Glancing down at their drinks and winking at Natalie, Claudine then said, “I’d like to think by the time we finish this third cognac, we will have found a way to work through the situation.”
Chapter 15
THE VOTER SPEAKS
Walter Matthews’s New York Times articles on the foreign profits tax were being picked up by newspapers across the country. Supporting editorials regularly appeared in the same papers. The idea of the American taxpayer subsidizing the costs of foreign oil had hit a very sensitive nerve. Citizens were asking themselves why their taxes should support companies they didn’t trust and that already possessed so much wealth. Surely there were better uses for their money.
The story just wouldn’t die. Weekly news magazines were conducting their own polls and reporting the results. The results showed sharp upward trends favoring the repeal of the provision. Interviews were broadcast on radio and network television news channels. The voting records of key Republican and Democratic congressmen were dug up by America’s best investigative journalists and published on the editorial pages of leading newspapers.
Frantic meetings were held behind big and powerful doors. Over the strongest possible protests of the oil lobby, a new bill was being prepared for the House Ways and Means Committee. What had been an obscure and small part of a very large and complex tax code was being fully displayed in the clear light of day.
For the first time ever, the pro-oil and the anti-oil lobbies would be squaring off against each other. Congressmen from the oil-producing states were pitted against their colleagues from rural America and the more populous states. Phones were ringing; the late-night poker games, long rounds of golf, and hunting and fishing trips were now commonplace. Campaign coffers were depleted and refilled. Past political favors were being called in. New political favors were being requested.
Congressional staffs were working overtime. Constituencies were being polled. The voters were talking at town meetings and on street corners. Straw votes in the House of Representatives indicated the vote was going to be close. The time had finally arrived for the President to begin exerting the full influence of the White House, behind the scenes, and away from the press.
It was becoming clear that the congressmen loyal to Big Oil were being squeezed, and they were finding it nearly impossible to explain anti-bill attitudes to informed and angry voters. In the final days, one by one, individual congressmen who opposed the bill reluctantly concluded that they couldn’t take the risk of alienating their voter base or tarnishing their voting record in a losing cause. Slowly, they began to change their positions.
By the time the bill was ready to come to the floor, it was passed by acclamation and sent on to the Senate. The voters had spoken.
Chapter 16
CLEARING THE AIR
On the morning of June 19, 1946, Prince Habib, Claudine, and Sir David were sitting in David’s somewhat cramped private office. Claudine had spent the previous few days enjoying the sights of London, and it was the first time she’d seen the prince and David since the unfortunate events after Natalie’s show the previous week. The atmosphere was strained, and none of them could ignore it. The air had to be cleared before they could proceed with the day’s business agenda.
Finally David said, “I hope you understand how badly I feel. Claudine, you and Natalie were out of there so quickly, I didn’t realize how personally she took my careless remark. For hours, I kept calling her apartment, hoping I could explain and apologize. There was no answer.”
In his best Oxford accent the prince said, “I must say, old man, you were a bit of a prick!”
“David,” said Claudine, “there is a lot at stake here. Because of the importance of our task, I’ve decided to say what I have to say. If the circumstances were any different, I would have preferred to remain silent and quietly move away. The night of the show, after I finally put a heartbroken but proud woman to bed, I spent the better part of what remained of the evening trying to decide how I felt. If, after hearing what I have to say, you would prefer to not work with me and my group, I will understand.”
David nodded, and the prince took on the look of someone about to witness something very entertaining.
“David,” said Claudine, “as brilliant a businessman as you obviously are, I am having a difficult time understanding how you can talk about trust and at the same time treat a very special woman as if she were some trophy to be added to your already considerable collection. You have no idea how much damage you have done to a sensitive woman whose only desire is to be respected by you as a serious and intelligent person.”
David’s face went pale as she continued. “My question is, how can I be comfortable being interdependent with someone who is capable of treating people in such a way?”
“Claudine, believe me,” said David, “I feel as badly about what happened as you do. All I can say is that if I ever have the opportunity to set the record straight, I’ll do whatever I can. I don’t know what else I can say, and yes, I would prefer to proceed.”
“David,” asked the prince, “will you give us your word that you’ll try harder to treat the people in your personal life with more dignity and respect—especially the females? You understand this issue has become one of trust?”
David looked down at his hands. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry it came to this.”
Understanding that the prince had extracted a promise from David that couldn’t be broken, at least not without severe consequences, Claudine said, “Well if that’s settled, why don’t we move on?”
“Saudi Arabia is rapidly becoming the leading member of the Middle East oil community,” Claudine said confidently. “If you would give me a few minutes, I would like to explain our plan to the prince.”
After concluding her remarks, she said, “It would be very helpful if the royal family would play an active and constructive role in assisting us in solving the problem of access to readily developed oil reserves.”
“We already have long-term contracts with two of the major oil companies,” said the prince. “Our involvement with Pan-Arabia Oil Company is well known. I don’t understand how we can be of assistance.”
“Well,” said Claudine, “we want to talk to you about the future development of your other oil fields that aren’t under contract to Pan-Arabia Oil.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly changed. Shocked by Claudine’s statement, all the prince could say was, “How is it that you believe we hold such interests?”
“Habib, my old friend,” said Claudine, “think back to the years before the war when your country needed to borrow money. I had my father go into the Demaureux Bank archives and look at some of your old files. Prominently displayed in collateral agreements is the specific mention of those holdings.”
Reaching toward her briefcase, she said, “My father sent copies of those files in the event I need them to refresh your memory.”
“Thank you, Claudine, but that won’t be necessary. I should have known better than to try to confuse you. You would think after all these years I would know you do your homework and are not shy about expressing your opinion.”
In an attempt to break the tension that had suddenly permeated the room, the prince said, “Well, I guess this is your day for keeping David and me on track! You are to be congratulated! But you have to understand, Claudine, that without access to at least one of the major oil companies’ financial resources, technology, and management—not to mention their markets—we can’t develop a single drop of oil. No one likes the idea of being forced to dance with the devil, as they say, but it’s our only alternative.”
“My dear friend, you have just described the importance of our mission,” said Claudine, pressing the point further. “Subject to solving all the problems, we are committed to diversifying the oil industry to relieve the leverage the Oil Club has been asserting—and will continue to assert. We have not come empty-handed. We have a report indicating that Señor Juan Pablo
Perez, Venezuela’s oil minister, hopes to conclude his negotiations with his country’s oil partners. He is requesting that royalties be increased to fifty percent of gross revenues and that Venezuela be allowed to participate in twenty-five percent of the peripheral service profits derived from its oil.”
“I’m aware of those negotiations,” conceded the prince. “But our people have been closely monitoring them and report that, without some outside leverage, they are doubtful of Venezuela’s ability to achieve such dramatic changes.”
“We think they will have all the leverage they will need. Your old friend Mike Stone and Señor Perez have recently smuggled certain files out of Venezuela. Perez believes their contents prove that two members of the Oil Club, the British and American companies, have overcharged their sovereign oil partners. You might be surprised by what those two oil companies are prepared to do.”
“I must say, if the minister has concrete evidence, it certainly does bode well for your success,” said the prince. “Just one more question, Claudine. Knowing the technical issues and the precedent-setting features of your plan, wouldn’t it be more practical if you completed a more manageable prototype project before attempting to raise the full fifteen billion dollars?
“Obtaining the cooperation of Middle Eastern nations is going to be one of our greatest challenges. If we scaled the size of the prototype properly, I think I might be able to find a way to produce the undeveloped, yet proven, oil fields you will need,” the prince explained.
Chapter 17
DEAN’S TRAP
Following the road toward Castle Dome Ranch until they could see the high-arched entrance, the two Samson operatives pulled off and parked behind a cluster of palo verde trees. After unloading the horses from the trailer they’d rented in Douglas, they checked their makeshift map, marked their starting point, and rode north along what they presumed to be the eastern boundary of the ranch. The land was flat. The dried winter grass, creosote bushes, cholla cacti, and an assortment of desert trees made it difficult, from ground level, to see any great distance.
Dismounting and proceeding on foot, they walked along the sandy bottom of a mesquite-lined arroyo until they were within several hundred yards of the ranch headquarters. “I think this is as close as we can go,” said the smaller of the two men. “Any farther, and we take the risk of being seen.”
With the aid of high-powered binoculars, the taller man, who had a pockmarked face, could see the buildings of the main compound, the big barn, the working corrals, and the nearby dome. But he still couldn’t see the faces of the people clearly. “We need to move closer,” he said.
“I’m afraid we might be seen. You remember our instructions. Why don’t we find a way to get up on top of the dome? From up there we’d be close enough to clearly see anybody who comes or goes. We could take some pictures and make a log of all the arrivals and departures. It shouldn’t take us very long to determine if Stone, Perez, and his family are staying at the ranch.”
They rode back to the trailer, loaded the horses, and headed back to the bridge that connected Douglas, Arizona, to Agua Prieta, Mexico. On the other side, the two operatives found a deeply rutted road that appeared to follow the perimeter of the ranch south of the border. They went along it until they were opposite the dome. Finding a secluded place to park the trailer, they unloaded and re-saddled the horses. Half an hour of careful searching yielded what appeared to be the southern entrance of the lava tube that led to the cylindrical mountain. The mine-like entrance was protected by a door made of heavy wood and wrought iron and was secured by a bulky iron lock.
After dismounting and studying the rusty old lock, the pockmarked agent took the heavy four-battery metal flashlight from his knapsack and, with one healthy blow, knocked open the well-rusted lock. With a flashlight held in one hand and a drawn revolver in the other, each of the two agents slowly made his way into the dark cave.
It had apparently been years since anyone had passed this way. Their progress was hindered by the occasional hissing of rattlesnakes resenting the invasion of their dark, cool domain. The two city-boy agents may have been paid killers, but in this strange environment, the thought of snakes terrified them. They moved slowly, focusing the beams of their flashlights on the trail ahead of them and on the cave walls on either side. Some of the snakes were frozen in place by the blinding light, some coiled to strike, and others slithered away. Standing very still, the two agents took careful aim and shot in the general direction of the slithering serpents.
After several hundred feet, they could see a light at the end of the cave. Arriving at its source, they found themselves in the center of a circle of light made by the sun shining through an opening above. A winding corkscrew path had been carved into the irregular inner surface of the conical walls.
Still mindful of snakes, the two men worked their way up the path until they emerged into the bright sunlight at the top of the dome. From the elevated site, it seemed as if they could see forever. They took up positions from behind the low walls constructed of piled rock that looked directly down on the ranch headquarters. From there they could carefully study everything happening in the compound below. Through their binoculars, they watched many people coming and going, but no one resembled Mike Stone, Señor Perez, or any members of his family.
A vigilant ranch hand, having noticed one of the men on top of the dome, reported his presence to the ranch manager. One of the vaqueros was dispatched to relock the heavy door. Satisfied their quarry wasn’t there, the two men retreated down the path to the bottom of the dome and back through the cave toward Mexico. Reaching the end of the path, they found that the door at the end of the tunnel had been closed and wouldn’t open. At first they thought it was just stuck, but after an hour’s work they concluded that someone had relocked the heavy door from the outside. This time, their flashlights and guns were no match for the door’s wrought-iron hinges.
Retreating back through the cave, they found two other tunnels whose entrances were also securely locked. With their flashlights running out of power, and still fearful of the hissing snakes, they made their way back to the top of the dome. Seated near the water storage tank, they began to realize they were trapped.
The larger man with the pockmarked face suggested, “Maybe we should stop for a few minutes and take stock of our situation. When we don’t report or show up, someone in our organization is bound to become curious. It shouldn’t take long before they send an operative to Douglas looking for us.”
The smaller, more quick-witted man responded, “What good will that do? How will anybody find us clear out here in the desert and on top of this old dome? We could be here for a while!”
Searching around, they were surprised to discover the top of the dome was supplied with plenty of food, water, and heavy blankets—everything they would need.
Night fell on the two disgruntled men. Each man tried to cheer himself with the thought that, sooner or later, when they didn’t show up, their fellow operatives would have to visit the ranch.
Finally, the smaller of the two men said, “Maybe our situation is not as precarious as it first appeared. Nobody at the ranch knows we are here; we have plenty of food and water; and from up here we will be able to see our guys when they arrive. Signaling for their attention shouldn’t be so difficult.”
More than once, one of the vaqueros had reported seeing two men on top of the dome. Their pale complexions, their manner of dress, and the fact they weren’t recognized as previous guests all served to make them easy to spot. Adding the vaqueros’ information to the report of the busted lock, Steve Connors surmised that two strange men must now be trapped inside the dome.
Chapter 18
TRIP TO DALLAS
Dressed as ranch workers, Mike and Juan Pablo boarded the afternoon bus that took the day laborers back to Douglas. No one—least of all the two Samson operatives glued to their binoculars—took notice of the two deeply tanned men shuffling along, stooped over, carr
ying old cardboard-like suitcases bound together by pieces of rope. They wore faded shirts, worn Levi’s, old sandals, bleached serapes, and sombreros that had seen better days. The disguise was flawless.
Once the bus reached Douglas, Mike and Juan Pablo disembarked and, along with some of their fellow passengers, began their trek over the bridge that led toward Agua Prieta.
After purchasing tickets in the local bus station, the two men shuffled out to the waiting bus. Is the added security of taking the Mexican bus worth riding 250 miles on this rusted hulk of what must have at one time been a school bus? thought Mike.
The original yellow color was now covered by what looked like blue and yellow house paint that had been applied by hand with a worn brush. Spare tires hung from hooks along both sides. Water bags were suspended from the front and rear bumpers. Bailing wire held down the dented hood. All the passenger windows had been adjusted to their permanent position: down. The windshield was pitted and cracked. The rack on the roof had already begun to be loaded with the passengers’ most cherished cargo, crates filled with live chickens.
Inside the bus, a caked layer of dust was the paint of choice. The wicker seats were ripped, the metal frames bent, the overhead racks jammed full of the passengers’ personal cargo. Worst of all, the smell of perspiration, urine, and old vomit assaulted Mike and Juan Pablo and brought on waves of nausea.
No two adjacent seats were available, which Mike thought was probably a good thing; the companions wouldn’t be able to talk together in English, guaranteeing that they wouldn’t draw unwanted attention to themselves.
Periodically, the bus stopped for what seemed to be extra-long breaks at every small village. People would get off and others would get on. Loading and unloading their precious cargo took time. No one was in a hurry.
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