by Ben Mezrich
The truth was, up close and in person, the scale of the Dukhan oil field was truly amazing. From the air, it was a yellow and brown yawn of earth that stretched for eighty kilometers, a twisting mass of steel tubing, grated catwalks, and skyscraping, firebelching smoke spires that almost defied description. But here on the ground, it was ten times as monstrous—like some sort of alien construct that had been dropped right down into the middle of the desert, a churning perpetual motion machine of levers and gears and pipes and stacks, spitting dark smoke and flame from every conceivable angle.
“Bigger than you expected?” the Pakistani asked as he yanked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a pothole that would surely have swallowed the jeep entirely. “That’s usually how people feel when they see Dukhan up close. It’s the largest oil field in the region by a factor of five. And one of the top three in the world.”
Khaled nodded, squinting through the windshield at the twists and turns of the piping that disappeared like great straws into the very earth. He knew from his own research that the oil field had brought Qatar—and its sheiks—almost unbelievable wealth. Millions of dollars a day in fact, which was even more spectacular considering the entire country was barely the size of Rhode Island—and yet largely because of Dukhan, it had one of the largest GNPs in the region.
And like most of the nations in the Middle East, Qatar had only one export.
“Nearly three hundred and thirty-five thousand barrels every day,” the Pakistani shouted. “We’re now capable of over one hundred and twenty million barrels a year. From a mother lode that’s estimated at nine billion barrels, maybe more. It’s quite staggering, isn’t it?”
Khaled exhaled, now barely noticing the sand and wind whipping at his teeth. He had traveled to Dukhan for inspiration—because in his mind, if he truly wanted to know how to properly spend a sheik’s fortune, he needed to know what it was to be a sheik. There was the religious component, of course, and the political implications. But the very definition of sheikdom was power—and power, in the Middle East, had only one real source. Dukhan had therefore been the obvious choice, because of its size and proximity to Khaled’s new home—and also, more importantly, because Dukhan had been feeding the region and its sheiks since the 1940s. The birth of this belching monstrosity in the desert coincided with the birth of the modern Middle East, and the two were distinctly intertwined.
“And what happens to the oil after you pull it up from the ground?” Khaled asked. “It goes through the pipeline to the refinery at Mesaleed.” “And then?” “Well, to the market, of course,” the Pakistani said, guiding the jeep through a patch of swirling sand. “We are partnered with a dozen international firms, which ship the refined and unrefined barrels across the oceans. Our oil goes all over the world. What is pulled up from the sand today, a week from now is in the tank of a Volvo in some parking lot in a mall in Nebraska.”
Khaled felt a smile fighting the stiff wind that battered his face. Without realizing it, the Pakistani had summed it all up in that one sentence, beginning in the desert in Qatar and ending in a place in the middle of the United States, a place that most on the Arab street could not even imagine—and certainly could not understand. And yet, from the Pakistani’s vantage point as one who lived and breathed oil—sometimes literally—that was the way the world seemed: different parts of the same sentence. This is an answer, Khaled realized. If not the answer, certainly one of a possible many. He turned from the Pakistani back to the monstrous oil fields, then to the great and swirling desert that surrounded them. Khaled knew in his heart that the Black Blood of Allah was not simply a source of power. Oil was also a river that flowed from east to west.
Perhaps there was a way to turn that river around. To turn a source of power into a source of peace. . . .
Chapter 20
No vember 26, 2002
Look at the bright side, kid. At least they weren’t dirty pictures.”
David leaned back in his seat, watching Reston dig into the massive tower of tortilla chips that took up most of the table between them. David’s fingers had gone numb against the glass of his frozen margarita, but he didn’t care—the rest of his body had been pretty much numb since the moment Gallo had confronted him in the butcher shop with the photograph of the kiss in front of the Gucci window.
“And at least it was your girlfriend,” Reston continued, washing the tortillas down with a deep sip from his own frozen drink. “Can’t blackmail someone with pictures of him kissing his own girlfriend.”
David forced a laugh, though he didn’t really see the humor in the situation. And it certainly didn’t help that they were sitting in some dingy faux cantina three blocks from the exchange, complete with rattan tables and chairs, not to mention waiters wearing mini-sombreros and plastic bandoliers.
The place was called Little Tijuana, and it was obviously a favorite of Reston’s—not for the decor, but because the margaritas came in glasses the size of fishbowls, with little umbrellas and enough salt on the rim to de-ice the FDR Drive. Likewise, the tequila shots came by the tray—and even though it was four in the afternoon on the day before Thanksgiving, there was already one tray of a half-dozen shots hidden somewhere on the table, deep in the shadows between the great tortilla tower and its accompanying bucket of salsa.
“I don’t think he was trying to blackmail me,” David responded. He’d gone over the moment in his head a dozen times, but it still made him nauseous to think about it. He hadn’t mentioned the confrontation to anyone other than Reston—not Serena, not his parents—because he knew they’d react badly. Hell, he was reacting badly. After he’d left the butcher shop, he’d wandered the streets of Bensonhurst for nearly an hour before he’d stumbled upon a taxi willing to take him back to Midtown. By the next morning, he could hardly believe that the episode had even happened—it seemed so completely monstrous. Certainly, the whole thing put an ominous spin on his recent promotion to vice president of strategy, and he no longer felt much like celebrating.
“Of course it wasn’t blackmail,” Reston said. “The Don was just beating his chest, letting you know where you stand. A little over the top, yes. But surprising, no. I mean, how did you expect him to react to Giovanni’s little bombshell? You have to understand the stakes here. The trading floor is Gallo’s fiefdom. He sees us as the enemy, literally trying to take away his life’s work. Giovanni was a pain in his ass—but in a way, he was almost as old school as Gallo. Me? I’m so far in the future, I’m a fucking space alien as far as he’s concerned. He’s afraid I’m going to bulldoze his trading floor and replace it with a bucket of iPods. To him, I’m the fucking comet that killed the dinosaurs. And you—you’re some punk kid who he suddenly can’t ignore, because now you’re a vice president—which pisses him off, to say the least.”
David took a drink from his margarita, shivering as his tongue touched the icy, spiked slush. The truth was, it wasn’t just Gallo; the reaction from the rest of the board had been almost as ugly. Giovanni’s announcement that he was retiring had nearly been overshadowed by the news about David’s promotion. It had all gone down during an impromptu board meeting the day before: when Giovanni told them about David’s ascension, the proclamation was met with utter silence—followed by numerous complaints, calls for explanations, and even a few insults. Nobody seemed happy to have a twenty-five-year-old made vice president of the exchange, especially when the president and acting head of the Merc was barely ten years his senior.
“Look,” Reston said, seeking out one of the shots of tequila and holding it in the air between them, “nobody reacts well to change. You and I are a frightening combination.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“We’re going to push this place into the modern world,” Reston continued, pretty much ignoring David, “whether they like it or not. I’m talking about expanding. I’m talking about automation. I’m talking about taking the place international. Pretty much everything Gallo and the old-world trader
s fear—but really, after a while they’ll understand that it’s for the good of the Merc. If the Merc doesn’t grow and modernize, it will be overtaken by other exchanges and lose its power. In the end, that would be a lot worse for everyone.”
David wasn’t really sure what any of that meant. Truthfully, he just wanted to get Gallo off his back and then figure out a way to win over the rest of the board. He wanted to prove himself, earn the respect his promotion had bypassed.
“At the moment,” he said, his honest feelings coming out, “I feel like I’m about to get run out of town.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Reston responded.
David didn’t like the look in the Texan’s eye.
“What do you mean?”
Reston drained the tequila shot and slapped the glass down on the table. Then he chased it with a long suckle of margarita.
“David, what do you know about Dubai?”
David squinted into his own margarita. Dubai? The country? “Well, I’ve heard of it of course. Part of the United Arab Emirates, in the Middle East, right? There were a couple of kids whose parents worked there in my class at Williams. Supposedly the place is very rich, very cutting-edge. Every now and then there’s some crazy story on the news about the construction of some huge hotel, or an indoor ski slope. And then there’s that manmade island, right? The huge one in the shape of a palm tree that you can supposedly see from space?”
Reston suddenly downed another one of the tequilas, then followed it up with another sip of his margarita. He nearly nailed himself in the eye with the umbrella in the process.
“I’m not sure that’s true, but yes, that’s the place. Dubai, in the U.A.E. Turns out that at the moment it’s pretty much the fastest-growing economy in the world. Sixteen percent growth in GDP last year, which is six times that of China. It’s an impressive story.”
David was having trouble pretending that he gave a shit about some country in the Middle East, but he did his best to stay focused on what Reston was saying. Dubai? What the hell did he care about Dubai? The Don had obviously paid some private eye to take pictures of him on his day off. Didn’t he have more important things to think about than some social studies topic?
“Yeah, impressive. Oil-rich and getting richer—”
“Actually, no. Dubai has very little oil compared to the rest of the Middle East. They had a windfall back in the fifties, but it’s been dwindling ever since. At the moment, oil makes up just six percent of their economy. Turns out, all their growth is coming from real estate development, banking, and tourism.”
David raised his eyebrows, the tiniest bit more interested.
“Tourism? In the Middle East?”
Reston laughed. “Sounds crazy, right? Turns out, Dubai sees more tourists every year than all of India. And makes more money off of real estate than most of the countries in Europe. And it’s just getting started. The shit they’re building—it’s really hard to believe. We’re talking shopping malls the size of cities. Apartment complexes based on chessboards. Revolving skyscrapers and underground racetracks. Dubai is rapidly turning into one of the real wonders of the modern world.”
That was surprising, but still, David wondered, what did it have to do with them?
“Well, what the hell does the Merc care about a tourist trap?”
Reston shrugged.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Then he leaned forward over the table, lowering his voice.
“The thing is, before he left, Anthony forwarded me this strange little invite from the kingdom of Dubai to come check the place out. Three nights, all expenses paid, all of it first-class. I’m not even entirely sure where the invitation came from, but the letterhead is from the Ministry of Finance, and it’s signed by both Sheik Maktoum and Sheik Muhammed.”
“Sheik Maktoum and Sheik Muhammed,” David repeated. This was beginning to sound like some sort of practical joke. Sure, they were involved in the business of oil, but the closest the board of the Merc Exchange ever came to dealing with sheiks was when they were trying to predict who the U.S. might invade next—and what the ramifications would be on the price of crude.
“Here’s the thing,” Reston continued. “We can’t simply ignore this invitation, because it’s got two sheiks’ signatures on the bottom of the page. And these aren’t just any sheiks. These sheiks—they’re pretty fucking powerful. Not just multibillionaires—the Maktoum family is considered one of the biggest forces of change in that entire part of the world. The family is worth almost thirty billion dollars. The brothers were educated in England and have a liberal, cosmopolitan worldview that’s pretty unique for rulers of an Arab country. Sheik Muhammed, the younger brother, started Emirates Airlines with ten million bucks and two planes. Now it’s one of the most successful, prestigious airlines serving the Eastern world. They’ve had similar successes with real estate, tourism, horse racing—building some of the most profitable businesses in the region. True innovators. Even so, I don’t want to go—hell, with the mess that Giovanni’s left me, flying halfway around the world isn’t even an option. So on Anthony’s recommendation, I’ve made my first executive decision: I’m sending you to Dubai the day after tomorrow. It will take some of the heat off your being made vice president, and it will give you a chance to report to the board about something interesting—even if it’s just a nice story about revolving ski slopes and giant shopping malls.”
David stared at him. Finally, he put the margarita down and clasped his numb fingers together.
“You’re sending me to Dubai the day after Thanksgiving because you don’t want to be rude. To the two sheiks.”
Reston grinned.
“That’s about the size of it.”
David looked at him for a full beat, then realized that there wasn’t going to be a punch line. Reston wasn’t kidding—and that meant, the day after tomorrow, David was going to Dubai.
“Well, shit,” he said finally. “I think we’re gonna need another tray of tequila.”
David’s head was still spinning as he stepped out of the taxi in front of his apartment building in Midtown—and the cerebral motion was only partially due to the tequila in his system. He’d expected that his first few days as the newest vice president of the Merc Exchange would be chaotic—but he’d never guessed he’d be hopping a plane in forty-eight hours, bound for the center of the most tumultuous region in the world. Furthermore, he hadn’t told Reston the whole story: David had his own personal reasons to feel conflicted about the upcoming trip. Of course, every American—and certainly every New Yorker—had his own preconceived notions of the Arab world, but David had thought more about the region than most men his age. The truth was, he’d been forced to confront his feelings about the Middle East on many occasions over the past year—and now Reston had thrown all of it right back in his face, with the invitation David really couldn’t refuse.
David sat down on the steps that led up to his apartment building and took a deep breath, letting the brisk air slow the rotations in his skull. He knew he had no choice but to put his personal feelings aside and look at this for what it was—an assignment.
In a lot of ways, it would be the classic consulting situation. He’d spend twenty-four hours studying up on the place, then another fourteen hours on the plane going through his notes. He’d hit the ground running, meet a few people, find out what the hell the two sheiks wanted from a bunch of Italian sons of garbagemen—and then get his ass back to New York. Dubai was an Arab country in the Middle East, but it was also an international center of business, and David would be there in a business capacity.
Ten minutes alone on the stoop, and David had nearly convinced himself that it was going to be fine, just a wonderful opportunity to see a part of the world he’d never thought he’d see. Then he remembered that convincing himself was only one part of the equation.
He reluctantly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number. She answered on the second ring.
>
“Hey, Mom.”
Even before his mother responded, David could hear many voices in the background—his extended family had obviously already arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday, and he could picture the house on its way toward pure chaos: his mother in an apron in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon like a sword, as uncles and aunts and cousins bounced back and forth from one room to another. His father, hiding out in his study, trying to stay out of the maelstrom as long as was humanly possible. And soon, David and Serena would be thrown into the mix. Reston’s bombshell about Dubai would only aggravate what was already the most aggravating of situations.