Blood Oil

by James Phelan

  “I got a couple places like that, back home in Australia. In Melbourne.” Fox stopped to consider the memories as a kid, the stale beer smell of old pubs still lingering in the back of his mind. Cricket on the television, vinyl music in the relic of a jukebox, smoke in the air.

  “And you got a favourite now?”

  “Went to a nice place on Lake Constance once, that was a pretty hard setting to top,” Fox said. “But here in Manhattan, not really any favourites. There’s a place at the bottom of the building where I work, the Four Seasons.”

  “I know of it but I’ve never been there.”

  “How about tomorrow afternoon?” Fox asked. He finished his drink; motioned to the barman for the bill. “We can get a start on your profile piece in nice surroundings. Then there’s something on for Al’s birthday, so you can come along to that too.”

  “I don’t know if I can back up tonight with more drinks tomorrow—I’m really not much of a drinker,” Jane said.

  “Well, you fooled me,” Fox replied as he signed off the bar tab and left a cash tip.

  They got up and went outside. Fox hailed a cab.

  “So you’ll do the interview, my profile piece?”

  “Yep,” Fox said. “But I don’t want it getting too big. Definitely no movie stuff. I’m not interested in talking to anybody else about it, I don’t want producers taking me to lunch, I don’t even want to be a story consultant on 24. I don’t want anything out of this other than creating public discussion.”

  “Movies are a big part of the public discussion,” Jane said, one foot in the cab. “You want to share a cab—you’re in SoHo, right?”

  “All the same, I’m gonna walk,” Fox said. He guided her into the back of the cab.

  “That’s a long walk,” Jane replied. She scooted over in the back seat, patted the space next to her.

  Fox shook his head.

  “See you tomorrow, Jane.”

  10

  PORT HARCOURT, NIGERIA

  “I don’t like having all these Russians around,” Achebe said. “They make me nervous. Throwing their wealth around, talking about having so many thousands more of their security guys in the country. It’s like they’re—they’re moving in.”

  Mendes was finding it increasingly easy to manipulate Achebe. The Nigerian’s reactions were predictable.

  “We need them,” Mendes said. “It’s the only way to get you in to power, to have their backing, their money.”

  “But I don’t trust them, not like the Americans.”

  The meeting was in an old decaying dock on the harbour. Seven-thirty in the morning and the Russian oil representatives had arrived punctually. They travelled with a platoon of heavy-set guys, from a couple of big boats out on the harbour. The kind of flashy monsters with helipads and jet-skis and swimming pools. The oil guys were walking away, back down to the end of the pier. Conversation had lasted ten minutes, deals had been struck with handshakes and a few signatures, and the Russians saluted with vodka. Their helicopters lifted off the end of the dock and Mendes and Achebe were left alone, just their protective detail waiting by their vehicle convoy.

  “We need oil contractors with money outside of the Americans,” Mendes said. They started moving towards the cars. “You’d rather it was the Chinese?”

  Achebe shook his head.

  “Good, it’s far too late in the game to switch sides now. Besides, I know these guys, I know how to work them. There are simple ways to deal with these people, once you know how they think,” Mendes said. “And number one, don’t let yourself get pushed around. They would have offered another fifty million for the exploration rights in Bayelsa state alone.”

  Achebe’s expression was hurt.

  “It’s all right, Brutus, I’ll make sure we get that money out of them in other ways,” Mendes said. He made a circular hand motion to his driver to get things moving. Security contractors with submachine guns moved to their vehicles.

  Mendes whistled to Boris, one of his private security couriers. He handed over a briefcase with the signed oil contracts in it, among other correspondence. The Russian took it and then went to his own three-car convoy, which peeled away with haste.

  Mendes noticed Achebe’s look at that action.

  “Armed courier service,” he said by way of explanation as they got into the back of the SUV. “Much safer way of moving sensitive information around than using phones, faxes or email. It will go to our compound in Abuja, it’s the safest place for them.”

  “You trust human couriers over modern telecommunications?” Achebe asked. “We have encrypted gear.”

  “When we are dealing with American spies, there is no way of encrypting communications,” Mendes said. “You forget I am ex-CIA. I learned that the hard way, fighting in Afghanistan and the Middle East. The enemy that was able to stay off the Net was my enemy for another day. As soon as they spoke over a phone or a radio, sent a fax or an email, we had them.”

  Mendes clapped his hands together loud. “A missile right up their ass!”

  Achebe laughed with his American friend.

  “It’s good to see you laughing again,” Mendes said. Their convoy was on the move, bumping down fast along the old timber pier. “Your people are going to love having a leader with your passion for life.”

  “Yes,” Achebe said through his big toothy smile. “Thank you again. This is your hard work and contacts making this happen.”

  Mendes held up a self-deprecating hand.

  “I believe in you, Brutus,” he said. “President Achebe…”

  The Nigerian laughed.

  “Caliph Achebe…”

  The laugh petered out to a serious expression.

  “The bombing here in Port Harcourt, it was an omen, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, an omen,” Achebe said. “It meant we could sell those extra licences now.”

  “Exactly,” Mendes said. “And the terrorist attacks in Saudi Arabia and Qatar, they have pushed oil prices nice and high for us.”

  “Things continue to work out our way.”

  “They sure do,” Mendes said. “Now, today, hold your next press conference at the ministry here in Port Harcourt. Tell them that this country is entering a new phase. Show that you are strong, that you are standing tall in the face of these terrorist activities.”

  “And that our president has dragged his feet on real progress for too long.”

  “Exactly,” Mendes said. “Shift the world’s focus from the president to you. You are the one speaking out about this bombing while he is busy elsewhere. Say it to everyone who will listen. And say that you, Brutus Achebe, with your uncle the Sultan, have led the prayers for this country, for a better life for everyone.”

  “Yes, I have, I will.”

  “You own the north. Lagos is there and waiting to be taken; make it the seat of the Achebe government, be a saviour to your people.”

  Achebe nodded. This had been a discussion point of theirs for the past two years—reseating the federal government where it belonged.

  “This is simple disaster economics doctrine,” Mendes said. “The country is in a state of disrepair, the people are desperate. It has been this way for too long. Nigeria is crying out to be great again—only this time it’s like fire-farming, we have to completely get rid of the past attempts at reform and start totally afresh. And, as the first step: all new oil contracts. We take advantage of the oil companies moving out and the Russians will take over the wells. I have more contacts waiting for the go-ahead. Then we sell off everything. Privatise the schools, the roads, all the infrastructure—power, water, you name it. We build up the security, get fifty thousand private contractors in to guard the oil, headed by my own hand-picked men, of course. This frees up your military to handle the populace, the unrest that will soon be put to rest once the people see what you have done for them. It’s a model that my old countrymen have tried to follow in Iraq but have failed to
do so abysmally—because they have gone about it in a half-measured way. This type of reform is all or nothing. You know that.”

  Achebe nodded. Mendes’ advice had gotten them this far, and the picture he painted now was so simple that it seemed like it could be implemented tomorrow.

  “Selling all this will make the government small in its assets but incredibly rich—beyond anything you could imagine,” Mendes said. “You will make billions. The country, hundreds of billions. Use the money to do more exploration. We know there’s even more oil out there, we’ve hardly looked beyond the surface, we could easily be the next Saudi Arabia. Not to mention other resource wealth. This country is a gold mine, you know that. It just needs the right people to bring out its full potential.”

  “If the government will be so small, why would I want to run it? Why be president of such a small office?”

  “Because you will be like the CEO of a major company,” Mendes said. “The biggest company in the land—and you will still make the laws that govern all. You will be at the helm of the mightiest country in Africa. Besides which, there’s more power for you to hold beyond the office of the president.”

  Achebe’s face showed he knew that too.

  “You can lead your country into a spiritual revolution,” Mendes said. “Think about it. With such wealth, such political and economic reform, you can be the leader of the Muslim world.”

  “I should reinstate the Caliphate,” Achebe said. “Be the head of my faith. Be in charge, drive it forward to its rightful place. Live my destiny…”

  “Your country needs you. Your people need you.”

  Achebe smiled. The possibilities of it glowed in his eyes. Then they reached the logical speed bump.

  “But,” Achebe said, “what of my uncle? I—I love my uncle, he should lead such a Caliphate.”

  “The Sultan is wise, and I know you care for him,” Mendes said. He put a hand on Achebe’s shoulder, leaned close like his truest friend and confidant. “Brutus, I wouldn’t worry about him. You know he is frail.”

  Mendes noticed the tears in Achebe’s eyes.

  “He has been a great man, your uncle. He will know what to do to make your destiny fulfilled. He knows that when he passes to the afterlife he will be well-rewarded for his sacrifice.”

  “You talk as though he must give up more than his position,” Achebe said.

  “Brutus, don’t worry about that now. It’s time to make the future. Be the saviour that this country, your country, needs.”

  11

  WASHINGTON

  Wallace and McCorkell sat at an outdoor table with the morning sun brightening the white linen.

  “I just read the piece about Robert Boxcell,” Wallace said. The news today had carried with it speculation behind the sudden death of the former CIA Director.

  “Yeah,” McCorkell said, and leaned in closer. “Killed himself. Indictments were being built as long as your arm.”

  “He’s being buried later today?”

  “Yeah, I’m going this afternoon,” McCorkell said, eating some of his heart-healthy omelette. “Busy times, Tas. With the attacks in Qatar and Saudi, you’re gonna see gas prices at the pump rise fifty per cent by the weekend.”

  “Jesus,” Wallace said.

  “Treasury and SEC are going nuts.”

  “Saudis admit it was terrorists?”

  “Not yet, but they should come around today,” McCorkell said. “You keep pushing that stuff I sent through yesterday. Gonna force them to ask for our help.”

  “I’ve got a team running it, already syndicated to over a hundred media outlets. The New York Times and Fox News are all over it.”

  “And it’ll grow—it’ll take a couple of days to gather momentum,” McCorkell said. “By early next week we should see the FBI team off, and by the end of next week we should see Saudi’s production deficit back online.”

  McCorkell picked around the goat’s cheese and peppers in his omelette.

  “I need a bit of help with something myself,” Wallace said, draining his coffee and motioning to a waiter for a refill. “One of my reporters is heading to Nigeria tomorrow to cover the Port Harcourt bombing story. I need some political pressure to get him access to the energy minister, Brutus Achebe.”

  “Nigeria,” McCorkell said. “That’s a can of worms. And they’ve got their hands full of their own problems right now.”

  “This bombing in Port Harcourt aside, things could be worse in that country. We want in, there’s a big story there.”

  “All right. I’ll have State try to push for access for you.”

  “We tried that, nothing out of it,” Wallace said. His coffee was filled. “Thanks. Yeah, we tried the State Department, the US Mission in Abuja, some UN and OPEC heavyweights, but Achebe ain’t buying. He’s got his walls up.”

  “I doubt he’s going to let anyone force him to the table, it just won’t work. We need him more than he needs us especially right now with the attacks in Qatar and Saudi. Achebe’s got the Russians, Chinese, Indians all lined up to buy Nigerian oil. He calls the shots with the oil companies and they’re so far in his pockets that when he reaches in there to scratch his balls he scratches theirs.”

  “We just need an in,” Wallace said. “The cover story is a puff profile piece. The guy’s got a big ego. Get Lachlan Fox in a room with him. Once in there, he can work him for access to the bombing story.”

  “Lachlan Fox, hey,” McCorkell said. He made some notes in his diary. “I could use that guy on my staff. Good man to have on the ground.”

  “You couldn’t afford him,” Wallace said. “I’ve made sure of that.”

  “Never seemed like a money man to me.”

  “No, truth be told he isn’t,” Wallace admitted. “But I know that he’d never work for a government again. He’s done his time as a soldier and intel officer and he’s grown well outside of that life now. He’s not a Jack Ryan or a James Bond-type character. He has too much disdain for the government line, all the bullshit that comes with being an instrument of an administration.”

  “Present company excluded, of course.”

  The old friends laughed.

  “All right, I’ll give Achebe a shot,” McCorkell said. “Our Navy’s got some good relationships forming, been supplying and training their delta water forces for a while now. I’ll see if we can get them to have the Nigerian Navy commander lean on their president. He can go to the minister with the truth as he knows it: access for Achebe to the Western press. Let’s just hope his ego’s as big as you say it is.”

  “Good press for Nigeria, bad press for the Saudis,” Wallace said. They shared grins. They’d been friends since post-grad studies at Oxford—Wallace had been lucky enough to have parents who could afford it; McCorkell smart enough to obtain a Rhodes scholarship. “We missing anyone here?”

  12

  NEW YORK CITY

  Fox wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of a press interview. He knew the ins and outs of being the interviewer, the tricks of the trade, the cadence and familiarity used to coax information out of an interview subject. Pity that knowledge and awareness never quite translated when the shoe was on the other foot.

  They sat in the Four Seasons bar at the base of the Seagram Building. One martini in and fresh ones just arriving. The friendly staff knew Fox, he was like a piece of furniture in this place. They knew his drink, shared in friendly banter. It created a sense that he was likeable, but Fox was becoming aware that it had a double meaning that might come across in the interview—he comes here too often, drinks too much. He let it fly.

  “And that led you to investigate the extraordinary rendition program?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t getting the press coverage it deserved here in the States,” Fox said. “It touches something in us all: what if it was your husband who was taken off the street and detained without trial?”

  “I’m not married any more,” Jane
said. She fingered the gold wedding band. “Actually, I’d quite like it if my ex-husband was picked up off the street and taken to Guantanamo Bay.”

  “But you know what I mean,” Fox said. “If it was your father, brother, friend, whatever. Taken aside at an airport, detained, flown around the world to countries where he can be interrogated in ways that US laws would not permit, held without any legally binding reason, unreachable. And they won’t let him do zip—no calls, no legal representation, nothing. They might release him in a year, maybe five. No apology or compensation if it’s a case of mistaken identity. No, ‘Sorry—thought you were a terrorist.’ Nothing. They just label it a case of erroneous rendition and move on.”

  “You spoke to some of those wrongly apprehended?” Jane asked. Fox nodded. “Like Michael Rollins. What had it done to them, to him?”

  “You can only imagine,” Fox said. “They’re fucked up. They’ve been treated in ways you wouldn’t wish on your enemies—”

  “Do you really think that?” Jane asked. Her well-manicured hand held a Mont Blanc pen over a pad. “You wouldn’t want Osama or any of the September eleventh terrorists to be subjected to this treatment? Strap him up and squeeze information out of him to prevent attacks that might be on the drawing-board?”

  “It’s that kind of lynch-mob mentality that has taken us down this road,” Fox said. He took a sip of his drink, composing himself in an area of conversation that he could so easily get animated over. “That’s the argument I tried to counter in my reporting. Yes, we need to catch criminals. But they are just that—they’ve committed crimes. Mass murders. They should be subject to laws. It’s laws that make societies and that’s the very thing that these guys are attacking and trying to break down.”

  “Don’t fight them on their terms?”

  “I like to think that we’re better than that,” Fox said. “You do that, and they’ve won. You fight like that, you’re playing to their rule book, their game—and they’re better at it.”