by Jeff Nesbit
OIL
a novel
OIL
a novel
_____
JEFF NESBIT
Guideposts
New York, New York
Oil
ISBN 13: 978-1-60936-114-3
Published by Guideposts
16 East 34th Street
New York, New York 10016
Guideposts.org
Copyright © 2012 by Jeff Nesbit. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company
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Nashville, TN 37214
Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Studio Gearbox | www.studiogearbox.com
Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net
Edited by Ramona Cramer Tucker
Printed and bound in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A FEW QUICK THANKS TO . . .
The members of the “relentless, positive storm” family. You dream big, do the right thing, set your direction, take your compass, and never stray from the path.
You are the salt of the earth. You change the world and make it a better place.
PRAISE FOR OIL . . .
“Jeff Nesbit knows how to make some of the most urgent subjects of our time both entertaining and educational.”
—BRIAN KELLY, EDITOR, U.S. News & World Report
“The action pings from Aqaba to Tehran, Bogota to Pyongyang, Moscow to Mecca, and smart phones to laptops. There’s palace intrigue, insider sabotage, eleventh-hour twists, and rumors of a Twelfth Imam—and under it all is a powerful black current of crude oil, desperation, and greed.”
—BETH NISSEN, FORMER SENIOR CORRESPONDENT, CNN
“Entertaining, terrifying and uplifting. Jeff Nesbit has turned one of the world’s most dangerous challenges into a thriller with a hightech twist.”
—DARREN GERSH, WASHINGTON, DC, BUREAU
CHIEF FOR PBS TV’s Nightly Business Report
“Nesbit’s powerful storytelling abilities are on full display in this series. As usual, he’s interpreting headlines before they happen.”
—DAVID KESSLER, M.D., FORMER FDA COMMISSIONER
UNDER PRESIDENT BUSH AND PRESIDENT
CLINTON AND BEST-SELLING AUTHOR
“This book weaves intellect and imagination to forge a compelling and timely look into the future. It considers one of the most vexing questions of our time: will oil power us through this century or hold us hostage?”
—FRANK SESNO, DIRECTOR, SCHOOL OF MEDIA,
GEORGE WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY
“In OIL, Jeff Nesbit riffs on our murky understanding of Middle Eastern politics, beliefs, and ambitions to craft an absorbing tale of intrigue that enlightens as much as it entertains. Ingeniously plotted, and featuring characters and settings that add to its air of credibility, OIL relentlessly rises to its ultimate finale: it makes you think.”
—DAN AGAN, PRESIDENT, PANTHERA GROUP
“A well-informed page-turner that stimulates fresh thinking about the Middle East.”
—TOM DUESTERBERG, PH.D.,
EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF MANUFACTURING AND
SOCIETY IN THE 21ST CENTURY, THE ASPEN INSTITUTE
“With keen insight into escalating tensions in the Middle East and impeccable research, Jeff Nesbit gives us a mesmerizing read in his much-anticipated sequel to PEACE.”
—MARLENE CIMONS, PH.D.,
FORMER WASHINGTON REPORTER, Los Angeles Times
“Jeff Nesbit has that rare talent of taking today’s headlines and making them even more real in his fiction. A must read for anyone who wonders what in the world is going on in today’s Middle East.”
—JIM O’HARA, WASHINGTON, DC, POLICY STRATEGIST
“It’s inspirational to see young characters like Nash Lee on the same stage with world leaders, changing the world and living the ‘relentless, positive storm.’ One person, no matter what age, can truly make a difference. Jeff Nesbit brings that point home vividly in these novels.”
—SHEPHERD SMITH, PRESIDENT,
THE INSTITUTE FOR YOUTH DEVELOPMENT
For when they shall say, “Peace and safety!” then sudden destruction comes upon them…
1 THESSALONIANS 5:3
PROLOGUE
Dulles International Airport
Washington, DC
“Why is it late?” the American president’s secretary of state, Jennifer Moran, asked a young aide for the third time in the past ten minutes. “Do the Saudis think we all serve at their pleasure? I know this is important, but…”
“This is an important trip, Madame Secretary, for both sides,” answered the aide, Katie Devlin, a gifted woman who’d managed new media for Moran through a long presidential campaign and had immediately joined her when she’d agreed to become secretary of state. “They wouldn’t be late, not without a good reason.”
When it did arrive, the “flying palace” would be hard to miss. Seven stories tall, with a wingspan the size of an American football field, the commercial Airbus 380 jumbo jet could hold nearly a thousand economy-class passengers quite comfortably.
But this particular Airbus 380 jet had been built for only one customer—a member of the Saudi royal family who had spent nearly half a billion dollars to buy and outfit the plane. It carried only fifteen crewmembers and private parties that often included other Saudi princes. Private bedrooms, a dining hall, an equipment gym, and a movie theater were engineered throughout the plane.
The Airbus 380 was so large that the members of the secretary of state’s delegation, who had gathered at one end of Dulles International Airport west of Washington, DC, would likely be able to spot it a mile away as it made its descent.
Today’s flight had been shrouded in secrecy. Only a few in either Saudi Arabia or the United States had any inkling of its purpose or its passengers. There had been no stories in The Washington Post. Later, if the discussions proved fruitful, someone would mention the outcome publicly.
This trip was the culmination of months of careful planning with the United States, the Saudis’ most valuable Western ally. The Saudi prince had agreed to meet with the American secretary of state, in person, to discuss the highly secretive plans approved by the Bay’ah Council. The Saudi grandsons were about to take power in Saudi Arabia. And a new king was emerging.
The small delegation on the ground, though, was growing restless. They’d been told to arrive at Dulles well ahead of time. But the plane was at least an hour late, and no one on the ground seemed to know why.
“So what’s the reason?” Moran snapped. “That they’re more important than us?”
“I doubt that,” Devlin answered. “The royal family has been meticulous in their planning.”
“Then what—?”
Katie’s cell phone rang, cutting the response midsentence, and she glanced at the caller ID. It was a direct line from internal security at the State Department. As a close aid
e to the secretary of state, Katie had Top Secret clearance and was well known to the security team. She looked at her boss, asking with her eyes if it was all right to answer.
Moran sighed, closed her eyes briefly, and nodded.
Katie took the call.
“Ms. Devlin, we’ve just received something from NSA,” the caller said quickly. “We’re going to move the delegation off the tarmac, inside.”
“Why?” Katie asked.
Five more cell phones suddenly went off. Katie glanced at other members of the delegation. Some were obviously receiving the same information simultaneously.
There was a loud thud behind them. Katie looked to her left. A halfdozen uniformed TSA guards burst through double doors and began to run toward them.
“Ms. Devlin,” the caller said loudly on her cell, “please ask your boss to begin moving off the tarmac. This is credible information.”
Katie reacted instantly. Stepping forward, she grabbed Moran’s shirtsleeve. “Madame Secretary, we need to move inside.”
Jennifer Moran was long accustomed to security. She’d already served a stint as the First Lady at the White House, and security for her was nearly as tight now that she was the American secretary of state. When folks assigned to protect her told her to move, she moved. She could ask questions later.
But even as they headed toward the double doors, there was a sudden commotion. Members of the delegation stopped and peered toward the west.
Two military jets appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and raced east toward the enormous Airbus 380 jumbo jet that had begun to land at the airport.
The delegation watched, horrified, as both fighter jets fired several missiles toward a target on the ground. Fireballs exploded as the missiles hit their intended target, and the cacophony of multiple explosions reached them moments later.
Whatever the jets had fired at had vaporized instantly.
The security detail urged the delegation to move inside, even as the Saudi plane continued its long, slow descent onto the Dulles runway. The firefight they’d all witnessed was directly in the glide path of the jet, which now flew right above the billowing smoke.
Katie could only imagine what had happened. But one thing was clear: a threat to the Saudi jet and its occupants had just materialized. The American fighter jets had been dispatched at the last minute, based on intelligence picked up by NSA.
Still, even with her own high-clearance level, Katie wondered whether she’d ever learn the truth about what she’d seen.
01
Jerusalem, Israel
He barely glanced at the pedestrians on either side of Jaffa Road, one of the longest and oldest streets in Jerusalem. He’d never been much of a tourist, and this day was no different. He paid no attention to Safra Square or other landmarks as the cab made its way from the old city to downtown. Instead, he spent the time studying his notes and answering e-mails to his boss.
The partnership they’d put together was a complicated one, and he didn’t want to make a mistake with the registry. Far too much was at stake. He’d spent most of the trip to Israel examining the limited partnership papers to make sure he had all the players identified correctly.
“We’re here, sir.” The driver pulled the cab over to the side of the road.
The man looked up from his notes. “Two sixteen Jaffa? The Ministry of National Infrastructures?”
The cab driver pointed at a small sign near the building. Spotting both address and name, the man paid the cab fare, including a generous tip, and hurried toward the entrance.
The Ministry of National Infrastructures was a quaint, serene place. The folks who worked there never had to worry about titanic power struggles over control of Israel’s natural resources—because the country had precious little in the way of natural resources. Oil was nowhere to be found, and Israel’s leaders had struggled for a generation to meet the country’s energy needs.
The man stepped up to the front desk. There was no line. “I’m here to speak to someone about the oil register,” he murmured to the clerk.
The clerk folded up his copy of Ha’aretz and peered at his log. “Do you have an appointment? I don’t see a notation.”
“The deputy oil commissioner indicated that I would not require an appointment,” the man said quickly. “When we spoke on the phone, he said I could meet with someone when I arrived.”
The clerk grunted and muttered something under his breath. He picked up a handset and punched in a number. “Someone here to see Abe about the oil register.” He nodded several times then hung up the phone. “He’ll be here in a second to take you back.”
“Abraham Zeffren will see me? The deputy oil commissioner?”
“Yeah, Abe himself.” The clerk laughed. “He’s got nothing better to do right now. He might as well give you a guided tour of the register.” The clerk held out his hand.
The man looked at him, confused.
“Your identification papers?” the clerk said with irritation.
“Oh, yes.” The man extracted his personal passport from his suit jacket and handed it to the clerk, who copied the name down on his ledger and handed it back to the man. The man had a government passport as well but chose not to use it here.
The clerk barely glanced at the passport. Apparently, it wasn’t all that surprising to see someone from Russia in Israel, even at the Ministry of National Infrastructures. The clerk handed the passport back to the man and returned to his newspaper.
The man scanned the lobby. It was empty, save for the two of them.
Then a door to one side opened, and an elderly man strode across the lobby. He was in short sleeves with no jacket. His shoes were worn, and his tie angled off to one side. His gray hair was cropped close. He didn’t look like a deputy oil commissioner, but the man hadn’t really known what to expect.
“Abraham Zeffren?” The man extended a hand.
“Please—just Abe,” he answered. “We don’t go on ceremony much around here.”
“I see. So, Abe…I called about the oil register?”
“Yes, I recall. I have it on my desk. We can look at it in my office.”
The man followed Abe Zeffren to his office—a square, windowless office toward the back of the ground floor. Abe gestured to one of the two chairs in front of his cluttered desk, then moved to the other side. A battered leather binder perched on top of a pile of papers. It was held together by red electrical tape.
“That’s it?” the man asked. “That’s Israel’s oil register?”
“It is.” Abe smiled. “A sight to behold, isn’t it?” The deputy oil minister opened the binder carefully. The crumpled pages inside seemed like they might disintegrate on touch.
“How old is that book?” the man asked.
“Don’t know, exactly,” Abe said. “But there are exploration permits in here going back at least thirty years or so.”
“So that holds all the permits—leases, licenses, everything?”
Abe nodded. “Sure does. Only a handful of companies have had the courage or finances to go looking for oil, either onshore or off.”
“But the big natural gas find last year off the coast of Tel Aviv?”
“Sure took us all by surprise,” Abe said. “That was quite a shocker, hearing one of those areas held all that gas.”
“Enough to meet Israel’s energy needs for a decade, if I remember correctly?”
“Assuming they can get at it, yes.”
“But it looks like they’ll be able to, doesn’t it?”
Abe squinted one eye. “That’s what the newspapers say, I’ll grant you that.”
The man decided not to press the issue further. He knew more than he was letting on about the huge natural gas find in the Mediterranean. But he was here to register an oil license—not gossip about Israel’s energy needs.
“So,” the man said casually, “what do I need to do to secure a license in your register there?”
Abe turned the worn pages carefully.
“If I remember from our conversation, you said you had partnership papers, some preliminary geological surveys—and a check? And you’d like to register a license at the northern end of the Dead Sea, in a new area?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” The man opened his briefcase, removed a folder, and handed a sheaf of papers to Abe. A check was stapled to the top of the file.
Abe glanced at the papers and then at the check. “It’s all here,” he said finally. “This is what I’ll need to start the process.”
“Good,” the man said. “And I won’t need anything else?”
“Not right now. But can I ask you something? How’d you manage to get INOC to put a privately held limited partnership inside its Dead Sea Partnership? That isn’t easy.”
Israel’s National Oil Company was state-owned and had been around since the 1950s. Most of its financing came from public investors. But some of its financing came from private or foreign groups outside Israel. INOC had been aggressively exploring two lease areas under licenses at the southern end of the Dead Sea.
INOC’s Dead Sea Partnership had recently begun to drill for oil at the southern end of the Dead Sea, with some reports indicating that the drill site might yield small amounts of oil, somewhere between one hundred to two hundred barrels of oil daily. It was a tiny amount, but it was oil, at least. No one had ever pursued anything at the northern end of the Dead Sea, though.
“INOC has its hands full at the southern end of the Dead Sea,” the man said calmly. “This gives them a piece of any action in an area they’ve never explored and don’t have the resources to go after.”
“I see.” Abe raised an eyebrow. “I guess that makes sense. But this paperwork says you have all the financing you need for a well-defined petroleum system and a viable geological conceptual model. You don’t need any public financing?”
“We have what we need.”
“Assuming you find anything.” Abe smiled.
