by Dan Pollock
Sam turned around. Jacqueline was stalking him from behind, her eyes triumphant. She yelped and began skimming water into his face, drenching him with spray. Sam let himself be drawn into the water fight, which quickly turned into a triangular, point-blank duel that whipped the surface into a froth. Then Jake was caught in a crossfire between the two men—and screamed for a cease-fire.
*
On their way back to the airstrip, at Jacqueline’s request they stopped off at one of the jungle camp’s whitewashed souvenir bungalows. This one boasted an adjoining cage full of fretful-looking howler monkeys, while, perched just under the eaves, a somnolent pair of red and blue macaws eyed each entering and departing customer. The shop’s murky interior was heaped and festooned with the usual jungle knickknackery. In fact, Sam found it difficult to move without knocking his head against bamboo toucans suspended from the log rafters or toppling nested towers of native basketry. After several such encounters, he retreated to the open doorway, not far from the stuffed-looking macaws, where he was soon joined by an equally disinterested Félix Rosales. Jacqueline, meanwhile, vindicating the shopkeeper’s faith in the buying habits of Homo peregrinus, conscientiously browsed all the aisles of tropical schlock, picking out postcards, a coconut-shell monkey mask, a palm-woven bag and floppy hat, and several “I ♥ CANAIMA” T-shirts.
Outside Sam remarked, “What, no blowgun?”
Jacqueline looked upset. “Where were they? I didn’t see them.”
“Try over there,” Félix suggested.
Across the road, a tour group was watching an Indian, naked except for leather breechcloth and feathered headband, demonstrate his prowess with a much abridged version of the native blowgun, or cerbatana. Several darts flew from his two-foot wooden tube dead-center into a styrofoam target hung on a tree trunk. Next, the Indian grinned and handed the weapon to a big pot-bellied man in bright plaid shorts. This brought raucous protests from the man’s companions, all of whom scattered hastily from the line of fire.
“Hmmm,” Jacqueline commented. “That has definite possibilities.”
Moments later, as the three continued along the camp road, a miniature cerbatana was protruding from her woven souvenir bag along with four palmwood darts.
“At least they didn’t sell her the deadly curare to go with it,” Félix said.
“Thank God,” Sam agreed. “But I think we better get Jungle Girl here back to her father before she goes completely native.”
*
Afternoon plans got altered drastically when they landed back at the cattle ranch. While Jacqueline phoned her father, Sam and Félix went in search of Bernardo. They found him right where they’d left him—in the den, camped in front of the television. He begged to stay for one final event—an imminent showdown between rival monster trucks.
Sam thought of all the majestic scenery the young Venezuelan had gladly bypassed in favor of this dark room of flickering images. “Five minutes max,” he said. “Then I pull the plug.”
Bernardo instantly riveted his attention back on the TV. He didn’t bother to glance up when Jacqueline walked in and handed Sam the cordless phone.
“It’s Daddy,” she said. “He’s pretty upset.”
“What for? Was there a decision by the government?”
“No. He got upset with me—when I told him I won’t be flying back with you to Puerto Ordaz this afternoon. I didn’t have a chance to tell you, Sam. Félix has offered to take me back up to the dig.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Sam, don’t you be upset, too! I was counting on you to calm Daddy down.” She pointed meaningfully at the phone, which was still in Sam’s hand, percolating D.W.’s voice into his palm. Sam placed the phone against his ear.
“Sam, are you there?” D.W. was shouting. “Sam? Jacqueline? Dammit, will somebody please—”
“It’s Sam, D.W. What seems to be the problem?”
“Didn’t you hear? Sam, stop her! I forbid Jake going into the jungle by herself! She’s acting crazy!”
“Hold your fire a minute, D.W. She just sprung this on me, too.” He put down the phone and looked pointedly at Jacqueline. “You want to explain this in a bit more detail?”
“It’s not a big deal, Sam, really.”
“Well, your father seems to think so. And—excuse me.” Bernardo had turned the sound down, but Sam was distracted by the pulsing TV screen. Two jacked-up pickups went racing up a ramp, sailed briefly through the air, then crashed down together, flattening junk cars into scrap metal beneath gargantuan tires. In two steps Sam switched the set off. Bernardo started to protest, saw the look in Sam’s eye and wisely shut up.
Sam resumed, “Jake, your father’s a lot more than upset. And he has every right to be.” He saw her face tighten. “Now wait. Try and see it from his viewpoint, okay?”
“But, Sam,” Félix interjected, “I assure you—”
“Please stay out of this, Félix. This is between Jake and her dad—and me. That’s right, Jake. I have a stake in this, too. As long as you’re down here, D.W. expects me to look after your safety, and I damn well intend to do it.”
“Who says I’m at risk?”
“You’re in Venezuela. In my book, that’s defined as being at risk. This happens to be one hell of a fantastic country, Jake, but it ain’t the safest by a long shot. I’m not just talking about student riots and barroom stabbings and coup attempts. Venezuelans are famous for their hospitality, but there are plenty of desperate people out there with guns and knives, and not much future and not a whole lot of food on the table. Ask Félix, if you don’t believe me. Or read the papers. Hell, read our State Department advisories. All I’m asking is this. Stick to the itinerary. Don’t go wandering off into the bush. This is nothing against Félix. But he’s not responsible for you.”
“And you are?”
“For the moment, yes. Look, if you want to visit the dig again, I’ll be glad to take you.”
“Are you through, Sam?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then it’s my turn.” Sam watched her chest heave, her nostrils flare. She was very angry, he thought, but fighting for control. “I’m not a child, Sam. I’m a 22-year-old woman. That makes me an adult, just like you. I am, ergo, responsible for myself. You’re not responsible for me, I am. And this may be Venezuela, but it’s not Saudi Arabia. Women have rights.”
“Come on, Jake, aren’t you kind of overreacting—”
“It’s my turn, remember? Now, as for danger.” She took a deep breath. “I happen to be a brown belt in Tae Kwon Do, but that’s not the point, is it? Okay. Maybe this is. At NYU I was sound assistant on a student film shot in the South Bronx. Our director had worked for ITN news crews in places like Belfast and Beirut. He said our shoot was scarier. And guess what? I didn’t ask Daddy’s permission. It never occurred to me, actually. And I certainly didn’t ask you. Wait. I’m not through yet, Sam.
“Know what I want to do at the dig? I’ve decided to take my video camera and start documenting what they’re doing up there—before you and Daddy bulldoze it into the ground. Now, do you think I’m going to let you stop me from doing that?” She shook her head. “Absolutely not.
“I’m not some spoiled socialite, Sam. Maybe I kid around, but I’ve got a serious streak, too. And okay, a couple of years ago I did have this bad rep as Miss Campus Dilettante who kept switching colleges and majors. But I outgrew that. Right now I’ve got the credentials and the know-how to make a film of what’s going on up there. Maybe an important film, but some kind of film. Maybe I can even get a grant to finish it—in case somebody decides to cut off my allowance. So, the only person whose permission I’m really seeking now is Dr. Laya.
“But if you’re still worried about my safety, Sam, Félix tells me at least four women are arriving on Cerro Calvario today—all graduate archaeology students from Simón Bolívar University. And they’ll have their own tent, and an extra sleeping bag for me. I tried about six times to
tell Daddy that, but he couldn’t seem to stop shouting.”
She exhaled slowly, then resumed: “Look, I didn’t mean to dump on you like this, Sam. You’ve been wonderful, and I just had one of the most fantastic days of my life. But I don’t appreciate being treated like a child, not by you or anybody.”
“Forget about me, Jake. But your dad now, that’s pretty hard for him to stop doing—treating you like his little girl, I mean. And down deep, I bet you really wouldn’t want him to.”
“Now you’re twisting the words around, Sam. You know what I mean.”
“Okay, maybe I do. Let’s call a truce—just like in the water fight. But promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“I gather Dr. Laya’s got a radiophone up there. Give your dad a call, tonight or tomorrow. In the meantime I’ll see what I can do for his blood pressure. Deal?”
She smiled, softening further. “I’ll call you both. I was kind of hoping to go for a horseback ride here.”
“Anytime.”
She stepped forward, squeezed his hand. Then, nodding for Félix to follow, she exited the room. On the way out, the archaeologist gave Sam a brief, backward nod. Sam chose to interpret this as meaning, “Don’t worry, she’ll be perfectly safe with me.” If it meant otherwise, Sam thought, he’d personally flay the skin off all those bulging muscles.
He lifted the phone. “Still there, D.W.?”
“Dammit, Sam, stop her! You heard what she said!”
“Now hold on, D.W. Maybe it’s not so bad. I’ll have Bernardo follow her down there and look around, make sure everything’s like she said. If there’s the slightest problem, believe me, Enrico and I will yank her out fast. Meanwhile, I’ll have our guard station call me the instant she enters or leaves. Now, as to our afternoon meeting—”
The line seemed to detonate in his ear. Sam figured this for blasphemy, Korean-style.
“My sentiments exactly, D.W. Look, why don’t we talk early tomorrow?”
But D.W. had switched back to English. “Dammit, Sam, she is just like her mother! Always pulling this shit on me! I knew something like this would happen!”
“Then why the hell did you bring her down here?”
“I tried to get her to fly home from Trinidad! But you don’t know how Jake is, Sam! She argues and argues and argues—till you have no damn fucking choice!”
Sam gave a horselaugh. “Sorry, D.W. But maybe we should put her on the payroll. The company could use a hard-nosed negotiator.”
Chapter Fourteen
Swallowing a final expletive, Duk-Won Lee cradled the phone with deliberate control, then glanced at the other two men in his mahogany-paneled shipboard office. As it happened, neither Owen Meade nor Ray Arrillaga was looking in his direction. Owen, across the steel and glass desk, was absorbed in the latest issue of Chemical Week, while Ray stood by the starboard windows inspecting the afternoon sundance on the Orinoco.
D.W. cleared his throat. Owen put down his magazine and looked up expectantly, but D.W. swiveled toward Arrillaga, head of Proteus’ South American mining operations, who had flown down overnight from New Orleans. “How old are your girls now, Ray?”
“Eleven and thirteen.”
“And how do they treat you?”
“You know how it is, D.W. Every year old Dad seems to know a little less, gets more out of touch. They try to be understanding about it.”
D.W. nodded. Since Jacqueline’s call had come in on the speakerphone, Owen and Ray had heard the embarrassing family flare-up. At least until D.W. switched to the handset.
“I didn’t realize she’d need a baby-sitter down here. And I guess Sam can’t handle that job either. So what do I do now, Ray? Go down there myself?”
Owen spoke up. “I can put extra security on at Cerro Calvario while she’s there.”
“So I shouldn’t worry—about my only child?”
“No, I didn’t mean that exactly, just—”
“Yeah, why don’t you go on down there and give her a good spanking?” Ray suggested. “Owen and I can handle the meeting with Machado and de Villegas. I can say something like, you know, ‘Thanks for flying back two days early from Dakar, gentlemen, so we can finalize matters. Unfortunately, Señors Warrender and Lee couldn’t make it this afternoon. Could you guys come back tomorrow?’”
Machado and de Villegas, high-ranking government officials, were due on board in less than two hours, bringing documents authorizing full resumption of mining operations, documents already bearing the presidential signature—provided all other terms proved mutually agreeable. Getting these men to come here directly—and in advance of the presidential delegation’s return to Caracas—was a considerable coup. D.W. and Ray Arrillaga had pulled it off through sheer persistence; while Sam, with his vaunted Venezuelan connections, had accomplished basically nothing. In fact, Proteus’ legendary chairman and CEO had reportedly attended only a couple of skyscraper meetings—at the Ministerio de Energía y Minas and with Ferrominera Orinoco and Corporación Venezolano de Guayana—before flying south to his Promesa ranch.
Five years ago, perhaps even two or three, Samuel Warrender would have been on top of this situation, D.W. knew. But Sam was not the man he had been. His preposterous aside at the mining site yesterday—that he was “thinking about doing a one-eighty down here, letting the professor go ahead with his dig”—was an eloquent testimonial to that. It wasn’t so much the about-face that shocked D.W., as the ease with which Sam had announced it. Did he really imagine he could reverse major corporate policy at his own whim, as he had in the old days, consulting neither Proteus’ directors nor its president?
It was unfortunate, considering all D.W. owed the man, to so thoroughly show him up now before the Proteus board. But Sam had had ample opportunity to slip gracefully into semi-retirement on his ranch. Months ago he had relinquished control of day-to-day operations, hinting to D.W. that the CEO title would soon be his, and eventually even the board chairmanship. Yet these glittering promises remained far from fulfillment. Obviously, despite his stated intentions to abdicate, King Sam would have to be deposed.
And the time was propitious. A clear demonstration of D.W.’s ascendancy would have a major impact on the Proteus board.
A glint of gold inlay betrayed D.W.’s smile. “Jacqueline will have to wait for her spanking, Ray. I do not intend to miss our afternoon meeting.”
“Glad to hear it. What about your appointment with Sam?”
“He just canceled. If he hadn’t, I would have. If all goes well, I’ll invite him to our victory party—the night after tomorrow.”
“How will he take it, do you think?” Ray asked.
“Are you afraid of him, Raymond? Feeling pangs of disloyalty?”
“Maybe a little. Then I suddenly remember he’s ready to scrub all mining operations—without consulting either of us.”
D.W. merely grunted.
“It’s a hell of a thing to happen, isn’t it?” Owen Meade remarked. “I really like the guy.”
“Everybody likes Sam,” Ray said.
“So how’d he turn into such a—such a loose cannon all of sudden? Flying down here without checking strategy with you guys, then riding up to the mountain like that, acting like a cowboy—”
“Sam is a cowboy,” D.W. said. “And there was a time when Proteus needed a cowboy, and Sam made a great chairman. But now, I’m afraid, decisions must be more… what is the word I’m looking for, Raymond?”
“Collegial.”
“Exactly. Well”—D.W. shrugged—”let’s just say that Sam will make a better chairman emeritus. He can ride his horse in all the parades.”
Owen Meade chuckled. At the window, Ray Arrillaga nodded approval. But, hearing himself attempting to pass summary judgment on the life and character of Sam Warrender, D.W. felt certain misgivings. He found himself, in fact, unexpectedly experiencing those little pangs of disloyalty he had moments ago attributed to Ray Arrillaga.
What would Sam t
hink? Ultimately he would have to understand and approve D.W.’s effective actions, just as he had done the first time they’d met, a decade before, as industrial rivals. Sam had not only lost that first head-to-head contest, but congratulated D.W. for having bested him. It had been the founding of their friendship—and their subsequent business relationship.
Back then, of course, the white-haired, eagle-eyed Oklahoman had been a man very much at the top of his game...
*
It was the spring of 1983, but, in the Sultanate of Oman on the southeastern tip of the Arabian Peninsula, it already felt like midsummer. At least it did outside. Inside any of the air-conditioned caravansaries of the modernized seaside capital of Muscat, weather was an irrelevance. Duk-Won Lee had browsed the corridors and lobbies of several of these hotels—the InterContinental, the Sheraton, the al-Bustan Palace, the al-Falaj. And among the business-suited foreigners and paisley-turbaned Omanis, he had noted emissaries from all the Seven Sisters—Exxon, Mobil, Chevron, Texaco, Gulf, Royal Dutch Shell, British Petroleum. There were also delegates from lesser titans—Occidental, Getty, Unocal, Sun and Proteus. Then, of course, there were even smaller-fry, such as D.W. himself, newly appointed managing director of Soderholm Petroleum, a little-known crude producer out of Houston.
It wasn’t a convention. They had all assembled to submit bids (and discreet bribes) to the Omani government for oil and gas drilling rights in the Rub’al Khali or Empty Quarter, along with offshore tracts in the Gulf of Oman. For, despite a swoon in world oil prices, the big companies realized their futures still depended on foreign reserves. In fact, as a result of recent nationalizations in Kuwait, Libya and Nigeria, and ongoing convulsions in Iran, the Sisterhood had lost a good deal of its supply. The Omanis, counting their own diminishing petrodollars, were ready and willing to help rectify those losses.
British Petroleum was considered to have the inside track. They had been partners in the Omani fields since 1964, and England had backed the bloodless 1970 coup in which Sandhurst-educated Qaboos bin Said had toppled his father, the old sultan. But Louisiana-based Proteus was rumored to be closing fast. Sam Warrender had been early and active on the scene. And lately he had been spotted riding with the forty-year-old sultan on a pair of prize Arabians apparently flown in from Sam’s Oklahoma ranch.