The Alexandria Connection

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘Your bedroom’s in Helena, in the governor’s mansion at 2 North Carson Street, two blocks from the Montana State Capitol building. Yet you seem to have two more bedrooms in Billings, or at least Emma Cooper and Brooklyn Murphy do, and you spend quite of bit of time in theirs, which is interesting, because they’re both on your staff, yet neither is aware of your involvement with the other.’

  Davis steadied himself, gripping the edge of the heavy wooden table, and Rachel watched the colour drain from his face.

  ‘And then of course there’s Harper Scott in Bozeman, and Abigail Roxburgh in Missoula.’

  ‘You’ve got no proof of this, Crowley. You’re just picking out names of employees I mix with in the course of my duties.’

  ‘“Duties” has a broad definition in your lexicon, Davis. Missoula’s a nice spot for picnics – confluence of the Clark Fork and Bitterroot Rivers – and given your platform of faith and family, you were smart enough to park out of sight, or so you thought.’ Crowley paused, and then came in for the kill.

  ‘Sit down, Davis.’

  Rachel picked up the chair, more out of practicality than sympathy. What a pathetic individual this politician was, she thought. One of the many who preached faith and morals the loudest, and ignored them most often. And Crowley wanted him in the White House, the most powerful position in the world? For a fleeting moment, Rachel wondered about her involvement with Crowley and his empire. In her darkest moments, she increasingly questioned this, but she had long planned to oust the cloying Lillian. Now was not the time to lose focus.

  ‘We are well aware that neither your wife nor your three children have any idea of your infidelities, Carter, and you’re very fortunate that your peccadillos haven’t come to the attention of the media . . . but when they do, you’ll be finished, not only as a politician, but as a husband and a father. Not because you’ve been found out – plenty of politicians in this country have survived sexual scandals, but I can’t think of one of them who survived when he was running on a campaign of faith and family.’

  ‘When they come to the attention of the media? Are you threatening me, Crowley?’

  Crowley shrugged. ‘You can take it any way you like. To be frank, up until now, I couldn’t have given a shit whose bedrooms you’ve haunted.’

  ‘What do you mean “up until now”?’

  ‘It’s quite simple, Carter, because now, I need someone in the White House who can ensure policies are favourable for big business. Policies that are not held hostage by objections to fracking, or coal seam gas, or any of the other rubbish that the Left comes up with. I need someone in the White House who is unequivocally pro-jobs and pro the economy, and none of the Republicans running at present would know if a San Francisco trolley car was up their ass until the people got off, and even then you’d have to ring the bell – so that someone is you. You will run for the White House, and EVRAN will fund your campaign. Rachel here is not overjoyed at the prospect of managing it, but you will do exactly as she says.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Davis demanded truculently.

  Rachel rolled her eyes. This guy just didn’t get it. For her to manage Davis through the primaries and gain the Republican nomination would be a monumental achievement, but the White House? That, Rachel mused, was miracle territory. General Dwight D. Eisenhower might have slept with his driver, Kay Summersby, during World War Two, and Kennedy may have slept with Marlene Dietrich and Marilyn Monroe, to name but two, but they were intelligent men. Still, if Warren Harding, arguably the dumbest candidate in the history of the Presidency, could win in 1920, and if Andrew Johnson, who had turned up drunk at Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration and was later one of only two presidents to be impeached – if they could gain the White House, it was possible, and she turned her thoughts to how she might secure the million dollar bonus Crowley had offered.

  Crowley had anticipated Davis’s reaction and he nodded to Rachel. Area 15 had obtained the video using cutting-edge surveillance techniques. Better equipped than either the CIA or the Mossad, Area 15’s results were invariably impressive. The video had been shot at a distance, but Area 15’s laser technology captured the audio, and the facial expressions of both Davis and Abigail, the well-endowed blonde PR executive from Missoula, were very clear.

  The vision showed Davis parking his big Chevrolet Tahoe in the bushes opposite Kelly Island and the Bitterroot River.

  ‘I promise you, sweetheart, when the next election is over, I’ll be in my second term, and a divorce won’t matter, but you’ve got to stay with me on this. It’s you I love, and we’ll be together.’

  ‘You promise, Carty?’

  Rachel stifled a desire to vomit.

  ‘I promise . . .’ The audio was reduced to heavy breathing and the camera caught their embrace in all its steamy detail, Davis plunging his hand down Abigail’s ample cleavage, then fumbling for her dress zipper and the catch on her bra.

  ‘Have you seen enough, Davis?’

  ‘You bastard!’ Davis had gone white.

  ‘Rachel will show you the way to your guesthouse. Dinner will be at eight,’ said Crowley, ‘where we’ll be joined by my wife, Lillian, and Pastor Shipley.’

  ‘You’re staying in one of two guesthouses,’ Rachel said, as she led the way across the patio at the rear of the house on to a sandstone pathway and across a beautifully manicured lawn.

  ‘What’s that in there,’ Davis asked, pointing to a collection of buildings shaded by tall, gracious oak trees.

  ‘That’s the fitness centre . . . Olympic pool, sauna, Jacuzzi and a massage studio, along with a conference centre.’ It was rarely used by Crowley, except to entertain.

  ‘I can get a massage?’

  Not your sort of massage, Rachel thought. ‘Of course. Or if you prefer, beyond the fitness centre are two tennis courts and an eighteen-hole championship golf course, where the professional will fit you out for shoes and clubs.’ A small army of gardeners and horticulturists kept the golf course, tennis courts, hedges, rose gardens, vegetable garden and greenhouses in immaculate condition.

  ‘Crowley has his own professional?’

  ‘Mr Crowley doesn’t do things by halves, Governor Davis,’ said Rachel, as they reached the first of two opulent guesthouses. The price tag for Crowley’s estate had never been published, but Rachel knew it dwarfed Los Angeles’ US $125 million Fleur de Lys estate, Miami’s Casa Casuarina and New York’s CitySpire Penthouse. Rachel opened the door and stepped back to allow Davis access.

  ‘Care for a drink?’ he said, placing his arm around her waist.

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear right from the start, Governor Davis,’ Rachel said, removing his arm. ‘Between now and the first Tuesday in November, you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together, and that time will be purely – purely – on a professional basis.’

  ‘Ah, Carter. I trust you found everything in your accommodation to your liking.’ By dinner, any trace of the real Sheldon Crowley had disappeared, and he radiated hospitality and diplomacy. ‘Let me introduce my wife Lillian,’ he said. Lillian was dressed in an impeccable Aquascutum black silk twin set, and black Stuart Weitzman shoes studded with diamonds. Her ample neck was adorned with a string of Paspaley pearls, harvested off the west coast of Australia from the rare Pinctada maxima oyster. Known for producing the world’s finest pearls, the original baroque string was of such rare quality it had taken several years to compile. They were complemented by Paspaley pearl earrings set in twenty-one-carat rose gold.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, ma’am,’ said Davis, still not sober despite a two-hour nap.

  ‘And this is Pastor Shipley,’ continued Crowley. ‘Matthias has been part of the family for years now.’

  ‘Delighted, Pastor,’ said Davis. Looking slightly uncomfortable, he took the pale-faced pastor’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Sheldon tells me you’re planning on running for president,’ Shipley said, as they repaired to the smaller, more intimate of Ploutos Park�
�s two dining rooms. The Italian suite featured high-backed silver chairs finished in gold brocade. The large table was inlaid with silver and gold and supported by four cherubs carved out of stone. Two huge oval mirrors hung above matching sideboards.

  ‘I haven’t announced it yet,’ said Davis, ‘but Sheldon has been very generous with his suggestions and support.’

  Rachel maintained a neutral expression, but she was surprised by Davis’ sudden change of heart. Was it the threat of exposure, she wondered, or had Davis genuinely reconsidered? Whatever the reasons, Rachel had no doubt that the perks of office would feature prominently in Davis’s acceptance.

  ‘Where do you think your appeal to the voters will lie?’ asked Lillian, keen to get to know a little more about the candidate her husband had so suddenly announced.

  ‘For the last three years, as the governor of Montana, I’ve run on a platform of faith and family. Montanans don’t wear their religion on their sleeves but leaving aside the natives, they’re mainly Catholic and Protestant. A platform of faith has served me very well, both as a compass for my personal life, and for guidance in making the crucial decisions that affect everyday Montanans.’

  Rachel observed her new charge with interest. Davis was now clearly back in political spin mode, and if he’d managed to pass the bullshit test in the rough and tumble world of Montana, perhaps he might be able to bamboozle the broader American public for long enough to gain the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. But it would depend on him keeping his dick in his pants, and that might be a big ask.

  ‘We’re basing Governor Davis’s campaign on jobs and the economy. The issues that matter most to ordinary Americans, but I’m under no illusions as to the importance of the evangelical Christian vote,’ said Rachel, ‘and to that end, any support you can provide will be greatly appreciated, Pastor.’ Rachel was acutely aware of Karl Rove’s strategy to mobilise the Christian Right behind George W. Bush in the 2000 election. Without that evangelical support, Al Gore would have been president.

  Pastor Shipley seemed deep in thought, and he didn’t reply immediately. ‘Yes . . . Sheldon has already raised this with me, and I am of course, very happy to help,’ he said finally, turning to Davis. ‘A campaign slogan of “Faith and Family” is fine for the average voter, but there are around forty million evangelical Christians in this country, and they’re a little more discerning. If you are to gain their support, Carter, it will depend on your personal relationship with Christ our Saviour, and if you’re elected as our president, they will expect you to have God at the centre of your administration. Your administration must define itself by its Christian morals and ethics.’

  Rachel groaned inwardly. It was going to be a very hypocritical campaign. But in the face of the likely Democrat candidate, the impressive Hailey Campbell, she knew they needed Pastor Matthias B. Shipley on board.

  ‘I will organise a meeting of a thousand pastors whose influence stretches across this entire country and beyond – pastors like Bobby Calhoun, who runs the American Christian Broadcast Foundation. He reaches over seventy million Americans through his television and radio programs, and he’s a very powerful man to have on side in an election campaign.’

  The same Bobby Calhoun who had described Islam as an evil religion, Rachel mused, and had declared Hurricane Katrina ‘God’s retribution on the wickedness of New Orleans, Mississippi and Alabama’. An already weird state of politics in America was about to get a whole lot weirder.

  30 Mirjaveh, Pakistan–Iran Border

  Yousef dozed in the front seat of the first of the two Bedford trucks, both loaded with Pakistani sheesham logs, a timber of the rosewood genus, known for its unique grains, and much prized by the furniture manufacturing industry. The convoy had left the outskirts of Quetta before dawn, following the long, straight desert highway west toward the border with Iran. To the north the rugged, bare granite of the snow-capped Chagai mountains marked the border between Baluchistan Province and Afghanistan. Every so often, a lonely blue sign would announce the distance to the next small town, with the inevitable mosque and flat-roofed stone houses in an otherwise featureless desert.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon before Yousef was suddenly alert. The truck slowed, and they entered Taftan, the last town before the border with Iran, a few hundred metres further on. The highway was littered with rubbish, and a goat herd was unhurriedly moving his animals from the highway toward the town square. They skirted the truck park on the Pakistan side and joined thirty more semi-trailers, queued at the Iranian border town of Mirjaveh and the crossing of the rail line from Quetta to the first major Iranian town, Zahedan to the west.

  Colourful portraits of the bearded Ayatollah Ali Hosseini Khamenei, the Supreme Leader of Iran, were painted on the sides of the buildings. Here the dirt streets were clean. Barbed wire stretched into the foothills of the mountains to the north. To the south, a heavily fortified three-metre-high wall was under construction, running from Mirjaveh across 700 kilometres of desert to the town of Mand. Coupled with berms, ditches, and forts, it was designed to deter illegal immigrants and to stop the flow of drugs.

  Yousef smiled to himself. With over four million users out of a population of 73 million, Iran, he knew, had the highest rate of opiate addiction in the world, and if the Ayatollahs thought they were going to stop the import of drugs with a three-metre wall, they were kidding themselves. The narcotics came from an area referred to as the ‘Golden Crescent’, an area that overlapped Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iran, and despite the Infidel spending more than US $7 billion trying to eradicate it, production had steadily increased. The Infidel was not very clever, he thought. Poppy growers in Afghanistan could get up to US $200 for a kilogram of dry opium, compared to forty cents for a kilogram of wheat. Of the world’s annual production of over 9000 tonnes of opium, over 75 per cent came across the border from Afghanistan to Pakistan, where it was processed into heroin and then exported back to Iran and on to Europe. Yousef, for one, applauded. Much to the chagrin of the Infidel, opium was one of the key sources of finance for both the Taliban and al Qaeda.

  The truck queue inched forward, and it was over two hours before Yousef was asked for his papers by the Iranian security guards.

  ‘Get out of the truck,’ the guard ordered.

  Captain Kazaz pulled up the computer file for the 300 000-tonne supertanker Leila, a Lebanese flagged tanker in the Port Control Centre at Saudi Arabia’s Ras Tanura oil port. He logged into the Terminal Ship Information System and checked on Leila’s history. Unlike some others, the supertanker was well maintained, although he made a mental note to check whether a minor deficiency, a faulty auxiliary pump, had been repaired since her last visit. Saudi Arabia’s massive sea-island oil terminal was located just to the north of Dammam, the capital of the Eastern Province, the largest of Saudi Arabia’s provinces and the most oil-rich area in the world. Ras Tanura meant ‘cape oven’, and it was aptly named. A searing heat enveloped the peninsula that protruded into the Persian Gulf.

  Kazaz paused to take in the mass of consoles and control screens, the heartbeat of the state-of-the-art Vessel Traffic Management System, which at any second provided the exact position, bearing and approach and departure speeds of the massive tankers. He checked the wind speeds, currents, tide and the weather. Of greatest concern was the wind, and today it was blowing at 25 knots from the north-west. All ships, especially large tankers, acted like a sail. The wind blowing at 90 degrees on the Leila, a tanker 320 metres long with a height of 25 metres, would create a force of some 85 tonnes, but the Leila’s bow thrusters were rated at 2000 kilowatts, which would provide 27 tonnes of thrust. Each of Ras Tanura’s four tugs, equipped with precise Voith-Schneider propulsion units, provided an additional 50 tonnes of thrust, and Kazaz was confident he had plenty in reserve should there be any trouble.

  The 60-metre-high control tower swayed in the wind, and Kazaz looked north, toward the maze of pipes, cracking towers and storage tanks that defined the vast o
il refinery. To the east, long piers jutted into the turquoise waters of the gulf. The south pier consisted of four berths capable of handling smaller 45 000-tonne tankers. It was here that a mere 80 000 barrels were loaded on to a small oil tanker in May 1939, the very first Saudi crude from the world’s largest reserves. A little further up the coast, the north pier extended nearly two kilometres into the gulf. It had a capacity to berth six tankers simultaneously, but was still limited to tankers under 135 000 tonnes. To accommodate the massive ultra large crude carriers, or ULCCs, of 500 000 tonnes, four sea islands had been built in the gulf. The supertankers had a draught of over twenty metres, and were over four football fields in length. Backed by massive pumps, huge four-foot-diameter submarine pipelines delivered up to three million barrels of crude oil to these giants of the sea.

  Saudi Aramco had originally started life as a joint American–Saudi venture in 1933, when the first King of Saudi Arabia, ibn Saud, granted a prospecting concession to American oil concerns. When oil was discovered in 1938, the company became known as the Saudi Arabian American oil company, or ARAMCO. After a long and bitter fight over royalties, the largest oil company in the world was finally nationalised in 1980, and brought under the direct control of the House of Saud and myriad princes, the lavish lifestyles of whom were an anathema to the likes of Jamal and Yousef.

  Kazaz made a final call to the Leila’s agent to ensure customs and clearances were in order. He took the lift down to the car park and drove the short distance to the north pier where the el-Alat 9, one of four pilot boats, was waiting to take him out to the Leila.

  ‘Abqaiq, Manifa, Najimah, Tanajib – are you in position, over?’

  The four tugs acknowledged in turn and Kazaz assigned them positions running alphabetically from fore through to aft. That made it easier for him to remember where each tug was attached.