by Jeff Nesbit
Dr. Gould shook his head. “Go figure,” he said ruefully. “Israel at the center of the world’s oil economy, after all this time?”
“Strange times, Anshel,” the president said. “Strange times indeed.”
33
State Department
Washington, DC
Su was devastated by Nash’s SMS message and then his call. Like Nash, she’d believed both You Moon and Kim Grace would be safe and freed from North Korea’s brutal Camp 16 complex. The news that they were to be executed just hours from now was more than Su could bear.
Nash and Su had quickly formulated a plan. Nash would talk to his father, relay the news about nuclear materials, and put his father on a path to deal directly with Pyongyang on the release of You Moon and Kim Grace. But that would take time—which their friends did not have. It was Su’s job to intervene from Washington.
It was very late in the day at State. Most of the vast bureaucracy had gone for the day. But Su knew that at least one person would still be there. Alex Cooper, the secretary’s brilliant, peripatetic director of science and innovation, was nearly always in his office long after the sun had gone down.
Today, thankfully, Alex was still there. “Can I talk?” Su asked as she fairly burst into his office minutes after getting off the phone with Nash.
Alex looked up from behind his terribly cluttered, messy desk. Stacks of paper were strewn across it and piled high on either side. “Always,” Alex said with a wan smile.
Su was one of his favorite people in the building. They shared a common belief in the power of Nash’s “relentless, positive storm” to remake the world for good.
“I need your help,” she said breathlessly.
“Tell me what you need.”
“Can you call the US ambassador in Seoul?”
Alex glanced at the map of world time zones he kept hanging to one side of his desk. He always struggled to keep track of the times in other parts of the world, and the map helped. “It’s the middle of the night there. I doubt if the ambassador is—”
“Can you call him?” Su demanded, much too loudly for the small office.
Alex studied his friend. She was clearly troubled. He would find out why at some point. But now he would do as she asked, without question. “Of course, Su. You can tell me what this is about while I find the number at the residence.”
“Thank you,” Su said more quietly.
Alex typed in a couple of commands on the MacBook Pro that he used as his office computer. An instant later, the telephone number for the US ambassador in South Korea’s capital appeared on his screen. He dialed the number from his Skype account and switched the video on. He wanted the ambassador to see him, via video, while he talked. He knew he’d likely get in trouble for this, but he didn’t care. If this was important to Su, it was important to him.
“So quickly, why am I calling him?” Alex asked while the number rang.
“To ask him to intervene in something immediately,” Su said. “They are going to execute two people in the morning—in just a few hours. We need to ask him to call the peace negotiators who are working through the agreements in Pyongyang…”
“Su, you do know that we can’t really make demands of the North Koreans right now, not on something like prisoners,” Alex said. “Internal security matters are their own concern. We can’t intervene in those things. We’re only concerned with matters of state—nuclear materials, troops on the peninsula, things like that.”
“I don’t care,” Su said. “This is a matter of state. The lives of these two people are critical to the national security interests of the United States. They have information vital to us, and we must keep them alive.”
Alex chose not to question Su further. There wasn’t time. “Their names? And where are they?”
“You Moon. He’s a personal boyhood friend of Pak Jong Un. He’s at Camp 16, along with another prisoner, Kim Grace. She’s the nuclear engineer who tipped us off to the nuclear activities near the camp.”
Someone answered on the other end. A video circle swirled on the Skype screen. “And they’re to be executed this morning?” Alex whispered. “How do you know that?”
“Nash got an mVillage message from You Moon.”
Alex nodded. The Skype connection finished. “Hello?” Alex asked. “This is Alex Cooper at the State Department in Washington, DC. I am calling from Secretary Moran’s office. Who am I speaking to?”
“My name is Emma Broddle,” the voice said sleepily, as if the call had awakened her. “I’m the cultural attaché here at the embassy.”
“May I speak to the ambassador?” Alex asked.
“I’m sorry, but he’s on travel,” Emma reported.
“Do you have a number for him? May I call him?”
“He’s in Pyongyang,” Emma said. “I think I can probably get a number for him, but I’ll have to get it from his executive assistant here at the residence. Can I tell her what it’s about?”
Alex glanced over at Su. She nodded. “Yes, tell her I need to speak to the ambassador about two North Korean prisoners who are about to be executed at Camp 16 in a few hours. These two prisoners are vital to the national security of the United States. I would like the ambassador to lodge a formal protest at the talks, which should halt the executions for now.”
Alex could see that the news had startled the young woman, who was clearly new to this sort of thing. But Emma didn’t blink or pause. “Yes, sir, I understand,” she said quickly. “Can I have the names of the two prisoners, so I can relay that information to the ambassador?”
“You Moon and Kim Grace,” Alex said. “You Moon is a boyhood friend of the new North Korean leader. He is at their principal camp for ex-government leaders. Camp 16.”
“And can you safely give me enough information about the national security implications I can relay to the ambassador?”
“You Moon has information that he wishes to provide—information that bears directly on the talks that are underway there in Pyongyang,” Alex said firmly. “But the ambassador is not to share that information with anyone. It is for him—and no one else—to know.”
“I understand,” Emma said. “I will deliver the message to him and then report back once I have news for you.”
34
Jerusalem, Israel
Prime Minister Judah Navon dreaded the meeting he was about to attend. He was always perfectly comfortable addressing the Knesset or his own Cabinet members. He didn’t even mind speeches to unruly crowds who disagreed with his policies. He liked a good argument.
What he’d never gotten comfortable with was the necessary evil of meeting with finance or corporate interests—especially those of oil or gas companies who’d long held his country hostage. He hated such meetings with a passion.
Today’s meeting, though, was necessary. Long before Navon had become Israel’s prime minister, the Knesset and a previous Israeli administration had made the decision to sell at least some of Israel’s National Oil Company to private interests.
The logic, at the time, was that there was no oil or gas to be found anywhere in the country, so the only way to make money was to sell off part of INOC to private financiers. Some in the Knesset had tried to block it at the time—to no avail. The company was still referred to as INOC by the public, but it had long ago changed its name to Israel Oil.
Israel Oil’s board of directors now included non-Israelis— including, unbelievably, members of foreign governments. It made no sense to Navon that Israel’s largest petroleum company would form alliances and financial arrangements with foreign governments.
But it was what it was—and Navon was a realist. He always played the hand dealt him, and today’s hand was a closed meeting with the board of Israel Oil. They’d demanded a meeting, based on the news that two of the wealthiest men in the world had just bought a 10 percent stake in a rival that controlled vast natural gas reserves in the Levant region in the Mediterranean and was circling around the oil s
hale question.
Worse news, this board had written him, was that this other company—Israel Energy Research, part of Aladdin Oil and Gas in America— intended to move swiftly on the Shfela Basin’s oil shale. This must not happen, the board had insisted.
Navon knew the meeting would be difficult. There was little he could do about Israel Energy Research. Not only was former American Vice President Charles Raney on their board, but the two financiers who’d taken a stake in the company were so wealthy that they could swallow half of Israel’s financial markets, if they so desired.
Navon also knew that the work Israel Energy Research—and Aladdin— was doing with the natural gas reserves in the Mediterranean would mean that Israel would not be required to import oil for at least two decades. The Knesset fully supported that work and would do nothing to block those efforts.
What’s more, Israel Energy Research had also made arrangements to turn the Ashkelon-Eilat pipeline into a two-way pipeline, so that oil could flow south and beyond the port of Eilat to the oil-dependent countries of Asia. It had also begun to build an enormous oil shale refinery in the Negev desert—thanks to a recent massive infusion of capital from those same two wealthy men.
But Navon could not tell that to the board of Israel Oil, a company with a proud history, once owned and operated by the state. Instead he would do his best to hear their complaints and try to convince them to move quickly in the Shfela Basin, if that was their desire.
Navon was prepared to promise that he would order the bureaucracy at the Ministry of Infrastructures to clear a path for exploration and excavation deep into Shfela. But that was as far as he could go.
When Navon arrived at the board meeting, though, he was taken aback to be greeted at the door by the top aide to Russia’s prime minister. Navon had been to Moscow several times to meet privately with Andrei Rowan, and his aide, Nicolai Petrov, had been present at all of their meetings.
“Nicolai, my friend, you are connected to Israel Oil?” Navon said as he entered the boardroom. “I had not heard that Russia was interested in our pittances of oil in Israel.”
“Israel Oil is a new investment, Mr. Prime Minister.” Petrov grasped Navon’s hand. “And we have a joint agreement to explore the Dead Sea.”
Navon studied Petrov. The Dead Sea had produced oil—but a terribly small amount compared to the vast reserves of oil that Russia commanded. It made no sense for Russia to express an interest in exploring the Dead Sea region for oil. But he said nothing about that.
“Well, the Dead Sea is a consistent producer,” Navon said instead. “It has always turned a small but handsome profit for Israel Oil. One of the few, I might add, when it comes to oil.”
“Yes, which is why we have come forward to help,” Petrov said.
“I see. And that is all you are interested in here in Israel?”
Petrov raised an eyebrow. “Now that you mention it, I do believe we share a mutual concern. The Americans have expressed a great deal of interest in your pipelines, your Shfela Basin, the Levant, and relationships with Greece and Turkey.”
“Is that all?” Navon smiled.
“Russia has decided that we could not allow the Americans to take over your country’s oil and gas production, so we have come forward with the finances to allow Israel Oil to become the central provider of your energy needs again.”
“And that is the subject of our discussion today?”
“That—and a request for you to intercede directly to block the American investments and actions, both at Shfela and in the Negev. We have heard they are already building an oil shale manufacturing plant alongside the new city that is rising west of Beersheba in the Negev,” Petrov said.
“If they are, then I am not privy to their plans.” Navon shrugged. “If they have the permits, and the land, then it is no real business of the Israeli government.”
“It is against Israel’s sovereign national interest to allow the Americans to control so much of your well-being,” Petrov countered. “That is what I am here to represent and what Israel Oil’s board wishes to discuss.”
“Very well.” Navon stepped into the boardroom. “Let us begin. I cannot promise that I will block the Americans’ actions in the Negev. But if you are pledging to bring a significant investment into Israel through INOC, then I am quite willing to listen.”
“Not only are we willing, Prime Minister, but I have brought my checkbook,” Petrov said. “I am prepared to write a check to Israel this very day in order to cement our relationship and bring Russia fully into business within your country.”
“And how large would that check be, do you think?” Navon asked.
“Larger than you can possibly imagine.” Petrov’s voice was deadly earnest. “We want to be your partner, and we are willing to pay handsomely for it.”
35
A camp somewhere in North Yemen
Sa’id Nouradeen did not hesitate. He had his orders, and he was not about to let knife fights slow him down. He had an important job to do, and he would do it.
Yet another mindless, meaningless fight had broken out on the way back from southern Arabia. The same Shi’a Houthi fighter who’d pulled a knife on one of the al Qaeda Sunni fighters had come back for a second bite of the apple. This time, the Houthi warrior had gotten a piece of flesh before Nouradeen could intercede.
Nouradeen broke up the fight in the truck, separated the two, and then told both that there would be a very quick punishment back at the camp that they were heading toward north of al Hudaydah. The two combatants settled into an uneasy silence for the duration of the ride.
Back at camp, Houthi and al Qaeda warriors alike were preparing for a most unusual trip—one that generated both excitement and mystery for them. Boxes had arrived from several ships during the dead of night. Half of them contained dozens of white flags. The other half contained small, double-bladed swords—replicas of the one Zulfiqar, or God’s Sword.
What’s more, farmers from all corners of Yemen had begun to bring horses to the camp. A makeshift pen contained them at one corner of the camp. To those who knew the legends, this could mean only one thing. They were going to ride to Mecca to meet the Mahdi.
It seemed impossible, yet the warriors could come to no other conclusion. The legends were clear. Some would ride to Mecca with white flags and swords to greet the Mahdi. It appeared that this time had at last arrived.
But first, Nouradeen knew, he had to end the argument between the Shi’a and Sunni warriors. They had to act as one. If he did not do something—swiftly and decisively—then their journey to Mecca would be compromised.
They arrived at camp. Nouradeen ordered the two warriors to the center of the camp. He called on the dozens of fighters preparing for their journey to surround him.
“You all know who I am?” Nouradeen called out when they’d gathered around him.
“We do,” said one of the fighters. “You are Sa’id Nouradeen, the great Shi’a general who defeated the Israelis on the battlefield in Lebanon.”
“And they tell us you are Yamani, who will precede the Mahdi,” said someone else.
“I am that general,” Nouradeen said. “History will soon tell us the rest of this story, and whether the time of Muhammad al Mahdi has arrived. But first, we are here today, Houthi of Shi’a and Sunni of al Qaeda. We are acting as one. We are about to ride to Mecca as one, to fulfill our destiny.
“It is important that there be no dissent among us. For me to lead, I must be very clear that I am not here to prejudice Shi’a over Sunni. I cannot—and will not—do that. I wish to lead you both to Mecca, if that is my destiny.
“For this reason, I am going to render a judgment today, one that I believe you will understand. I tell you now that the Houthi will not like my judgment. But I ask you, my Shi’a brothers, to understand why I am passing this judgment. It is for this reason—you can no longer fight with the warriors who are here by your side.
“We have just returned from an impo
rtant mission—one that has forever changed the balance of power in the world. It struck a devastating blow to the Saudi kingdom and crippled their oil complex. Yet, even as we succeeded, a Houthi struck an al Qaeda unprovoked on the return home.
“That can no longer happen. We must be one, Shi’a and Sunni, in this fight. We cannot quarrel or fight among ourselves. It is for this reason that I render this swift, immediate punishment. Let it be a lesson for any of you who continue to disobey me and fight each other unprovoked.”
Without warning, Nouradeen grabbed one of the double-edged swords on top of a nearby box, turned toward the Houthi who’d fought in the truck, and pulled his arm toward him. With one swift, savage motion, Nouradeen cut the man’s right hand off. The hand fell to the ground cleanly. Blood poured from the open wound as the man collapsed in shock.
Nouradeen picked up the severed hand from the ground and held it aloft. “We must no longer turn our hands against our brothers unprovoked,” he said loudly. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. We ride to Mecca together, as one.”
Nouradeen turned to the al Qaeda fighter who’d been struck by the Houthi fighter in the truck. “This is your brother,” he ordered. “Tend to his wounds. Make sure he does not die of blood loss. I want this man to ride to Mecca with us, and I place the burden of saving his life on your head.”
The Houthi and al Qaeda fighters were stunned. But the message had been received by all of them. If anything, their admiration of Nouradeen had grown immeasurably. Yes, it had been a brutal, savage act. Still, they knew instinctively, it was necessary. They would now act as one.
Nouradeen watched with satisfaction as the al Qaeda fighter tended to the Houthi warrior’s mangled arm. The man would live to tell the tale of what had happened to him.
In time, the man would relate how Yamani had done what was needed to usher in the Mahdi. And he, the man with the severed hand, had played his part. He would become legend.
