talking a whole bunch of money. Three hundred million gross. At least a hundred million net. Am I right?”

From the flicker of a smile that appeared on Armanie’s face, I knew that I had underestimated the figure.

That was okay. I was getting to him, and we both knew it. It gave me the confidence to attempt to trap the men into telling me the truth about why they’d come to Vanderbilt Island—a trap I began to bait by saying, “But neither one of you is going to be in the caviar business for much longer—unless Kazlov’s hybrid sturgeon becomes a reality. If you don’t know why, I’ll be happy to explain.”

Armanie exhaled smoke and said, “This is something I’m going to complain to Viktor about. More visits to the casino, fewer fraud biologists. And after we were guaranteed privacy.”

“But I’m enjoying myself!” Talas responded, smiling at me—but his eyes had an empty look, as if I were a corpse who refused to be silent. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard so many outrageous inaccuracies come from one man’s mouth.”

I replied, “I take that as a compliment. Apparently, my information is better than expected. Mind if I continue?”

Talas listened while Armanie made a show of turning to face the swimming pool. I could hardly blame him when I saw why. I got my first look at the woman I would see later, sitting in the dining room with Lien Bohai. The one with the exotic face and Anglo-Malaysian eyes. She wore a burnt orange bikini and was lowering herself into the pool. The water must have been cool because the woman paused at rib level while her breasts acclimated—a hypnotic few seconds. Then I watched her remove an ivory quillet, then a comb from the top of her head, before submerging in a swirl of Polynesian hair.

The visual impact was such that I managed only a vague recollection
of her stunningly plain counterpart, the square-faced woman with the swimmer’s shoulders.

Talas, the fat man, was watching, too, because he said to Armanie,“Have you spoken to her this trip? She really is quite beautiful. And what a magnificent body! Do you think she’d agree to drinks after dinner?”

In an insinuating tone, the Iranian replied, “I think you’d have to ask Viktor’s permission. I saw them walking last night and then they snuck off together this morning. I’m sure he can provide her answer—and her price.”

At the time, the remark seemed only rude. Later, when I saw the woman sitting with the Chinese mega-millionaire Lien Bohai, it would acquire a sharper edge.

After I turned away from the pool, it took me a moment to collect myself, but I finally refocused and told the two caviar kings why they would soon be out of the caviar business. First, though, I told them how they did what they did. Some of it was an educated guess, most was not.

The fishermen they hired—and paid next to nothing—avoided detection by laying their nets after dark. Miles of nets pulled by boats working in packs. For hours, they would drag their web into slow circles that trapped every living, swimming thing. Then hydraulic derricks would haul the nets and dump the catch in a thrashing, suffocating heap onto the deck.

There are seventy-some species of fish that live in the Caspian Sea, including six species of sturgeon. But only three of those species provide salable eggs for caviar, so everything else would be left to die while the profitable fish were culled. Twenty years ago, the fishermen might have caught a thousand sturgeon in a two-hour drag. Today, a hundred was a more likely number.

Of those hundred fish, fewer then ten would be the valuable beluga. Two other species, the osetra and sevruga, which are more common, but still endangered, would also be kept.

Because it takes fifteen to twenty-five years before a female sturgeon can produce eggs, only one of those ten beluga would be large enough to be considered mature—a fish between three hundred and three thousand pounds. Smaller, mature osetra and sevruga sturgeon would add another twenty fish to the pile. These fish would all be clubbed unconscious and dragged, tail first, into aerated tanks. Smaller fish would be kicked overboard or killed for meat.

At the docks, while the sturgeon were still alive, underlings hired by Talas and Armanie would then stun the fish a second time with a blow to the head. Why? Because it’s impossible to do surgery on a conscious fish that’s three times the size of the men handling it. And surgery was the
next
step. The only way poachers can find out if a sturgeon is male or female is to make a precise abdominal incision that exposes the fish’s reproductive organs.

Males would be hauled away to die and dumped later—the carcasses were incriminating. Gravid females would also be left to die but only after their ovaries had been slit, the valuable egg sacs removed whole, and immediately iced—all while the fish was semiconscious. Studies are as varied as the definitions of “pain,” but the consensus is that fish don’t feel pain as it is experienced by primates. A fish’s existence is brainstem dominated, not cerebrally dominated, but a sturgeon’s
behavioral
response to such a procedure would cause even me to wince and I’m not known for my sensitivity.

Nor were Armanie and Talas, judging from their yawning indifference to what I had just described.

“This year, your fishermen will catch about half as many mature sturgeon as they caught last year,” I continued. “That’s the way it’s
been going for the last decade, right? It’s because you’re killing the brood stock. The golden geese. And that’s why you’ll be out of the caviar business soon. Even if someone very smart, like Viktor Kazlov, develops a beluga hybrid, you’ll still be out of the business because the Caspian Sea is so polluted, a restocking program isn’t likely.”

Both men were listening, although Armanie had pretended to be preoccupied. It got to him, though, when I mentioned Kazlov’s intelligence. I saw him react. It gave me additional confidence. Mentioning a hybrid beluga was proving an effective bait for the trap I soon hoped to spring.

“Admit it,” I had pressed. “Kazlov is a brilliant man—if he really has found a way to produce beluga-quality eggs from a sturgeon with different DNA. My guess is, you’re worried about the media attention he’ll bring to your operations in the Caspian. Or you’re jealous.”

That did it. Armanie couldn’t help himself. “Do you realize how ridiculously stupid you sound?” he said, keeping his voice low as he turned to face me across the table. “Kazlov is an uneducated farmer turned gangster. It’s the specialists he’s hired who have the brains—not
him
. Even so, only a fool would believe they would waste their time creating a hybrid from a beluga sturgeon and your disgusting Gulf sturgeon. And if they have, so what!”

I looked into the man’s eyes, trying not to show how eager I was to hear what came next. “You lost me,” I lied. “Gulf sturgeon tolerate warm water a lot better than the beluga. They mature faster, too. Isn’t that Kazlov’s real plan? To start a company that operates outdoor sturgeon farms throughout the tropics? He already owns an aquaculture facility in the Yucatán. They can produce caviar year-round. His investors will get rich. In fact”—I lowered my voice as if sharing a confidence—“I’m thinking of investing a few thousand dollars myself.”

Talas managed to say, “A few thousand! Such a risky sum!” before his jowls began to shake again, laughing.

I replied, “To me, it’s a lot of money. But if things go as Viktor predicts, who knows? The three of us might do some business down the road.”

The look Armanie gave me was memorable because his contempt was multilayered. I was a naïve American hick. Not only was I uniformed, I had no money—which meant I was powerless, and so useless to him.

“You call yourself a biologist?” he said, staring at me, shaking his head. “You actually have a college degree? Then how can you possibly not know that what Kazlov is
supposedly
proposing is impossible.”

“A hybrid fish?” I replied as if confused. “New hybrids are being developed every day.”

“You idiot,” Armanie had laughed. “Even now you don’t understand. Here”—the man had put his elbows on the table and leaned toward me—“let me make it simple enough even for you to comprehend. The DNA of a beluga sturgeon simply cannot be disguised. Do you know why?”

Yes, but I let the man talk.

“Because the DNA of every commercial fish in the world is cataloged in an international data bank. Which means there is no possible way that beluga DNA would go undetected. Do you hear me? It’s
impossible
.”

Armanie, very pleased with himself, paused to light another cigarette. “Your own country wouldn’t issue permits to raise such a fish, let alone the international governing bodies. The Convention on Trade in Endangered Species—have you even heard of the organization?”

I had filled out enough CITES forms to wallpaper my lab. The man sat back and chuckled. “No competent professional would
waste his time listening to Kazlov’s claims about a hybrid fish. Certainly not from two such very different animals. Which, I suppose, explains why you’re so enthralled with the idea…
Doctor
Ford.”

Good. It wasn’t much of a trap, but Armanie had finally stepped into it with both feet.

My expression blank, I slammed the trap shut by asking, “Then what are you two men doing here?”

It had taken a few moments, but the fat man, and then Armanie, finally realized what had just happened. Abruptly, Talas stopped laughing. Armanie fumbled for his cigarettes, maybe hoping I’d give him time to think by talking.