every hour was used to its fullest potential. Whether it was cramming for final exams or relaxing at a pub with a pint and a pretty girl on his arm, Trevor had the knack of making the most of each moment. He’d once explained the mathematical improbability of any person’s life, the innumerable random events that had occurred since the creation of the universe to allow one person to exist while denying another. He’d summed up by saying the chance that we were alive was somewhere in the realm of infinity-to-one. Why not make the best of living through the greatest long shot in history? Trevor had taken a double first in philosophy and classical literature, graduating with one of the best academic records in Cambridge’s long history.
Trevor had published his first work of philosophy when he was only twenty-four, and by thirty he was the darling of the European intellectual elite. By thirty-five, he was a burned-out alcoholic with an ex-wife and three kids he hadn’t seen in years. He now eked out a living as a freelance journalist and was currently working on an expose of the OPEC cartel. Khalid had asked James-Price to keep an eye on Hasaan bin-Rufti during his time in London.
“Trev, how’re things in soggy old England?”
“I don’t know what’s more damp, the weather or the lasses’ knickers.”
“Come to think of it, I’d heard it hadn’t rained in Blighty in quite some time.”
“Allow me a little fantasy life, won’t you, old boy? God, how I hate a harsh taskmaster.” Trevor moaned theatrically.
“How’s the meeting going?”
“The preliminaries are over with, and all of the little functionaries have scurried around enough to ensure they’ll stay off the dole for another year. As you know, the heads of OPEC meet tomorrow. The static over the wire leads me to believe that this isn’t a local call, am I right?”
“I’m still in Abu Dhabi. Is anyone else missing?”
“Just you and Juan De la Bruille from Venezuela. All of the other petro-nabobs are present and accounted for, including your corpulent friend.”
“Rufti’s no friend of mine,” Khalid reminded James-Price mildly. “So what’s he been up to?”
“Do you want the full room-and-board itinerary or just the highlights?”
“Keep it short. I’ve got a ton to do before I leave the Gulf.”
“So the anointed one is going to join us, then?” Trevor teased.
“As that American you had as a roommate for your second year would say, anoint this.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
“Actually, Trev, I am. Things aren’t so hot here. In fact you could say that our house of cards is facing a stiff breeze.”
“Trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, eh?”
“You could say that, but I’ve no idea what it means.”
“Classical Greek mythology. Loosely translated it means caught between a rock and a hard place.”
“That sounds about right,” Khalid breathed.
“We’ll talk about that later, then.” Trevor had caught the undertones in his friend’s voice and wisely backed off the subject. “Well, Rufti has been very chummy with the handmaidens and even with a couple of the scullery wenches.”
Trevor referred to the representatives of the Seven Sisters, the seven great oil companies, as the handmaidens. The scullery wenches were officials from any one of the smaller petroleum companies.
“Anyone in particular?”
“Actually, yes. None other than Max Johnston himself. He and Rufti have been as thick as thieves since Johnston’s arrival this morning.”
“Any rumors flying about them?”
“The latest I heard is Rufti wants some of Petromax’s money to sink exploratory wells in Ajman. It sounds like they’re talking about a smash-and-grab operation. Bleed whatever oil they can and move on to the next site. Given the Yank’s time line for oil importation, it seems to be the only thing they can do.”
“It makes sense,” Khalid conceded. “Ajman does have some oil reserves that they’ll want out of the ground before the American moratorium.”
“Qatar and Kuwait are negotiating similar deals with the Big Seven,” the journalist agreed. “They’re taking a massive price cut just to get the oil to market.”
“Do you get the impression OPEC is planning an across-the-board price reduction?”
“No way,” James-Price said. “These deals are sub rosa; the mercantile exchange boards won’t know a thing about it. In public, the ministers are talking about a four-cent-per-barrel increase in response to the rise in Brent Light Sweet prices.”
“So you don’t see anything suspicious about Rufti’s behavior?”
“I didn’t say that. Rufti as well as the Oil Minister from Iran and the newly reinstated representative from Iraq have been holding very quiet meetings, usually in out-of-the-way places.”
“Iran and Iraq? What in the hell is he doing with them?”
“Haven’t a clue, old boy. Security around those meetings is tighter than a vicar’s robes though not as easily bought. During the day, all three men keep their distance from one another, but for the past two nights, their limos have all been seen parked in front of the same hotel or restaurant. Whatever they are discussing is high level and extremely hush-hush.”
“Trev, I need you to find out what they’re talking about.”
“I would, but I do have a piece to write. Playing detective for you has been a nice diversion, but I’ve got child support payments higher than most countries’ gross national products. I need to get back to my story. I’m sorry.”
“I’m writing a check right now for one hundred thousand dollars. Get me that information and it’s yours.”
“Khalid, I don’t need your beneficence,” Trevor said angrily.
“But I need yours.” Khalid set down the phone without saying good-bye.
Alyeska Marine Terminal Valdez, Alaska
As a frequent traveler, Mercer had developed an immunity to jet lag. He could force himself to stay awake or fall asleep upon arrival, depending on how much time he’d shifted. He could be fully acclimated in only a single day, whether he got thirteen hours of sleep or three. However, his flight to Alaska, by way of Chicago and Sea-Tac in Seattle, had been interrupted by both weather and a mechanical delay at Midway, forcing him to spend a night at an airport hotel. He finally landed in Anchorage at a little past ten in the morning, clear-eyed and sharp.
Mercer rented a four-wheel-drive Blazer and drove the three hundred miles south to Valdez, stopping only for fuel, coffee, and the occasional al fresco bathroom break. He arrived in town shortly before four and decided to head straight for the marine terminal rather than checking into his hotel.
He rolled the Blazer to the small guard booth at the entrance to the sprawling facility and was relieved to find his name still on the guest list from when he and Howard Small had used the terminal as a base for their mini-mole tests. Mercer drove into the terminal, around the East Manifold building that monitored oil pouring down the pipeline at 88,000 barrels per hour, and past the huge holding tanks that processed the contaminated seawater that ballasted tankers on their runs to the site.
He slid into an “Authorized Vehicle Only” spot in front of the Operations Center, just inland of berth number four, where a midsized tanker was having her belly filled with North Slope crude. Once he was out of the protective cocoon of the truck, the biting cold struck him head-on, the wind coming off the Sound like needles. Snow had blanketed much of the terminal, but it had all been plowed into huge mounds in parking lots and just beyond the sharp curves of the roads that crisscrossed the installation. To say the weather was unseasonably cold was to say that Cain and Abel only argued on occasion.
Quickly, Mercer dashed from the Blazer into the Operations Center, unzipping his coat as soon as he felt the blast of warm air from the building’s heaters. The receptionist was reading a thriller novel and regarded Mercer so angrily that he was sure he’d interrupted a climactic scene. “Can I help you, sir?”
