they vastly scaled back their discretionary spending when trips to the mall got too expensive, which sharply cut back the need for inexpensive Chinese products that were increasingly more expensive to ship to the U.S. Although oil dropped to under $100, then $50 per barrel — simple supply and demand — Americans were not returning to their gas-guzzling SUVs, nor were they returning to the malls, and China had to cut back its manufacturing outputs, and curtail building new factories.
The Marinaccio Group was hemorrhaging money, and Anne Marie had no real idea what to do about it.
“Be bold,” her father would have advised. “Make an end run.”
But look where that had gotten him. It was depressing.
Carlos Ramirez, one of her bodyguards, came from the saloon with a sat phone. He was a small, wiry man with a star soccer player’s physique and the dark complexion of Pele. He moved with the grace of a jungle cat and never raised his voice. “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Marinaccio, but you have a call.”
“No calls,” Anne Marie said.
“I think you need to take this one, ma’am. It’s Abdullah al-Naimi.”
Anne Marie hesitated for just a beat. Al-Naimi was the deputy director of Saudi Arabia’s chief spy agency, the General Intelligence Presidency or GIP, and first cousin to the Saudi minster of petroleum and mineral resources. The shit was about to hit the fan much sooner than she’d thought it would. The Saudis were not interested in developing Iraq’s oil fields. They didn’t want the competition when the oil began to flow, principally to the U.S. They wanted to squeeze the market as hard as they could for as long as they could. And they definitely did not trust women in business.
She took the phone and Ramirez retreated back through the saloon. “Mr. al-Naimi, good afternoon. Where are you calling from?”
“If you look to the northwest you will see my helicopter,” al-Naimi said. “Stop your vessel and prepare for me.”
Anne Marie looked, and she could see it low in the distance. “We’re at minimal staff, at the moment. And actually we’re on the way back to—”
The connection was broken and for a moment Anne Marie considered ordering the captain to speed up and change course directly for Monaco, because for whatever reason the Saudi was coming out here to speak with her would not be pleasant. It was even possible that some of the important Saudi princes who’d secretly invested in the MG were getting pressure from the king to bail out, which would destroy the fund so that the remaining power hitters would be coming to Anne Marie for answers.
She’d sent
Make an end run, Senior had advised. Well, if ever there was the time for something so dramatic it was now.
She picked up the ship’s phone lying on the table beside her and ordered the captain to come into the wind, slow to idle, and prepare to board a helicopter.
Almost immediately the ship turned toward the southeast and slowed down. One of the crewmen came out of a hatch onto the landing pad two decks up and just aft of the bridge, and Anne Marie followed him up.
Within just a couple of minutes the sleek Bell 429 twin-tailed corporate helicopter with the Saudi coat of arms, a palm tree above crossed scimitars, flared opposite
A rear door opened and al-Naimi, dark, sleek, slightly built, but with the characteristically large Saudi nose, dressed in Western business clothes, beckoned Anne Marie to join him.
“Tell the captain to hold here,” she told the crewman, and ducking low she hurried across to the helicopter and climbed aboard. As soon as the door was closed and she’d secured her seat belt, the pilot took off and headed south.
Al-Naimi was a cautious man who never spoke about anything of consequence if he were in an environment that wasn’t directly under his control. There could be, and in fact were, microphones and video cameras concealed in every compartment of the yacht. Sometimes Anne Marie found that it was in her best interest to see and hear what was going on with her guests. The surveillance and recording equipment had come in handy on several occasions, and Anne Marie knew al-Naimi well enough to figure that the man had to know, or at least suspect as much.
They’d first met five years ago in Dubai when Anne Marie had begun to attract the interest of several Saudi princes. The GIP had vetted her and the fund, and al-Naimi had come around to introduce himself. They’d met on several other occasions, at cocktail parties, and once in Monaco aboard a yacht owned by one of the royals. And their meetings had never really been friendly, nor had al-Naimi ever been cold, just neutral. But Anne Marie had been warned a couple of years before by her friend in the UAE’s Ministry of Finance that she should always be on guard against al-Naimi’s wrath.
“Do nothing to anger this man,” she’d been told.
Now it was impossible to tell from al-Naimi’s expression what his mood was. And Anne Marie thought that was an ominous sign. The professional poker player who held a straight flush had the same impenetrable look in his eyes.
“I’ll not keep you long, Ms. Marinaccio,” al-Naimi said conversationally. “I’ve just come to make a trade with you. One that you may not refuse, and the details of which are not negotiable.”
Anne Marie just nodded. She had no idea where this was heading, except that she felt as if she were in the biggest danger of her life.
“I want no denials from you, no excuses, no explanations. We know about your Iraq oil development fund, and the names of our royal family members who have invested in the fund. For the moment we will take no action to stop you, though officially we cannot approve. You understand.”
Anne Marie started to say yes, but al-Naimi gestured for silence.
“We also know of your investments in certain Chinese business ventures, and we approve. In time these will bring a good return. But we also know that your fund is heading for trouble because of the problems in the American mortgage market — some of which you helped create. High gasoline and diesel prices at the pump stopped people from driving, airlines raised their rates, and the cost to ship a standard container of products across the Pacific went from three thousand to nine thousand dollars, eliminating profits.”
“One hundred and fifty dollars per barrel was the breaking point,” Anne Marie said.
“Which is why you will help us raise the light sweet crude to three hundred dollars, perhaps four hundred per barrel.”
Anne Marie almost laughed, but she thought better of it.
“We want you to make gasoline and diesel fuel far too expensive to use merely for transportation,” al-Naimi said. “You will do this in such a way that my government cannot do, even with the help of the new al- Quaeda.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The U.S. and eventually China will switch to electrically driven means of transportation, and your fund will encourage this.”
Anne Marie spread her hands. “It’s already happening. There’ll be more nuclear power plants, solar farms, and T. Boone Pickens is pushing wind farms and natural gas.”
“You will make those efforts unpalatable to the public, first in America and then elsewhere. Electricity will be generated by oil, which will be purchased from us, and from your Iraqi oil fields.”
“I don’t have that power.”
“Perhaps not alone, but you will find a way. Make nuclear power unsafe. Another Three Mile Island could be arranged. Our trade will begin there. Later you’ll concentrate on coal.”
“It will take time.”
“I’ve spoken with certain investors who will give you the time you need. We understand such things.”
“In trade for what?” Anne Marie asked.
Al-Naimi picked up a handset and ordered the pilot to return to the yacht. He looked at Anne Marie as he might have looked at a child. “For your life, of course, Ms. Marinaccio. Could there be any better medium of exchange?”
