Charon's Landing

Abu Dhabi City, United Arab Emirates

Khalid Al-Khuddari didn’t mean to slam the antechamber door of his office suite when he entered, but his pent-up frustration got the best of him and the nine-foot door crashed against its jamb with the concussion of a rifle shot. Siri Patal, Khuddari’s personal assistant, looked up with startled doe eyes, her fine features showing concern as Khalid stood by the door trying to calm himself.

“Sorry,” Khalid said with a guilty smile. “It’s already a rotten day and it’s not yet noon.”

Siri regarded him with barely hidden adoration. Since she’d started working for him, she thought of little else than being with him, but circumstance and tradition ensured that that would never come to pass. She was Indian, the second daughter of a successful merchant who’d moved his family to the Gulf during the boom years of the 1960s, and Khuddari was an Arab. He was a Muslim while she was Hindu. The divides were uncrossable.

She thrust her own confused emotions aside and smiled brightly. “That bad?”

“Yes, that bad.” His handsome face couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Khalid had just returned from a meeting with the Crown Prince. The meeting had originally been scheduled for the day before, but the ruler of the UAE had canceled at the last minute. Instead, they had met for a late breakfast, which in itself was not a good sign. Because the Prince was in his late seventies, most important meetings occurred in the mid-afternoon, after his postluncheon nap. The Prince’s age did not affect his ability to rule, but as the years wound onward, he was forced to make concessions to his body. Khalid had arrived dutifully at ten and reported his findings to the droopy-eyed ruler, dispassionately laying out his suspicions of Hasaan bin-Rufti. He also told the Prince about his cross-border excursion with Bigelow.

The Prince had listened quietly, his expression hidden behind a wispy gray beard that was so withered it resembled the loose feathers of an old chicken. His dark eyes, still sharp and quick, gave away nothing as Khalid spoke. It was impossible to tell if the Prince had been fascinated or bored.

When Khalid had finished with his briefing, he’d eased back against the Regency dining room chair, cocking one arm over the walnut back in a relaxed gesture that he hoped would hide his agitation. The Prince poured another cup of coffee for each of them, his hands shaking slightly as the Turkish coffee dribbled into the demitasse cups. His voice was almost as frail as the rest of his body, but age didn’t diminish the strength of his words.

“Not since Allah’s prophet Muhammad has a world leader not faced a direct confrontation of his authority. You might say it is an occupational hazard.” He spoke in a style better suited to an earlier century, proper and formal.

“Now you come to me with the love of a son in your heart and my best interests in your mind and tell me of another attempt to wrest power from me. I thank you for your dutiful application to your work, Khalid. However, you have overstepped your province. You are not a policeman. You are Petroleum Minister, in charge of the safekeeping of our greatest natural resource. You should not have done what you did. Overflying Ajman airspace without authorization is a very serious act. I don’t believe you realize the position I would have been in had you and your band been caught. You are as much aware as I that my authority on the Supreme Federal Council is at the weakest it’s ever been. Your incursion could have dealt me a severe blow.”

Khalid had tried to interrupt the Prince but was waved down with a sweep of the ruler’s bony hand.

“I know you felt justified. The evidence you’ve gathered against Rufti points to some sort of attempt on my life. But we can’t lower ourselves to his standard and break the sovereignty laws of our neighbors. Colonel Bigelow’s complicity in this act is something I will deal with at a later time. He is old and wise enough to know better than to follow a young man on such a quest.”

Khalid had to speak on his mentor’s behalf. “Colonel Bigelow isn’t responsible for his actions. Although I have no authority to give him a direct order, he agreed to come with me after a great deal of personal coercion.”

The Crown Prince smiled for the first time that morning. “If I know Bigelow, he volunteered as soon as he heard what you had planned, but your loyalty to him is laudable. Listen to me, Khalid. I realize that what you’ve done, you did for me. But you have to understand that there is more at stake than you realize.

“Hasaan bin-Rufti is only the latest incarnation of an old threat that goes back to the time when man first decided he needed leaders. There is always someone ready to question and to eventually try to seize what is not rightfully his. While Rufti may be more potentially dangerous given his timing, he is no more or less of a threat than I have faced before. I have known of his intentions for several months, almost a year really, ever since he went to Istanbul last winter.

“However, I cannot make a move until he does. I am bound by my office to remain on the defensive. I can’t authorize any offensive action without incurring the wrath of the other members of the Supreme Council.”

“You will do nothing?”

“If I have him arrested, the Sheik of Ajman will denounce me immediately, and I fear that he will garner the sympathy of Dubai and several other Emirates. Such a coalition would be powerful enough to oust me as head of the Council.

“We are facing a crisis right now, not only within the UAE but throughout the Gulf, and most people don’t even realize it. For fifty years we have had the power to grind the West to a halt by shutting off the flow of oil. The embargo in the 1970s was just a reminder that we here in the Gulf cannot be ignored. The President of the United States has taken away the one trump card they feared we would play again. When America stops importing oil and turns to alternative fuels, Europe and Asia won’t be far behind. And where will that leave us? We will be like saddlemakers after the invention of the automobile. Oil will be a quaint curiosity used by only a few diehards.

“The sole reason the UAE exists as a nation is our possession of one of the world’s largest oil reserves. When that no longer has meaning, when oil has been replaced, our country will crumble, as will much of the region. Do you think if Kuwait didn’t have oil, President Bush would have sent a half million men to defend her?”

Khalid was quiet as he absorbed this. He realized that despite his age, the Crown Prince could still see the world through very keen eyes. However, Khuddari was dubious of the Americans. “Do you really believe that they can live without oil?”

“I learned to never underestimate the United States. They swagger through the world like an overeager child, touching everything they come into contact with. But like a child, they possess a resolve that goes beyond reasonable understanding. They are a clever people, and if they say that they will find an alternate source of energy, you’d best believe it.”

Khalid was doubtful of the Prince’s estimation of America. Returning to the original subject, he asked, “So what do you want me to do about Rufti?”

“You are expected at the OPEC meeting in London. I want you there. You are the Petroleum Minister, not my bodyguard. You must be in England, looking after the best interests of the country, not here wet-nursing an old man.”

“But the training facility we saw?”

“There are still ten years before the Americans stop buying our oil. In that time we will face a great many challenges, but the deadline is too far off to think that Rufti is a threat quite yet. The presence of that training ground is disturbing. However, I don’t believe Rufti will make an attempt on my life in the near future. In the decade before the American moratorium, he will continue to grow fat on the profits our oil brings into his coffers, both as a citizen of the Emirates and as Ajman’s Petroleum Minister.”

“The British thought they had time when they signed a ninety-nine-year lease for Hong Kong. They have now lost the lease and you can ask anyone involved, the last ten years were the quickest,” Khalid said sharply and immediately realized that he’d overstepped his bounds. He stood quickly to cover his embarrassment. “If I am to go to the OPEC meeting, I must take your leave.”

The Crown Prince was ready to dismiss Khalid, but he stopped the younger man with a question. “Do you read much detective fiction?”

“No, sir. I rarely find time for pleasure reading.”

“Too bad,” the Prince said. “There seems to be an axiom among investigators that I always found interesting. When you don’t know someone’s motivation, look to the money.”

“I don’t understand,” Khalid replied.

“Just because I told you to forget Rufti doesn’t mean I expect that you’ll obey. When you continue your research, remember those words.” The old man’s eyes glinted with fondness as he spoke.

Now, back at his office, Khalid shed his suit coat. Though many businessmen in the Arab world wore the traditional flowing wraps of white cotton, he preferred Western-style suits. His were not the overpriced boxy Italian suits favored by the Saudis and Kuwaitis, but a conservative English cut of superior cloth. Siri came from behind her expansive desk to hang the jacket properly on an ornate stand. Khalid stalked into his office beyond the antechamber, closing the door behind him as if that simple act would shut out the problems he was facing.

Siri entered a moment later, her body moving with a rhythm all its own. Khalid paid no attention to her as she took a seat before his desk.

His office was large, much too large for his austere tastes. The walls were richly carved panels of cherry, oiled daily so that they glowed with the light beaming through the tall windows behind the neatly kept desk. The floor was also wood, most of it covered by an intricate rug of either Afghani or Uzbeki origin. There were only a few pictures on the walls, one an official reproduction portrait of the Crown Prince and the others original paintings of the native landscape, each scene seeming to capture the essence of the open desert lurking just beyond the glass and steel confines of the city.

“Has Trevor James-Price phoned yet?” Khalid asked, absently shuffling through the papers Siri had set on the blotter during his meeting with the Crown Prince.

“No, the phone’s been quiet all morning.” It was odd for his phone to be silent for five seconds let alone an entire morning. But most people probably thought he was already in London. “Are you going to the OPEC meeting?”

Khalid looked up tiredly. “I have no choice. You might as well book me on the next available flight. And keep it quiet, no official reception at the airport and no bodyguards either.”

“You could take one of the corporate jets.”

As Petroleum Minister, Khalid ranked a board seat on AD-NOC, the Abu Dhabi National Oil Company, and thus was allowed many of the perks that went with the position. Yet for some reason that Siri couldn’t figure, but which endeared him even more to her, Khalid refused many of the benefits, preferring to use commercial flights and dispensing with the usual retinue that went with his position.

Siri went back to her office to make the arrangements, leaving Khalid alone with his thoughts, which frustrated him to the point of distraction. Rather than deal with the summary reports Siri had left for him as preparation for the OPEC meeting, he swiveled around in his chair and looked out across the Persian Gulf. Immediately, he noticed the tanker he had seen when returning from his reconnoiter with Bigelow. The vessel was still hove to, although today he couldn’t see any movement around the behemoth. She looked like a ghost ship.

Khalid spun back to his desk, putting the ship out of his mind. He spent a few minutes working on the papers before curiosity got the best of him. Jim Gibson, a consulting petroleum geologist, occupied an office a couple of floors below his. The American had a beautiful brass telescope next to his desk that he used to ogle sunbathers at the Sheraton Hotel. Khalid grabbed the telephone and dialed the in-house number. Gibson answered on the first ring.

“Jim, Khalid Khuddari. Anything worth looking at up the beach?”

“No, last time I checked there was just a couple skinny broads and some woman who must weigh four hundred pounds, Minister.” The north Texas twang made the phone lines resonate.

Khalid laughed with the libidinous American. “In that case, can you do me a favor and tell me the name of that tanker sitting out in the bay?”

“Sure, give me a second.” Gibson set down the phone and was off the line for about a minute. “My angle is pretty poor, but it looks like Southern Arabia.”

“Thanks, Jim. I noticed her yesterday and just wondered who she was.”

“Yesterday, shit. That tub’s been here for two weeks.”

“Know anything about her?” Khalid’s interest was piqued.

“Sorry, I just find the stuff. I don’t haul it around.” Gibson was referring to crude.

“Well, thanks anyway. Let’s get together after I come back from London.”

“Surprised you’re not there now.”

“A bureaucrat’s job is never done, no matter how highly placed.” Khalid hung up before Gibson could ask any questions about Khalid’s delay at attending his first OPEC meeting as the UAE’s official representative.

Khalid’s personal computer was already working, the screen saver bouncing geometric shapes against the VDU’s edges like Ping-Pong balls. It took him a few minutes of scrolling through countless menus to find the information he wanted, an alphabetical list of tankers that regularly plied the waters of the Gulf. Using the mouse he jumped down through the list but found no reference to the Southern Arabia. Curious, he was just about to call the port authorities when Siri’s melodious voice came over the intercom.

“Minister, Trevor James-Price is on line one.”

“Thanks, Siri,” he said, reaching for the phone. Smiling to himself, he recalled the times he and Trevor had spent together at Cambridge.

During their university days, Trevor had been the only one of Khalid’s friends who didn’t see life as a series of obstacles to be overcome. He viewed each day as a precious commodity to be maximized until every second of every hour was used to its fullest potential. Whether it was cramming for final exams or relaxing at a pub with a pint and a pretty girl on his arm, Trevor had the knack of making the most of each moment. He’d once explained the mathematical improbability of any person’s life, the innumerable random events that had occurred since the creation of the universe to allow one person to exist while denying another. He’d summed up by saying the chance that we were alive was somewhere in the realm of infinity-to-one. Why not make the best of living through the greatest long shot in history? Trevor had taken a double first in philosophy and classical literature, graduating with one of the best academic records in Cambridge’s long history.

Trevor had published his first work of philosophy when he was only twenty-four, and by thirty he was the darling of the European intellectual elite. By thirty-five, he was a burned-out alcoholic with an ex-wife and three kids he hadn’t seen in years. He now eked out a living as a freelance journalist and was currently working on an exposé of the OPEC cartel. Khalid had asked James-Price to keep an eye on Hasaan bin-Rufti during his time in London.

“Trev, how’re things in soggy old England?”

“I don’t know what’s more damp, the weather or the lasses’ knickers.”

“Come to think of it, I’d heard it hadn’t rained in Blighty in quite some time.”

“Allow me a little fantasy life, won’t you, old boy? God, how I hate a harsh taskmaster.” Trevor moaned theatrically.

“How’s the meeting going?”

“The preliminaries are over with, and all of the little functionaries have scurried around enough to ensure they’ll stay off the dole for another year. As you know, the heads of OPEC meet tomorrow. The static over the wire leads me to believe that this isn’t a local call, am I right?”

“I’m still in Abu Dhabi. Is anyone else missing?”

“Just you and Juan De la Bruille from Venezuela. All of the other petro-nabobs are present and accounted for, including your corpulent friend.”

“Rufti’s no friend of mine,” Khalid reminded James-Price mildly. “So what’s he been up to?”

“Do you want the full room-and-board itinerary or just the highlights?”

“Keep it short. I’ve got a ton to do before I leave the Gulf.”

“So the anointed one is going to join us, then?” Trevor teased.

“As that American you had as a roommate for your second year would say, anoint this.”

“Touchy, touchy.”

“Actually, Trev, I am. Things aren’t so hot here. In fact you could say that our house of cards is facing a stiff breeze.”

“Trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, eh?”

“You could say that, but I’ve no idea what it means.”

“Classical Greek mythology. Loosely translated it means caught between a rock and a hard place.”

“That sounds about right,” Khalid breathed.

“We’ll talk about that later, then.” Trevor had caught the undertones in his friend’s voice and wisely backed off the subject. “Well, Rufti has been very chummy with the handmaidens and even with a couple of the scullery wenches.”

Trevor referred to the representatives of the Seven Sisters, the seven great oil companies, as the handmaidens. The scullery wenches were officials from any one of the smaller petroleum companies.

“Anyone in particular?”

“Actually, yes. None other than Max Johnston himself. He and Rufti have been as thick as thieves since Johnston’s arrival this morning.”

“Any rumors flying about them?”

“The latest I heard is Rufti wants some of Petromax’s money to sink exploratory wells in Ajman. It sounds like they’re talking about a smash-and-grab operation. Bleed whatever oil they can and move on to the next site. Given the Yank’s time line for oil importation, it seems to be the only thing they can do.”

“It makes sense,” Khalid conceded. “Ajman does have some oil reserves that they’ll want out of the ground before the American moratorium.”

“Qatar and Kuwait are negotiating similar deals with the Big Seven,” the journalist agreed. “They’re taking a massive price cut just to get the oil to market.”

“Do you get the impression OPEC is planning an across-the-board price reduction?”

“No way,” James-Price said. “These deals are sub rosa; the mercantile exchange boards won’t know a thing about it. In public, the ministers are talking about a four-cent-per-barrel increase in response to the rise in Brent Light Sweet prices.”

“So you don’t see anything suspicious about Rufti’s behavior?”

“I didn’t say that. Rufti as well as the Oil Minister from Iran and the newly reinstated representative from Iraq have been holding very quiet meetings, usually in out-of-the-way places.”

“Iran and Iraq? What in the hell is he doing with them?”

“Haven’t a clue, old boy. Security around those meetings is tighter than a vicar’s robes though not as easily bought. During the day, all three men keep their distance from one another, but for the past two nights, their limos have all been seen parked in front of the same hotel or restaurant. Whatever they are discussing is high level and extremely hush-hush.”

“Trev, I need you to find out what they’re talking about.”

“I would, but I do have a piece to write. Playing detective for you has been a nice diversion, but I’ve got child support payments higher than most countries’ gross national products. I need to get back to my story. I’m sorry.”

“I’m writing a check right now for one hundred thousand dollars. Get me that information and it’s yours.”

“Khalid, I don’t need your beneficence,” Trevor said angrily.

“But I need yours.” Khalid set down the phone without saying good-bye.