by Tom Saric
The men ran in from outside. Two of them grabbed Ellen’s arms and pressed her to the ground. She didn’t struggle; rather, she kept her eyes on Hadad. His eyelids fluttered slightly then rested half-open. The gaze was vacant.
The two men lifted her to her feet and the man with the fishing vest walked inside. He glanced down at Hadad’s corpse like it was road kill on a highway shoulder, then smiled at Ellen. “I guess I should thank you for that. He’s really become a liability.” He put his hand on her soft shoulder. “To be honest, if you didn’t do it, one of us would have had to.” He looked at his men. “Get rid of him. But keep the fingers. We’ll need them.”
He turned to Ellen. “So tell me, sweetie, why are you here?”
“He kidnapped me.”
“No wonder you killed him,” he said nonchalantly. “Why on earth did he kidnap you?”
The man with the pockmarks spoke up. “She was at the beach with Paul Alban. Hadad wanted to take her in case she would be of some use.”
“Paul Alban?” he confirmed, then he grabbed her face painfully between his thumb and forefingers. “I barely recognized you. You look so different from the pictures I’ve seen. It is a pleasure. Dr. Ellen Al-Hamadi, right?”
Ellen nodded.
“Armand Senechaux.” He held out his hand.
“How do you know me?” she swallowed.
“I know you through Paul. Your boyfriend, right?” He put his arm around her. “Or do you know him better as Marshall Ramsey?”
26
John Daniels scanned the crowd of over five hundred shareholders and prospective investors seated before him inside the modern glass structure of the Arlington Convention Center. Beside him was a large screen projecting his slide deck. The room was respectfully quiet, only the occasional throat clearing. Those in attendance waited to hear what he had to say.
Daniels adjusted his collar. He had hoped that by wearing a cotton suit, he would stay cool, but beads of sweat were already forming on his bald head. This is it, he thought to himself, my last chance to convince them we’re making progress. It had been a poor year for VeritOil. A poor year on top of a dismal decade. Three consecutive quarters with negative earnings caused the company’s stock to tank. They had lost two bids for drilling rights in the North Atlantic, a major pipeline through Panama was shut down by guerillas, and virtually every investment analyst advised people to sell the stock. In a month, he would be on the podium again giving the annual report. Unless he could convince these people that things were turning around, the company would be sold.
Part of him knew he should have given this speech over twelve months ago, when Mark Hatfield, VeritOil’s Chief Financial Officer and Art Williams, his Chief of Operations, had come into his office wearing grim expressions. They laid spreadsheets in front of him, highlighting the important sections, the ones in red. Mark’s assessment was that within twelve months the company’s downward trajectory would mean that over a third of shareholders would pull out. He used the words bankruptcy protection, and suggested they start the application process. Art suggested they shut down four major oil fields in northeastern Texas because they could no longer keep up their maintenance costs. We have to do this before the shareholders lose all confidence in us. John decided to do nothing. What they had urged him to do made sense, but he couldn’t give up.
First Mark resigned and then Art let his contract expire before taking a mid-level position with Shell. Disloyal bastards. Disloyal to him and disloyal to the company. He reshuffled the upper-echelons of VeritOil and made his personal assistant Chief Financial Officer. Craig Evans was young, quick as a whip, newly out of the Ivy League, and most importantly, had stuck with the company despite poachers from all of big oil coming up with offers for him. But he was committed to the company.
The two had worked sixteen-hour days over the past six months. They had racked up over seventy-eight thousand air miles trying to seal contracts and make new deals. They turned out to be a good team; Craig would do the research and crunch the numbers and Daniels would charm potential investors. They’d slowed the decline and bought themselves a couple of months. At most.
It still came down to this.
Daniels massaged the PowerPoint remote in his palm. “Three quarters of negative growth,” he boomed into the microphone, deliberately accentuating his Southern drawl as he had practiced. “It’s no secret and it’s nothin’ to be proud of. This recession has hit us, and it’s hit us hard. Harder than most. The numbers over the past eight months speak for themselves.”
Daniels clicked on the presentation and a graph came up. An animated red line traced across the screen, steadily declining. He stared out at the crowd for a moment and counted to five in his head. He took a deep breath.
“But that’s not why I’m here today talking to y’all. I’m here to tell you that we’re turning her ‘round; we’re righting the ship. We’ve all lost in this company the past year or two. Hell, I think I’ve lost just ‘bout as much as anyone else. My savings are all invested in VeritOil, and not to mention, but my job is resting on my convincing you to buy more of these stocks.”
Nervous laughter bubbled through the crowd. He smiled and felt a slight sense of relief.
“But there’s more for me in this company than just money. I’ve been here since I was a teenager working the rigs. I’ve worked in nearly every position in this company and I can tell you what it’s about. This company is about…”
“…character.” Craig Evans whispered in concert with Daniels. Evans sat alone in the middle of the last row in a freshly steamed grey suit, crimson and white Cornell pin in his lapel, listening for every word and every inflection in Daniels’ voice. So far, Daniels had got the speech bang on. Every pause was perfect. His salt-of-the-earth persona was connecting with the investors, who nodded along, captivated.
He had coached his boss well.
Evans tapped his pen on the notepad and shook his leg. Professor Howard Stein had called him months ago. It’s a sinking ship, Craig, time to run for the exits. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, he explained. But why? The good professor just didn’t understand that loyalty still meant something to him.
When Evans looked at the facts objectively—declining growth, cutting workforce, the worsening reputation—he could see how Stein thought he was being naive. He hadn’t been there, in Tug’s pub, the night after Hatfield left the company. He didn’t see the look in Daniels’ eye, after his fourth or fifth pint, when he wiped the foam from his moustache and suddenly looked sober. He put his arm on Craig’s shoulder. You should leave too. I’m going down with the ship, no matter what, but you…you can move on. Daniels’ jaw had quivered just the slightest bit. It seemed surreal that this man, larger than life, was scared. No, Craig told him, we’re going to turn it around, whatever it takes.
“… at our current rate of extraction, combined with projections that the cost of oil will rise by six percent a barrel by January, means that VeritOil will turn a profit by February of next year. That’s five months away.” Daniels continued, using a laser pointer to draw attention to graphs and charts onscreen. Evans smiled to himself and followed along with the script. “That’s the short term story. But we are always looking ahead at this company, and there are exciting things coming. The hot topic these days is Arctic oil exploration. More oil is under the ice than the rest of the world combined and it’s a gold rush. Good luck, I say. It’s a hundred years before we have the technology to make anything of that. Let the rest of big oil have it.
“‘So what about the future, John?’ you might ask. Well, we have a plan. This, my friends, is the future location of VeritOil exploration.”
He clicked the remote control and a stylized world map popped up on the screen. He clicked again and it zoomed in on Africa, then on the eastern side. “The Horn of Africa. The largest accessible untapped reservoir left in the world. The Puntland, an autonomous region of Somalia, alone has eleven million barrels. We have reached an agreement with the Tr
ansitional Federal Government of that region that gives us exclusive rights to drilling. Exclusive rights.”
Evans looked around as people in the audience leaned over and whispered to the people next to them. Some shook their heads. He had expected it. Somalia was unstable and drilling there was a crapshoot. That wasn’t important at this point. All people needed to know was that Somalia was theirs to drill. Stability would come later. The stock would skyrocket when the rest came into place.
“…But Somalia’s a dangerous place,” Daniels said over the murmur in the audience. “We’re taking care of it. Twelve percent of all revenue from oil extraction goes directly into developing a security force….”
Evans felt a firm hand pat him on the shoulder and he turned around just long enough to see General Robert Kaczmareck standing behind him in a golf shirt and shorts. Kaczmaeck slid in right next to Evans.
“We don’t meet in person.” Evans said through his teeth.
“It’s over now. Those precautions aren’t necessary.”
“That is not the point.” Evans pointed his pen at the general. “We can’t be connected.”
“I’m just a concerned shareholder.”
Evans took a deep breath, hoping his pulse would settle. “Did you recover them all?”
“I thought we couldn’t talk in person.”
Evans sighed. “Just tell me.”
The General nodded. “When are we going to go public with the story?”
“Soon,” Evans nodded. “Just keep your mouth shut until then.”
The general put his thumb and index fingers together and ran them along his pursed lips before he stood and made for the exit.
Evans looked at the podium as Daniels finished his speech. A contagious applause spread through the crowd. Daniels looked proud. Although Daniels had delivered the speech that won the investors over, Evans knew it was really his own work. Daniels had no idea the impact his words would have on his company. Ultimately, Daniels was a figurehead, there for public relations, not for brains or business savvy. The one thing Daniels did right through this debacle, Evans knew, was that he surrounded himself with intelligent people, like Craig.
Evans’ BlackBerry vibrated in his jacket pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, tiptoed between the row of chairs, and answered it in the hallway.
Evans glanced around the empty hallway. “What’s going on?”
“We’re good to go. Tomorrow, eleven a.m., the party starts.” It was Senechaux. He was in the country. Things were moving ahead like clockwork.
“Good. We need this to happen soon. The general was here asking questions.”
“Idiot. What doesn’t he understand about no face to face meetings?”
“He thinks it’s over.”
“Does he know anything more?”
“No.” Evans looked up. Investors were filing out of the room into the hallway around the table with catered breakfast food. He walked into the bathroom at the end of the hall. He ran the water in the sink to muffle his voice.
“Let’s keep it that way.”
27
As the Boeing 747 started its descent into the Thurgood Marshall Airport, the flight attendant touched Paul on the shoulder, startling him awake, and asked him to bring his seatback up. He rubbed his eyes and straightened his beige suit jacket, checked his watch (seven minutes past eleven in the morning, local time) realizing he had slept through the entire six-hour flight from London to Baltimore.
He looked past the man in the grey suit next to him, through the small cabin window. Through the clouds, the emerald eastern coast of the United States came into view. The corners of his mouth curled up, and then, afraid someone would notice, he bit down on his lower lip to stop himself from smiling. It was hardly the homecoming he had hoped for, but for a brief moment, a feeling of hope came over him. Maybe, Ramsey, maybe you’ve made it through unscathed.
Paul hoped that a dozen federal agents weren’t waiting for him at the bottom of the jetway, ready to charge him with a list of offences so long it would take an hour to read through. That was likely wishful thinking. He had taken all the precautions he was capable of taking. He got on the flight from Garowe to Cairo and then the connecting flight to London using tickets purchased in Paul Alban’s name. Langley would have an agent follow him at a distance, as added security to ensure that he got on the flights to Washington. In Heathrow, he purchased a striped tie, pink shirt, and beige suit at Paul and Shark. He boarded his Washington-bound flight as Paul Alban, but just before the cabin doors closed, he pressed the call button for the flight attendant and told her that he had to get off the flight. He had a family emergency. He crossed the terminal and purchased another ticket for a Baltimore-bound flight leaving in twenty minutes. Whether Langley caught on, he didn’t know.
Paul touched his breast pocket to reassure himself his passport was still there—the one that Langley didn’t know about.
Forty-four miles away, Jim Crilley paced the floor of the customs control room at Dulles International Airport. On either side of him, border control officers sat in front of monitors that displayed real-time images from the security cameras filming the ten thousand passengers walking through customs each day. To detect forgeries, the customs officers at the counters manually examined each passport and then scanned them through an electronic reader designed to detect their passport footprint. Any forged passport, or more importantly, a flagged one, would instantly alert the customs officials and the individual would be taken into custody.
Crilley had briefed the border control officers and flagged all of Paul Alban’s passports. The second that he stepped up and handed that little book of stamps over the customs counter, four big boys in royal blue shirts would be escorting him into a windowless interview room.
Crilley glanced at his watch. Paul Alban was scheduled to land in fourteen minutes. He had monitored Alban all the way from Cairo to ensure he got on each flight. Alban had done as he was told, and had checked in for his last flight from Heathrow. Having Bailey Clarke talk to Alban was a perfect move. She was new and had a genuineness about her. If Alban was going to trust anyone, it was going to be Clarke. And Alban had followed her instructions to a T.
The nagging part of his mind wouldn’t stop. What if you don’t get Alban in custody? What if the manifest is traced back to you? Court Martial, Jimmy. Your only retirement is going to be on death row. No, he refused to let his plan unravel in his mind. He hadn’t really done anything wrong, had he? Kaczmareck had contacted him with an off-the-record proposal to stage a serious threat coming out of Somalia. All he needed from Crilley was the name and contact information of an operative in the Puntland. If it ever came back to him, he could always claim ignorance. The head of AFRICOM asked me for my contact in the Puntland for a classified mission, so I gave it to him.
There was the issue of the money transfer. In exchange for the Paul Alban information, a total of $750K had been wired to three separate offshore accounts that Crilley opened. It had really all gone wrong fifteen years ago. He should’ve been out and retired in 2000. But he got greedy. Why retire in Arizona when you can retire in the Hamptons? And then it all went to shit. He’d been duped. He probably could have dealt with it, but people kept rubbing it in his face. His colleagues at work saying tough luck, Jimmy, there’s no way you could’ve known, and then snickering behind his back. His wife taking every chance she had to go off to her sister’s cottage. His two boys working at drive-thrus to pay for community college. His best friend, Brian MacInnis, inviting him to his Florida beach home every winter.
Yup, this was his last chance to salvage the ounce of pride he had left.
“Ten minutes, gentlemen.” Crilley glanced at the flight arrivals information screen, “Our man lands in ten minutes.”
Paul waited at the customs line in Thurgood Marshall Airport until a customs officer waved him over. If Langley had figured out Paul hadn’t boarded the Washington flight an alert would have been sent out to all border crossings
and Paul would have no more outs.
He slid a United Kingdom passport across the desk. He had used it only twice in five years, in East Africa and France.
The customs officer adjusted the passport identifying Paul as Joshua Borden under the light, carefully examining it for what felt like an eternity. Then she stared directly at him. Paul focused on keeping his breathing steady. She swiped the passport through the reader and examined her screen. Paul swallowed hard, hoping she didn’t notice. Something beeped and she pressed a few keys on the keyboard in front of her.
“Reason for your visit?” She looked up at Paul.
“Visiting an old friend.”
“How long will you be staying?”
Forever, hopefully. “Four days.”
She nodded and pressed a stamp on the passport.
“Welcome to America, Mr. Borden.” she flashed a quick smile and placed the passport in front of him.
He grabbed the passport, his hand trembling slightly, and he walked through the doors, past the customs control room, down the escalator, into the main terminal. He looked around at the scene before him. People raced around, dragging luggage and children up escalators. Others jostled for position around the baggage carousel. A lineup for coffee looped around a corner. Large flat screens displayed flight information. Computerized overhead voices delivered announcements over the buzz of passengers trying to make their flights. It was chaos. He was home.
Paul made his way out of the terminal and hailed a cab. He stepped inside and told the driver his destination.
“Arlington, Virginia.”
28
Paul stood on a curb, on the street side of a black iron gate flanked by bronze lions, behind which sat a sprawling home divided into two wings, surrounded by manicured hedges. He stared at the large windows that reflected the bright sun, hoping he could see if anyone was home.
