The Malacca Conspiracy

Chapter 6

New York Mercantile Exchange

6:00 a.m.

Robert Molster sat back in his chair and looked at the electronic clock on the wall. 6:00 a.m. Two more hours to go. What a night. He took another sip of coffee, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the screen that flashed continual news from the Associated Press. He had been monitoring it since he saw the first reports of the attacks on the tankers. Now word was coming in that there had been another tanker hit, this time in the Andaman Sea. Robert shivered.

The phone rang. “What now?” He picked it up. “Light, Sweet Crude Section. May I help you?”

“Lieutenant Molster?” a woman’s voice inquired.

Lieutenant? This was odd. Why was he being referred to by his military title? “Robert Molster speaking.”

“Lieutenant, this is the White House switchboard. Could you hold, please?”

“The White House? What the…”

“Lieutenant Molster?” A deep, resonating voice came on the phone.

“Lieutenant Molster speaking.”

“Lieutenant, this is Admiral Roscoe Jones, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

Was this a joke?

“Are you still there, Lieutenant?”

“My apologies. How may I help you, sir?”

“Well, Lieutenant, it’s not me who’s asking for your help. It’s the president.”

“President Williams?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. He was still president as of zero-four-hundred hours this morning, when the National Security Council was concluding an emergency meeting.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“We’ve heard from the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange that you’ve had some concerns about the overnight movement of oil price futures. The president has ordered me to inform you that as of this moment, you are being recalled to active duty in the United States Navy.”

“Immediately?”

“Immediately. I want you to go home. Get packed. Throw on your service dress blues, and be at Newark Airport by ten-hundred hours. BUPERS”-the admiral was referring to the Bureau of Naval Personnel-“has already cut your orders and made flight arrangements. Your flight leaves Newark at eleven-hundred. Your tickets will be waiting for you at the US Airways counter. Just show your Navy Identification card. We’ll pick you up at Reagan National at noon. From there, you’ll be driven to the Pentagon, where you’ll report for duty at the JCS.”

Robert let that settle in. This was happening so fast. “But, sir, I’m scheduled to brief the chairman of the New York Mercantile Exchange in just about an hour.”

“Son,” the admiral said with a tinge of impatience in his voice, “at fourteen-hundred hours this afternoon, you’re scheduled to brief the president of the United States. The chairman of the Mercantile Exchange can wait. We’ll take care of all that. As of now, your commander in chief is in need of your services. Any questions?”

“No sir, Admiral, but…” He hesitated.

“But what, son?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been monitoring the news about these tanker attacks in Singapore and now the Malacca Straits. And I’m concerned that…” He hesitated again.

“You’re concerned that there might be a linkage.”

Robert exhaled. “I can’t prove it, sir, but as an intel officer and as a commodities analyst, yes, sir, I do have that concern.”

“We’re concerned about that too, Lieutenant. That’s part of the reason you’re being called to active duty. You might be a reservist, but you’re the only intel guy we’ve got with the breadth of commodities experience to give us a briefing on this. Now then, do you have any other questions?”

“Negative, Admiral. No other questions.”

“Very well. Then get your stuff packed, get in your uniform, and get your tail down to the airport. Understood?”

“Understood loud and clear.”

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

5:05 p.m.

It had seemed so right in one sense. She was, after all, a woman, with all the needs and wants of any healthy, trim, and fit female in her late thirties.

They called her “beautiful,” “lovely,” and “stunningly gorgeous.” Such praise had been lavished upon her all her life from friends, family members, and the men she had been with over the years.

Yet despite the beauty they claimed she possessed, she had been living with a chasm of emptiness within her soul.

So lonely.

God hadn’t meant for her to feel this way, had he?

Years had passed since she was last in this place. Would she still know what to do?

She closed the door of the confessional and sat. A small wooden table supported a single lamp with a dim bulb burning. On the wall hung a single picture of Jesus. His eyes were sad and his face compassionate.

Just under the picture, and also on the table, lay two black, Catholic Bibles, one in English and one in Indonesian. She allowed her fingers to caress both of them. It had been years since she had touched a Bible. Perhaps it was her imagination, but something like a surge of electricity ran down her back as her fingers touched the leather.

She stared at the bell next to the veiled window. Should she ring it? Perhaps she should leave now.

Could she trust that her darkest confidences would remain secret? They would place her head on a chopping block if her confessions got out.

The risk was too great. She stood to leave. But the twisting in her soul forced her back into the chair.

For a few seconds, her hand hovered over the bell.

God, if you are still there, tell me what to do.

No answer.

Her hand struck the bell. The single, brassy chime echoed throughout the room.

From behind the wall, the voice of a man came. “How may I help you?” The voice was warm and friendly.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she said.

“That would make you human, my daughter,” the voice said. “For the holy Scripture proclaims that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. And also, that if we confess our sins, then he is faithful and just, so as to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all iniquity.”

Her eyes found the picture of Jesus on the wall. It was only a picture, but his eyes seemed so real. So alive. “I feel that I need this, Father, that I need purification.”

“You are Catholic?”

“Yes, Father.”

“It has not always been easy to be Catholic in Indonesia. Especially not on Java.”

“No, Father, it has not.”

“When did you last come to confession?”

Embarrassment caused her to hesitate. She thought about lying. But confession was about telling the truth, wasn’t it? “Over twenty years ago. I was eighteen. I have been away from the church since.”

“The Lord is pleased that you have returned. He says, ‘My sheep know my voice.’ Surely you are responding to his voice.”

“I hope that is right.”

“What is your sin, my daughter?”

Her stomach knotted again. “My sin, Father, is with a man.”

“A man? What is your sin with this man?”

She hesitated. Should she tell him everything? “To tell you the truth, Father, it is not just one man. It is more than one man.”

There was a pause. “Oh, I see.” The voice of the priest remained calm. “As I said, Jesus died for your sins. He paid the price for all of our sins, even before we were born. There is no end to his compassion. Please. Relax. Bask in the warmth of his love, and release the secret of your innermost sin from your soul.”

The words of the priest were warm, but the sweat on her forehead was cold.

“Father, I am not ready for this. I must go now.”

“Wait! Do not leave!”

She stood. “Thank you, Father.” She reached for the door and ran outside, down the hallway to the exit. The warm evening air felt good to her face, but her stomach clenched tighter than ever.

Ronald Reagan National Airport

12:00 p.m.

Only a Virginian would understand it, Robert thought. The tingle of exhilaration, deep down, somewhere within the soul.

Lieutenant Robert Molster had been gone for two years now. But he felt the spark, each and every time he returned to the native soil of his blessed Virginia.

He had often wondered why. Why the little tingle every time he returned home?

Deep down, though he could not fully articulate the reason, he knew why.

No, he had not marched with Washington into Trenton, nor been there when Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, nor stood with the sons of Virginia under the command of the immortal Robert E. Lee in the moment before Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Yet, in a sense, he was there.

He was feeling it now. No, he had technically not set foot on his native soil, but sat in row 17C of Continental Flight 1240, which had just touched down and was taxiing down the runway at Ronald Reagan National Airport. Robert gazed across the banks of the Potomac, from the soil of his native Virginia to the green, flowered banks of the District of Columbia, where the white marble of the Washington Monument and the US Capitol dome gleamed against the noontime sun.

Virginians felt a special kinship with the District, and rightly so. With that thought, Robert remembered that in two hours, he would be in the White House, briefing his commander in chief, the president of the United States.

Surrealistic. That was what kept coming to mind. Was he dreaming?

The plane rolled forward slowly, then came to a stop.

Ding. The sound of the electronic double bell on the airplane’s PA system.

Passengers stood, crowding into the aisle. Why did some people cram themselves into the aisle of an airplane like sardines when the door hadn’t even opened yet? Robert stayed seated by the window until the crowd cleared.

He stood, resplendent in his service dress-blue uniform, and grabbed his white uniform cover from the overhead compartment. Then he exited the plane and headed toward the baggage claim area.

“Lieutenant Molster?”

Robert turned around and saw another US Navy lieutenant, also in a service dress-blue uniform, standing just behind him. This lieutenant, bearing a name tag that said Sellers, wore a gold, corded armband around his shoulder, indicating that he was an aide to an admiral.

“I’m Lieutenant Mike Sellers. I’m on Admiral Jones’ staff. Welcome to Washington.”

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” Robert said. “I guess you’re my ride to the Pentagon?”

“Actually,” Sellers said, “there’s a slight change of plans. I’m your ride to the White House.”

“The White House?” Robert gulped. “I didn’t think that was until fourteen-hundred.”

“You’re right,” Sellers said. “The president changed his mind. He wants to see you now.”

“Now? I was hoping for a few minutes to get my thoughts together. And what about my bags?”

“Senior Chief Fryermier here will take care of your bags.” Sellers gave a hitchhiking reverse thumb maneuver back over his shoulder, and Robert saw that a navy senior chief petty officer, a submariner, was standing just a few feet behind him.

“Let’s roll,” Sellers said. “The president and the National Security Council are waiting. You can prep in the car as we cross the river.”

“The National Security Council too?”

“You’re in high cotton, Lieutenant. Whatever you’re serving, the big brass wants some of it.”

Lieutenant Molster followed Sellers out to a navy blue Ford Taurus with US government tags. The car hugged the banks of the Potomac River as it sped north along the George Washington Parkway from Reagan Airport.

Passing under Interstate 95 and Robert’s future duty station, the limestone monstrosity that is the Pentagon, the car bore to the right, rolling onto Memorial Bridge, where traffic slowed as the car headed straight toward the Lincoln Memorial.

With the blue waters of the Potomac gently flowing under the cars jammed on the bridge, the sight of the great memorial dedicated to the life and service of America’s sixteenth president reminded Robert again that in just a few minutes, he would be standing in front of America’s current president.

Perhaps a little conversation would calm him down.

“Isn’t the North Portico blocked off?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lieutenant Sellers said, “but we’re not going that way.” Traffic cleared, and the Taurus sped by the Lincoln Memorial and headed left onto the broad, tree-lined expanse of Constitution Avenue. They passed various government buildings, mostly three- and four-story stone and limestone structures from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, including historic buildings which housed part of the Department of the Interior.

To their right, the long, black V-shaped wall of the Vietnam Memorial, sunk into the grass of the Mall, hosted curious seekers and visitors placing flowers next to the names of loved ones who had died in that war.

The black sheen of the Vietnam Memorial was in stark contrast to the gleaming white obelisk that was the Washington Monument, which rose triumphantly in the very middle of the long, famous Mall that began at the Lincoln Memorial and ended at the US Capitol.

Robert closed his eyes and uttered a quick, silent prayer. Lord, give me strength, courage, and wisdom for whatever it is you are calling me to do.

When he opened his eyes, the car was turning left off Constitution Avenue and onto 17^th Street. Now, as the car slowed, the Ellipse and the South Lawn were suddenly to their right, and Robert’s eyes fell on the White House itself. At the sight of it, a remarkable calm fell over him.

The car slowed more and turned right from 17^th Street onto E Street, where it stopped in front of four blue-uniformed US Marines who were standing guard at a gate blocking the E Street entrance to the White House grounds.

Sellers rolled down the window as a marine approached the car and saluted. “May I help you, sir?”

Sellers flashed an Armed Forces identification card. “I’m Lieutenant Sellers with Admiral Jones’ staff.”

The marine examined the card. “Ah, yes, sir. My apologies that I didn’t recognize you, sir.”

“This is Lieutenant Molster.” Sellers nodded to Robert, who by now was flashing his Armed Forces identification card also. “He’s scheduled to brief the president and the NSC.”

The marine took Robert’s card. “Yes, sir.” He popped another salute, then crisply dropped it. “We have you on the list. Pull forward, please, then make your first left. You’ll have to stop at the next gate and pass through security.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Sellers said. The car rolled forward, then swung left slowly onto the oval portion of West Executive Drive, headed straight toward the White House. The entrance into the inner portion of the south lawn was blocked by a row of marines and several black-suited Secret Service personnel.

“This is the Southwest Appointment Gate,” Sellers said. “The West Wing is right up there, just to the left of the main building.” Two marines and a uniformed Secret Service agent approached the car. “They’ll take us through metal detectors, just as a precaution; then they’ll escort us in.”

“Lieutenants, if you would step out of the car and follow me,” the marine said. They got out of the car. A woman, a naval officer bearing the rank of lieutenant commander, was walking from the White House toward them.

“That’s Lieutenant Commander Beth Murray,” Sellers said. “She’s an intel officer, attached to JCS. I’m sure you’ll be working with her.”

“Roger that.” Robert opened the door, put his cover on his head, stepped out, and was immediately greeted by the faint scent of perfume carried by the gentle southerly breeze. He looked up, and there she stood: Lieutenant Commander Murray, her smile revealing perfectly white teeth, and her blue eyes seeming to dance under the light of the overhead sun.

He came to attention and snapped off a sharp salute. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Lieutenant,” the commander said, returning an equally sharp salute. “I’m Beth Murray, with J-2.”

“A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Beth. And follow me. We can talk on the way to the briefing.”

“Sure thing, Beth. I’m Robert.”

“I’ll accompany you to the cabinet room, where the NSC is meeting with the president, and I’ll be there to support you in your briefing.”

“You know commodities, Beth?”

“Not exactly, Robert,” she said. “But since I’m an intel officer, somehow I got picked to be your support in the briefing. Lucky me, huh?” She smiled, and as she did, two cute dimples appeared on each side of her face.

“Commander…Excuse me, Beth. To be honest, this morning I’m minding my own business. Now I’m suddenly called to active duty, flown to the White House to brief the president of the United States, of all people, and I don’t even have a briefing prepared. Can you give me a hint on what they want?”

A marine, again in full blue regalia, came to attention, saluted, and opened a door leading into the West Wing.

“They’re interested in the theory that these…what do you call them…limit moves?”

“Right. Limit moves,” he said, as they stepped into an ornate hallway.

“That these limit moves may be in some way tied to terrorist activity.”

“It’s possible,” he said. “The timing is suspicious.”

“I’m armed already with charts and PowerPoint presentations. Anything you need. I have a timeline sequence, which I figured you may want to illustrate your briefing, that shows times of limit moves in relationship to real-time events in the Malaccan Strait and Singapore.

“They’ve concluded that you understand this stuff better than any officer in the navy. And you’re an intelligence officer. In addition to my real-time chart, we’ve got an overhead projector, audio visual stuff, maps of the area, and even stock charts if you want them at your fingertips. Just let me know, and I’ll call up any chart or map you want. But right now, Robert, the stars are aligning in your favor. You’re the expert they need. You are the man.” She stopped in front of large, ornate double doors, which were guarded by four marines and four Secret Service agents. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She nodded at one of the Secret Service agents. The double doors slowly opened, and faces that he had seen only on television came into view.

There was the vice president, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense. Next to the secretary of defense sat the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Roscoe Jones. Beside Admiral Jones sat one of the most glamorous figures in America, National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt, who was the first in the group to speak up in her famous velvety voice. “Mr. President, I believe he’s here.”

A man, whose salt-and-pepper hair was only visible from the back, but who sat at the end of the table closest to Robert, stood and turned around.

“Welcome to the White House, Lieutenant Molster.” The president of the United States, Mack Williams, speaking with the native twang of his beloved Kansas homeland, extended his hand. “Sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing up there in the Big City.”

The commander in chief’s grip was firm, and he exuded charisma. In a blue pinstripe suit and red tie, President Williams seemed more imposing in person than on television.

“Not a problem, Mr. President,” Robert heard himself saying. “I’m a native Virginian, and I’m always grateful for a free trip back home.”

The president released his hand and gestured him to his seat. “Always happy to accommodate the members of our armed forces, and especially the navy,” the president said as he settled back into his chair. “Secretary Lopez over here has to call me down for playing favorites. Claims my navy roots come to the surface too often.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert said, surprised at the sudden ease with which he was conversing with the most powerful man in the world.

“So, Lieutenant.” The president sipped from a glass of ice water. “We understand you had an eventful morning.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, you’re here because you’re the one intelligence officer in the navy with an expertise in the area of oil futures. Word has it that you’re concerned about a possible linkage between these limit moves that you’ve observed and some terrorist activity going on right now in Southeast Asia.”

“Last night, I grew concerned about several rapid spikes in the price of crude oil futures. We had three limit moves during the night. I felt there was a connection as soon as I became aware of this terrorist activity going on in Singapore and the Malacca Straits. At first, all I knew was that someone was making billions from these limit moves. Then I learned of the attacks on the tankers, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I voiced my concern to Admiral Jones.” Robert’s eyes met with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, whose poker face returned a hard stare. Robert looked back at the president. “I think there may be a linkage, sir.”

“You do, do you?”

I’m sticking my neck out with an unproven theory. Suppose I’m wrong? The end of my career, for sure. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I can’t say for sure, but I have a strong feeling this may be the case, sir.”

The president looked around the room. “All right, Lieutenant. Let’s get down to business. Tell us why you suspect this.”

He took a deep breath. “I cannot say for certain that the events are related. But two factors here give us reason to pause. The first is volume. The second, and closely related to volume, is timing.

“First, volume. Up until the last twenty-four hours, ladies and gentlemen, the greatest daily volume in light, sweet crude contracts was 800,731. And that occurred on November 1, 2007.

“In the twenty-four hours before the first limit move, light, sweet crude experienced just over a million trades. That’s a record of over two hundred thousand more trades than was ever experienced in any twenty-four-hour period since we started keeping statistics. About two-thirds of those trades were buys. In other words, the buys mean that someone is expecting the prices to jump. Now, all that buying occurred just before these attacks in Singapore and again in the Malaccan Strait. I believe Commander Murray has a timeline chart to illustrate. Commander?”

Beth Murray nodded her head and clicked a switch. The timeline that he had not yet seen himself illuminated from a PowerPoint projector onto the screen just behind his seat.

Timeline

Oil Futures and Malacca Strait Attacks

Note: 12-Hour Time Difference Between Washington and Singapore

1. Massive trading activity leading up to limit moves and attacks. 1,000,051 trades of light, sweet crude contracts in 24 hours before 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] [702,289 buy orders “long” position].

2. 1 A.M. EST [1 P.M. Singapore] Trading halted first time because of limit move to $110.

3. 1:20 A.M. EST [1:20 P.M. Singapore] Market resumed; immediate limit move to $120 a barrel. Trading halted second time.

4. Trading resumed at 1:30 A.M. EST [1:30 P.M. Singapore].

Terrorist Attacks in Singapore and Malacca Straits

Between 1:30 A.M. and 3 A.M. EST.

(Between 1:30 P.M. and 3 P.M. Singapore time).

Attempted attack on tanker SeaRiver Baytown; foiled by USS Reuben James.

Attack on Rasa Sentosa Resort, Singapore [shortly before British Prime Minister John Suddath’s advance team scheduled to visit].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Alhambra [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Belgian Tanker Hellespont Tara [Singapore Strait].

Attack on Chevron tanker Altair Voyager [Andaman Sea, near northwestern entrance to the Malacca Straits].

5. 3 A.M. EST [3 P.M. Singapore] Price Soars to $140 per barrel. Limit move at 3 A.M. halts trading. Trading halted third time.

6. 3:15 A.M. EST [3:15 P.M. Singapore] Trading Resumes. Price rises and stabilizes at $148 per barrel.

“Thank you, Commander,” Bob said, taking a moment to study the PowerPoint slide for the first time. Beth Murray had done her homework. The timeline, the prices, all seemed on mark.

“As you can see, Mr. President and distinguished members of the council, we start with a massive run on light, sweet crude oil contracts, breaking the record by two hundred thousand, and then at one o’clock this morning, we have our first trading halt. Almost immediately, twenty minutes later, as soon as the market opens, it shuts down again from a second move.

“The market reopens at one-thirty, after having risen twenty dollars per barrel in a period of half an hour.

“Then, in the period between of ninety minutes, between one-thirty and three o’clock Eastern time, which is the afternoon in Singapore and along the Malaccan Straits, we see five attacks in the region. Four of the five attacks are successfully carried out. Four of the five are against supertankers carrying crude oil. Thanks to the US Navy, one attack against the oil tankers is foiled, but three are deadly effective. I’m told that we’ve got an environmental disaster in the Strait of Singapore right now, and there’s no telling what kind of environmental problems might arise from the Andaman Sea attack.

“Now going back to your question, Mr. President.” Robert turned and looked at the NSC members, still studying the PowerPoint chart. “While we don’t have direct proof that someone out there was actually buying futures contracts based upon some type of foreknowledge that these attacks would occur, I suppose my answer is this: as an intelligence officer, given the rapid sequence of events within this timeframe, I would definitely be concerned.”

There was silence.

“I have a question,” National Security Advisor Cynthia Hewitt spoke up.

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said.

“Lieutenant, how much money was made on all this last night?”

“Goodness.” He rubbed his chin. “The profits are staggering.”

“How so?” Hewitt asked.

“Well, let’s say, for example, that someone purchased one hundred thousand contracts just before the beginning of the run. If you bought one contract just before the run, and sold when crude leveled out at one hundred and forty-eight dollars this morning, you would make a gross profit of forty thousand dollars on one contract. Now remember, more than one million contracts were traded in the period.

“But for the sake of being conservative, I’m just giving an example of a hundred thousand contracts, on the assumption that some terrorist organization could have swung a purchase of this amount.” He looked at Beth Murray. “Commander, could you please switch back to the overhead?”

“By all means.”

Robert took the grease pencil.

“Okay. Let’s do the math. One hundred thousand contracts times a forty-thousand-dollar profit per contract.”

100,000 contracts

x $40,000 $4,000,000,000

“Now if I’ve done my math right, nine zeros is four billion, count it, four billion dollars. And that’s on one hundred thousand contracts. Remember, more than a million contracts traded, mostly buying low and selling high. So when you considered that more than a million contracts traded, that’s probably at least forty billion dollars made in one swoop alone.”

Shocked murmuring came from the members of the council.

Then, silence.

Admiral Jones spoke up. “Someone could buy a fleet of two hundred B-1 bombers for that kind of money. The pricetag for the B-1 was two hundred million a pop.” The admiral scratched his chin. “Or they could buy a couple of B-2 Stealth Bombers.”

Silence.

“Or nukes,” Secretary of Defense Erwin Lopez added.

“That’s right, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Jones said. “They could buy a ton of nuclear weapons for forty billion bucks.” The admiral ran his hand through his thinning hairline. “If somebody was willing to sell. And my guess is for that kind of money, they could find a seller.”

More silence. The president stood and reached his hand out to Lieutenant Molster. They clasped hands and the president said, “Lieutenant, I personally appreciate your service to the navy and to our country.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”