Commander-in-Chief

27

It was Saturday afternoon, and President Jack Ryan was supposed to be with his wife and two youngest kids enjoying the beautiful fall day at their home in Peregrine Cliff. He’d been looking forward to the getaway all week, anticipating looking out over the waters of the Chesapeake Bay surrounded by autumn colors, the leaves floating down all around him.

Instead he looked at a stack of white papers on the table in front of him. A National Intelligence Estimate was a poor substitute for blowing fall leaves. He was stuck here at work, sitting at the conference table in the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing.

This meeting could have been held in the Oval Office; there were just a half-dozen in attendance, and this wasn’t an imminent national security situation, but the White House staff had chosen today to clean the carpets in the West Wing, the President’s secretary’s office, and the Cabinet Room. Jack had been told this in advance, but it was only a young uniformed Secret Service guard with an awkward expression on his face standing in the West Colonnade who called out to the President as he opened the door, one step away from entering and trampling all over wet carpet.

That would have made his dark mood even darker, but the moment was saved, and now he was here facing the secretary of energy, the attorney general, and the secretary of state, along with a couple staff members for each of them.

The President sat at the end of the conference table, his head in his hands and his glasses on the papers in front of him. Slowly he rubbed his eyes. The director of the CIA and the director of the Office of National Intelligence were supposed to be here as well, but they hadn’t made it in yet, so his questions about the international intelligence ramifications of the current situation went unanswered, and Ryan wasn’t pleased about this at all.

Ryan slipped his eyeglasses back on and sighed.

“The heir apparent to be the next Saudi minister of petroleum and mineral resources. A prince of the nation, a friend of our government. Where does this assassination take place? Riyadh? Jeddah? London? Istanbul? Nope. Beverly fucking Hills!”

No one spoke.

Ryan shook away a measure of his anger and said, “Dan… who did it?”

Attorney General Dan Murray shrugged his broad shoulders. “LAPD says it looks like a very professional, but very ruthless contract hit dressed up to look like a smash-and-grab robbery. Obviously the perpetrators had intelligence on the security setup, that’s how they knew how to swipe the video footage, as well as get in and get out without being picked up on any cameras in neighboring shops.”

“Where did they get the intel?”

“It’s a chain store. Chain stores use the same equipment, same security protocols. They might have cased one of these shops anywhere in the world, then when they walked into the one on Rodeo Drive they knew what to do.”

“Go on.”

“Lots of stuff was taken, a couple million in missing jewels, but it doesn’t smell like robbery to LAPD. Our agents just arrived on scene this afternoon, so maybe we’ll get a better picture later today.”

Ryan said, “I’ll state the obvious. This will hurt our relations with the Saudis and the prince’s loss will affect the world energy markets, at least in the short term.” He turned to the secretary of energy, Lester Birnbaum. “Any idea how much, Les?”

“I hate to be crass, Mr. President, by converting the prince’s death to a dollar figure.”

Ryan nodded. “I feel bad for the guy, and for his wife, same as I would for anyone who is murdered. But we’re not here to grieve for them, Les. We have another job.”

Birnbaum nodded. “I’d say a dollar a barrel, at least for the next ninety days.” After he said this, he added, “And what about the assassination of the federal prosecutor in Venezuela last week?”

Ryan cocked his head. “What about it?”

“I’m just pointing out another event that took place recently that is having an effect on the oil markets. Not as big a deal as the Beverly Hills assassination, but if that Venezuelan prosecutor had managed to pass down some indictments it would have negatively affected world markets. He died before he revealed his information, and the price stayed flat.”

Ryan turned back to AG Murray now. “Dan? What do you know about the Caracas murder?”

Murray said, “We’re on the outside looking in. Our liaison relationship with Venezuelan federal law enforcement is effectively nil, but that killing appeared to be very professionally done. Everyone down there we’ve talked to asserts this couldn’t have been a local hit, not even something arranged by the government. It was too slick.”

Ryan said, “Vilar was working on indictments against the Venezuelan government, right?”

“That’s right. He claimed to have evidence of bribes given by the Russian state-owned gas industry to Venezuelan oil and gas officials, paying them off to release low Venezuelan production numbers to keep prices higher.”

Ryan was intrigued. “So if the Venezuelan government didn’t have him killed, that leaves the Russian government, although it doesn’t seem to me like it would be that easy for a group of Spetsnaz gunmen to roll into Caracas and kill a top federal prosecutor. Any ID of the killers at all?”

Dan Murray said, “Caracas is tight-lipped about the investigation. We wondered if they were putting a lid on it because the killer came from within. But considering their good relationship with Moscow… it could just be the case that they suspect the Russians, too. Both governments would benefit if the assassin or assassins got away scot-free.”

Mary Pat Foley and Jay Canfield entered the conference room together, their pace indicating they knew they were running late. Jack looked up at them long enough for them to know he was annoyed. “We’ve been spitballing theories around here without you two. Take a seat and help us out.”

Mary Pat said, “I’m sorry, Mr. President, but there is a situation under way in Nigeria that required our attention.”

“Nigeria?”

Canfield said, “It looks like a well-armed force of over one hundred, presumably Boko Haram fighters, attacked and took over an oil rig near Lagos. Unknown number of dead, you can bet many will be foreign contractors. The Nigerian Army is prepping an op to retake the oil rig. I asked my counterpart over there to allow us to consult with them, at least on the intel side. Burgess is talking to them about allowing American military advisers from JSOC to come down and give advice.”

Scott Adler asked, “Have any Americans been taken hostage?”

“None, surprisingly. Ocean Oil Services out of Houston owns the rig, but it’s run by the French and staffed mostly by Nigerians. Still, it’s a U.S.-owned company, so we’re asking for a seat at the table.”

“Christ,” Ryan said, and the glasses came off again.

Lester Birnbaum muttered under his breath. “There’s another buck right there.”

Ryan started to ask more questions of his intelligence advisers, but instead he turned to the secretary of energy. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, Mr. President. Sorry.” Ryan kept his eyes on him until Lester Birnbaum realized he had to explain himself. “It’s just that… the assassination in Caracas of the prosecutor investigating government price rigging of Venezuelan oil, the explosion of the LNG plant in Lithuania, the assassination of the Saudis’ number-two fossil fuels man in Beverly Hills, and an attack on a rig in Nigeria. All happening within a week and a half. Each one of these separate events will have an effect on energy prices. Add that to the general conflagration in the Baltic… and I can’t even predict where prices will rise to. Honestly, Mr. President, my ability to foretell oil and gas futures becomes a lot shakier every time you throw another crisis into the equation.”

Ryan stared at his reflection in the polished table. “Jay, when has Boko Haram attacked an offshore oil rig?”

“Well,” Jay Canfield said, “they’ve attacked the fields and the processing facilities. But out at sea? No, they haven’t. First time for everything, I guess.”

Ryan next asked, “Why would they do something that’s exponentially more difficult than hitting a refinery on land? I mean, what’s in it for Boko Haram?”

Mary Pat said, “They are showing their power and reach.”

“Right, but can’t they do that by hitting other targets? They could even hit oil targets. Why put a hundred guys in boats and conduct a completely different type of mission, for no more obvious gain?”

Birnbaum chanced another comment, although he was not directly in the intelligence loop. “Well… Mr. President, if they wanted to really affect the markets, they would do just this very thing. It conveys the fragility in Nigerian energy. The foreign energy companies’ facilities were already at slight risk for a refinery attack every couple of years, so that risk is already priced into the market, more or less. But this? This is a new level of danger to the supply out of Nigeria. It will have a market effect equal to or more than the death of the Saudi prince, I should think.”

Ryan looked to Jay Canfield. “Is Boko Haram sophisticated enough to take this into consideration?”

Canfield shook his head. “Hell, no. Not in a million years.” Mary Pat shook her head in agreement with Canfield’s dismissal of the strategic thinking of the Nigerian rebel force.

Ryan said, “Then maybe someone is doing their thinking for them.”

“What do you mean?”

Ryan said, “Think about it. Every percentage point oil or natural gas goes up means billions in the coffers of the Russians, and millions in the personal accounts of Valeri Volodin.”

Scott Adler said, “Wait. I know you suggested Russia was possibly responsible for the Independence explosion, and the train attack in Vilnius. But now you are suggesting they murdered a Saudi prince in California?”

Jay Canfield was equally skeptical. “And a prosecutor in Venezuela? And they encouraged Boko Haram to go big against the local energy sector? Sorry, Mr. President, but that’s one heck of a conspiracy theory.”

Ryan held his hands up. “It’s not a theory, Jay. It’s a hunch. I can’t back it up enough to raise it up to theory status. But what if Russia is using its reach through the FSB to orchestrate all these events?”

Adler cocked his head. “To make money?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, to increase their power. Look how bad the energy sector has fallen. If Russia recoups ten to twenty percent of that, it makes them ten to twenty percent stronger. And if they reach out into Lithuania, or into Poland… it’s only going to cost Europe that much more to confront them.”

Adler wasn’t buying it. “They are sending FSB out around the world to boost oil prices, so when they attack Lithuania NATO won’t respond, because that would be too expensive? I don’t know, Mr. President.”

Ryan just shrugged now. “I don’t know, either. Maybe I’m reaching. But the shooting in Germany showed us an FSB officer and a group of armed unknown operators in cahoots with a Spanish eco-terrorist. We know Russia has done false-flag ops in the past.”

His conclusions were met by stares around the room.

He looked to Mary Pat Foley.

Mary Pat knew this look well. “Yes, Mr. President. As details from these events come out, we’ll look into your hunch.” She didn’t sound any more convinced than Canfield or Adler had.

Jack said, “I know you will. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call an angry and grief-stricken sultan in Saudi Arabia and then run off six hours late to see an angry and disappointed wife in Maryland.” He stood. With a slight bow he said, “Thanks for coming in on your Saturday. I sincerely wish you all a better weekend than I have in store for myself.”