Rigged

by Ben Mezrich

  Another few yards from the traders were the brokers. Cohen had brought twelve of his colleagues with him—there were probably two private jets waiting for them on the tarmac at La Guardia. Like the traders, the brokers were surrounded by women, but these weren’t flight attendants—they were assuredly models who had been brought in by the high-priced party planners to spruce up the scene.

  The rest of the crowd was incredibly upscale, mostly businessmen and their wives and mistresses; David also saw that there were more than a few Arabs in the crowd, and he assumed that Emirates Air had used frequent-passenger lists to fill out its invites. When David and Serena first arrived, Khaled had introduced them to a handful of the airline’s executives, and David had been impressed by their polite confidence and by the fact that they already seemed to have been swept up by the idea of the energy exchange in Dubai. Then again, it would mean big business for the airline—in a way, this party was almost as important to them as it was to David and Khaled.

  And so far the party had been a moderate success. The music had been good, the food spectacular, and the alcohol freeflowing. Then, quite abruptly, the lights had gone out—plunging the great hall into pure darkness. Now the entire crowd was facing the stage in anticipation. And David was squeezing his girlfriend’s hand so hard she was using her nails to defend herself.

  As he quietly apologized, loosening his grip, a spotlight suddenly erupted in the center of the stage. In the middle of the circle of yellow light stood a woman in Arabic robes. Her face was entirely covered by a veil, and she was standing behind a microphone.

  She leaned forward and started singing. At least David thought she was singing; to his American ears, it seemed like she was just wailing away in Arabic.

  David’s stomach convulsed, and he looked at Serena. Christ. Serena looked back at him, helplessly. Then he turned and threw a glance toward Khaled, but his Arab friend was just staring straight ahead.

  David turned back to the stage. He could feel the crowd starting to fidget, and the wailing was just getting louder and louder, heading toward an ear-shattering crescendo—

  And then suddenly the woman reached up and yanked off her veil. She shook out her long, flowing blond hair and then tore off her robes. Underneath she was wearing a sparkling gold bikini. As the crowd roared, another spotlight exploded onto the stage—and there, standing at a second microphone, was the legendary crooner Tom Jones, surrounded by ten writhing girls in skimpy gold outfits.

  As David’s eyes widened and Serena clapped her hands, Tom Jones launched into a high-octane concert while the girls in gold outfits danced elaborately for the crowd. It was, in a word, amazing.

  Grinning ear to ear, David crept away from Serena and sidled next to Khaled. He could see Reston and the board—and they were applauding at the stage like school kids. Vitzi and the traders had cameras out and were snapping pictures, and the brokers were howling like it was New Year’s Eve.

  “I think we’re in good shape here,” David whispered. “They seem to be enjoying themselves. At the very least, we’ve definitely stoked their curiosity about Dubai.”

  Khaled smiled back at him.

  “Maybe they’ll realize that at least part of the Middle East is in the midst of a prime-time makeover. It’s a step forward. We’re getting closer, David.”

  David nodded, looking back toward Serena, who was dan cing to the beat of the concert. She smiled in his direction and offered a little wave toward Khaled. The minute she’d met the young Arab—at a lunch David arranged that had included Reston as well—she’d fallen in platonic love with him. And she’d been amazingly forgiving about David’s absence over the past few months. That hadn’t helped the guilt David still felt about Jasmine, but it had made it much easier for him to feel cautiously pleased with what they’d accomplished so far.

  Though they’d initially struck out with Hatfield, they had the curiosity of the European energy community working for them. They had Reston and a few of the board members at least open to the idea of partnering with Dubai. And they probably had the brokers on board.

  “Now it’s time we solved what we’ve been putting off,” Khaled whispered, and David realized immediately what he was talking about. One more piece in the puzzle—second only to the little task of getting the Merc board to finalize everything and accept Dubai officially as a partner—was the issue of sharia law. David wasn’t sure how that issue would be solved—but he had a feeling it involved another plane trip.

  “Now we go to Saudi Arabia?” he asked.

  But Khaled shook his head. David looked at him, confused, as Tom Jones belted out a song about love, and the dancers undulated across the stage.

  “I thought the Saudis make the decisions about sharia law.”

  “That’s correct. But getting an audience with the religious leaders for a business deal like this isn’t that simple. The sheiks— including my uncle—have to be very careful to stay behind the scenes with something as explosive as this; the Arab street is always watching. On this issue, we’re on our own. But there’s a man who can help us. A consultant of sorts.”

  David turned to watch as Jones danced with one of the scantily clad girls. What was Khaled talking about? A consultant with an inside track to Saudi religious leaders?

  “Is this consultant here in New York?”

  “Not exactly,” Khaled answered. “He can be very difficult to find, actually. But I’ve made a few calls to some of my uncle’s associates, and I did manage to locate him.”

  David didn’t like the expression on Khaled’s face.

  “Where?” David asked.

  Khaled only smiled in response.

  Chapter 35

  Febr u a r y 15, 2003

  Two days before his twenty-sixth birthday, David made a lifealtering discovery: there was no cocktail more dangerous than the combination of jetlag and frustration. With thoughts blurred by a sixteen-hour flight, jet lag amplified by a thirteen-hour timezone difference, and a heavy dose of seemingly insurmountable aggravation, you were bound to do something stupid, if not downright suicidal. After all, you weren’t thinking right to begin with, and then some fucking asshole pushed you that extra step, and suddenly there you were—hanging from the edge of a thirdstory balcony by your fingertips, trying to reach a fire escape five feet below with the points of your brand-new Ferragamo shoes.

  David grunted with effort as his extended arms struggled against his weight. He could see the deserted alley that ran past the Beijing Grand Hyatt three stories beneath him, and he knew that if he missed the fire escape, his skull was going to make quite a mess on the unforgiving cement sidewalk. More than that, his apparent suicide—because what else could you call it when a young man, locked in a lavish, four-star hotel room from the outside, toppled to his death from a partially enclosed third-floor balcony—would cause one hell of an international incident. He doubted that Khaled—who was watching his efforts, wide-eyed, from a matching balcony one floor above—would have been able to explain the situation to their minders, or to the international press, or, for that matter, to David’s mother, who would most likely cause an all-out war over the incident. But then, the deathdefying stunt hadn’t been Khaled’s idea. David had only himself—and his jet lag–tinged frustration—to blame.

  They certainly didn’t teach you this at Harvard Business School. David strained his body a few more inches toward the lip of the fire escape. The air was warm outside, and he could feel the sweat building beneath his Oxford shirt and tailored slacks. He knew that if anyone—say, a bellboy or someone from the kitchen staff—had wandered into the hotel’s back alley at that moment and looked up, David would have had a lot of explaining to do to the official Chinese minders who were no doubt still gathered somewhere on the other side of his locked hotel door. He didn’t know if they’d arrest him or simply haul him right back to the airport for deportation—but either way, he and Khaled would return to the U.S. empty-handed. That was something David simply could not allow.
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  He certainly hadn’t expected his last-minute trip to Beijing to go like this. When Khaled had finally told him the truth—that the “consultant” who could help them arrange a meeting with the Saudi religious leaders was in China’s capital city on some unrelated business—David had actually been thrilled by the idea of the trip. He’d always wanted to see China, and even though he and Khaled would be there for only one night, he’d hoped to get a chance to be a pure tourist, at least for a few hours. But from the minute they’d landed at Beijing International Airport, David had realized that things were not going to go as planned.

  At first glance, the old woman had seemed innocuous enough. David had spotted her first, as he’d stepped out of the jetway.

  She’d been easy to locate, because of the sign she held high above her head, as if she were the leader of some bizarre, septuagenarian cheerleading squad: david russo. khaled abdul-aziz.

  china welcomes you.

  “It’s not a silver BMW, but it’s not bad,” David had whispered to Khaled as they approached her. The woman had been all smiles and compliments as they exchanged bows. David had been expecting a translator and a driver, which Khaled’s people had arranged; a den mother seemed twice as good. As the amiable Ms. Chen had led them through the airport, she explained,

  in fairly good English, that she would act as both their translator and their tour guide.

  “Many wonderful things to see in our city,” she had clucked.

  “You will have wonderful time in Beijing.”

  Of course, David and Khaled hadn’t budgeted much time for sightseeing, but it was a nice thought anyway. As they had finished passing through customs and were about to step out into

  the main terminal of the airport, Khaled explained their time crunch to Ms. Chen.

  “Actually, we need to head straight to our meeting. Maybe we’ll have time for a more leisurely tour on our next visit.” And that’s when things had turned; the smiling and amiable

  Ms. Chen was suddenly all frowns.

  “I’m sorry, this is not possible. Unfortunately, due to a state holiday celebration, we must head directly to your hotel. Your business will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  And before David or Khaled could respond, the old woman had gestured with her hands—and four uniformed police officers had suddenly appeared, two on each side. Stone-faced but not

  menacing, the men had wordlessly escorted them—David and Khaled too shocked to even respond—to a waiting limousine.

  It wasn’t until they were enclosed in the backseat of the car that David had finally found his voice.

  “What holiday? What are you talking about? Ms. Chen, our papers are in order, and we’ve got an important meeting—” “No meeting. Not possible. I am sorry.”

  It had taken another twenty minutes of intense questioning before David finally squeezed out of her the real reason for the police escort—and the “holiday” that prevented them from moving freely. In truth, there was no state celebration. The government regulatory agency for which Ms. Chen worked had been asked to keep tight control over David and Khaled—and the request hadn’t come from Beijing but from David’s own bosses at the Merc. Someone, it seemed, had made a phone call to a high-up official in the Chinese government to “warn” the Chinese about two “known” agitators who were on their way to the Chinese capital.

  “This is ludicrous,” David had countered, his face turning red.

  But Khaled had quieted him with a look—and he had understood.

  They could only get themselves in more trouble by arguing with this woman. She wasn’t the one making the decisions. Obviously, someone had taken great pains to screw with their plans. Once secured and alone in his hotel room at the Grand Hyatt—the four armed police officers and Ms. Chen outside in the hall—David had immediately called Reston, and although the Texan didn’t know for sure, he had agreed with David that Gallo was probably to blame. David had no idea how Gallo had known about the Beijing trip—but then again, the man had hired someone to take photos of David and Serena in front of a Gucci store on Fifth Avenue. Adding that to their confrontation in the boardroom, David could not afford to underestimate the Don’s abilities—or his enthusiasm.

  Reston had been certain that he could work out the situation—but it would take at least until the next day. The problem was that Khaled’s “consultant” would have left Beijing by then, and God only knew when or where they’d be able to track him down next. According to Khaled, the man was beyond enigmatic; he was a third-world legend, a Nigerian Arab known in circles throughout the developing world only as “the Fat Man.” For some reason nobody quite understood, the Fat Man—really a mercenary who offered his ser vices to the highest bidders—was the quickest connection to the Saudi religious leaders when it came to matters of business; over the past ten years, he had somehow built up extreme goodwill through numerous successful projects in Saudi Arabia and around the region. Although it all sounded very James Bond, Khaled had explained that the evening’s meeting with the Fat Man in the lobby of the Commander Beijing was their best and most efficient means of getting to the Saudis in a favorable way.

  Irony of ironies, instead of the lobby of the Commander, David had been separated from Khaled and locked in a third-floor hotel suite in the Grand Hyatt—which, it turned out, was a mere four blocks away. But it might as well have been a continent between the two hotels: there was no way past the minders outside in the hallway, and there was no way to reschedule the meeting either. The Fat Man was going to slip out of their grasp.

  Unbelievably frustrated, but resigned to failure, David had stepped out onto the balcony to at least try to get a glimpse of the city he wasn’t going to get to see. Then he had heard Khaled’s voice from upstairs and realized that their two hotel rooms, though on different floors, were close enough for them to communicate. At some point while they were discussing their plight, David had shifted his attention to the street below and noticed the fire escape winding downward.

  Of course, Khaled had tried to talk him out of it—but David had only grinned up at him.

  Now, minutes later, David was regretting his bravado. The drop onto the fire escape was a good five feet, and if his shoes slipped when he hit the metal grating—well, he didn’t want to think about it. For the first time in his life, he wished he had chosen gymnastics over football, baseball, and crew. But he wasn’t a gymnast, he was an American in a suit and tie trying to make a business meeting. Welcome to the wonderful world of oil.

  Without another thought, he swung himself full force toward the fire escape and let go of the balcony. There was a sickening moment of weightlessness—and then his shoes touched metal and he came crashing down on the extended platform. The entire fire escape shook beneath him, but somehow he managed to regain his balance before he toppled forward toward the street. He gave Khaled a quick thumbs-up and then clambered down the escape, taking the metal rungs as quietly as possible. There was another five-foot drop from the last metal rung to the sidewalk, which he took in a controlled fall. He landed with one foot in a three-inch-deep puddle, sending up a fountain of grimy water—and then he was moving forward down the alley at full speed, away from the hotel.

  The alley opened into a wide, three-lane street with low, boxy gray buildings on either side. David spun on his heels to get his bearings; he had memorized a map of the area during the flight from New York, as they had known they’d be on a tight schedule to get to the meeting with the Fat Man a mere hour after they arrived. Of course, David hadn’t factored in climbing out of his hotel window—but he’d always been a pretty good improviser. David glanced at his watch as he jogged to the next corner; it was after 10:00 p.m., which partially explained how deserted the street seemed to be. David assumed that the demonstration—and the resulting crackdown—that the minders had mentioned also had something to do with the emptiness of the sidewalks and the fact that there were only a few cars whizzing by, but he tried not to dwell on the thought. Getting c
aught in a Chinese “crackdown” might not be the best thing for his résumé.

  He took the next corner and saw that he was now in the heart of the city’s financial district. Glass and steel buildings rose up on either side, but there was no doubt that he was in a foreign city: all of the signs and billboards were in Chinese, and even the McDonald’s across the street was covered in Chinese lettering. He quickly moved to the next corner—and there, at the end of the next block, was the Commander Beijing. From the outside, it looked more like a glorified Holiday Inn, but it was modern, with a rounded driveway encircling a huge, well-lit fountain.

  David wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened his suit jacket as he calmly strolled down the driveway; the uniformed Chinese bellhops outside bowed at him respectfully, and he smiled back. Then he passed through the hotel’s glass revolving doors and into a well-air-conditioned lobby.

  The lobby was nice, if a little kitschy. The walls were done up in wood tones, and the carpets were lush and green. There were high California palm trees spaced all around the room, and yet another fountain along the far wall, spitting backlit water up toward the spherical ceiling.

  There were a few Americans and Europeans sitting in wicker chairs and cushioned love seats strewn about the lobby, as well as a handful of Chinese businessmen—but even so, David had no problem quickly identifying his quarry.

  James Bond or not, the Fat Man lived up to his nom de plume. At least three hundred pounds, he was stretched out across a wicker couch, nursing a glass of red wine. His skin was coal black, and his rolls of fat were covered by brightly colored African robes. He seemed to be smiling as David approached, and he raised the glass of wine in his thick, grublike fingers.

  “You’re early, my young friend,” the man said in a heavy Arabic accident.