last, to indulge every last one of his preserved fantasies.
However, the man seated to Ali’s right, Bellweather knew, was a former imam and an iron-willed zealot, dispatched by the king to keep a tight rein on his forty-third son and be sure he didn’t lapse back into his nasty old habits. The temptations of the West were strong, and Ali obviously had a few willpower issues.
“How much did Cantor tell you?” Bellweather asked.
“A little. Something about a liquid you will squirt on your tanks and jeeps.”
“He told you what the polymer does?”
“More or less.”
“Are you interested?”
“More or less,” he repeated in that maddeningly opaque Middle Eastern way. In Arabland, apparently the words “yes” and “no” would draw a lightning bolt from the heavens.
“Then let me update you,” Bellweather suggested. He quickly proceeded through an energetic explanation of the polymer, a hilarious story about the dashed hopes of the GT 400, and the state of play in getting a defense contract. He made it sound like a gold mine-which it was-and a sure thing-which was drawing closer to reality every day.
Ali and his watchdog made loud slurping noises as they pulled tokes from the hookah. Ali listened politely but appeared only mildly interested.
Walters sat quietly and let Bellweather handle the pitch. Walters secretly loathed Arabs. His family name had been Wallerstein before he got it legally changed. He had aunts and uncles in Israel. A few cousins in the IDF. He wanted nothing to do with these Bedouin schlemiels, except for their money; about that he had absolutely no qualms.
“So now you want to sell us a piece,” Ali suggested the moment Bellweather finished.
“That’s the general idea, yes.” No fuller explanation was asked for, or indeed necessary. CG never put its own money on the line. They developed a project or takeover target, then quickly invited others to share the financial burden and gains. The financial term was “leverage,” shorthand for accumulating capital and spreading the risks of failure across multiple parties. In this case it meant buying all the influence that CG’s powerful group of insiders and power-peddlers could muster in the hunt for profit.
CG, however, carried it to absurd lengths. This was the secret to its success, the basic principle its founders had always preached. No matter how enticing the gamble, do it with other people’s money. They took funds from New York, Geneva, Frankfurt, Mumbai, Taipei, Moscow, really from anyone with deep pockets and the willingness to accept their stark terms. The source of the money made no difference. But the Saudis had long been their most frequent investor.
There was good reason for this. Billy Cantor, the former president and now CG board member, had during his time in office done the Saudis a few quiet favors. He had squelched several embarrassing inquiries that ranged from bribing American officials to some fairly egregious SEC violations. When several of the Saudi royals visited Las Vegas, and engaged in a wild bash that led to allegations they had kidnapped ten showgirls and treated them like a private harem, he had signed a secret order allowing them to jump on planes and flee home.
Then, after sixty American soldiers were butchered in a horrifying terrorist bombing at a U.S. air base outside Riyadh, with strong hints of government involvement, he had ordered the FBI and CIA to bring home their investigators and call it quits.
He did these favors not out of love for the Saudis. Truthfully, Arabs, Pakistanis, Indians-all those semi-dark people looked so much alike to him. He was well aware, though, that his long life in politics was grinding to a sad close. He had so little to show for it.
He’d been such a miserable president, with so few accomplishments to write or brag about afterward. No, he wasn’t likely to get rich off speeches and books, like the others of his ilk. With his heavy lisp and oversize tongue, he’d never been a good orator anyway. Even Nixon-Nixon!-had made a large fortune peddling books.
Sadly, the sum total of Billy’s insights and ruminations about statecraft or good governance could barely fill a two-page article. And after his regrettable attempt at reelection prompted a record landslide for the other side, it was clear the nation just wanted to forget him. So he’d spent his last months in office stuffing in as many favors to rich, unpopular countries and greedy defense contractors as he could get away with.
Now those old favors were paying back a thousandfold. The Saudi royal family came when Bill Cantor called. They had few fans in America, and a president, even a former one, even one with such a lackluster record and astounding level of unpopularity, was worth whatever he cost.
“This sounds interesting,” Ali murmured before he took a long draw on the hookah. After holding it for a long period he exhaled a large cloud in Walters’s direction. Walters nearly fell over. The smell was oddly pungent and seemed familiar. After a moment of careful sniffing, it came to him. Cannabis. Ali and his watchdog were sharing a huge doobie.
Well, what the hell. Maybe Allah had a thing against alcohol but not weed.
Ali selected a nice plump date from the bowl and studied it. “How much have you laid out so far?” he asked.
“About 128 million, between the purchase of the company and a fee to the finder. Then twenty million or so, for… well, let’s call it marketing expenses.”
Ali’s eyebrows shot up. “Twenty million?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“The price has gone up, Daniel.”
“Everything’s going up. The price of buying an election. The price of holding the seat. The bastards pass on these costs to us, their customers.” Bellweather leaned back and stretched his legs. The effort to twist his old body to mimic Ali’s contorted position was killing him. “Their greed is astonishing.”
“So all told, what, nearly 150 million?”
“More or less. We project another 250 million for production costs and assorted odds and ends. Raw materials, factory upgrades, new equipment, that sort of thing.”
“How much will you charge the government?” Ali asked.
“Impossible to say at this point. Depends how many vehicles they want coated. And how fast.”
“Yes, yes,” Ali said in a knowing tone. “Cut the bullshit, Daniel, it’s me. How much?”
Bellweather considered a bluff or a lie, but this was Ali bin Tariq; he was better wired in this town than the CIA and FBI combined. Finding it impossible to hide the proud smile, he said, “Conservatively, eight billion the first year.”
Without missing a beat, Ali said, “A sixteenfold markup. You’re talking almost a two thousand percent return.”
Bellweather attempted a humble shrug that quickly turned into a loud smirk. It was impossible to act humble about this. “Yes, it’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”
“My God.” Ali’s eyes lit up. He had to take another deep draw from the hookah. Walters was getting high off the exhaust.
“We’re at the stage now of turning this into a joint venture,” Bellweather informed him, suddenly very businesslike. “The risks are minuscule at this point. No, they’re negligible. But we like to take care of our friends.”
“How much can we get in for?” Ali asked without hesitation. His eyes looked like smokeholes but his instinct for business was perfectly lucid. Bellweather wasn’t at all surprised. In the old days, Ali could have sex all night long, slug down two bottles of scotch for breakfast, and still pilot his plane from Florida to Vail. His stamina was legendary.
“Depends,” said Bellweather.
“On what, Daniel?”
“The buy-in’s five hundred million.”
“What a coincidence. All your up-front and production costs.”
“Yes, and that’s not the least bit unreasonable. All the risks were up-front. It’s in the bag now.”
“And suppose we are interested-I’m not saying we are-what’s our percentage?”
Bellweather paused for a moment. “Well, we’re structuring it differently this time, Ali. It’s unique. We’re not offering a stake in equity.”
“I don’t understand.”
