From there, it was again off to the races, determined individuals sprinting toward crude oil furnaces with all the explosives they could carry. A handful of the more security conscious facilities — particularly those under national control, with military forces deployed around the perimeters — were able to derail the attacks, or at least mitigate the damage.
Due to the timing, late night in western Europe and early evening in New York, it was the financial markets of the Far East that reacted first. The broader stock indices took a massive hit in anticipation of a global economic slump, a magnification of the previous day's carnage in equities that had resulted from the wave of strikes in America. Commodities were a mixed bag, contracts for short-term deliveries of refined fuels skyrocketing, but long futures for crude stock losing ground on expected slack demand — an increasing percentage of the world's petroleum refineries were out of commission. Precious metals rose, while grain futures reacted wildly on differing opinions of the effect.
For those able to ignore this chaos at the margins, the cumulative reaction of the afternoon Hong Kong and Tokyo trading sessions was largely predictable — a heavy hit, but certain sectors finding distinct advantage. If there was any good news it was that, as with the attacks in America, the facilities put out of commission were all midsized in terms of output. The world's fifty largest oil refineries all remained unscathed. Speculation in the media and investment houses ran a uniform theory — that the largest refineries were simply too well guarded to fall victim to such rudimentary methods of assault. Within hours, governments and corporations around the world sprang into action to ensure that this continued to be the case, putting every refinery, no matter the size, under maximum security lockdown.
It was during the first minutes of these new attacks that two extremist Muslim Web sites took responsibility for the strikes. Both offered supporting evidence that left no doubt as to their authenticity. They reveled in the victory of their martyrs, exalted in Islam, and gave praise to their glorious leader.
The terrorist known as Caliph.
Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
The hotel bar was still open, but last call was near. Sorensen hadn't arrived yet.
The lights seemed dimmer than they'd been earlier, probably a good thing for Davis given the way he looked. He had always operated under the theory that the lights in bars were purposely dimmed as nights wore on — an accelerant for romantic associations, or maybe a plot to throw confusion on currency denominations when tabs were settled. It had to be some kind of conspiracy.
Davis slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and ordered — a beer for him, and a glass of pinot noir that would breathe as it waited for Sorensen. The bartender went through a well-practiced sequence of motions — without the glasses it would have looked like a Tai Chi routine — before sliding the round in front of Davis.
The guy started muttering under his breath, glaring at the television above the bar. Davis saw a soccer highlight show. The bartender found a remote control and began flipping through channels. Either he wasn't a soccer fan, or the team he supported had lost badly. The guy spun through the stations at warp speed — an annoying thing when other people did it — and settled on a newscast. The volume was low, but judging by the graphics and film clip it had to be about the price of gas. The picture showed a long line of cars at a gas station, and overhead the price was posted in euros per liter. The conversion to dollars per gallon was more math than Davis wanted to tackle right now. He just knew it was high. Really high.
The barkeep turned up the volume enough for Davis to catch a few details. There had been a series of coordinated attacks against oil refineries, and Caliph was the primary suspect. Davis took a long draw from his mug. Caliph was the reason Sorensen was here in France. The reason he was on loan to the CIA. Davis wondered if one guy could really have a hand in so much. He remembered that Osama bin Laden had been held responsible for a lot of bad things, including some disasters he certainly had nothing to do with. But point a finger at a terrorist for any kind of trouble, Davis reckoned, and he was usually happy to take credit. He took another long pull and when his mug hit the bar he spotted Sorensen.
She looked good, better than she should have after sparring with a guy twice her size. She had on a pair of jeans and a tight sweater with the sleeves rolled up. A recent line of thought came back to Davis. Returning to the hotel from their rumble, Sorensen had fallen into her trade. He'd seen her checking six a lot, scanning for anyone following or watching them. It was probably something all CIA officers had to learn, but it must have been a doubly tough lesson for Sorensen. She was a nice-looking woman, the kind who naturally turned heads. He wondered how she could distinguish which stares were from enemy spies and which were from philandering husbands.
"Hi," she said, sliding onto the adjacent stool.
He pushed the wine glass by its base until it was in front of her. "It's a pinot noir from a little vineyard in New Zealand, Villa Maria. Really nice stuff."
She gave him a curious look.
Davis shrugged. "Not that I would know."
She picked up the wine with her good hand. "Thanks for the drink."
"Sure. How's the wrist?"
"It's all right." She nipped distractedly at her drink, and when the glass came down she held it just above the bar. Davis noticed a tiny wavepool of concentric rings inside.
"You okay?"
"Sure." She took another sip, this rime seeming to almost kiss the glass. "But it's not the kind of thing I'm used to."
"That's a good thing." He saw her lower lip starting to puff up.
Davis reached out and touched it gently with the back of his thumb. "Looks like you caught one there too."
"Puffy lips are sexy, right?"
"Yeah, but its supposed to be symmetrical — top and bottom."
One corner of her mouth broke into a grin.
Davis mused, "You know, there was a time when I'd have been fired up about a scrap like that. I'd be sitting here drinking whiskey instead of beer with my chest all puffed out. But it's different when you're a parent — especially when you're the only parent." He took a drink himself.
"So who were those guys?" Sorensen wondered aloud.
"I've been giving that some thought myself. Do you think Langley could give us any answers?"
"If the police got involved, or if any of them turned up in a hospital— probably. But it'll take some time. Things like this aren't a real priority for headquarters right now."
"Maybe they should be."
"It could just have been some thugs looking for a wallet."
The pause was long as they both let that hopeful thought die.
She said, "They were definitely North African or Middle Eastern. I couldn't make out the exact language, but France has a major immigrant population from those parts."
"All the big cities in Europe have a Muslim quarter these days." Davis sat stoically with both hands on his mug. "So are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
She sighed. "That somebody wanted us roughed up? Maybe called in help?"
"Yep — except for the 'us' part. You've been pretty quiet in your time here, Honeywell. I'm the one raising a stink in the investigation. I think they were after me. And I have a feeling they wanted me more than roughed up."
"As in dead? I don't think so, Jammer."
He looked at her, his expression saying, Yes you do.
Sorensen said nothing.
Davis' phone chirped. He picked up and got the highlight of his day.
"Hi Daddy!"
Sorensen excused herself to the ladies' room.
Davis talked to Jen for ten minutes. She mostly gushed about Bobby Taylor, but then he made her say that school and swim practice had been fine. Davis pictured her sitting on his sister-in-law's couch, legs tucked under, and wearing something warm and cottony. It was a cozy scene, probably not far off target. He let her talk, just wanting to listen. In the end, she brought up the dance again. And Davis put her off again, saying they'd talk about it when he got home. Which would have to be in less than a week. What were the chances of that? he wondered.