Ahmed Al Manahk, the head of the Kuwait Central Bank, stood. “And why exactly would we want to start another currency when ours is the strongest in the world?”
“Strong today, weak tomorrow,” Petrov said. “What would happen if, say, all of your oil production was shut down or your oil fields began to dry up? Then what? Would the Kuwait Central Bank be able to boast such power in the market? I think not.”
She lit another cigarette and continued talking. “The fact of the matter is we’re strong together. All of us in this room can strike out on our own in hopes that we’ll be able to avoid the inevitable disasters that befall every nation. And perhaps during your lifetime, you will. But what about those who come after you? Do you want future generations in your country to say your name with disgust or reverence? Will they see you as a visionary or a failed leader? Will you lift up future generations, or will you let them down? The choice is yours.”
The room erupted in vigorous debate, men shouted back and forth across the table as to why it was nonsense, while others seemed eager to sign on for Petrov’s plan.
“A one-world currency could reduce financial crime and create wealth for nations struggling to find it,” one of the men said.
“Printing new money doesn’t create wealth,” another man countered. “Besides, Ms. Petrov isn’t suggesting we give away this money as if it were candy in a parade, is she?”
Petrov held up her hand. “Absolutely not. There will be a minimum buy-in—and those who can’t buy in immediately will be ushered in slowly until they have paid in the oldest currency on the market.”
“You plan on using gold as the standard for this currency?” another leader asked. “If so, count me in. Printing something on a piece of paper and acting as if it’s worth something is what’s ruining the market, country by country.”
More vigorous debate ensued.
Petrov smiled faintly as she took in the scene. She blew a stream of smoke out of the side of her mouth as she watched the men bicker over the best way forward. As she paced, she noticed the door to the room swing open and, out of the corner of her eyes, saw Anatoly slip into the back. She walked over to him.
“What is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“I just received a call from two of our operatives wanting to know if you want them to proceed.”
“Give them the green light and report back to me when the news picks it up,” she said.
He nodded and scurried out of the room.
“So, gentleman,” Petrov said, quieting the chaos for a moment while she walked back toward the table, “have you come to any consensus yet?”
The room sprang back into an uproar, making it clear to Petrov they were far from reaching a tentative unified decision. Any verbal decision today would need to be ratified by each country’s governing bodies and wouldn’t be something that could happen overnight. But Petrov was confident if she could gain momentum with such a large group of influencers, she’d see her dream realized soon.
For the next half hour, a robust discussion continued with the leaders debating the merits of each pathway. However, it all came to a crashing halt when Anatoly poked his head back in the door.
Petrov walked quickly over to him.
“Turn on the television,” he said. “It will end all debate.”
She hustled back over to the table and picked up a remote. She turned it on, flipping through the channels until she reached a popular cable news station.
On the screen, a forlorn anchor delivered the solemn report that more than a hundred were feared dead from a terrorist attack at the Madrid airport. On the screen beneath him, the ticker rolled past, providing updates of Spain’s sudden collapsing financial markets. Then the anchor highlighted the loss of wealth from various stocks.
“Think you’re all insulated from such an attack? Think again,” Petrov said, delivering her final pitch. “So, who’s ready to join?”
She smiled as more than ninety percent of the men in the room raised their hands.
This might be easier than I thought.
CHAPTER 14
Kuwait City, Kuwait
UPON ARRIVING IN KUWAIT, Hawk was greeted at the airfield by Chris Moore, a private security contractor who worked on a couple special projects for Blunt more than a decade ago. Moore handed the keys for a black armored Humvee to Hawk and helped load the team’s equipment into the trunk.
“Seriously?” Hawk asked. “An armored Humvee?”
“Blunt was good to me,” Moore said with a smile. “Still is.”
Once they finished loading, Moore offered to drive and brief them along the way.
“How credible is this threat?” Moore asked Hawk after giving him an overview of the Verge oil refinery operation.
“We think it’s real, but based off the last intel we gathered, we can’t be too sure,” Alex chimed in from the back.
“We’re here, so we’re not taking it too lightly,” Hawk said. “If this goes down, it’s going to be a mess.”
Moore nodded. “It took months to return oil production back to normal levels after the last attack.”
“Do you know the head of Verge’s security?” Hawk asked.
“He’s a fellow employee, Doug Dorman. Works for Thunder House Security like me,” Moore said. “But don’t expect much out of him. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch and views any government types like yourself as intrusive and unnecessary. He thinks everything runs more smoothly without Washington getting involved.”
Hawk chuckled. “I second that notion, but we’re not exactly sent here on orders from Washington.”
Moore arched his eyebrows. “It was my understanding that Blunt authorized this operation.”
“He did, but he’s not exactly part of the Washington machine any more—at least, not officially anyway.”
Moore threw his hands in the air. “Whatever, man. I don’t care who’s sending you
