Oil

by Jeff Nesbit

  52

  The Situation Room

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  “This can’t be true, General Alton.” President Camara stared at the NSA brief in his hand.

  “I’m afraid it’s very real, Mr. President,” said the vice chairman of the joint chiefs of staff who was stationed at the White House.

  “Yes, we verified that it came from Nash Lee,” said Susan Wright.

  There were only the three of them in the Situation Room. Dr. Wright had gotten the urgent brief from NSA and had immediately sought General Alton’s counsel. They’d both decided that the president, alone, should see this brief first. They’d bring others into the loop once the president had decided on a course of action.

  The president looked up from the brief. “So they’re really keeping Nash inside the king’s palace, against his wishes?”

  “It would appear so,” Alton said.

  “So get the Saudi ambassador over here immediately,” Camara said. “This is unacceptable. There will be repercussions.”

  “Prince Omar is already on his way,” Dr. Wright said. “He will be here shortly.”

  “And does he know why we’ve summoned him?” Camara asked.

  “He does,” Wright answered. “He says Nash is a guest of the king, not a prisoner.”

  Camara reached for the phone. “I’m calling Faisal. This is—”

  “Mr. President,” Alton said. “Before you do, can we discuss the second part of that brief—the reason Nash asked his company to call NSA and deliver the message they did?”

  President Camara sighed. “Fine. It seems a little…outrageous.”

  Alton and Wright exchanged glances.

  “If I may, Mr. President,” Wright said. “I’d like to give you a little background. It may help explain why we believe Nash’s report is credible and actionable.”

  “All right,” Camara said, his voice strained. “I’m listening. But be quick about it. I intend to call Faisal. I’m not waiting for his ambassador to get here. I expect to hear from Nash myself by the time I hang up with Faisal.”

  “I’ll get to the point, Mr. President,” Wright said. “But first, are you familiar with Frodo?”

  “The hobbit from The Lord of the Rings?”

  Wright smiled. “Well, yes, there’s that Frodo. But I mean the Frodo system, developed by the data-mining and software engineers Nash hired from MIT, Stanford, and Cal Tech. They built a custom software system for NSA last year.”

  “Vaguely,” Camara said. “I’ve seen it a few times in the morning briefing reports. It always seemed like a silly name for such a powerful system.”

  “It’s a scientist and engineer thing. They’re geeks,” Wright said. “But here’s the point. Frodo is, by far, the most sophisticated intelligencegathering system ever devised. It’s a generation ahead of its time. It’s a little like the Manhattan Project that developed the atomic bomb. In this case, they taught a network of computers how to look through more data than any group of human beings could ever deal with. It’s how we’ve been able to make connections to al Qaeda, Iran, North Korea, you name it.”

  “I guess I don’t want to ask how they do it,” Camara said.

  “It would take awhile to explain,” Wright answered. “But what Frodo can do with a defined set of information, when asked to compare it to big data sets, is nothing short of a miracle.”

  President Camara wasn’t a scientist, but he’d heard enough of these sorts of briefings to jump to the end of the page. “All right, I understand the context for the briefing now. So when the Saudis gave Nash that set of mobile telephone numbers—the ones that the Saudi intelligence agency had been tracking to look for an Arab Revolt thing—and he fed that into Frodo, it kicked out patterns and knowledge it would not otherwise have been able to come up with on its own?”

  “Precisely,” Wright said, glad her boss was so smart. It made her job that much easier. “It found a couple of needles in the haystack.”

  “So these Day of Anger protests that are set to occur in…” Camara glanced down at the brief.

  “In two days,” Alton interjected. “They’re going to occur in every city in Saudi Arabia that has any sort of significant Shi’a population— Dammam, Qatif, Medina, Mecca, even Riyadh, we believe.”

  Camara nodded. “And this Day of Anger is truly spontaneous. That’s what Frodo found? They traced it back to three students with mobile numbers on the list the Saudis gave Nash? But they weren’t coordinated, or even planned? The students just made things up, sent the information out through mVillage network, and others latched on to it?”

  “Exactly,” Dr. Wright said. “There’s no grand conspiracy—at least among those students. The Day of Anger is truly a random thing, created by some bored students who decided to throw verbal graffiti at the wall on the network.”

  “That pan-Islamic flag, the Arab Revolt flag?”

  “Made up by one of those students,” Wright said. “But it’s spread like wildfire.”

  “The notion about bringing back the kingdom of Hejaz? And that Israel is behind it, that they’re inciting a war between the Shiites of Iran and the Sunnis of Saudi Arabia?”

  “Pure fiction. Made up. Israel has nothing whatsoever to do with any of this.”

  “But the world won’t believe that,” Camara said quietly.

  “Of course not. Iran is likely to play that card, even though it’s patently false. And from the brief, we know that someone within the royal family will as well.”

  “And this librarian, what’s his name?”

  “Mehmet Osman,” Alton answered. “He’s in his eighties now. He’s a real heir to the last caliph from the Ottoman Empire.”

  Camara shook his head. “So do we have someone on the way to find him in London, make sure he’s staying put?”

  “We’ve contacted the embassy in London. They’re sending someone,” Alton reported.

  “Good.” Camara exhaled in frustration. “That’s all we need, is for someone to take advantage of the Day of Anger in these Saudi cities to start something bigger.”

  “But Mr. President, that’s precisely what’s happened,” Wright said. “That’s one of the two needles in that big data haystack that Frodo found. That’s one of the reasons Nash had his lead engineer send us the information. It would appear that someone has already taken full advantage of the opportunity presented by the Day of Anger to advance his own cause.”

  “The White Army?” asked the president.

  “Yes, the internal security forces commanded by Prince Natal,” Wright said. “Frodo found patterns that nothing else could have found. It is quite obvious that the White Army—or at least some part of it— is deliberately fanning the flames of civil unrest in each of these cities. They are, in fact, turning the Day of Anger into a direct, potentially violent conflict against the royal family.

  “They also found a connection between Natal and this retired White Army general, Fahd, who’s been broadcasting that he will lead a new Free the Kingdom Army in exile. Not definitive, but an awfully good lead. It would appear that Natal is fomenting unrest in the kingdom, for whatever purpose.”

  Camara closed his eyes. “But we have no hard proof that Prince Natal is behind this, do we? All we have is this pattern created by a system called Frodo? That’s hardly actionable.”

  “No, it’s not actionable,” Alton said. “And it’s not something you can raise with Faisal, either. But we must prepare for this war that will almost certainly erupt across the Arabian Peninsula in only two days’ time. Especially because of the second needle in the haystack that Frodo found.”

  “The nuclear weapons shipment from North Korea, through Iran?” Camara asked.

  “Yes,” Alton said. “We knew the North Koreans had only partially given us everything they had. But Frodo found patterns that connect the White Army to Iran’s president and then back to North Korea. We have to assume that some sort of a portable nuclear weapon is now insid
e Saudi territory.”

  “And you trust this connection?” Camara asked.

  “I do…we both do,” Wright said. “Frodo has never been wrong. It finds patterns that others can’t possibly find.”

  “And when that thing goes off…”

  “It will seem like the gates of hell have opened wide,” Alton said grimly. “Natal has a history of blaming Israel whenever possible, and that seed has already been planted across the mVillage network. Iran certainly isn’t going to take credit or declare outright war against Saudi Arabia. They always operate through proxies.”

  “Though I’d say that this will be as close to a declaration of war by Iran as you can possibly get,” Wright said. “We may be witnessing the start of a Shi’a-Sunni war—the one we’ve all been anticipating for some time.”

  “So we’d better put our troops in Israel, near Beersheba, on alert,” Camara reasoned. “What about our ships in the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean?”

  “All ready, and expecting the worst,” Alton reported. “We’re ready for a storm, whatever it might be.”

  The president nodded, satisfied he had enough information to go on. “And we can’t warn Faisal about any of this?”

  “No, we can’t,” Wright said. “None of this is dispositive—it’s just a set of connections drawn by a very powerful data-mining network. There’s no smoking gun.”

  “But we can take precautions,” Alton added. “And we have.”

  “Well, there is one thing I can do,” the president said, reaching for the phone. “I can make sure they let Nash walk out of the king’s palace unharmed. And as soon as that’s done, I plan on calling Nash’s father to make sure that Ethan pins the North Koreans’ ears back for creating this mess in the first place.”

  53

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  “Is everything all right, Ambassador?”

  “It’s fine, Emma. Everything is fine.”

  But clearly, everything was not fine. Emma Broddle had gotten to know Ambassador Lee well in the past few days. Ethan Lee had joined the stalled peace talks in Pyongyang quite recently. And Emma had learned quickly that he was someone who’d seen and done it all. Almost nothing seemed to faze him. He handled the North Korean generals without blinking.

  But the phone call he’d just received had definitely shaken him. He had nearly turned white, before quickly recovering.

  They were sitting outside the negotiating room of the interminable peace talks that had been underway in Pyongyang since the day that President Camara had met with the brash, young leader of North Korea on the airport tarmac months earlier.

  Ambassador Lee had injected gravitas and a new sense of urgency in the stalled talks, which was likely what the White House had hoped for. But Emma had never seen the ambassador in such a state. The call had affected him deeply.

  “You’re certain, sir?” Emma asked. “The call…”

  Ethan looked over at the young woman and smiled wanly. “It’s my son Nash.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, that was the president. He told me that the Saudi royal family has Nash inside the king’s palace as some sort of a prisoner.”

  “But he’ll be all right, won’t he?” asked Emma. “I mean, it’s Saudi Arabia. They’re one of our allies?”

  “Yes, but a very dangerous conflict is about to break out in the kingdom,” Ethan said. “And I don’t know what part Nash has in it—or why he’s being held at the king’s palace.”

  “Did the president say what might have caused the problem?”

  “He didn’t, other than the fact that they were trying to coerce Nash to turn over private information. The Chinese have tried that with his company before. But this is unpardonable. It isn’t something you do to any American citizen in Arabia.”

  “Your son will be all right, Ambassador. He will. You’ll see.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Ethan stood. “But the president gave me other information, the type I was looking for. And I’m not waiting any longer. We’re going to go jump-start these peace talks. It’s time we concluded a few things.”

  “Like making sure that those two prisoners Nash was concerned about, You Moon and Kim Grace, are finally freed?”

  “Among other things,” the ambassador said, his eyes flashing angrily. “But first, I intend to find out exactly where the North Koreans shipped nuclear materials to Iran—and why they did so without telling us about it.”

  54

  Shfela Basin

  Jerusalem, Israel

  The sounds of excavation were pleasing to Nicolai Petrov. He’d wondered if this day would ever arrive. Now that it had, the day seemed anticlimactic.

  Russia’s future as a world superpower was hanging in the balance. The United States and Israel were about to take a quantum leap into a bold, new energy future. In two short years, the Americans had managed to create leapfrog technology capable of safely extracting oil from vast shale reserves in a way that seemingly did no harm to the environment.

  Petrov, for his part, didn’t care at all about the environmental implications of the new technology. Neither he nor his boss, Andrei Rowan, was concerned about whether the extraction process harmed the groundwater supplies. He just wanted the oil and was willing to do whatever it took to either steal the new technology or form a partnership with someone who could deliver it to him.

  Which explained why the sounds emanating from the brandnew excavation site at the northwestern corner of Shfela Basin were so pleasing. Petrov glanced off to one side at the shiny sign that had recently been planted on the site, identifying the excavation site as a joint venture between INOC and Kosvo Oil.

  “Is everything satisfactory?” the crew foreman asked him.

  Petrov lifted his hard hat and beamed at the crew. “It is a glorious day—for Russia and for Israel.”

  Petrov had argued, successfully, that they should use the bankrupt, nationalized Russian oil firm for the joint venture in Israel. No one would be the wiser, he’d argued. Rowan, in turn, had made the case to those who cared in Moscow, and the deal had been struck.

  Russia now co-owned a significant oil company operating in central Israel. It had cost them a considerable sum of money, but Rowan believed it was worth it. They had no choice but to go into business with Israel—especially now that three of the largest Arab nations were tied up in knots over their own crude oil capabilities.

  Petrov knew it bothered Rowan immensely that his back was against the wall and that he’d been forced to deal with Israel. Rowan was still smarting over the fact that the Israeli Defense Forces had been military advisors to the leadership of Georgia in their border war with Russia years earlier.

  But Petrov’s boss was a pragmatist and willing to do whatever it took to return Russia to its former greatness. And if giving a great deal of money to Israel so it could co-own a significant, new oil extraction and excavation system near Jerusalem was required, then so be it.

  The earthmovers had cleared the path in the past week, making way for the trucks and equipment that could get at the oil shale below. Petrov wasn’t entirely sure how INOC planned to refine the oil once it was pulled up, but frankly, he didn’t care about that.

  The Shfela Basin reserves would yield some 250 billion barrels of oil when all was said and done, with much of that going to Russia since it had concluded its agreement with Judah Navon and INOC’s board of directors.

  The Russian money was more than enough to assure that Israel could develop both the oil shale reserves as well as the extensive natural gas reserves they’d discovered in the Mediterranean. Israel would soon be energy-independent for the first time in its short history. And Russia was responsible for much of that new capability.

  Stalin must surely be turning over in his grave, Petrov thought. But we do what we must, and there is no other way than to be here, in Israel. The times demand it.

  Rowan, however, had been unsuccessful in convincing the Israeli prime minister to
block the Americans’ efforts in the Negev. No matter. Russia had what it needed here in the basin. The Americans could have the Negev desert and its massive oil-refining facility near Beersheba.

  Someday, perhaps, Russia and America would come to blows over their competing interests in the Shfela Basin. But not on this day. Petrov was just happy to see the beginning of the new Russian-Israeli partnership.

  55

  Jamkaran Mosque

  Tehran, Iran

  The floodlit domes and minarets of the grand mosque began to glow with translucent greens and turquoise as night fell. It always inspired President Ahmadian. He reveled in the throng of nearly 200,000 pilgrims who gathered here every Tuesday night.

  But this particular Tuesday was no ordinary night at the Jamkaran Mosque. The cars and minibuses that clogged the four-lane highway leading to it had no way of knowing, but they were about to witness history. They made way for the president’s car as it approached the mosque.

  The pilgrims came to Jamkaran every Tuesday by the tens of thousands. They poured into the concourse in front of the mosque for two hours of prayer—to pray for the return of the Mahdi, the Hidden Imam, the Twelfth successor to the Prophet Muhammad.

  Tonight, Ahmadian knew, would be different. For their prayers would be answered.

  When the president’s car finally arrived, the driver parked behind the mosque in a special place reserved just for him.

  Ahmadian was glad they’d agreed to allow the man to make his first appearance here, at Jamkaran. Granted, the imam would make but a brief appearance, and his name would not be uttered. The pilgrims would not even know that the Mahdi was in their midst.

  Nevertheless, the mere fact of the hidden imam’s appearance here at Jamkaran would fulfill prophecy, and that was all that mattered.

  Ahmadian could barely contain himself as he made his way to the inner quarters inside the mosque. Ali bin Rahman had promised to bring the imam to the mosque himself, without escort. There was a risk in this, but the risk would be greater, should word leak that, in fact, the Twelfth Imam was at Jamkaran. The 200,000 pilgrims there for the Tuesday night prayers might overrun the mosque.