by Jeff Nesbit
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Badr said as they walked along the treelined street.
“You like all the trees and vegetation?” Nash asked his colleague.
“I do. They’ve worked hard to bring some life to this part of the city. It reminds me a little of something…”
“An oasis, perhaps?” Nash asked.
“Yes…like an oasis.”
Nash smiled. The Saudis certainly knew how to welcome guests, in many ways. He admired the thoughtfulness. But he also knew he had to pay careful attention to what he was being shown in the kingdom. “I agree. And yes, it’s nice. Peaceful.”
There were several new Mercedes-Benz sedans lined up in the private drive to one side of the center. So Prince Abdul was there already. Nash remembered Katie’s admonition and checked his tie again. He glanced over at Badr, who grinned broadly as they walked up the steps to the center. He realized, with a start, that this was probably a very big deal to the volunteer who ran his office in Riyadh.
“You ready?” Nash asked Badr.
“All of my life,” Badr answered.
The door to the center opened, and a man with elegant, traditional robes greeted them. “Welcome, my young friends,” the man said, extending his right hand. Nash shook it gladly, as did Badr. Clearly, they were accustomed to Western visitors at the center.
“Should I remove my shoes?” Nash asked before he’d taken a step inside.
“No, please, it is all right. You are fine as you are,” the greeter said. “You will be meeting with the prince in the library.”
He turned to lead them into the center. Nash and Badr followed, glancing right and left as they walked along the hall. Original Islamic manuscripts and paintings adorned both walls. The effect was extraordinary.
When they’d reached the library, the greeter ushered them in and closed the double doors behind them without another word. They were on their own, awaiting Prince Abdul.
The library was unlike anything Nash had seen. Rows upon rows of books and bound manuscripts were arranged along every wall. At least a half-dozen reading stands were spread across various parts of the library. It was a place of scholarly learning. Or, at least, it is what I am expected to feel while I am here, Nash thought.
“There’s an old Quran here.” Badr peered closely at a bound manuscript under glass on one side of the library.
Nash walked over to look as well. “Really? How can you tell?”
Badr pointed to the lettering on the front. “Here, you can tell from this script. It’s ancient.”
They both leaned forward to study it more closely. “I wonder how old it really is,” Nash said finally.
“It is from the seventh century,” a mellifluous voice said from the front of the room, where they’d entered the library.
Nash and Badr both turned quickly, like two young boys caught with their hands in the proverbial cookie jar. “I was just admiring the manuscript,” Nash said. “It is magnificent.”
“It is. And it is but one of many such wondrous documents and books in this library.” The man walked across the room, his robes flowing slightly. His countenance was striking. His face was dark, broken only by a welcoming smile. He also extended a right hand in greeting. “Welcome. I am Prince Abdul al Faisal, and I am most honored to meet you, Nashua Lee.”
Nash nodded briefly and shook the offered hand. “I am the one who is honored. Thank you so much for seeing us.”
Prince Abdul turned and extended his right hand to Badr. “Welcome to you as well, Badr Ahmad. I have heard much about your successes with mVillage here in Riyadh.”
“Thank you,” Badr said nervously.
The prince pivoted to face the rows of books and manuscripts. “I think you will be impressed. We have assembled the largest collection of Islamic manuscripts anywhere in the world, in this library here at the center. We have more than 250,000 volumes in Arabic.”
Nash turned to look as well. “Here, in this library?”
“Not all here, at present,” the prince said, smiling easily. “They’re in different parts of the center. But many are right here. It represents the entire breadth of Islamic Studies and Islamic Civilization. We also have more than ten thousand films and videos that document everything we do here at the center.”
“That’s quite a resource,” Nash admired.
“The center was built to preserve and celebrate Islamic culture,” the prince said proudly. “We have dedicated ourselves at the center to acquiring, authenticating, or copying every known Islamic manuscript in the world.”
“Every single one?” asked Badr.
“Yes, my young friend, every single one,” the prince answered. “At this time, we’ve acquired tens of thousands of handwritten texts. Some in this very room are more than a thousand years old. And that particular manuscript you were looking at, as I said, dates from the seventh century. It is one of the oldest known manuscripts, we believe.”
“I’m impressed,” Nash said. “I haven’t heard of any place quite like this.”
“You have your Library of Congress and other places in Washington that go well beyond our modest library here,” the prince said. “We have much to do, and many places to visit, to match that.”
Nash looked around. “I would say you have a good start.”
“Yes, I believe you are right,” the prince said. “So please, should we sit and talk?”
They took their seats at the polished table at the center of the room. Nash watched the prince carefully. He’d learned, in his many travels, that you could learn a great deal about someone by watching how he or she handled himself during a conversation. Body language, especially in a place like Saudi Arabia, was nearly as important as the words themselves.
The prince appeared quite at ease in his surroundings and this room. That hardly surprised Nash. They were sitting in a room that quite possibly represented the epicenter of Islamic culture in the world. The prince, and his extended family, had gone to great lengths to create this place. They were justifiably proud of what they’d accomplished— and what it represented.
“So Nashua,” the prince said, “can I assume that you have come here, to the kingdom, to offer us something of value? Or, perhaps, you are here for some other reason?”
Nash sat perfectly still at the table. He had to give the prince credit. He didn’t waste time. “Thank you for the question, Prince Abdul. And please, you can just call me Nash.”
“Nash, then,” the prince said with a quick nod. “So the nature of your visit?”
“You’re familiar with mVillage?”
“I am. It is a remarkable global network—elegant, simple, quite utilitarian.”
“Thank you,” Nash said. “It is that. But it is also more than that. It is a tool that can help engage disparate communities in ways that you might not expect. Used properly in a place such as Saudi Arabia, mVillage can help you and the other leaders in the country reach out to disaffected communities or places that otherwise might not feel empowered to speak up.”
“So I’ve been told,” the prince said calmly. “It allows rebels to communicate with mass audiences and allows those who might not be sympathetic with the direction of Saudi leadership to widely complain about its policies.”
“That is one way to look at it,” Nash said. “But I’d like to present another way to look at it.”
“Of course.”
Nash glanced over at Badr. They’d discussed this very conversation the night before. Badr nodded silently, and Nash plunged in. “Prince Abdul, what if you thought of mVillage as a way to allow dissenting voices to connect with the House of Saud and to propose ideas? What if you used mVillage to reach out to small businesses with offers of assistance? And what if you used mVillage to set up information networks that granted communities access to useful information? Mothers-to-be, for instance, might learn commonsense tips for having healthy babies.”
“Perhaps you can elaborate?”
“Gladly,” Nash said
. “Take the first idea. Rather than allow disaffected groups of people to fester and complain in isolation, you could use mVillage to reach out to them and offer to listen to their ideas. It would be like an electronic idea box, only with mobile devices. Many American corporations have suggestion boxes for their employees, which gives them a chance to have their voices heard.”
“And if we don’t take any of their suggestions?”
“But you will—at least some of them,” Nash said. “There will likely be some interesting ideas that you can act on and then talk about. It’s a positive, constructive use of mVillage, which we’ve been experimenting with in other parts of the world. I call it mobile democracy.”
“Fine. I will consider your offer. It has merit,” the prince said. “And your other ideas?”
“The second is relatively simple. You’re familiar with banking credits over mobile devices?”
“I am.”
“Well, we’ve included that functionality, but we’ve also incorporated ways in which small entrepreneurs can offer their business ideas to the mVillage network. You could establish that, provide an Entrepreneurs Fund, and then establish a network of very small businesses that can succeed through such a network. The word will spread far and wide among communities that you’ve created such an opportunity.”
“That would be interesting,” the prince mused.
“And the third idea is at the core of what Village Health Corps has always been about. Using mVillage to connect groups of people with common health questions—like what to eat or do during pregnancy— is a logical thing for you to sponsor. Again, it’s a positive, focused way to allow mVillage to be a force for good in your society.”
Nash sat back. He doubted he could refine the pitch any further. If the House of Saud rejected it, there were still ways to bring mVillage to the kingdom. But it would certainly make things easier if they didn’t have to work around the royal family.
“You know,” the prince said, “I’ve seen you speak on three occasions. I was in the audience. I have always marveled at your ability to sell a big idea. You have the gift—one that is rare indeed for someone so young. You have the ability to see beyond borders, and to recognize the things that large groups of people aspire to see, hear, and understand. It is the mark of a leader.”
“Thank you,” Nash said softly.
“So I would ask you to consider something,” the prince said. “I can see a way in which we can work together, you and I. But we will need shared terms of reference, a common foundation on which we might build something together.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a recognition that the world before us is changing very rapidly. Even as we sit here today, having a polite discussion, forces are plotting for the overthrow of the House of Saud by violent or other means. Old alliances are ending, and new ones are being forged. There are news reports just this morning, for instance, that the ruler in Yemen has agreed to elections in a month’s time. And that is only one country on our border. Others on our border are experiencing similar disruptions.”
Nash nodded. “I recognize that. It is a very uncertain time, in many countries.”
“And in every one of those places, there is the mVillage network,” the prince said, “aiding, abetting, helping those who would advocate overthrow.”
“But also educating, inspiring, teaching, broadening the base of knowledge,” Nash countered.
“It depends on your perspective. So here is what I would propose. I would like to test your theories of mVillage in Saudi Arabia. I would like to see if it can, in fact, be used in the ways you’ve described.”
“Wonderful,” Nash said quickly.
“But the foundation that I am seeking—the common ground— is that mVillage be seen as a street with traffic going in both directions. Even as we are hearing from groups and communities, I would like the ability to communicate with them as well. That seems like a fair trade, does it not?”
“It most certainly does,” Nash said. “I can foresee many ways in which the House of Saud can reach out to its people through mVillage— in unique ways.”
“And not only in Saudi Arabia but to other countries as well. That is what I am proposing here—a chance for Saudi Arabia to tell its story to the world.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Nash said. “The network is global.”
“And Islam is global as well,” the prince said. “We are very quickly approaching a time where national borders are not nearly as important as they once were. Information and communication has changed that in ways none of us could have anticipated.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Nash said. “I believe we have found that common ground. I will help you with your efforts, in return for support behind the mVillage goals I explained.”
The prince nodded firmly. He seemed genuinely satisfied with their informal agreement. “It would be a welcome opportunity for us— a chance to display to the rest of the world what our universities, our companies, and our people have to offer. It is a chance to reach out to the world.”
“I would welcome that,” Nash said. “And mVillage would be more than up to that task.”
24
East of Beersheba, the Negev Desert
Abe Zeffren had been Israel’s deputy oil commissioner for as long as anyone could remember. He’d seen crazy plans, lunatic con men, and scams designed to dupe gullible Americans into giving money for oil exploration in Israel. But he’d never seen anyone take oil or gas exploration seriously in Israel. Until now.
As he drove along a solitary desert highway into the Negev east of Beersheba, Abe wondered deeply about what he’d seen that day. In the morning, he’d made the short drive to the northern end of the Dead Sea. He’d expected to see nothing. Instead, he’d been greeted by cranes and trucks and all manner of drilling equipment.
The Russians were indeed serious about exploring the Dead Sea for oil. Abe was shocked as he got out of his car to visit the construction site. It didn’t make sense—not when the Russians had vast oil reserves of their own to explore. Why bother with drops of oil in the Dead Sea when they had barrels upon barrels in their own country?
Every worker at the site spoke Russian, and Abe had grown frustrated at their unwillingness to convey—even in broken English— any sort of progress they were making at the site. After nearly an hour of fruitless conversation, he’d gotten back into his car and driven west and south toward the Shfela Basin.
One thing had been clear at the Dead Sea, though. The Russians were serious in their intent. Whether they’d find any significant amount of oil was another matter entirely. But they’d made a definite commitment to INOC to spend money at the Dead Sea, and they were following through.
Abe was in for another shock when he came to the Shfela Basin. He hadn’t been to the region in years, and he’d expected to see nothing but barren rocks and shrubs stretching across one hundred miles or so. Yet here, too, Abe saw immediate signs of development and construction.
Almost from the minute he drove into the vast basin area, he was able to spot construction trucks lumbering from one place to another. He stopped at one of the half-dozen sites he’d spotted from the road and approached it. Here he found more Russians. And this crew was nearly as uncommunicative as the Dead Sea group.
Twenty miles farther south, Abe came across an entirely different construction site. The sign at the entrance said it was managed by Israel Energy Research. Abe was one of the few people in the country who knew what it was—and that it was not, in fact, an Israeli entity. It was an American oil and gas research outfit, working here in Israel.
The construction foreman hadn’t been all that forthcoming, but he’d at least provided more information than the Russians. They were, in fact, testing oil extraction from the shale. Abe hid his surprise. The permits were in order. But he couldn’t believe that, after all these years, anyone was actually trying to extract oil from the shale.
No one had held much hope of doing so at a p
rice point that could compete with regular old crude oil. Unless there was a huge surge in the price of crude oil—something that could only occur if proven reserves in countries like Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and Iran suddenly disappeared like a thief in the night, driving crude oil prices sky-high— it made no economic sense. Yet in the space of just an hour, he’d come across not one but two tests of oil extraction in the barren Shfela Basin. Someone, somewhere, was confident enough that they could safely and cheaply extract oil from the shale that they were willing to spend money on it.
As he drove into the Negev, in the general direction of the overland oil pipeline that carried oil one way from Eilat north and then west toward the port of Ashkelon at the Mediterranean, Abe had spotted another convoy of trucks. He’d watched from a distance for the better part of an hour as the workers methodically lifted sections of the oil pipeline and replaced each section with new pipe. Abe knew enough about oil pipeline construction to see what they were doing. They were turning the Eilat-Ashkelon pipeline into a two-way system—capable of transporting oil in both directions.
The import of that stunned Abe. It had been a day of surprises, yet this was by far the biggest. It meant the INOC—or someone—was confident enough in the monetary value of shipping oil through Israel from Ashkelon and locations inside Israel south to the Eilat port in southern Israel that they were willing to retrofit the entire pipeline.
It was an enormous undertaking—and hugely expensive. The original Eilat-Ashkelon pipeline had been built largely with Iranian oil dollars prior to the fall of the Shah of Iran in the late 1970s. Israel had never seen the need to improve the one-way nature of the pipeline. Yet they were improving it now and preparing for something.
Abe’s curiosity finally got the best of him. Driving up to the construction crew, he parked his car a safe distance away and ambled over to the closest truck.
“Can I help you?” the driver called down from the cab of the truck.
