by Ben Coes
“Even if the Saudis didn’t have anything to do with this, they have us by the balls,” said Holmgren.
“It cost the United States one hundred and seventy-seven billion dollars to end the oil embargo in 1973,” said Stebbens.
“In 1973 dollars? My God, the sky’s the limit now,” said London.
“This is shooting from the hip, but based on our experience in ’73, and given the urgency this time around, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ask for four, five, six hundred billion dollars,” said Stebbens. “Nothing would surprise me.”
“Are you hearing this, Roger?” asked the president.
“I hear you,” said Putnam. “And here’s how I’d approach it: remind King Fahd which military superpower enables him to continue to live as royalty, the one country that helps him stop the natives from busting down the front gates and throwing them out on their keisters.” The secretary of state paused. “They need us as much as we need them. I’d tell them we know that they just attacked us, we have evidence linking government officials and Aramco brass to the attacks, and we don’t intend to pay a dime. In fact, I’d demand some heads on a platter along with the oil.”
The conference line went silent for a few moments, until the president cleared his throat. “That approach, Mr. Secretary, could leave us with no oil at all. That’s an intolerable risk.”
“This country was built on intolerable risks,” said Putnam.
“Tonight is not about building,” said the president. “Tonight is about defending the country and preserving economic stability. The Saudis, if it was indeed the Saudis, which I am still dubious about, won this round. Period, end of statement. We need to find out why we didn’t know about this plot, where in our intelligence infrastructure we could have and should have caught this. If nonterrorist states are in fact co-opting Al-Qaeda we need to get to the bottom of that. We need to do a lot of things. But tonight, there’s one job: get the oil flowing. That is our mission. That is your mission. Nothing else. Spend as little money as possible, but bring home the oil. The risk created by any kind of confrontation is unacceptable.”
The phone in the conference room on the secretary of state’s jet went dead. Putnam didn’t even look around the room. He walked back to his stateroom and slammed the door.
Four and a half hours later, Putnam climbed into the back of a waiting black Mercedes stretch limousine at the U.S. Air Force Base in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The limousine and its six-car motorcade cruised through the late evening across Riyadh to the massive complex that served as King Fahd’s central palace.
Putnam stepped out of the limousine and walked up the steps of the palace, where Roland Que-Marosali, Saudi Arabia’s foreign minster, met him.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” Que-Marosali said. “How was your flight?”
“Nice to see you, Roland,” said Putnam, shaking Que-Marosali’s hand. “The flight was excellent, thank you.”
They walked through the elaborate entrance atrium in the palace and down a long hallway, lit by a series of massive chandeliers. They walked through a large set of French doors. Inside was a spacious living room, decorated with tapestries on the walls, chandeliers, dozens of large couches and chairs.
Seated on a couch in the middle of the room was King Fahd. Next to Fahd was one of his sons, Prince Bandar. At the side of the room, several well-dressed staff members stood at attention. Fahd and his son stood up as Putnam entered the room. They walked slowly toward Putnam.
“Welcome, Roger,” said Fahd.
Putnam took Fahd’s extended hand.
“King Fahd,” he said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. My sincerest apologies.”
Putnam shook Bandar’s hand as well.
“Come, come, Roger,” said Fahd warmly. “You’re always welcome in this house.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Bandar. “We look forward to hearing how we might be of service.”
“Thank you, Prince Bandar.”
King Fahd returned to his seat on the sofa, accompanied by Prince Bandar. Que-Marosali, the foreign minister, sat in a chair across from them.
A servant came forward. He placed a tray down on the table. On it was a silver service full of coffee, as well as tea and some cookies.
“Please, help yourself,” said Prince Bandar.
“A cup of coffee,” said Putnam. “Black.”
The servant handed the secretary of state a cup of steaming coffee. He took a sip and looked across the table at King Fahd. “I’ll be brief.”
“We assume this has to do with Capitana,” said Fahd. “We’re so very sorry your country has suffered these tragedies.”
“Thank you. It’s been a difficult week. The reason I’m here now, sir, is to ask for Saudi Arabia’s help. The loss of Capitana creates a challenging situation for the United States.”
“Yes, I would imagine,” said Bandar. “By our own estimates, Capitana was on pace to produce twelve percent of U.S. oil next year, scaling to nearly a fifth of your supply sometime in the next five years. Its production seemed to have no limits. It was an impressive field.”
“What I’m here to seek your help on is Saudi Arabia’s willingness and ability to step into the breach that’s been created. To put it bluntly, America needs to quickly create an alternative to Capitana.”
“Go on,” said Fahd.
“You’re the only country capable of filling the void. I’m prepared to negotiate long-term supply commitments, and to compensate you for your flexibility in this matter.”
The room was silent. Prince Bandar leaned forward and prepared a cup of tea, which he handed to his father.
King Fahd took a small sip, then looked up at Putnam.
“Saudi Arabia is America’s friend,” said Fahd. “As long as the Fahd family rules Saudi Arabia, we will always be America’s greatest ally. We’ll help you, Roger. But getting our production up to the levels required to fill this sudden loss of petroleum, this is indeed a challenge. It’s no secret Ghawar field is in decline. It costs us more and more to bring declining volumes of oil up from the ground. Every barrel becomes more expensive as it becomes harder to locate, find, and produce. To now add what would be hundreds of billions of barrels of incremental demand would pose a major financial drain on our resources. The oil is there, but getting to it is very expensive.”
“I understand. We would never ask you to be the sole bearer of that up-front cost.”
Fahd looked at his son, Prince Bandar. “Salim,” asked Fahd, “what would it cost to finish completion of Ghawar, including the southern territories?”
Bandar looked at Putnam. “It would cost seven hundred billion dollars.”
Putnam calmly took another sip from his cup.
“Roger, we would never ask the United States to pay that entire amount,” said Fahd. “After all, we will ultimately be the beneficiaries of America’s increased consumption.”
“Understood,” said Putnam. “You wouldn’t want to appear greedy.”
“My proposal to you would be we share in the cost,” said Fahd, stroking his beard. “America invests five hundred billion dollars in jump-starting Saudi Arabia’s infrastructure and locking up increased output. In return, I would begin diverting what we can to your shores immediately—what reserves are in storage in Ghawar and in other fields. That can begin as soon as this evening.”
“Where do those reserves now stand?” asked Putnam. “How much is actually there? I understand that much of Saudi reserve has been taken by the Chinese over the last year.”
Fahd looked at Putnam, then at his son.
“The Chinese have a big appetite, you’re right,” said Bandar. “They’re buying everything they can from whomever will sell it to them.”
“Why then has Saudi Arabia not invested in production at the new fields?” asked Putnam. “Why is there such an investment required to complete Ghawar? If you have a customer such as Sinopec, if you’re serving the fastest-growing economy in the world, why do
n’t you have the resources to reinvest? Why not charge them now? Must America pay for what will ultimately benefit the Chinese?”
The room was silent. Fahd stood and walked to the window, which overlooked the lights of Riyadh. “We haven’t planned well. Imagine, if you will, a restaurant somewhere. A small, family-owned restaurant. In this restaurant, there are only two chairs. Behind the counter, a hundred different people wait for the money that comes in. They must split it up, dollar by dollar, as it arrives. Then one day, into the restaurant walks a very fat man. He sits on a chair, but he practically crowds out the other chair. He slobbers. He orders everything on the menu. He pays. The hundred family members are happy. It’s more money that evening than they’ve made in years. The next day the fat man returns. He orders even more. He’s gotten bigger too. No customer can even fit now on the other chair, he needs both, he’s so fat! But today, when the bill comes, he pays half of what he paid the day before. He leaves no tip.”
“The Chinese are ruthless,” said Bandar.
“They’re customers, and we value them,” said Fahd. “But they use their size to place themselves in a unique and powerful position. They exploit. It’s their nature.”
“I understand the situation, Your Majesty,” said Putnam, leaning back in the big couch. “But five hundred billion dollars is outrageous. You know it and I know it. America will not pay that much money for your help.”
“In 1973, you invested nearly a hundred and eighty billion to end the oil embargo,” said Bandar. “In today’s dollars, with inflation, that would be nearly nine hundred billion dollars.”
“Unlike you, Prince Bandar, I was alive in 1973,” said Putnam. “I remember what happened. The oil embargo was a mess that was brought on by American policy makers. We paid to correct the sins of our own mismanagement. This situation is completely different. America has been attacked. Not one but two major strategic assets have been destroyed. We didn’t bring this attack on. It was brought to our facilities and our shores and our citizens. And now we reach out to you as allies.” Putnam looked at Bandar coldly. “What if we had asked for an ‘investment,’ to use your term, before we stepped in and saved you from Hussein in 1993, when he was at your doorstep like a hungry jackal? What if we had our hand out then as you do tonight? What would we have asked for? What was it worth to the Fahds to save all that they have? Two trillion dollars? Five trillion? But no, we asked for nothing. We risked American lives to stop the enemy and beat them back.”
“Let’s be honest,” said Bandar. “That was an act of self-preservation by the Americans. In 1993, the fields of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait produced nearly forty percent of U.S. petroleum. You saved yourselves that night.”
Fahd walked from the window to the couch and sat next to Putnam. “What we offer you is reasonable. What I said about the hundred family members at the restaurant. Imagine a number one thousand times as large. There are princes across the country and their spending only grows. I have my own pressures. Someday, you will not be seated in this comfortable sofa, nor will I. Someday it might not be someone who is willing, at whatever the price, to step into the breach, as you say. You’re lucky. The Americans are lucky. Lucky to have friends like the Fahds, like the Saudis.”
Putnam could feel the redness beginning, first at his neck, then rising through his cheeks and nose, up through his forehead, anger, hatred, beginning to boil. He held the cup of coffee and took a sip. Then, staring at Fahd, he took the small cup and hurled it at the window where Fahd had just stood. The cup smashed against the thick glass, sending coffee all over the window before the shards of white and blue china dropped to the floor.
King Fahd and Prince Bandar remained motionless, in shock.
“Friends?” asked Putnam. “Your own foreign minster plotting with senior Aramco officials to sabotage Capitana as far back as 1998.”
Across the room, Que-Marosali, the Saudi foreign minister, who’d been silent until now, rose from his seat.
Putnam continued. “We have evidence, piles of it, linking members of this government with what happened at Capitana.”
“This is outrageous!” yelled Que-Marosali. “Why would we do this?”
“You know why. You saw what Capitana had the potential to be. You tried to buy it. You offered to pay obscene amounts of money for it. You recognized before it was even built the significance of the strike.”
“There are many elephants out there,” said Que-Marosali.
“Bullshit,” said Putnam. “None that hurt you so severely.”
“This is outrageous,” Fahd whispered, shaking his head. “In all my years, I’ve never been so deeply offended.”
“You’re offended, sir?” asked Putnam. “How do you think we feel?”
“Where is this ‘evidence’ you claim to have?” asked Bandar angrily. “So we were upset at what Capitana has done to us. So what. There’s a giant leap from being upset to committing acts of terror.”
“Do you deny it?”
“Of course we deny it!” yelled Que-Marasoli. “How dare you accuse us of such acts!”
Fahd looked ashen and stunned as he sat in silence and watched his foreign minister and his oldest son scream at the U.S. secretary of state. He held a hand up to silence them. Finally, he looked up at Putnam.
“We’ll continue to honor our military alliance with the United States,” said Fahd. “I’ve known you more than thirty years, Roger. I have to believe there’s something the matter with you. We would never do anything to harm the United States, not intentionally. I want you out of my house. The offer I made earlier is gone. You can find your oil elsewhere.”
It was 6:00 P.M. Saudi time when Putnam climbed back on the airplane.
“How’d it go?” asked Scalia.
Putnam stopped and looked at Scalia and Stebbens. His face was ashen. “We have a problem,” said Putnam. “I need to call the president.”
He walked past Scalia and Stebbens, shut the door to the stateroom, and dialed the three-digit code that would ring White House Control, which would then find the president.
“How did the meeting go?” asked the president when he came to the phone a few seconds later.
Putnam paused. “Not well. I failed. Went off script. I made the accusation.”
There was a long silence.
“I thought we discussed this.”
“We did.”
“I was crystal fucking clear, Roger.”
“You were. You were crystal clear.”
“Goddamn it!” yelled the president. “Do you understand the situation we’re already in? Do you understand what happens in three weeks, a month, when the tanks start running dry? You arrogant son of a bitch!”
Putnam was silent.
“How clear did I make it to you? What the fuck have you done?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll have my resignation on your desk by the time the plane lands.”
The president was silent.
“I held back,” said Putnam. “We had a deal ready to cut. They wanted five hundred billion dollars.”
“Five hundred billion,” said the president. “Holy shit.”
“I negotiated. Then, at some point, Fahd said something that triggered something in me. I lost it.”
“What exactly do you mean you ‘lost it’?”
“I accused them of being involved with the attacks. I threw a teacup against the wall.”
“My God, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about Ted Marks. I was thinking about how angry I am. I lost control.”
“Now we have to rescue this,” said the president. “I can’t accept your resignation. We can’t give the Saudis, or anyone for that matter, the power. I might have to do it later, in case five hundred billion dollars and your scalp gets the oil flowing again. You deserve to be fired, you stupid son of a bitch. What you did tonight wasn’t just a disavowal of my direct orders. You hurt the country. But right now we need to go into salvage mode. In fifteen minutes I want to talk
about what we’re going to do.”
Over the next two hours, as the secretary of state’s plane returned to the United States, the president and his senior staff attempted to mitigate the damage caused by Putnam’s accusations against the Saudis. But it was no use. King Fahd had gone to sleep. Prince Bandar was unwilling to speak with anyone. The highest-ranking official reached was Saudi Arabia’s ambassador to the U.S., who was awakened at the Saudi Embassy near the Watergate in Washington and asked to come to the White House. By the time he arrived at the White House, he’d been briefed, and instead of discussing the situation used the occasion to lodge a formal diplomatic protest and demand Putnam’s ouster.
By midafternoon, King Fahd called an emergency meeting of OPEC to discuss the incident. At the meeting, held by teleconference, Que-Marosali described the meeting with the U.S. secretary of state. He expressed King Fahd’s indignation at the United States. The governing body of OPEC, the foreign ministers from the seven oil-producing states in the region, expressed their unanimous support for Saudi Arabia and demanded Putnam’s firing. More important, the group agreed to hold production level and not help the United States with its oil problem. A broken teacup was turning into a shattered alliance.
By late afternoon in the United States, someone within the Saudi government leaked the story to The New York Times. They ran an online article about the disastrous Fahd-Putnam meeting. As expected, the price of oil futures, already more than $50 a barrel higher in the wake of the attack on Capitana, leaped on the word that a deal to resupply U.S. oil supply had not been reached with the Saudis. By noon, the price of a barrel of West Texas Intermediate, or WTI, the kind of light, sweet crude oil produced in Texas and the Gulf of Mexico, and a good indication of where oil prices would go, crossed the $200 mark for the first time ever.
27
PRESBYTERIAN/ST. LUKE’S MEDICAL CENTER
DENVER, COLORADO
Ted Marks awoke and tried to register where he was, to remember something, anything, that would give him a clue as to where he was, why he was here, but he was at a loss.