Rigged

by Ben Mezrich

  “That’s right,” David responded. “And it’s a great honor to meet you, sir. Your country is beautiful—”

  “And nobody else saw fit to make the trip with you?” the minister interrupted, waving one of his meaty paws.

  David swallowed and nodded again. So that was the reason for the man’s expression. In the eyes of this minister, the Merc had answered Dubai’s invitation by sending a kid. Maybe Hakim had been expecting Reston, or one of the more powerful board members—certainly not a twenty-five-year-old who’d recently been made VP by the departing chairman. David realized he had to put the man at ease, as soon as possible.

  “I’m the president’s right-hand man,” David said. “I’m reporting directly back to him. I have his full authority on matters of the New York Mercantile Exchange.”

  The last part was a complete fabrication, but David felt he had to add something because, really, Hakim was right—David had been sent because nobody else wanted to make the trip. Giovanni was gone, Reston was too busy, and the rest of the board would have laughed at the idea of spending fourteen hours on a plane to visit the Middle East. What the hell was the minister expecting anyway? David wasn’t even sure what he was doing there. Dubai was fascinating, but what did it have to do with the NYMEX? There wasn’t even much oil in Dubai. And even if this had been Saudi Arabia, with black gold coming out of the bathroom faucets, the Merc wouldn’t have had any real business here: the Merc was an exchange. Oil contracts were traded on its floor, but that’s where the relationship really ended.

  The young man to the right of the minister cleared his throat.

  “The minister and I are very pleased that you have elected to meet with us,” he said quietly. “And maybe in the future your superiors will have a chance to see our wonderful city for themselves.”

  David turned his attention from Hakim to the younger man. He had introduced himself as Khaled Abdul-Aziz; he was a goodlooking kid, with high cheekbones and piercing dark eyes. He was also a few inches taller than David and had ridiculously good posture—which made him seem almost towering as he sat next to the squat minister of finance. David couldn’t be sure, but Khaled was probably around the same age as he was, though from the looks of his clothes and the polished nature of his mannerisms, he was from a much wealthier background. Maybe he had grown up in this futuristic place. It was impossible to place his background from his voice: his English was slightly accented, but David couldn’t quite place the accent. His diction was perfect and precise and made David wonder if the kid had taken acting lessons somewhere in his past. In short, he was extremely well spoken, and he seemed to choose his words very carefully.

  “Dubai is growing quickly,” he continued, looking right at David. “And more people are discovering our city every day. There are enormous opportunities all around us.”

  David could see many of those opportunities through the milky glass walls: skyscrapers, amusement parks, shopping malls— billion-dollar projects sprouting right up out of the desert. But what did any of it have to do with him?

  Before he could ask the question, the minister abruptly rose to his feet, then nodded to Khaled and to David.

  “I apologize, Mr. Russo, it was a pleasure meeting you. I have other business to attend to at this time. My associate will con tinue the meeting—as he has full authority on matters of the Ministry of Finance.”

  David blushed as his own words were thrown right back at him. He quickly stood, shook the minister’s hand, and watched him wobble right out of the conference room. When the door had shut behind him, David turned back to the younger man, who was already back in his seat.

  “Why am I here?” David asked, a bit flustered. “I don’t think the minister has any interest in talking to me.”

  To his surprise, Khaled smiled.

  “The minister didn’t invite you, Mr. Russo. I did.”

  Now it was David’s turn to be surprised. He lowered himself back into his seat. This kid across the table had invited a representative of the Merc to make a first-class trip all the way to Dubai? On a letter from the Ministry of Finance, with two sheiks’ signatures across the bottom?

  No wonder the minister had acted as though the entire meeting was a waste of his time: he had obviously been there as a favor to his young charge. Obviously, Khaled had some impressive pull in the Dubai government. But he was young, and from the way the minister had hightailed it out of the room, probably no more powerful in the greater scheme of things than David was at the Merc.

  “Why?” David finally asked.

  “I wanted to pick your brain, Mr. Russo. You see, I’ve spent the past month meeting with various interests, discussing potential projects—real estate, commercial, whatever—for the continually changing landscape of our city. These projects represent trillions of dollars of foreign investment, much of it from this region of the world, but also from Europe and, more recently, your country.”

  David listened patiently as Khaled spoke. There was something almost musical about the young man’s tone; he was smart, that was obvious, but he was also very controlled—almost as though he was holding himself back. He clearly wanted something from David, but the more Khaled told him about his job, the less likely it seemed that David had anything worthwhile to give him.

  “Some of these projects will cost the ministry billions of dollars. And when finished, they will be quite spectacular.”

  “I imagine so,” David said. “What you’ve done already is, well, spectacular.”

  “Mr. Russo, I’m not interested in spectacular. I feel that Dubai is in a unique situation. We’ve got a ruler who has made it his prime purpose in life to make Dubai the greatest city on earth. We’ve got money and, more importantly, the attention of Europe and America. I want to find a way to use these things to change the entire region. To change the world.”

  David stared at the kid. He could tell that the words were not just hyperbole—Khaled meant exactly what he’d said. And he was being completely honest. David doubted that he’d have opened up like this if the minister had still been in the room. Maybe he’d also have held back his feelings if Reston or one of the older members of the board had been there. But for some reason, he had let David in on his grand intentions. Maybe it was simply the fact that they were similar in age. Or maybe, somehow, he knew that David was the type of person who would respond to such intellectual grandeur—even if it was obviously going nowhere, because how the hell could a twenty-five-year-old Arab kid who couldn’t keep his boss in the room ten minutes hope to change the world?

  “Cool,” David finally responded. He knew it was a pathetic response, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Yes. And that’s why I sent the letter to your exchange. You see, I’ve been reading up on your business—and I think there might be a way for us to partner on a project here in Dubai.”

  David raised his eyebrows.

  “Partner? Who, the Merc Exchange? And Dubai?” David had no idea where this kid was heading. His own personal hesitations toward the Arab world aside—hell, what American didn’t have personal hesitations toward the Arab world?—he couldn’t think of a bigger mismatch than the Merc’s board of old-world Italians and Jews and what he’d seen so far of Dubai.

  “That’s correct. I believe that a partnership with your oil exchange is exactly the sort of endeavor that could change the way people view our part of the world. If we could re-create here what you’ve created in New York, I believe it would be regionchanging.”

  David blinked, then stared at the kid. David wanted to make sure he had heard Khaled correctly.

  “You want to build an oil exchange. In Dubai.”

  The room went silent. Khaled laid his caramel hands out flat against the black-glass table. David coughed, then repeated himself.

  “An oil exchange in the Middle East.”

  Khaled had to be kidding. Even putting aside what most Americans—and especially the sort of men who ran the Merc—thought of the Arab world, it wa
s an insane idea. Stock exchanges existed in places like New York, London, Berlin—first-world cities that were centers of capitalism, with massive, international appeal, particularly with respect to oil and energy: an oil exchange was in itself a center of capitalism, a real-time casino built around the world’s most important commodity. An exchange in the Middle East—it was a crazy thought. Other than Israel—and David knew they certainly weren’t talking about Israel—the Middle East had no democracies. The place was run by sheiks, for God’s sake. Was it even really capitalist? Could capitalism really exist in an Islamic world?

  David had thought he was out of his depth before, when he’d first entered the conference room; now he knew he was at the bottom of the Persian Gulf. He didn’t want to be rude, but part of him wanted to get the hell out of there. No wonder the minister of finance had left so quickly. Even if this kid was wild-eyed and idealistic enough to think of something so absurd, the minister probably knew better.

  “Look, I’m no expert on religion,” David said, “but isn’t Dubai an Islamic country?”

  Khaled nodded. “Of course. But there are caveats. You see, the emir, in his infinite wisdom, has established a number of free zones in the city, where most forms of trade can flourish. The International Financial District, which surrounds us, offers a location particularly attractive to corporations; no corporate or personal income taxes, a top-notch banking system, and a legal code favoring the ownership of property. The free zones are not subject to the application of sharia law.”

  David had never heard of sharia law—and he was pretty sure the meatheads from Brooklyn and Staten Island hadn’t either.

  “Okay, but an exchange is, by its nature, international. If you opened an oil exchange here, you’d have to bring in traders and brokers from all over the world. You’d have to create oil contracts with the help of the big players in the local region as well: Saudi Arabia, Iran, Qatar—”

  “We would have to navigate around a few obstacles, certainly. But what would be the result?”

  David sat back in his chair. An oil exchange in the Middle East? Even if he thought such an idea was remotely possible, was it something he’d want to be involved with? Still, he felt he owed it to Khaled to at least entertain the concept, however absurd he thought it was. After all, this crazy kid had invited him all the way to Dubai. David decided to humor him—to do his best and imagine that somehow he could overcome the prejudices and hatreds, that somehow he could get the board interested enough to move forward, that somehow he could get the rest of the world market involved in building an oil exchange here in the Middle East. What would be the result?

  A center of pure capitalism? Maybe. If Dubai really allowed the Merc to re-create what they’d done in New York, bringing in players from all over, resetting the way oil was traded and even priced—hell, there were so many angles, David would need a month to figure it all out. But simply put, Khaled was right about one thing: if such an exchange was successful, it would quite possibly change the entire region. It would be like a revolution of international market forces in the center of the Islamic world. It would certainly put Dubai on the map as a financial center and give it a role in the pricing and trade of oil—in many ways, making it as important as its bigger, oil-rich neighbors in the region.

  “Exchanges are living, breathing institutions,” David finally said, rewording something that Giovanni and Reston had once told him. “Building one here would be like building a soccer stadium and inviting the whole world to come and play.”

  Khaled grinned. It seemed exactly what he wanted to hear. If that wasn’t changing the region—and by extension the world, because they were talking about the Middle East, the source of so much war, terrorism, and hatred—then nothing else was. David couldn’t help but feel the kid’s energy, even from across the room. Christ, the kid really was a dreamer.

  “What about on your side?” Khaled asked. “Would the New York Mercantile Exchange partner with us on such a project?”

  David fought back the first answer that popped into his head— a huge, resounding no. He wanted to try to humor the idea a little longer, if only because Khaled’s enthusiasm was so damn infectious. But the idea of selling this to the Italians and Jews who ran the Merc—it seemed overwhelming. When kids from Brooklyn pictured Arabs, they saw men in robes riding camels and chopping off heads.

  Certainly, Gallo would never go for the project; it would be exactly the sort of change that he dreaded. David could just picture him in that butcher shop with his baseball bat. On the other hand, Reston might be swayed to at least entertain the idea—to think about the ways such a project could benefit the exchange in terms of publicity. And of course, financially, a Dubai exchange could be structured to benefit the Merc immensely: they could create a new set of oil contracts so that they didn’t compete with the contracts sold in Manhattan—and in that way open up an entirely parallel oil market. But for Reston to feel strong enough to set out to convince the rest of the board to partner with an Arab country—well, that was unlikely, to say the least.

  “I don’t know,” David finally said, trying to sugarcoat his response. “There are many members of the board who would definitely be against it.”

  Khaled nodded.

  “I do know what you’re thinking, Mr. Russo. I understand that there are a lot of misconceptions—on both sides. I know how the West views the Islamic world. I spent time at NYU, then finished my schooling in Cambridge and Geneva. I know what you see on TV.”

  David shrugged. Was that what was holding him back from taking this idea more seriously? Stereotyping? Racism? Unintentionally, David thought back to his father, unable to step inside an elevator or to take a one-hour flight to watch his only son graduate from business school. The image brought up more dark thoughts—angry thoughts. David quickly pushed them away. In truth, those thoughts embarrassed him. He was not going to be controlled by emotions like those. And besides, it wasn’t emotion that made Khaled’s idea seem insane—it was the impracticality of it. This was an Arab country. The Merc was a purely Western idea. Oil was the only thing they had in common—but to Khaled’s people, oil was “the Black Blood of Allah.” To David’s people, oil was money, pure and simple.

  Luckily, before David needed to respond, Khaled rose from the table, clapping his hands together. Then he gestured for David to follow and suddenly headed toward the door.

  “I know you are skeptical, Mr. Russo, but at least do me the favor of keeping an open mind. Give me a day or two to work on you. The only way to truly change one stereotype is to create a new one. That, more than anything, is what Dubai is attempting to do. Maybe you and I will find a way to be a part of this revolution.”

  As David followed the young Arab out of the conference room, he decided that, at the very least, he could do as Khaled asked and keep an open mind. At the same time, somewhere deep in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but think about the last conversation he’d had with his father.

  Khaled’s idea seemed impossible—but then again, a center of market capitalism in the middle of the Arab world . . . if that wasn’t something important, then what was?

  Chapter 25

  The nightclub was called Kasbah, though it didn’t need to be; it was an extravagant, cavernous, three-floor affair dressed up like a sheik’s palace, with arched entryways, Persian carpets, palm trees, wicker baskets, and flowing draperies. If it hadn’t been for the multicultural, well-heeled crowd and the thundering and thoroughly modern Arab dance music, David would have felt transported right into the pages of an Arabian fairy tale.

  “There’s something for everyone,” Khaled explained as he waved off a waitress in a tube top and a miniskirt attempting to sell them shots of pure oxygen from a yellow tank slung around her waist. “Originally, Dubai’s native population had a thriving souk culture, which means that it’s a city with a trading heritage. When the emir decided to thrust the nation into the modern era, it was natural to invite in partners from all over
the world—and places like this sprung up almost overnight. Now the City of Gold caters not only to foreign investors but to foreigners as well, with a social scene that rivals that of any big city in the world.”

  Having visited a half-dozen bars, restaurants, and discos before settling into the Kasbah, David could not argue with Khaled’s assessment; certainly, the Kasbah matched anything David had seen in New York or London. Even though it was barely eleven at night, the place was packed; every table in the VIP was reserved, and he’d counted more than twenty bottles of champagne gliding past on trays carried by members of the gorgeous waitstaff—all of those bottles in the last twenty minutes.

  At first, David had been surprised to find that the club served alcohol. But Khaled had explained that most of the nightclubs, discos, and expat bars existed in a differently regulated part of the city.

  “There are really two separate Dubais,” he had said as they were led to the VIP table by an Asian hostess wearing harem pants, a midriff-bearing top, and a veil. “One for devout Muslims, and one for the expats—who, by the way, now outnumber the indigenous population almost eight to one.”

  It was an amazing statistic, but the number wasn’t surprising: during the tour Khaled had given him over the past few hours, David had noticed that most of the people they passed were either European or Southeast Asian. Even the Arabs they saw—often young men in large groups dressed in Western style, but occasionally in smaller cliques wearing traditional robes— seemed to be from elsewhere, either tourists or businessmen. And David had also noticed that a large proportion of the people he’d seen were young.