by JT Sawyer
“It’s Landis. He’s in Virginia. Said it’s urgent.”
Roth exchanged his shotgun for the phone. Ian Landis, his chief oil lobbyist who handled all of his business affairs in DC, was overdue on checking in, and Roth figured it was because he was either scared shitless from recent events in Virginia or because his business meeting had taken longer than expected. He hoped it was the latter.
Landis had been with Roth for the past twelve years, often working behind the scenes to shore up Roth’s polished public image as a philanthropist and benefactor while removing any problematic snags along the way. Those snags were competitors, detractors and international leaders, whose numbers had grown thinner over the years but whose bodies could fill a shallow canyon, the latter being of no consequence to Roth, whose sole interest was in the geographic conquest of oil reserves abroad. While Landis never got blood on his hands, he had a woman on his payroll who was skilled in navigating the treacherous geography of the dark web to obtain the manpower needed to carry out his dirty work while eliminating any trace back to Roth.
Whether through financial acquisition or by assisting with the rearranging of third-world dictatorships in oil-productive nations, Roth’s reach had spread around the globe like a slow-growing cancerous lesion, made possible by Landis’ handiwork behind the curtain.
Landis was the indispensable shadow-man that every large corporation had on its payroll. He created the slush funds for political influencers aligned with Roth Enterprises, doctored the books on his boss’ international holdings, and maintained a steady flow of funds to environmental causes to uphold Roth’s image of using the most eco-conscious energy technologies.
In recent months, Roth had wondered if Landis was losing his edge given his weary demeanor at their recent meetings, or if it was just the growing abuse of designer drugs and high-end hookers that was depleting the man’s life-force. Roth had been slowly grooming an energetic Harvard business grad to replace Landis, but he wasn’t quite ready to dispose of the man, who was one of the key players in his forthcoming acquisition abroad.
“Ian, I hope you are about to board the jet and get your ass over here. We’ve still gotta meet in person about the latest Congressional bill being pushed through.”
“There has been a new development that will require some extra vigilance and delay my arrival,” stammered Landis.
“You’re being cryptic, and that usually means you’re trying to cover for something you fucked up.”
“Everything went without a hitch except for a particular individual who survived the blast at the Burke place.”
Roth stepped away, switching the phone to his other hand. “Then deal with it. What’s the problem? We need this next month to go smoothly, and anyone connected with Perseus who’s a threat needs to be eliminated. I thought that was the whole fucking point of the explosion, since our contact in your neck of the woods indicated that Burke and his company stumbled upon Montoya in Caracas, and who knows what else connected with our plans down there.”
“The survivor was on the payroll as a security consultant, but our mutual government friend just informed me that this guy Shepard is an agency operator—worked with the Special Activities Division. The guy’s a fucking spook.”
Roth’s left eye twitched slightly. “He’s also just one guy. You’re talking about one man who is reeling from the death of his friends. His guard will be down, so take care of it.”
“He’s attending his wife’s funeral in a few days, not to mention that the rest of Burke’s senior staff who died are being buried this week, and the media’s all over this thing. It’s not going to look good eliminating this guy right now.”
“Then find a way to damage his credibility. If he was head of Burke’s security, then make him take the fall for what happened. Once the presidential election in Venezuela is over and we’ve installed Rimaldi in office, we can send someone to personally dispose of this guy Shepard, but until then, get it contained.”
He heard a shuddered sigh as Landis responded. “I’ll take care of it.”
“And what about Hunley? Does he have everything he needs to set things in motion for tilting the election in our favor?”
“I’ll be sending the second installment of funds to him this week. Once Rimaldi signs on with us, Hunley will allocate expenditures to the National Front, the right-wing newspaper that is Rimaldi’s political arm.”
“I don’t have to remind you how much is at stake here. Rimaldi has plans to denationalize the oil reserves and open them up to private firms. I want to ensure that we are the sole company in that venture. We will be sitting on the largest reserves in the world, even exceeding anything Saudi Arabia’s been doing in over a decade—and without the fucking excuse of war to get our hands in the ground. Once we get our facilities up and running, we can triple their output within six months. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m fronting $1.24 billion in my own equipment, petroleum engineers and drilling rigs to increase the number of wells across the country to make that happen.”
“I’ve already drawn up schematics for our exploration and processing crews to erect facilities in the jungle down there after we clear-cut the valleys, so we should be able to insert operations quickly after the election, along with getting the older facilities updated.”
Roth pushed the brim of his cowboy hat up. “Try leading with the good news next time, Ian, and deal with the rest of the tedious bullshit yourself. That’s what I’ve paid you for all these years, isn’t it?”
“It’ll be handled just like I always do. I will see you soon.”
When the call ended, he stroked the phone like it was a crystal ball, gazing at the screen, then he glanced back at Karl, who was standing beside the two dogs.
“When we’re done here, head back to the bunkhouse and notify Montoya in Virginia that I may have some more work for him and his guys in the coming days.”
Karl nodded, stepping closer and handing the Parker shotgun back to his boss.
Roth pulled two rounds of buckshot from his vest, placing them into the barrel. “But keep Landis out of the loop on this one.”
11
Maracaibo, Venezuela, Forty Miles East of the Colombian Border
Ernesto Rimaldi exited his blue Hyundai and sauntered across the street, entering a small café whose faded red-and-white sign was hanging by bailing wire to the crumpling façade. He smiled at the plump woman behind the counter, who gave a hearty wave then motioned with her hand towards the rear staircase that led to the balcony.
“He’s already waiting for you,” she said in Spanish. “I took the liberty of providing some coffee and pastries for you both.”
“Maria, you are as gracious as you are lovely.” Rimaldi paused to pat her on the hand and give it a gentle squeeze as the older woman let out a grin.
Rimaldi noticed the stares of the other patrons in the small café. Some of them were familiar faces from the oil industry that once reigned supreme in this part of Venezuela. His father and older brothers had all been a part of the tail end of that industry during the booming years when the streets were lined with Land Rovers and Hummers, and the restaurants and bars were filled with wealthy patrons who regularly flew to Miami for a short getaway to shop.
When the nationalized oil industry collapsed and hyperinflation became the norm, tens of thousands of Venezuelans fled the country, while the poverty level soared to astronomical levels in one of the worst humanitarian crises to sweep through South America.
Four years previously, Rimaldi had just returned from life abroad in the U.S. and was determined to fight for change—for the prosperous country he’d once known before El Presidente took everything for himself and the oligarchy who propped him up.
Drawing on his law degree from Stanford, Rimaldi knew the socialist agenda of the current administration had been a disaster that led to his nation teetering on the brink of becoming a failed state. Returning to his family ties in Maracaibo, once the heart of the nation’s oil in
dustry, he used his international connections with religious groups in the U.S. to draw attention to the plight of the young and impoverished in Maracaibo. His good looks and charisma coupled with his working-class roots made him an overnight champion of the oppressed, though he knew that navigating the upper echelons of politics would require wading through deeper quicksand that brought with it its own moral dilemmas.
But he knew that his personal efforts with fundraising would only go so far, and he was more than excited to have another meeting with a benefactor whom he’d met last spring on a fundraising trip to speak with the Venezuelan elite in Miami.
This could be the day that changes everything for my people and could lead our nation out of the darkness.
He eagerly moved past the other tables, double-stepping up the wooden stairs to the second floor then heading out the roof exit. Rimaldi walked under a decorative shade tarp strung up over the small porch area, which consisted of little more than an antique oak table placed on some neatly arranged patio blocks. The tan sixty-something man with wavy silver hair was sitting with his back to the street, facing Rimaldi.
“Good to see you again,” said Adam Hunley, who stood and extended a hearty handshake.
“To you as well, my friend.” He uttered the last word as if it took some initial effort. Both men sat down, the cool breeze carrying the aroma of the flowers in the planters lining the rooftop.
Rimaldi removed his sunglasses. “I would ask how you are enjoying my country, but I already know the drive from the airport was probably a sobering experience highlighting just how bad things have become.” He waved a hand towards the shanty town of tin-roofed huts in the distance along the tarry coast, which had recently been deluged by another damaged pipeline from the dilapidated oil facility along the shores of Lake Maracaibo.
Hunley sat back down, crossing his legs. “I’ve mentioned this before, but my work as a former ambassador to Colombia provided me with a sizeable perch, overlooking your country’s politics and economy. It’s sometimes hard to believe that this nation experienced close to four decades of democracy before the current regime. There were so many times when I wanted to fly to Caracas and, well, to be frank, smack the shit out of the Presidente during the early days of his disastrous attempt at socialism.”
“I would have paid to see that, but then the line would have stretched across the countryside.”
The older man nodded. “But we must look to the future and focus all of our efforts on the courage of our distant forbearers in securing our destiny, to quote your words from your impassioned speech at the orphanage yesterday.”
Rimaldi smiled. “It’s not hard to be motivated when so many young eyes are upon you, searching for hope. They shouldn’t have to grow up in the shadow of our politicians’ sins. But with the right leadership, they can have a future much different than this one.”
Hunley leaned back in his chair, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening as he squinted down at the two-lane street to his right, eyeing Rimaldi’s weathered Hyundai.
“You know, most candidates with your ambition would have used the funds my firm sent to your campaign to acquire a Mercedes or a Lincoln, but I admire the fact that you are a man of the people. It’s what drew that standing ovation from the crowd in Miami, and it’s why I believe this country may have someone new holding the reins at the capitol after this upcoming election. Your numbers and support with the voters are only swelling with each passing week.”
“Thank you. Change is long overdue, but the woes and debts created during these past ten years of rule will not be corrected during one term, or even several, of me being in office. We have a long road ahead. And if I am elected president, there will be greater freedom, not oppression. I have no plans to rewrite the constitution, clamp down on the media, or intimidate nongovernmental organizations opposed to my presidency. This country was founded on greatness and shall be restored to such glory once more.”
“That’s why I wanted to meet with you again in person. Since retiring from the Foreign Affairs Office several years ago, my consulting firm has sought out men of vision like yourself to work with and support. My board of directors recently met, and we all agreed that we would like to provide another substantial donation to your campaign.” He leaned forward, his chin up. “This world needs more people with grit and determination like yourself, Ernesto. With Venezuela in the hands of such a man, think of what this country will achieve in the coming generations. I know from our previous discussions that you have an interest in reversing the tragic act of nationalizing the oil reserves in the country. With my connections abroad, you could revitalize and reactivate the oil facilities spread around the country and use that to pay off the monumental debt that Venezuela is drowning in.”
He licked his lower lip. “I am not opposed to your offer, and privatizing the oil of my nation is necessary to reverse the damage done by El Presidente, but there would have to be certain stipulations going forward, as I’ve seen what happens when big industry marches into Latin and South America. I would only consider such a venture if the oil company in question received a flat fee for each barrel that is produced rather than the doctored accounting usually employed by the oil barons of the world and foisted upon economically suffering nations like mine.”
He remained stolid, balling his fists on the table, looking out at the cesspools and oil slicks along the lake in the distance.
“Not to mention that there will have to be more stringent environmental regulations in place to prevent the towns and the jungle from being decimated, as has happened all too often with oil exploration efforts.”
Hunley circled his thumb around the rim of his empty coffee mug. “The latter I can understand. You don’t want anyone shitting in your backyard. Lord knows there’s been enough environmental degradation in every corner of the globe since the start of the industrial revolution. But the former request is unprecedented and not something any oil company I know of would go for. You’re asking them to make a huge investment in a country, moving all their hardware and tech guys down here and then refurbishing the decaying infrastructure of the existing pipelines and machinery, not to mention retraining the local workers. All of that and then you would only provide pennies on the barrel. That won’t fly.”
“My country will not be subject to…” Rimaldi was cut off as Hunley leaned forward, patting him on the arm.
“My friend, I’m not the trigger-man here. I’m only telling you my experience with the oil industry in these parts based upon working as an ambassador next door and from what I’ve seen with the petroleum lobbyists in DC. Trust me, I get where you are coming from. I do. But the only way to get out from under the massive debt this country is in is to open up your vast oil reserves to an outside firm, and I consult for one that would be a good fit. One that would not rape the countryside. I can arrange for you to meet with the CEO. He’s a fair man and would provide a healthy profit that would benefit both your nation and his company. This is the only way. But it has to be more of a partnership if it’s going to work.”
Hunley thrust his smooth chin out to the rusting hulk of a large refinery to the north. “And with many of the facilities already in place around this country, there would be little need to hack into the jungle any further. With the state-of-the-art water treatment methods being employed by the petroleum industry now, the lakes in your nation would be crystal clear like they were when you were a kid.”
Rimaldi looked at the derelict building with swarms of seagulls on its corroded roof. He watched two small boys prying a dead crab from the water, its shell coated with slick black grease, while several barefoot children ran up with ragged clothing on their emaciated frames.
He had already done his homework on Hunley and knew the man was interested in more than supporting a political candidate for a just cause. He had seen the disastrous results of the CIA’s involvement in Latin America in the eighties and nineties and wasn’t about to end up having his airplane mysteriously
go down in flames because he failed to support someone else’s agenda.
What choice did he have but to work with foreigners and outside investors if he was ever to prevent the death spiral of his homeland? He knew from experience, and the history of the region, that once a large outside corporation sunk its claws into a troubled nation, claiming to provide jobs, health care or education in exchange for tapping into the natural resources of the area, a master-slave system would ensue, with two percent of the country’s elite getting richer while the rest plunged into greater poverty. He also knew how presidencies were won—charisma and heartfelt speeches would always be trumped by major financial contributions by the opposition. The former he felt was turning in his favor, but the influence of the ruling elite in Caracas would only be squelched with considerable financial intervention, not to mention bribing the military officers currently supporting El Presidente. It was a criminal mindset that he had learned to better understand in law school, but the thought of adopting such tactics made his stomach churn.
But there is no turning back now.
Too many people were looking to him for answers, and he felt a calling deep in his bones to keep marching forward, as though his entire life had led to this campaign.
Rimaldi watched the children trot off with the blackened crab, disappearing into the maze of ragged huts along an alley.
This can’t be all they know. There has to be another life for them—for the rest of my people. There are no other options but to work with the Americans for now, and this guy seems like the least insidious of them so far.
He found his shoulders sagging, and he forced himself upright, looking at Hunley. “What do you need from me for this proposal to move forward?”
Adam Hunley walked back to his vehicle, climbing inside and immediately blasting the air-conditioning. He looked at the two-story hovel of a café whose roof he’d just been sweating atop, grateful for the loaner vehicle from Roth’s oil-processing facility across the border in Colombia.
