Valentin Knight sat beside financial mastermind Richard Brandon, who’d put the new portfolio together, and watched him explain their plan, this time to a company based in the Arab Emirates. They had put together a list of major oil companies who seemed open to new technologies. They’d worked their way through a third of the companies with some success. Knight felt cautiously optimistic.
“Gentlemen, there’s one natural resource that your region has even more of than oil—” Brandon clicked to the next image, which delineated desert lands, “—and that is sunlight. The areas I’ve shaded golden are uninhabited and not in private hands. Those in yellow are under title, but could easily be purchased for insignificant sums. They all get 365 days of sunlight per year.” He smiled. “Okay, maybe 364.”
He clicked to another slide. “The lands are flat and the winds have been measured up to 100 miles per hour—or 106.93 kilometers per hour.” He gave a little bow producing a few grudging laughs. “In your more mountainous regions, well placed turbines on ridge lines will double your production.
“Of course, you’re not restricted to land within your own country.” He clicked to a map of the region. “If the other companies do not decide to take advantage of this resource, here are other areas close to you.”
“In the Americas, these lands are suitable.” He showed another map. “And the vast plains of Central Europe and Asia provide equal opportunities.” He moved through two more slides. “The wind turbines can also be placed in the sea, just off particularly windy coastlines.” He put up a picture of a line of towers with huge propellers in the North Sea.
Paper rustled as people checked their packets to read the small print on investment and maintenance costs vs. estimated income.
“Knight Incorporated has purchased many manufacturing facilities and retooled them to produce top-of-the-line solar panels and wind turbines.” He showed a couple of images of these products. “Most importantly, we have developed a very efficient way to store the energy you generate in easily transported hydrogen cells.” He clicked to a close-up of the cell.
“This has been the stumbling block to switching to world-wide solar and wind technology. Connecting to grids. Batteries demand rare earth minerals, which presents other environmental problems. But now with these hydrogen cells, direct connection to electronic grids is no longer necessary.”
The group focused closely on the presentation, obviously intrigued.
Brandon continued. “Our factories are ready to go into production immediately. Your new energy fields will produce enough to replace your oil income in five years.” He paused to gather their attention. “That’s correct, gentlemen. Five years.”
“That’s quite a claim, my friend,” the CFO of the company said.
“It is. And I stand by it. You have the figures in your packets.” He dropped his voice slightly as if this next part was a secret. The group leaned toward him. “We all know that even the richest oil fields are running low.”
Knight resisted smiling. Brandon was a natural salesman and he believed in this product.
“The costs of extracting oil are growing exponentially.” He clicked his mouse and a chart with spiking columns running into more billions each year came on the screen. “And the environmental price is becoming unacceptable to many of us.” He moved through several images of oil streaked ocean water, oil soaked birds, black shores surrounding huge ice fields in the Arctic.
“This is painful evidence, but even more painful to some is the amount of money our colleague shelled out after the recent two spills.” He flashed to a screen that reproduced that figure with all its zeros. He left it for a moment, then continued. “With the increasing difficulty of accessing oil in remote areas, these costs will continue to increase dramatically.”
He caught each man’s eye. “With our plan, you can replace your income and maintain the lifestyles you have grown accustomed to, while preventing further ecological degradation.”
Brandon gave another slight bow, indicating his respect for his audience, then turned and inclined his head to Knight.
Knight stood, letting his height reinforce the dominance that his portfolio already demonstrated. “Thank you, Mr. Brandon. I know I am impressed by your presentation,” Knight turned to the men who sat around the table, “which is why I have made the investments Mr. Brandon spoke of. We at Knight Corporation are ready to help you retool for the next energy economy.”
He lowered his voice and spoke more confidentially. “Gentlemen, there is no need for desperation now. We all know the extremes some are going to in order to maintain the status quo, but I ask you to consider a simple fact. Change is the only constant in the world. What child does not grow up? What building does not begin to crumble? What empire rules for millennia?”
He looked around. “Rome fell. Even the Moorish empire receded. But if we adapt, if we become the masters of change rather than its victims, then we can continue to enjoy the benefits and profits we have begun to take for granted.”
A few quiet comments and the rustling of paper followed.
Knight extended his hand toward the door. “Refreshments are available in the next room. Our representatives will be standing by to discuss specifics. Please let me know how we can assist you.”
A tilt of the head from the Sheikh’s advisor brought Knight to his side. Abdul-Aziz’s stance and movements displayed the unconscious arrogance bred from oil wealth and a life-long association with power. Knight had to admit he had impeccable manners as well. He steered the man away from the conference room.
Aziz’s white thobe stirred in the light breeze of the small lobby. “The Prince sends his regrets that he could not attend your presentation himself,” he said.
“But of course. His Highness has many responsibilities and you are a most capable advisor.”
Aziz inclined his head, accepting the comment as no more than his due. The elevator doors whisked closed and the car began a swift ascent. They rode in silence, which remained until they stepped into Knight’s private office and he closed the door. “Would you like juice or water? Something else?” He pointed toward the bar in the corner of the room.
“No, thank you.”
They sat across from each other in luxurious armchairs that afforded a view of the White House, the Washington Monument rising behind and the Capitol off to the left.
“You do have the Prince’s ear,” Aziz said, raising his index finger. “However, the Consortium has his other ear, and they say you have gone soft.” Aziz spread his hands apologetically.
Knight smiled a bit like Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire cat. “Soft because I believe in global climate change or in some other way?”
Aziz allowed himself a soft chuckle. “Both, my friend. The Prince must listen to all who have the power to reach him, even if what they say is not worthy, but he asked me to warn you that your enemies spread tales.”
“What tales might those be?”
“Nothing we believe, of course.” Aziz made a deprecating gesture.
Used to this Arabian dance to the point, Knight leaned back in his chair slightly and glanced out at the view, subtly reminding his guest of his connections.
“One source claims your research is flawed, that the hydrogen is unstable, even in the solid form used in the cells. Mr. Davis, who represents the Consortium, is adamant on this point.”
“Mr. Davis is a financier, is he not?”
Aziz nodded to concede this point.
Knight continued. “We will, of course, provide any demonstrations that would set the Prince’s mind at ease,” Knight said. “The Hindenburg explosion did make everyone cautious of hydrogen, but as you rightly pointed out, the solid form is stable.”
Knight made himself sit perfectly still, waiting for Aziz to reveal his true message. But still he didn’t speak.
“Please rest assured that my office has the most advanced security systems. Nothing can be overheard,” Knight remarked casually.
The relaxing of Aziz’s shoulders was almost imperceptible, but Knight felt it nonetheless. “We assume your company is equally well guarded against industrial espionage.”
Knight allowed himself a somewhat sardonic expression. “Cowboy boots make more noise than those wearing them realize.”
Aziz laughed, then gestured toward the bar.
Knight rose and asked, “What can I get you?”
“But I cannot ask you to serve me.”
“Please. We cannot allow anyone else to overhear us.”
“Then I’ll have some of that fine California vintage you served me last time.”
Knight searched his memory, then pulled out a bottle of shiraz. He poured two glasses and carried them back to their seats.
Aziz took a sip and settled back in his chair. “There are stories of a prophecy. We recognize the one, true prophet, but lesser predictions do occur.”
“I’ve heard something along these lines,” Knight said.
Aziz’s forehead furrowed. “The Prince must listen to the Imam, but the Sufi Master Rafiq speaks to his inner heart.”
“That is good news, my friend.”
“Rafiq tells the Prince that the light is growing in the world. He suggests that you are standing in the doorway of this light.”
“I hope I am not blocking it,” Knight said.
“To the contrary. He says you usher it in.”
Knight’s eyes filled. He bowed his head slightly as much to hide his tears as his surprise. “If I am called to serve in this way, I am honored.”
“Rafiq will put his group in your service and the Prince will order our company to invest in your—” he waved his hand “—collectors of the sun and wind.”
Knight sat forward. “I am deeply honored, Aziz. Please convey to the Prince my sincere thanks.”
Aziz polished off his wine and held his glass up. “An occasional lapse is forgivable for such a delightful taste, is it not?”
“I’m sure Rafiq would agree, my friend.” The Arabs said ‘my friend’ almost as often as they said ‘Inshallah’. Over the years, Knight had grown to appreciate the nuances of their culture.
Aziz stood. “I will convey your appreciation to Rafiq. He will be in touch.”
✬ ✬ ✬
“You did find a couple of originals, but not the one we were hoping for,” Coche said.
Philip sat in a Starbucks in one of the shopping malls where he blended in, listening through his ear buds. He cupped his hand around the dangling microphone. “What do you want me to do?”
“There’s one painting we’re looking for in particular. We think it was commissioned by the Fetter Lane congregation, but no one’s seen it for years.”
Philip didn’t know what congregation he was talking about. He probably didn’t need the details to do his job, but he’d check anyway.
“I’ll send you a mock-up of what we think it looks like so you can have some idea. Check the other houses, even the church.”
“Other houses?”
“The ones owned by the OGMS.”
“Will do.” He should be able to slip in and check these places easily enough. He went online and searched for blueprints. If he was lucky, he could do the surveillance tonight, get in the next night, and then fly back to D.C. Small towns made him twitchy.
✬ ✬ ✬
Henry Coche ended his conversation with Philip and turned to the video monitor, watching his assistant prep their stable of lobbyist on the president’s latest energy bill. His people in the White House had kept him abreast of the progress, and although he’d tried hard to waylay and subvert the language, this commie bastard was really going to send it over to the Hill. It was a fucking waste of time, not that the whole pile of brown-nosers and yes-men in the House shouldn’t all be lined up and shot, but the people needed to believe they had some influence in how the world was run. Delusion worked so much better than outright repression. He’d tried to explain it to many world leaders. He thought Orlov in Russia was finally getting it. Just ride that motorcycle and shoot a few elk or reindeer or whatever the fuck they had over there in that God-forsaken wasteland and the people would cheer their guts out, then go mind their own goddamn business.
His entrance cue was coming up. “Okay, Okay.” He hurried the two young women who tended to his hair, brushed off his suit jacket, and made sure he looked like the picture of health and savoir-faire. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
He walked to the door of the large conference room and heard, “And here is Mr. Coche himself.”
He pulled in his stomach and charged through, a look of fierce determination on his face. “So you see what we’re up against. After that little accident in the Gulf and then the unfortunate spill in the Arctic, it looks like they’re going to try to get serious about switching us to what they call green energy.” He put venom into these two words.
“But we can still stop it. You’ve seen your budget. You’ve got the talking points. You each have your list of who to see and a full dossier on each one. You will find links to our database containing video files when available. That’s if you need to remind these cowardly—uh, honorable representatives what information we’ve collected on them.”
His audience laughed appreciatively.
“These videos are view only. In other words they cannot be copied, sent as attachments or deleted. All that goes through me.” He took his time catching the eye of each man in the room. “Do you understand?”
After he’d gathered nods, he continued. “With this amount of money, the bill should be dead in two weeks. Any questions?” He paused for two seconds. “If so, talk to your team leader.”
He extended his arms wide in invitation. “Afterwards, I expect to see you enjoying yourselves. The bar and buffet are downstairs. The ladies are waiting there also. If you want to swim or get into the hot tub, suits are available, but not mandatory.” He gave them his go-be-a-bad-boy smile. He hoped they would. He had cameras standing by. He didn’t just keep files on politicians.
But he didn’t have time to linger. He’d grown jaded, he supposed. Preferred to take his pleasure in private. Besides, he had business to attend to. That was his real pleasure.
✬ ✬ ✬
Coche usually slept on his flights to Riyadh—and drank extra water. The punishing desert sun sucked him dry in an hour, leaving him parched and withered in his western clothes. He’d be damned if he was going to walk around in one of those long dresses they called ‘thobes’ or put on a pansy-ass Panama hat and light khaki shirt like those fucking Brits. Which reminded him. The captain of his tanker fleet had sent him several urgent messages while he’d been on his way to the airport. After take-off, he returned the call.
“Mr. Coche, I’m sorry to bother you, sir,” the man shouted into the phone.
Coche could barely make him out against the howl of something—was that an engine whining? “What’s the problem, Clive? I can barely hear you.” He heard a door being hauled closed and the line cleared.
“Rather bad bit of weather, I’m afraid. Bit of a hurricane blowing off the coast.”
“This time of year?”
“Afraid so, sir.”
“Can’t you outrun the damn thing?”
“It’s rather large.”
Fucking Brits. You could never tell how serious anything really was with them, with their stiff upper lip and all, but they were still the best seamen. “What do you recommend?”
“I’m requesting permission to bring the tankers in. We’re taking heavy waves. I know you wanted to wait another few days, but the damage to our ships might just take away—” he hesitated, searching for the most diplomatic word.
“Profits?” Coche supplied.
“Err—yes, sir.”
Coche jerked his head in irritation. He could buy five new ships with what he’d make if he could wait only two more days. The price of oil had risen steadily over the last week and would continue to rise, but if there was another spill . . . “Permission granted. Bring them in, then.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The relief in the man’s voice was palpable.
This would lose him a few million, but it couldn’t be helped. Coche drank glass after glass of water while reviewing financial documents from Davis and his new tart, what was her name? Tami, maybe. He was glad they’d gotten rid of that stick-up-the-butt feminist, Jane Frey. He’d dropped enough hints. At least this new one was easy on the eyes. He finished up the last report, then fell asleep.
His assistant woke him in time to freshen up and eat a bite. Once they landed, he glanced out the plane window and saw a black limo waiting on the sweltering asphalt. The cabin door opened and the heat reached in, searching out any drops of humidity and sucking it up. He’d consumed almost a gallon of water, but it would sweat out of him quickly.
Oh, stop whining. He gave himself a shake, pointed to all his paperwork and brief case for his assistant to gather, and walked down the steps into the blistering desert.
Coche relaxed as soon as the gates to Mishari’s grounds closed behind them and he was ushered down cool, tiled hallways, through a garden green with flowers and a splashing fountain, to a guest suite. “Dinner is at eight. Mr. Mishari will meet with you afterwards.”
Damn Arabs never do anything in the afternoon, Coche thought. His hopes to spend the night on his plane returning to the U.S. vanished.
A knock sounded on the door. “Yes?”
The rustle of long skirts made him turn his head. Two beautiful women entered, both blonde and blue-eyed, probably from the American Midwest or Eastern Europe. “How may we serve you, sir?”
He was getting too old for all this nonsense. “Run me a bath. Lukewarm. Then bring me a snack and some tea an hour before dinner. Where’s the bottled water?”
One girl opened the refrigerator in the bar and brought out a bottle. “There are six more there,” she said. “The climate is dry. It took me—”
Coche snatched the bottle from her hand, cutting off her ramblings. The other girl ran his bath, then they both left without another word.
After his soak, Coche made a few more calls, checked the markets, then slept. The girls returned a few hours later with tea and mango slices. They stayed to help him dress for dinner.
That evening, Coche ate lightly while the others stuffed themselves. He needed to keep his wits about him. He finally met alone with Mishari under the deep blue of the evening sky on a pleasant terrace overlooking yet another garden. Nightjars called to each other from the trees beyond, hunting in the dark. Gardenias perfumed the air. Mishari offered him an aperitif, but Coche refused. Best to match the customs of his hosts. He was served mango juice.
“From my own trees,” Mishari said.
Coche held his glass up and waited for his host to drink before he took a sip.
Mishari made the first move. “The company is willing to renew our contracts, but the price will have to go up.” He named a figure.
Coche’s body tightened like a panther hearing the rustle of prey nearby. At last the hunt was on. “Mishari, I would hate to see our long friendship interrupted after these long and profitable years.” They began to haggle over costs, both enjoying themselves.
When Mishari refused to budge anymore, Coche threatened. “The Brits are anxious to recoup their losses after my government cheated them out of a few billion for the oil spill. I’m sure they will be more reasonable.” He made to get up.
“My friend, please.” Mishari touched his arm. “You cut my heart.”
Coche had heard the very same expression in the suks bargaining with the merchants. It meant they were close to a deal.
After they settled on a figure, Mishari changed the subject. “Your Mr. Davis assures us that Knight’s new scheme is nothing but a—how do you say it—pipe dream?”
“That is exactly how we say it. He imagines we are running out of oil. That the sun can replace the black gold.” He snorted. “Our geologists assure us the world’s oil reserves are plentiful. We need to get our engineers working on better extraction methods for the oceans.”
“And your president? What of his new bill?”
“We’ll chop it off before it gets going.” Coche cut his hand across the space in front of him. “Our people are taking care of it as we speak.”
“So it will die in your House?”
“Rest assured, Mishari. We are still in control.”
They shared another glass of mango juice, then Coche stood up. A servant appeared to escort him to his suite.
At the door, he asked, “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Bring me someone younger than those other two. Untested.”
The servant bowed his head slightly. “Right away, sir.”