The Devil's Handshake

6

Africa, Two Weeks Ago

The meetings in Borama, a city that for some unknown reason is twinned with Henley-on-Thames in England, but more importantly is the capital of a new country born out of the ashes of Somalia, and known as Adwalland, had been both trying and complicated for Thomas over the last few days.

Much more difficult to that of a typical natural resources deal with a host country he usually experienced because of the additional intricacies of the wider issues of superpower politics and global dominance were brought into play.

Adwalland, the world’s newest country was situated right in the middle of a plan that would see Russia’s re-emergence on the world stage as a military power with Thomas acting as the point of the sword as the country’s lead proxy investor.

As to why Thomas had been drawn into this position was complicated. Due initially, to TLH’s (Thomas’s Holding Company) strong ties with Russia through its present control of one of Siberia’s major Oil and Gas fields but primarily it was due to the close personal relationship Thomas had with the young President of the country. A former mailroom employee whom Thomas had befriended five years ago when he had contacted TLH offering exploration rights in Awdalland in an attempt to try to raise funds for a permanent diplomatic mission in London so they could build the momentum of their country’s right to exist as a legitimate State.

A buccaneer at heart, Thomas knew that the only way to get TLH into point position for the area’s rich natural resources was to ensure his young friend got a seat at the negotiating table, especially as Somalia had already previously granted the same rights to the U.S. Oil exploration companies main competitors of TLH in the business of exploration rights. Although skeptical at first, it wasn’t until he had visited the little self-governing area when he was impressed by the shared determination of all the tribal leaders to bring the rule of law to this small desperate area of Africa, did he take the initiative to set the ball in motion.

Thomas provided the struggling little organization with the five million U.S. dollars they needed for their Missions in London and New York and then placed TLH Public Relations teams at their disposal so they could build the necessary momentum to ensure this dream they held came to fruition.

Although it was incredibly difficult with the United States of America opposing the break-up of Somalia all the way, seeing it as a threat to their national security objectives related to the defeat of Al-Qaeda and because of their determination to protect their leading oil companies existing rights in the area, the end result was eventually achieved.

The little country now included at the negotiating table, with the support of Russia and China and much to the disgust of the US Oil explorers, who had lost their exploration rights in the process, became Africa’s newest state.

Unfortunately, like all young states born out of years of struggle and pain, not all of the Adwallians shared the elders’ vision for a respectful, peaceful country.

One such opportunist was a forty-five-year-old former pirate named Wasir Osman Hassan.

By using the money he had earned from the payment of ransoms in the lawless days of 1990s, Hassan had bought himself the post of the Interior Minister and staffed the Ministry with those loyal to his tribe to ensure he kept everybody in place with a “rod of iron” in the process.

It was this man who had given Thomas the most problems because the President, although a good and honest person, certainly wasn’t a wolf despite the traditional role of his tribe to be so in the region. This meant Thomas needed to ensure that the Minister was kept happy as he controlled the capital’s security. That meant money and lots of it was needed to change hands.

He was not new to this, as ever since he had arrived in Russia, twenty-seven years old, flush with money from U.S. Private equity and fresh from the hairiest experience of his life in Iraq in 1991, Thomas had carved his own way free and away from his father’s influence, doing deals including a couple involving the use of the gun. It was because this unique business experience and having had done his fair share of deals with the devil that Thomas understood the problem the young President was facing.

One such a deal for Thomas was in 1996 and involved a meeting with the ‘Mayor’ of St Petersburg otherwise known as Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

At the time, the future President of Russia was foolishly considered by some as a mere bag carrier for Yeltsin and as such was dismissed by the new oligarchs “carpet-bagging” the country being fuelled with U.S. finance as being of limited importance in Russian politics.

However when Thomas met him he immediately grasped that sitting across him was a man of the principle who only cared about one thing, Russia, and was determined to do this through his newly promoted “National Champions” political concept.

This ideology was born out of Putin’s education and experience from the ashes of communism, his idea, was simple in design—the largest corporations in strategic sectors of Russia’s economy are expected to not only to seek profit, but also to “advance the interests of the nation.”

Yet for all of Thomas’s initial skepticism his basic instinct told him that he would be foolish to attempt to discredit him, or worse, ignore him at his peril, so instead Thomas offered the hand of friendship and support for Putin’s ideas.

It was a move that would bind Thomas to his fate forever.

At the time, The ‘Mayor’ suspiciously had taken his hand and money with a mere nod then a sip of his black tea without a flicker of emotion.

Over the four years that followed as both of their mutual fortunes rose, Thomas had watched the Mayor rise first to the top of the FSB, Russia’s replacement for the KGB and then to Deputy Prime Minister before finally taking the Presidency from his mentor six months later on the 31st December 1999 and in one night ruthlessly take out those who stood in the way of his vision of a new Russia for the twenty-first century.

“We have three years,” Thomas had said to Mikhail at the time as they watched the Mayor’s handover speech whilst celebrating the New Year in Haifa over a traditional Jewish feast with Nara and Hanna, his wife.

“Three years?” Mikhail had replied confused.

“Before he comes to take back Russia’s rights!” Thomas had grimly answered.

The exit strategy Thomas planned was simple in design and required the diversification of the group’s assets quickly, the taking on debt to fund it, whilst spreading his wings in the process, so absolutely sure in his assessment that someday the Mayor would come “calling.”

In the early days of 2003, the Mayor did just that. By that time the international influence of TLH had grown to make him one of largest privately owned natural resources companies in the world, its power extended well beyond that of owning yachts or the football clubs like some of his contemporaries. Knighted in his own right by the Queen for his business acumen, Thomas had become a man who influenced the political elite of the World.

However, he stilled faced one problem: the lifeblood of the company depended on the cash flow from the oil and gas revenues of the assets of its Russian companies.

Sensing the changing mood correctly with the way the state oligarchs were “toeing the line,” Thomas decided that when he received an approach from the ‘fixer’ representing the Sheikh of Dubai (flush with money by selling the sand of his Emirate and then mortgaging it) offering to buy his forty-nine percent stake in his Oil Company for US$30 billion he concluded the time was right to leave Russia forever.

With the deal all but signed and just as he was about to get on the plane to head for the United Arab Emirates Thomas’s private mobile went off with the screen flashing “Mayor.”

The oligarch took a deep breath and answered on the second ring. The conversation was curt and in English.

“Thomas, I want you to join me in Sochi tonight.” No greeting or small talk after three years of silence, just an order to be obeyed.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Thomas’s reply was equally short.

“Mayor?” Mikhail asked, already knowing the answer.

“Better tell the Captain we are going to Sochi!” Thomas ordered. The expression on his face said it all.

The flight took nearly four hours. Thomas didn’t speak once as he sat opposite his trusted aide and bodyguard lost in his thoughts, something Mikhail later remarked had worried him immensely for he was never like that.

Once the plane landed they were met by the President’s protection team and with only Mikhail allowed to travel with him, but not before he had to with great reluctance his hand over his weapon, they were driven to the Mayor’s summer residence.

Arriving at the grand villa on Bocharov Ruchey, Thomas was shown directly into the President’s office while Mikhail was asked to wait outside.

The sight of the Mayor standing behind his desk, as was his way, signing papers with two aides at his side greeted Thomas as he entered the room. Motioning for him to sit in a chair in front of the desk Thomas did so in silence for five minutes. It was pure theatre by the Mayor designed to impress upon Thomas his position and power.

Finished and dismissing the aides, The Mayor opened the discussion.

“Thomas,” he said, taking a pause as his signal to answer reflecting his position over Thomas and it was his turn to answer. The Oligarch did just that.

“Mr. President,” he replied, dominance established.

“How are Miss Gurbanammedowova and Victoria?” The Mayor asked, providing him a signal that he always kept tabs on him.

“They are extremely well, Sir,” Thomas offered in reply that earned a single nod back in return.

The “Presidential style” small talk over, the President of Russia got up then requested that they go out on to the terrace.

Having sat down at a cast iron table in the sun, the Mayor picked up the silver tea set and poured Thomas a cup of black tea and then one for him.

“Why are you selling to the Sheikh?” the President asked as he stirred the glass to release the flavor.

“His offer is a good one, Sir,” Thomas responded, leaving his tea untouched.

“Not for Russia my friend!” the President answered referring to the fact a foreign state not even a country but a mere city state within an OPEC nation potentially owning a Russian Oil Company thereby affecting its Energy Security position was not an acceptable situation.

Sensing that the conversation was now not a negotiation, but that of a directive, Thomas knew instantly that his deal with the Sheikh was dead.

“Do you have a preferred buyer, Sir?” Thomas asked, for being a wise man, he knew now was a time when to bow down at the throne.

“Niet.”

“This is going to be extremely difficult!” Thomas thought as he took a sip of his black tea trying desperately hard not to show his nerves.

“Then what would you suggest, Sir, as I am sure now that my business does not comply with your National Champions Policy,” Thomas stated, knowing that if the man nationalized his business the cash-flow loss on his entire business would almost certainly break him.

The Mayor smiled at him. “The solution is simple, you either keep it or give it back!” There it was, in pure terms, no escape.

As if sensing his discomfort, the President then continued. “The price for giving it back is six billion U.S. dollars in cash from us.”

“Twenty-four billion under the deal I agreed with the Sheikh’s people,” Thomas thought knowing full well that such a deal would be difficult if not impossible as it would affect the entire debt structures of the group he had put into place upon the sale of his stake in New York, London, and Hong Kong.

“However, I would prefer that you kept it, as your blood belongs to Mother Russia,” The President said as he picked up his tea. “You have an obligation to our country that has given you everything,” he continued, referring to and using his daughter’s heritage of Soviet Russia by the use of the term “Mother Russia” to justify his expectation that despite his offer Thomas never had the option of taking it and walking away.

Inwardly despite being relieved as only moments before he assumed his core business was about to be nationalized by State, Thomas knew it was only temporary because whatever happened from this point on the lives of his and Nara’s family was entirely tied to the will of Russia.

Reluctantly, Thomas gave the answer he was expected to give.

“I understand, Sir.”

“Good,” the President answered with a wry smile.

The rest of the discussion then reverted to what he would like to see happen on various projects in Russia and of course with it a request veiled as an invitation from him to invest, thereby dragging Thomas back into Russia to never escape completely.

Forty-five minutes later, the President ended the meeting by placing his hand inside his blazer jacket and removing a pair of new Russian Passports that he promptly gave to Thomas. Opening them, Russia’s latest “National Champion” found his and Victoria’s details respectively in each of them.

“We must do this again, Fama,” he said, using the Russian form of his Christian name to reflect his new citizenship.

On the plane back, a truly relieved Mikhail, having been briefed by Thomas on what had happened got up, took a bottle of The Macallan 1965 from the drinks cabinet for them to share, then slumped sat back down in his seat. As he offered him a glass with large measure Mikhail smiled at him, then said in English, “Next Year in Jerusalem,” a typical Jewish response of the Israeli Special Forces members used to describe a classic ‘Catch-22’ situation.

As the plane returned back across the African landscapes to Europe, Thomas told himself, “No little warlord is going to change the rules!”

Looking towards Mikhail and the rest of his protection team and seeing they were all asleep, as they hadn’t slept the whole time they were in-country for longer than a couple of hours each day, he asked the pretty air hostess to serve him a light supper of a Blue Stilton, Pear and Walnut Salad, with a very good chilled Puligny-Montrachet.

Once finished, Thomas picked up the phone and dialed Steve Krivets.

Steve Krivets was born into the world of filmmaking in Hollywood in the 1960s. Tall, thin set, short blonde hair with piercing blue eyes inherited from his Belorussian roots, and like most Americans a full set of brilliant white teeth, he was the CEO of Media News Group known as MNG. He had assumed the role the same day Thomas had backed his three-and-a-half billion U.S. dollars management buyout bid of MNG to ensure THL’s public interest and media profile always had a counterpoint. The group was described as “Titan,” with only Murdoch’s News International group being larger, certainly did that for Thomas.

With this latest deal signed and sealed, and fallout that what would come with it, was almost certainly going to create waves and Thomas knew he needed to make sure the “Media Management” was carefully deployed to his organization’s advantage.

Steve was asleep in bed with his latest conquest, a young starlet of just eighteen, when the phone went off.

“What the fuck!” he moaned before wearily reaching across for the phone. Seeing it was Thomas, he pressed ‘to accept the call’ request immediately.

“Steve, sorry to bother you. A quick question,” Thomas asked without ceremony before he could answer otherwise.

“No problem, Thomas,” Steve answered having decided that telling one of your significant shareholders, not to mention debt holders, to “fuck off” even if he was calling you at three o’clock in the morning would not be a good idea.

Listening carefully although still half-awake Steve thought to himself, “Oh fuck!” as he processed what his English friend was telling him, he said, “No problem, I have just the person.” He sensed it was a request to be followed without question once the briefing was over.

“Excellent, meet me in London next week.”

“Who was that, babe?” asked his teenage companion, now fully awake.

“Nobody… Go back to sleep, honey,” Steve ordered before finding the number of his contact at the State Department figuring that this could not wait, and because he didn’t want to forget anything while it was clear in his mind.

The number Steve dialed was that of Joseph McGiven, who unlike himself, as the time in Washington D.C. was six o’clock in the morning, was already up drinking his first coffee of the day. A tough political operator of thirty-nine, he was Counselor and Chief of Staff to the Secretary of State.

As Counselor, his role was to serve as special advisor on major foreign policy challenges. As Chief of Staff, he managed the Department’s staff that provided the support to the Secretary in administering operations of the Department. He did both jobs with ruthless efficiency and for one goal only: the enrichment of the “Interests of the United States of America.”

Seeing it was Steve Krivets, one of the most famous media barons in the country, he picked it up quickly.

“Steve this is a pleasant surprise,” he answered in his Bostonian accent that, despite his years in Washington, he accentuated.

“Hi Joe, I know it’s early but have you got a moment?” the mogul asked.

By the time, Steve had finished his briefing he had earned a promise to do lunch plus round of golf with the Secretary of State next time he was in L.A. in exchange for being a good American.

“HOLY FUCK!” the Chief of Staff said out loud once the telephone call was disconnected, grasping what he had just been told by Steve.

One hour later having reached and entered his office, McGiven switched on his desktop computer then entered the secure cryptonym software that generates code words across all the National Security Platforms of the United States of America.

He generated a code word and then emailed his and the Secretary of State’s executive assistants to get them to request and organize a meeting with the President, the National Security Advisor, and Director of CIA, all present with the subject line stating Project GOLDEN WOLF [RESTRICTED CONTENT].