Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  “I am at your disposal, Madame Secretary,” the prince said.

  Katie did her best not to stare at the prince, but it was difficult. The prince’s robes had thin gold seams running throughout the folds. Katie wondered, fleetingly, if it was actual gold. That couldn’t be possible. Could it?

  “I will be direct, if that is all right with you?” Moran asked.

  “Please, by all means. We are allies and friends. Information is the coin of our respective realms, and I have news for you as well.”

  Moran nodded. “Good. I am eager to hear of your news. But first, I must tell you that there was an incident, on the ground, as your plane was landing here at Dulles.”

  “An incident?”

  “Yes, Prince Muhammad, we intercepted a terrorist attempt on your life. Two of our fighter jets took out a truck on the outskirts of the airport. This truck was about to launch a missile at your plane— a surface-to-air missile.”

  The Saudi prince stared hard at the secretary of state as he processed the news. “Did you receive help from our intelligence service? Is that how you were able to react in time?”

  Moran didn’t hesitate. She had no knowledge, either way, of the answer. But, Katie knew, that wouldn’t stop her. “We share information in real time with the Saudi intelligence services. And I’m certain we would have shared information here. Without a doubt, it was the combined efforts of Saudi intelligence, combined with the quick reaction of the American military, that allowed us to neutralize this threat on your life.”

  The Saudi prince nodded. “Very well. I am glad for that.”

  “You’re not surprised, then?” Moran asked.

  “To be honest, no. We have been hearing rumblings for weeks that some within the House of Saud were not pleased with the news I was bringing here today. Clearly, someone was not happy at all and chose to move into action against me. I am quite grateful that you acted immediately on the information you received.”

  “It is our greatest pleasure to help you, one of our most trusted allies,” Moran said firmly. “I’m glad we were able to deal with the threat swiftly and directly.”

  “I am, as well.” The prince smiled. “The mere fact of this conversation—here, between the two of us—is proof that our enemies will not, must not, succeed.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  The prince looked over his shoulder at one of his own aides. “Tell the pilots that we are returning to the kingdom,” he called out. “We must fly back to Mecca, at once.” He turned his attention back to the table. “I am sorry, but this news has changed things immensely. This will accelerate things greatly within our family.”

  “I understand,” Moran said. “But before you leave, is there news that you’d hoped to bring us? About changes that will be underway soon in the kingdom?”

  The prince did not hesitate. “Because you have saved my life here, today, I will answer that question. I was prepared to be more circumspect, but I see that events are moving more rapidly, so I will not waste words.”

  “Please. I will keep your words close,” Moran said.

  “I appreciate this.” The prince leaned forward. “There are changes occurring within the family. The grandsons are going to be taking power in the kingdom. You can be assured of these changes. Pay no attention to anything else you might hear. King Faisal and Crown Prince Saud are going to step aside soon. They have agreed to make way for Natal, who will serve but a short time as the new crown prince until the transition can be completed.”

  “Natal?” Moran raised a brow.

  The prince smiled. “I know, and I understand the concern you have not stated. Natal’s views on Israel are well known. But he will be crown prince for just a short period of time—not long enough for his views of Israel to be widely known or acted on.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “And once Natal has made the transition, the path will then be clear for the grandsons to take power. In fact, two of us will be named at the same time,” the prince said quietly. “I will become the new minister of the interior and command our internal security forces. And Prince Abdul will become the new foreign minister. You know Abdul?”

  “I know him well. He has our utmost respect.”

  “Good. Abdul is well regarded in the kingdom as well. It will be a good match, he and I, as we move to the new order. Between the two of us, I believe the ties between our two countries will be stronger than ever.”

  “I agree. And may I assume from this that you will be named the crown prince at some point, once you have taken over as the minister of the interior?”

  The Saudi prince gazed off into the distance. “Yes, I suppose, though I’m not entirely certain this is something I would seek. But the times seem to demand service, and I have answered the call.”

  “You will make a good king someday.” Moran’s voice was steady. “The people of the kingdom will be well served.”

  “We shall see,” the prince said. “There is much to do between now and then and many miles to travel. As we saw today, there are those who do not wish such a transition in the kingdom.”

  10

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Even though Nash had visited several dozen countries in the past few years, it was always a thrill to visit a new one. He’d never been to Saudi Arabia, and he was more than a little curious what it would be like. He’d heard and read so much about the land controlled tightly by the House of Saud. He wondered if it would live up to its reputation.

  It was nighttime when they landed in Riyadh. As the Saudi Arabian Airlines plane made the long descent into the Saudi capital near the center of the country, Nash couldn’t help himself. He pressed his face to the window and gazed out at the city. King Fahd Road stretched out before him. The colors dazzled him—blocks of green, orange, and purple mixed in with the usual lights of the city.

  He kept his eyes glued to the sight as the plane made its way to King Khaled Airport north of the city. He tried to spot places he’d heard about, like Masmak Fortress, but it was hopeless. He did manage to spot two different golf courses, both lit by floodlights, during the descent. There didn’t seem to be anyone on either course, though. That’s odd, Nash thought.

  One of his mVillage volunteers was scheduled to meet him at the airport and drive him to a hotel near the center of the city. He had a full set of meetings starting early in the morning the next day. He’d left no time for tourism, so this view from the plane’s window would have to suffice.

  He’d been told by his New York staff not to even bother going out at night in Riyadh. Alcohol was banned, along with movie theaters and nightclubs. His skeleton staff—volunteers for mVillage and Village Health Corps—gathered at a coffeehouse in central Riyadh, just off Tahlia Street. That would have to do for the evening’s entertainment.

  Nash turned his mobile on the instant the wheels touched down. With a couple of quick keystrokes, he’d switched his roaming to the local Saudi cell carrier. He had the mVillage network up and running before the plane had even begun to taxi.

  The news jumped out at him almost immediately. Yemen’s president—a man who’d been in power for more than three decades— had been forced to flee the country that night, while Nash’s plane was in the air. Rebel forces now stormed different parts of the country at Saudi Arabia’s southern border. There were no reports yet about an emerging leader.

  So, Nash thought, Yemen is falling—just like Egypt, Tunisia, and Libya. What’s next?

  Large Middle Eastern countries like Syria and Jordan—and smaller countries like Bahrain—faced growing pressure from students and rebels. People seemed fed up with the status quo and leaders who’d been in power for years. It was the greatest uprising the Arab nations had seen since the Second World War, and no one could predict when and where it might stop.

  Buried in the news reports, though, was an item that troubled Nash the instant he saw it. In order to protect itself from the unfolding events, the House of Saud had apparently invaded Yem
en to contain one of the rebel movements aligned with the Shi’a leadership in Iran. Saudi Arabia had invaded once before to contain the Houthis, who had received funding and arms from Iran for years.

  The world had ignored the Saudi move against the Houthis the first time, largely because the House of Saud had pulled the troops back into Saudi territory quickly after the initial invasion. But the world would notice this time, Nash knew. Iran, especially, would make sure the United Nations and others noted the Saudi action against the Zaidi Shi’a insurgent group.

  The mVillage report was colorful:

  Sporting replica “swords of Ali,” or Zulfiqars, alongside their assortment of rifles, the young Houthi rebels are putting up quite a spirited fight against the Saudi forces. The Saudis have yet to make much headway against the rebels, and the fighting is scattered across the landscape.

  One of the mobile videos was chilling. A group of young teenagers stormed Saudi troops with little more than swords and a few rifles. The Saudi troops, clearly uneasy at the prospect of killing teenagers, held back as long as they could, then fought hand-to-hand as the two forces clashed briefly. It was an unmistakable sign of the passion sweeping through Yemen and elsewhere.

  The report concluded that thousands of Houthi tribe members had joined the fight during the night. If that was true, Nash knew the Saudis would have their hands full with this insurgency in northern Yemen for days.

  Nash had planned to make his way through southern Saudi Arabia and into northern Yemen in two days—near the areas where the House of Saud had invaded and the fighting had broken out. He grimaced. Su would never forgive him if he went anywhere near the fighting. He’d have to play it by ear.

  He scanned other mVillage news reports and checked the dozens of e-mails that had accumulated while he’d been in the air. There was nothing urgent or pressing that demanded his attention, so he sent a quick note to Su that he’d arrived safely. He finished the note as they arrived at the gate.

  The young Village Health Corps volunteer would be waiting for Nash as he exited the gate area. Nash always marveled at the intensity and commitment of the young men and women who volunteered around the globe for both mVillage and the Village Health Corps that ran the network. They were constantly upbeat and relentless in their pursuit of social change. Nothing seemed to faze them. They truly were the “relentless, positive storm” generation.

  “Mr. Lee?” True to his word, the young man approached Nash as he came through the exit.

  “Please.” Nash smiled crookedly. “Mr. Lee is my father.”

  “The US ambassador to Japan,” the young staffer said. “Yes, I know, he’s—”

  Nash cut him off. “He’s Mr. Lee, not me. I’m just Nash.”

  “Okay, well…” The young man seemed uneasy, as if not quite sure whether to take Nash seriously.

  “So you’re Badr? Badr Ahmad?” Nash asked. “You run the Riyadh operation?”

  “I am,” he said, lifting his head with pride. “And yes, I’ve been trying to build up an mVillage network.”

  “Good.” Nash nodded. “I’m here to help with that effort. You’ve been working out of the Riyadh office for, what, six months?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Straight out of school—out of KAUST, right?”

  “I started helping out with VHC while I was still in school,” Badr said.

  “And you began working on some software applications for the local mobile carriers while you were still at KAUST?”

  “Yes, sir, absolutely.” Badr beamed. He seemed incredulous that the famous Nash Lee knew so much about him. “I believe I’ve come up with a way to add several new software applications directly to the mobile devices that people use here…”

  “Which should make it easier for mobile devices of any shape or kind to communicate with each other?”

  “Yes, regardless of the type of carrier, or the type of mobile device,” Badr said. “I studied software design at KAUST, and this was my major side project.”

  “Good. That’s going to be enormously helpful to us in the effort here. I wanted to thank you in person.”

  “My pleasure.” Badr bowed slightly. “So please, my car is outside. I will take you into the city. There are others gathered at the coffeehouse.”

  Badr gave Nash a quick overview of the mVillage and VHC efforts on the drive into central Riyadh. It was rudimentary. They were just breaking into the tight control the House of Saud kept over the mobile networks. There had been some minor flare-ups. The Saudis were extraordinarily wary of anything that allowed even modest mass communications.

  The Saudis viewed mVillage as a way around their control. For this reason, Badr said, they’d been exceedingly cautious about the groups and people they worked with—and the knowledge they shared. Unlike other parts of the world, where mVillage was freely and openly shared, the Riyadh staff members were much more circumspect in their actions.

  Nash couldn’t blame them. It was difficult to work in a country like Saudi Arabia, where there was a great deal of money dedicated to preserving the power of the House of Saud—and the status quo. Still, Nash was determined to make mVillage freely available here and in other closed societies in the Arab world. To Nash, it was only a matter of time.

  Like the youth-led uprisings in Egypt, Tunisia, and now Yemen, there was no stopping a global mobile communications network like mVillage—especially when the open source code was beginning to make every single mobile device on the planet capable of talking to any other device across both platforms and carriers.

  “Is downtown Riyadh always so quiet like this?” Nash asked as they made their way along Tahlia Street toward their coffeehouse destination.

  “It is.” Badr nodded. “At night. But it’s very busy during the day.”

  “I see,” Nash said. “So I will look forward to our day tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. We have a lot planned.”

  11

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Abe Zeffren wasn’t easily fooled. He’d seen far too much during his years inside Israel’s government bureaucracy to be easily taken in. He’d learned over the years that quiet persistence nearly always paid off and that questions asked in a benign fashion were more likely to produce results than bluster and confrontation.

  But none of that had seemed to work with his Russian visitor. His questions had largely been parried. And his attempts to get to the bottom of what the Russian truly knew—and what his intentions were with Israel’s National Oil Company and the Dead Sea—had gotten him nowhere.

  Abe hadn’t paid much attention to the nature of the visit when he’d gotten the initial e-mail. Exploring for oil in Israel was such a ridiculous, colossal waste of time that he hadn’t been required to pay much attention to inquiries during his entire stint as deputy oil commissioner.

  The visit had actually been set up by an assistant at INOC—not by someone from Russia. He hadn’t even bothered to write the man’s name down. He’d simply logged the meeting on his calendar and promptly forgotten about it until today.

  But now Abe was intrigued. Something didn’t add up. So shortly after his visitor had dropped off the check and the signed papers, Abe decided to do a little exploring of his own. He pulled the battered oil register held together by electrical tape down from the shelf and opened it to the section where the visitor had filed the paperwork.

  Abe looked it over quickly. Every signature on it was from INOC, save the one signed by the visitor. Sadly, the signature was nearly illegible. He wondered vaguely if that was by design.

  He pushed his chair back, ran his fingers through his gray hair, and sauntered back out to the lobby. The front desk clerk didn’t bother to look up.

  “I was wondering if you logged my visitor in when he arrived this morning,” Abe asked.

  The clerk glanced up at him then. “You checking up on me?”

  “No, I’m looking for his name,” Abe said with an easy smile.

  The clerk appeared surprised.
“He was your meeting. You didn’t get his name?”

  “He didn’t offer it. And I didn’t ask. He had proper papers and maps—and a certified check.”

  The clerk grunted and pushed the visitor log book forward so Abe could see it for himself.

  “This is your handwriting?” Abe asked. The man’s name still wasn’t quite legible.

  The clerk looked down at the log book. “It is.”

  “Perhaps you can help me out with the name. I can’t make it out.”

  The clerk peered at it briefly. “Nicolai Petrov.”

  “And did he present a government passport?”

  “No, a personal one.”

  Abe nodded. “Thanks,” he said and began to saunter back to his office. He stopped, though, and turned back to the clerk. “By the way, I’ll be going out in the field for the next two or three days, should any one ask or need me.”

  “I’ll be sure to let anyone who asks know that,” the clerk said.

  Abe had to laugh. No one would ask. He doubted anyone would even realize he’d gone—not even the oil commissioner, who was almost never in the office himself.

  He tried to place the name as he walked back to his cluttered office. But it was no good. The name was vaguely familiar but not so much that he could place it. And a Google search revealed a number of Nicolai Petrovs. It could be any one of them.

  Abe clicked through several of the links, but none made much sense. The closest match seemed to be a patent attorney in Moscow, but he doubted that was the right Petrov.

  “I wonder. Maybe you’re with the government, too,” Abe muttered aloud to himself. He found himself doing that more and more lately. Perhaps it was a sign of growing senility… Probably not. More likely he was spending far too much time by himself.

  He started to search on different government Web sites, clicking through names that showed up. It seemed hopeless. Russia was an enormous place.

  He was about to give up to pack for his field trip when he found it. He’d been staring at a picture from the International Herald Tribune— a picture from an event with Russia’s well-known prime minister, Andrei Rowan—and the answer was staring back at him. The man was in the picture with Rowan, in the background.