The President nodded seriously. “Naturally. And we’re very grateful for your corporation’s assistance, Highness.”
The CIA Deputy Director, Holcomb, nodded just as seriously.
Much of Caraco’s support was financial. Although present American law made direct political contributions from foreignowned businesses illegal, the President and his party organizations had received hundreds of thousands of dollars of “soft money” donations — all ostensibly made by American-born executives of Caraco and its subsidiaries. The fact that Ibrahim made those contributions possible by paying his subordinates special bonuses was left carefully unstated.
Other corporations offered larger sums, but few made their contributions so freely and so discreetly.
And campaign finance reforms that would plug the loopholes Ibrahim was exploiting were still bottlenecked in the Congress by partisan infighting.
There was another side to Caraco’s relationship with the administration, however — one that Holcomb and the President were both clearly aware of. From time to time, Caraco or its subsidiaries provided quiet assistance to the CIA and other U.S. intelligence organizations. Useful items of economic intelligence gathered in the course of its business operations flowed occasionally into U.S. databases. At other times, Caraco’s various enterprises provided convenient cover for covert CIA activities in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.
Enjoying this little dance of deliberate ambiguity, Ibrahim smiled.
Bargaining had its own long-established traditions — both in his own country and in the President’s native South.
Chief among them was that gifts were never true gifts. They always carried a hidden price tag. From the expectant looks on the faces of the President and his advisers, they were waiting for him to name Caraco’s price. So was his own man in this room, Richard Garrett.
Idly, he wondered whether any of these American politicians would really care if they knew they had already repaid his modest cash investment in their goodwill a hundred times over.
Washington, D.C was a city that lived on rumor, gossip, and influence.
Just the fact that he’d been invited to this private meeting with the nation’s top leaders would enhance Ibrahim’s reputation and smooth his way in any future dealings with American bureaucrats, regulators, and law enforcement officials.
Shifting slightly in his seat, the Saudi prince decided to move directly to his stated reason for seeking this meeting. He looked firmly into the eyes of the American leader. “Much as it saddens me to say so, Mr. President, I am concerned that the new congressional free trade bill with Russia is not being endorsed by your administration as strongly as it might be. I earnestly hope you will reconsider this position.”
The legislation, designed to lower trade barriers with Russia and Eastern Europe, had been sponsored by a bipartisan coalition, but administration support had been lukewarm — at best.
The President and the others in the room nodded gravely.
Since the end of the Cold War, Caraco and its various subsidiaries had been expanding rapidly into the territories of the former Soviet Union.
Caraco-owned companies were busy pursuing a wide range of enterprises — involving themselves in everything from modernizing Russian oil production and refining to importing Western-made consumer and electronic goods.
Given the huge sums his corporation had invested in the region, Ibrahim’s acute interest in U.S. policy there was easy to understand.
The President leaned forward, his manner becoming more animated and less formal. He clearly enjoyed discussing and debating even the smallest details of policy. “Well, now, Highness, I’ll agree with you that this Russian free trade bill is a fine idea — in principle. But let’s speak practically for a moment, shall we? The truth is, most of the old Eastern bloc countries are critically short of the hard currency they’d need to buy our products. And some of my advisers are worried that lifting all trade restrictions now would just open up another source of cheap labor — draining away more American jobs.”
In translation, Ibrahim knew, that meant that the American labor unions which were among this administration’s most ardent backers were unwilling to tolerate yet another free trade pact they believed would put their members’ jobs at risk.
He smiled warmly. “Ah, but Mr. President, you and I both know the benefits of fair and aboveboard trade far outweigh any such risks. Surely you’ve seen Dr. Wohlmayer’s most recent analysis of the subject?”
As Ibrahim intended, that sparked a prolonged debate on the advantages and disadvantages of tariffs and free trade — one that eminently suited this president’s tendency both to show off his own knowledge and to micromanage all aspects of his administration.
Fifteen or so minutes later, the Saudi prince noticed the eyes of the others in the room drifting to the clock or to their watches. Without batting an eyelash, he gracefully brought the conversation to a close, leaving the President with a calm, final request that “your administration study the matter intently and offer as much support for this legislation as possible.”
“Your Highness,” the President responded politely, “you can rest assured we’ll do everything we can to accommodate you in this matter.”
Which meant nothing, Ibrahim knew. Not that he really cared one way or another. Meeting the President privately — and, more important — being seen to meet the President privately — had been his primary objective.
His interest in the free trade bill for Russia and Eastern Europe was purely academic. After all, who knew better than he that America’s days as the economic and political arbiter of the world were numbered?
Once upstairs in the Blue Room again, Ibrahim said good night to Garrett and asked one of the White House staff to summon his car.
He’d done what he had come to do. He had no need to rub elbows with any more American politicians.
Strolling into the warm, Washington night, he spotted his limousine waiting at the curb and got in. As it pulled away, he poured himself a cup of strong Middle Eastern coffee and scanned the faxes waiting for him on the tray. As usual, there were numerous fires to extinguish.
Then one caught his eye.
FROM: ARRUS EXPORT, INC.m MOSCOW OFFICE TO: CHAIRMAN, CARACO TEXT.”
Goods en route
END MESSAGE
Prince Ibrahim al Saud settled back into the comfortable leather seat and smiled broadly.
FBI Deputy Assistant Director Lawrence Mcdowell slipped off his suit jacket, examined it for unsightly creases, and then carefully hung it up in the spacious closet of his hotel room. Then he padded across the plush carpet and pulled open the door of the room’s minibar. Smiling, he took out a small bottle of Scotch and examined the label. It was Glenfiddich, of course.
Newly renovated and supervised by consultants from Forte Hotels, the Hotel National believed in serving its guests the very best of everything. Originally built in 1903, the National’s gilt chandeliers and frescoed ceilings had survived the Revolution intact. And, over the decades, its luxuries had prompted any number of the famous and infamous to stay there — H. G. Wells, Anatole France, and John Reed, to name a few. Even Lenin.
Still amused at the thought of sharing quarters once enjoyed by the founding father of the Soviet state, Mcdowell dropped ice into a glass and poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch over the cubes. Then, savoring his drink, he ambled back to the large windows and stared out across the Kremlin’s red-brick walls, gold-domed cathedrals, and palaces. No doubt about it. The Hotel National had the best accommodations and view in Moscow. Well worth the $450 a night price tag. Especially since his bill was being covered by the U.S. taxpayer.
Mcdowell raised his glass in a mock toast to his absent fellow citizens and took another sip of the smooth, smoky Glenfiddich.
Thank God for his expense account and that ever-useful phrase “necessary official expenditures.” He’d been offered a room in the U.S. Embassy’s guest quarters — an offer he’d hastily declined.
Why suffer through government-issue State Department hospitality when you could live like a czar? His stay
