Crude Deception

by Gordon Zuckerman

  The next morning, Jacques was awakened by the smell of hot coffee and warm croissants. “Wake up, lazybones, it’s a beautiful day!” he heard Claudine say. “Father is talking about wanting to have brunch with the new Mr. and Mrs. Jacques Roth.”

  It was Sunday, the servants’ day off. Henri had taken advantage of the situation and was busily working in Lady Cumberledge’s kitchen when Claudine and Jacques arrived. Wiping his hands on the tea towel wrapped around his waist, he hurried to greet them. It was obvious that he was excited. Before anybody could say anything, he said, “Come into the kitchen! I’m preparing my specialty, crêpes Henri.”

  The kitchen looked as if a cyclone had hit it. Flour dusted the counters, the stove, and the floor. Mixing bowls were scattered everywhere, and several frying pans were set on the stove. Even the refrigerator door had been left open.

  Hearing the noise and conversation, Margarite entered the kitchen. Pausing to survey the situation, she said, “Henri, perhaps you should allow Denise and me to finish preparing breakfast? I thought I noticed a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator; the staff usually leaves a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice in there as well. Why don’t the three of you go out on the terrace? It’s a beautiful morning and I will bring you your morning cocktail—a Chez Garoupe mimosa.”

  Henri didn’t need a second invitation.

  Seated at the glass-topped table on the terrace overlooking the azure Mediterranean and the jagged, cypress-covered coastline on the opposite side of the bay, Jacques was having difficulty remembering why they had to seek the sanctuary of La Garoupe and the hospitality of the Cumberledges. He was already contemplating a second mimosa when Denise and her mother appeared holding two steaming platters. “Crêpes Henri, slightly modified by Chef Margarite, are about to be served.”

  The light, thin pancakes were filled with a mixture of bacon crumbles, chopped green onions, and diced Gruyere cheese, and the coffee was La Garoupe’s special blend of freshly ground French roast. Seated around the sunlit table, looking out over the Mediterranean and enjoying crêpes, Henri and the others were engrossed in what they all knew was a special experience.

  It was Henri who broke the spell. “Jacques, did you really turn down the President’s offer to join his cabinet? I’ve been receiving calls from Morgan, Roger, Pete, and your father, all of whom have heard about your plan to try to break the grip of the Oil Club. Do you think you can actually raise the fifteen billion dollars?”

  The questions were coming so fast that Jacques was having a difficult time deciding which one to answer first. “Let’s start with the money,” he said. “Unfortunately we were given the fifteen-billion-dollar figure and we have to meet it. We wish the number was smaller, but that’s what is required to fund the development of fifteen million barrels per day of new production.”

  “That is a lot of money to have to raise all at one time,” said Henri sympathetically.

  “Actually, we are not planning to organize the money in a single raise,” said Jacques. “We’re planning to raise it in two stages. The first stage, which we call our prototype phase, calls for one billion dollars. If all goes well, we’ll try to raise the remaining fourteen billion. In breaking the process into two parts we are hoping the successful implementation of the prototype phase will legitimize and make the second phase less difficult.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a billion-dollar trial balloon,” said Henri. “You people certainly like to think big. Whose idea is this, anyway?”

  “It was Prince Habib’s suggestion,” answered Claudine. “He believes a billion-dollar prototype provides enough money to fund one million barrels of daily capacity, or approximately twenty percent of the world’s current capacity. At this level, he believes a working model will be large enough to convince all the different stakeholders that the serious problems have been solved, yet small enough to be more easily funded.”

  “I understand your logic, but even at the one-billion-dollar level, I’m not clear on how you plan to raise so much money …”

  “Our plan calls for us to raise two hundred million from an assortment of independent oil companies and private equity investors. We are hoping the Demaureux, Roth, Stone, Hong Kong, and American West banks will consider contributing the remaining eight hundred million of debt. The two hundred million of investment equity will be used to locate, develop, and determine the productivity of the new reserves. Once the revenue-generating capacity of an oil field has been clearly established, the eight hundred million dollars of debt will be used to pay for the costs of installing all the refining facilities and delivery operations required to distribute the new oil to the ultimate consumer.”

  “And where are you thinking you will find all this oil?” asked Henri.

  “The prince has committed some of his proven but undeveloped oil reserves held in trust by some of the oil-rich countries on the perimeter of the Persian peninsula.”

  “Jacques,” said Henri, “I know you like the prince. Mike respects him; Claudine has always spoken highly of him. And now that I think about it, it’s only been a couple of weeks since I last met with him. Unquestionably, he is emerging as the region’s oil leader. But even so, there is a lot at risk if anything goes wrong.”

  Although her father’s comment was directed at Jacques, Claudine decided to answer. “Ordinarily, I might agree with you, but someone needs to begin believing in someone. Besides, until we can determine the presence of the oil and approve the operative contracts, we are under no obligation to fund anything. The burden will be on us to perform.”

  “Jacques, you and Claudine, as always, make a very compelling argument. I guess I understand the billion-dollar prototype issue, but the remaining fourteen billion is still one hell of a lot of money to fund under any circumstances. Knowing the reach of Big Oil, and its ability to limit U.S. investment, I have to believe that raising that additional money represents your biggest problem.”

  Chapter 28

  THE ADMIRAL

  Each morning during breakfast, Denise and Claudine made their daily list of places to go and things to see. After breakfast, Lady Margarite always had some new art gallery or an artist’s studio to see or an old friend she wanted to introduce to Henri. The four of them would scatter like birds, always agreeing to meet back at La Garoupe to enjoy their late afternoon ritual of sipping a cocktail as they watched the sun set behind the hills of Cap d’Antibes.

  Left to his own devices, Jacques took advantage of the peaceful morning hours and the warm sun to sit on the veranda and read, sketch, and think through the Sentinels’ assignment.

  He had always wanted to learn how to sail. It took two days for him to make the rounds of the local yacht clubs in search of a suitable small sailboat he could buy or rent. On the third day, he found the right boat: sixteen feet long, rigged with a jib and a mainsail, and small enough for one man to operate. After a shakedown lesson, during which the owner helped him sail the boat around the point separating the Cap d’Antibes Yacht Club from the Bay of Garoupe, Jacques was ready to embark on his new venture.

  Each morning, Jacques would set sail, always taking care to remain well inside the protected bay, away from anchored boats, the docks and jetties of the other seaside homes, and the swimmers near the beach.

  Word began to spread that Jacques Roth, France’s national soccer team captain and heir to a French banking empire, was learning how to sail. On the occasion that he would pass within earshot of one of the boats anchored in the bay, people standing on the decks would wave and shout encouragements. As he became more proficient, Jacques would maneuver his boat close enough to answer back. It wasn’t long before he was being asked to raft up and join his new friends for a cool drink and some pleasant conversation.

  The British and French aristocrats who summered along the Riviera quickly became engaged in trying to tell Jacques’s stories. It was becoming a contest to see who could tell the best or latest story. Jacques-watching became a regular eve
nt. His new admirers were beginning to refer to him as “the Admiral.”

  Sometimes, in the afternoons, Denise and Claudine would arrive home to find Jacques’s boat missing. Unconcerned, they would pour themselves a glass of wine and wander down to the end of the jetty. With the aid of high-powered binoculars, they would search for the Admiral. As long as they could see his boat tied up somewhere in the harbor, they didn’t worry. He’ll come home when the wine runs out and he doesn’t have any more stories to tell, Claudine would think.

  Jacques soon became bored by limiting his sailing to the confines of the protected bay. One day when there was very little breeze and no clouds in the sky, he began to maneuver his craft toward the better wind that lay beyond the mouth of the bay. Always mindful of the increased danger of sailing in the open sea, Jacques limited his route to tacking back and forth in front of the bay, in clear view of the beach, the chateau, and all his new friends.

  Having made a few uneventful passes back and forth, he thought, Oh, what the hell, why don’t I sail around the point to the yacht club at Cap d’Antibes? At least I can have lunch and a cold beer and meet some new people.

  He made it without incident, and lunch at the yacht club was glorious. With the aid of several beers and a new audience for his old stories, Jacques was in his element. The time flew by, and before he realized it, the sun was beginning to set. He had barely cleared the outer buoys of the marina when he felt the wind begin to pick up and saw the dark clouds forming over the hills to the west.

  The wind was becoming stronger; the seas were rising and the sky was becoming darker. Watching the coastline, Jacques realized that despite having lengthened his westward tacks, he wasn’t getting any closer to the shore. The wind was taking him further out to sea. He decided his best bet was to try and tack north and west against the wind in order to make it back to the safety of the harbor at Antibes.

  The growing intensity of the wind and the further rising of the sea forced Jacques to focus on the seaworthiness of his small craft. His first thought was to drop some sail. Unable to work his way forward to release the jib, he untied the mainsail line. With considerable effort he succeeded in pulling the sail down the mast and wrapping the descending canvas around the boom. His job completed, he firmly lashed the boom to separate cleats on opposite sides of the boat’s cockpit.

  Exhausted from the effort, Jacques looked up to see the coastline rapidly growing smaller. The effect of the jib was no match for the force of the wind. No matter what he tried, he was being pushed further out to sea. Returning to shore was no longer an option. He had no choice but to let the wind propel his boat further away from the shore.

  Despite his inexperience Jacques realized he needed to make sure the boat didn’t capsize. Using the jib and the rudder to keep the bow of the small boat pointed into the wind became his most important objective.

  He was so focused on the task at hand that he failed to notice the effect the increasing wind was having on the jib. The sound of a loud crack, like the report of a rifle, signaled the tearing of the jib. The wind had split the smaller, triangular sail in half; both parts were flapping wildly in the wind.

  Drifting around in what had become a very heavy sea, with no effective sail, Jacques realized it was only a matter of time before one of the big waves would break over the side of the boat and fill the cockpit with water.

  He was too busy thinking to be scared. Looking around, he saw two life preservers, the canvas bag in which his sails had been stored, and an extra line stored in the forward bilge. He put on one of the preservers and stowed the other in the stern. Ignoring the fading light and the lowering temperature, Jacques tied one end of the rope onto the handles of the canvas bag, dropped it over the stern, and began to feed out the line. The canvas bag soon became a bucket that acted like a sea anchor, which would keep the bow of the sailboat headed into the wind and waves.

  It was almost dark by the time Jacques finished cutting the right number of holes in the bottom of the canvas bag and determining the proper distance for his improvised sea anchor to float behind the boat. Thoroughly soaked, exhausted, and chilled, he removed his survival bag from under the stern deck. In it were his lunch, a canteen filled with drinking water, a pocketknife, a compass, and a map of the southern coast of France. He put the compass and the pocketknife in each of the front pockets of his dungarees. Sitting down in the bottom of the cockpit, out of the wind, Jacques took a small sip from the canteen while he took stock of his meager inventory. Then he sliced off small pieces of the salami, cheese, and baguette he had packed, and settled down to enjoy his makeshift meal and survey his situation.

  I can use the remaining life preserver as a mattress and a piece of the jib for a blanket. The sea-anchor solution appears to be working. Tomorrow, with the aid of my compass and the mainsail, I will start sailing back toward France.

  The sudden arrival of a heavy rainsquall interrupted his reverie. Instinctively, he knew the solution to one of his biggest problems had just presented itself. Scrambling to cut the remaining porting of the sail off the jib line, he fashioned the sailcloth into a shallow bathtub-type arrangement that could be attached to both sides of the cockpit to collect the rainwater and drain the captured water into his survival bag.

  Jacques, old boy, you have food, you have water, and a relatively sheltered place to sleep. Why don’t you try to rest and see what tomorrow brings?

  The rhythmic movement of the boat helped Jacques fall asleep. It must have been about two o’clock in the morning when he was awakened by a new and violent movement. Thinking his sea-anchor line might have broken, he rose up from the floor of the cockpit and started to inspect the problem.

  Jacques never knew what hit him. During the night, one of the lines securing the boom had come loose from its cleat. Without warning, the heavy boom, covered as it was with a rain-soaked sail, struck and knocked him unconscious. Jacques lay in the bottom of the boat, blood oozing from a deep gash on the right side of his head.

  After her first pass with the binoculars in the late afternoon, Claudine failed to spot Jacques’s boat. When she couldn’t spot him after her second, more thorough inspection, she could feel the tension of worry begin to build within her. While Denise went up to the house to start making phone calls, Claudine—the thought of Samson never far from her mind—began her third search. This time she concentrated on the uninhabited coastline as well as the beach, the boats, and the jetties. When her third inspection failed to produce results, Claudine knew something was very wrong.

  Would an inexperienced sailor like Jacques be able to handle the mistral that had brought the change in the weather? Maybe he’s put ashore someplace where we can’t see him. Has Samson finally caught up to him?

  Claudine began to make her way toward the chateau when she spotted Denise running down the jetty toward her. “He’s been at the Cap d’Antibes Yacht Club; he left about an hour ago. He has to be in his boat out there someplace! Come on, we can take the car and follow the coast road. From up on the bluffs, we should be able to spot him.”

  Denise had braked her car to a stop at each of the bluff’s several vistas overlooking the sea. They failed to see anything that remotely resembled Jacques’s sailboat by the time they arrived at the yacht club. Denise used its phone to call the local coast watch.

  “Don’t worry, madam!” said the person she reached. “We’ll start the search as soon as it’s calm. According to our calculations, the combination of the winds and the currents would have taken Jacques in a southwesterly direction in a line with Algiers in North Africa. By the time this thing blows itself out, he could be three or four hundred kilometers out into the center of the Mediterranean. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

  The headline that greeted Henri the next morning after he walked down the drive to the front gate to collect the paper read, “Jacques Roth, Heir to France’s Largest Financial Empire, Feared Lost at Sea.” It was the same headline Jacques’s father, in his Paris home, s
aw on the opened paper that had been placed on the table in his breakfast room. And, after hearing their morning security brief at the White House, Chairman Malone, Secretary Ainsworth, Senators Hess, Armstrong, and Lucas, and the President all became concerned.

  Several days passed. The French Navy’s search failed to reveal anything. No ransom demands had been made. No wreckage from Jacques’s boat had been sighted. The world was ominously silent. There were no rumors on the street, no police reports, no sightings, nothing. There had to be some explanation; someone as prominent as Jacques Roth didn’t just disappear.

  The French navy was ordered back to sea. Once again in Geneva, members of the Sûreté interviewed the captured Samson operatives. Other than reporting rumors that Samson had canceled its contract with its American employer, the two operatives convinced their captors that they knew nothing of Jacques’s disappearance.

  The search was expanded to the Spanish border to the west and the Italian border to the east. Pierre Roth placed an announcement in Le Monde that he was offering a reward of 100,000 francs for any information that led to his son’s safe recovery.

  The next morning, articles announcing the reward and featuring recent pictures of Jacques appeared wherever reputable French newspapers were sold in every city in France, Italy, and Spain.

  In Washington, Roger Malone said, “Well, that really does it. I guess it’s time for me to call in Jack Hardy.”

  Chapter 29

  CECELIA RETURNS HOME

  Mike’s return trip from Geneva to San Francisco had been long and exhausting. Three days and two nights of changing time zones, varying meal patterns, disembarking from planes, trying to sleep in airports, standing in long lines, and passing through customs would tire out almost anybody. Any effort to sleep on the last leg of his trip from St. Louis to San Francisco had been made impossible by the crying of more than one small child. The pressure in the cabin from the high altitude was causing the young children a great deal of ear pain.