Oil & Corruption

by Gareth Flood

  ‘Not necessarily.’ said Lambdon, ‘This company is full of misnomers. Not too long ago I worked on a “Global Strategy for Fuels” – it was neither Global, nor a Strategy and only had something vaguely to do with Fuels.’

  ‘I can’t discuss it with you.’ Jonathan said flatly.

  ‘Hah!’ Lambdon retorted. ‘Think you are working on a confidential project? Hah! Mine is so top secret, I dare not even speak its nom de plume. I’m not even working here in the office. I’m on the twelfth floor in Portfolio. Where the top secret work happens around divesting, market entries, merger and acquisitions. I only came down here to pick up my mail and grace my presence among you plebs of a lower caste.’

  ‘Great. I’m so happy for you.’ Jonathan said, ‘Now will you piss off?’

  The door to the office banged open and Captain Pink marched in like a Marine drill sergeant who had just found a dirty latrine in the barracks. He was clutching his latte to his barrelled chest like it was a live grenade.

  Pink fixed his steely blue eyes on Lambdon as he marched toward him and Jonathan.

  Lambdon gave a little yelp and did the odd shuffle of a cattle prodded Olympic walker towards the other end of the office.

  Captain Pink had made clear on previous occasions what would happen to Lambdon if he ever came within Pink’s “five foot hemisphere” again. Suffice to say it involved: pair of pliers, tube of toothpaste, fifty locusts and a sewing kit.

  With Lambdon dispatched, Pink sidled up to Jonathan’s table and leant against it while placing his coffee down.

  ‘So watch’ya want?’ Pink asked.

  ‘I’m doing this analysis,’ Jonathan explained, ‘economics of doing a new Eurasian pipeline and I’m sure the methodology is right, but what I’m seeing as the final result is not adding up - or not in the real world anyway. The main piece of work was done somewhere else in the company, someone in Oil Production. I’ve fixed a few things but the final result is either wrong - or scary. I want you to cross check it for me before I take it any further. You are the only one I trust in this nuthouse.’

  ‘Sure, man. I have some spare capacity this afternoon. Whiz it through on email.’ Pink said, as he picked up his coffee and took a swig.

  The phone on Jonathan’s desk started ringing.

  Jonathan stared at it.

  ‘You gonna pick that up?’ Pink asked.

  Jonathan’s hand extended slowly and picked up the receiver. He brought it gingerly to his ear and muttered a very soft, ‘Hello.’

  His face drained of colour and he immediately hung up.

  The door to the office banged open and a man with a shaved head in a cream suit was standing in the doorway. The man was holding a mobile phone aloft.

  ‘Just checking you there boy!’ The man said loudly in a deep, booming voice.

  ‘Holy Crap!’ Pink exclaimed, ‘Falcus Loader!’

  Jonathan screamed and leapt out of his chair. He bolted down the office, through the second door. Once through the door, he dived into the fire escape and tore down the flights of stairs. He took the stairs three at a time to get to ground level. His security pass was outstretched to reach the sensor to the main outer door before his body got there. As he got through the main door he saw security talking into their radios and starting to move toward him. It was too late - he was out of the building.

  He sprinted up the road and took a left to disappear into the small side streets leading up towards the City of London. He ran until his heart felt like it was exploding in his chest and his lungs were on fire. He stopped to gasp a few deep breaths, then started running again. He turned and took two steps into Withnail Street before being tackled from a side alley by a burly man in a black suit. Even before he could react his arm was twisted behind his back and his face was nuzzling the pavement. A second man in black had also materialised from nowhere and the duo hauled him to his feet. They spun him around while keeping a tight grip on the wrist lock they had on his arms. The men started marching him back in the direction of the office.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ Falcus Loader said, as he leaned on the desk of a moderately good looking female consultant near to Jonathan’s chair. ‘I’m a twenty-five year veteran of this company.’ he informed her. ‘Yup, made a few careers in my time – if you know what I mean.’

  The woman looked at him suspiciously, deciding at what point to yell sexual harassment.

  ‘I could, uh, introduce you to the best way to drink Tequila later. Picked that up on assignment in Mexico. Or maybe how to smoke a cigar – Cuban only of course.’ He beamed his most charming smile. ‘I received my first Cuban from the hand of Castro himself, while on assignment in Cuba. Fidel claimed he only smoked cigars rolled on the thighs of Cuban virgins and at that moment – I knew I would spend many years in Latin America.’

  The target of his affections for that night was just about to open her mouth and tell him where to go, when the loud shrill of a mobile phone went off within Falcus’ cream jacket.

  ‘Excuse me baby,’ he said to the woman as he winked at her, ‘but hold that thought.’

  The woman gave a patronising smile and picked up her phone to call Human Resources to raise a complaint.

  Falcus brought the phone to his ear to be met by a torrent of screaming Spanish.

  ‘Si, si, Consuelo, Sí, el niño no es mío! She’s just a girl who claims I am the one!’ Falcus yelled into the phone, while waving his free hand excitedly.

  ‘Who is that guy?’ The young female consultant sitting next to Captain Pink asked, as Pink arrived back at his desk further down the office.

  Pink thought he may as well give it to the young woman straight and shatter any final illusions as to the company she was working for.

  ‘That,’ said Pink, ‘Is a hangover from a previous time – when cowboys ran oil companies and not accountants. I’m amazed every time I see him that they haven’t fired his lecherous, old ass.’

  ‘What’s with the cream suit?’ she asked, staring in wonder.

  ‘Oh, nobody quite knows where that fetish came from. Rumours range from Colombian drug cartels to a day on the set of Miami Vice back in the eighties.’

  Pink pointed at the commotion with the phone. ‘Probably getting yelled at by one of his Latino wives.’ Pink said.

  ‘One of his wives?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Pink explained. ‘He trades his Latino wives down every five years. Each one is always crazier and slightly younger than the last.’

  Falcus was shaking his head at the phone. He threw it to one of the bodyguards in black and made a cutting motion across his throat. The bodyguard caught it and placed it neatly inside his jacket pocket.

  The young consultant leant in closer to Pink, who was watching the scene with amusement.

  ‘What’s his deal with Jonathan?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘I thought Jonathan was one of our top guys. But I just saw him run screaming from a professional office.’

  ‘Well, when Jonathan was recruited into the company and ranked as “top management potential”, Ol’ nut job Falcus there was assigned to him as a Mentor. In those days, Falcus was busy leading the company back into Venezuela for the third time. He had free rein out there back then. Jonathan was sent to join him in Caracas.’

  Pink sighed, before continuing, ‘Nobody really knew what went on there for a year, but something went wrong - badly wrong. It was referred to in hushed tones around here as “The Venezuelan Incident”. Apparently staff from the organisation had to get airlifted out of the country pretty damn quickly. Nobody knew why - but it was bad.

  Nobody who was there would talk about it. Any mention of Venezuela still has the effect on Jonathan that you saw earlier.’

  ‘Wow!’ said the young consultant, her eyes agog at the story. ‘I thought I was just here to work spreadsheets.’

  ‘Oh, you are.’ replied Pink. ‘The final rumour around the big screw up, was that once Jonathan made it back to England, there was a four month recovery program sponsored by the org
anisation in lower Sussex. He returned - still one of the best of us. Jonathan is someone the organisation has plans for.’ Pink said, as he turned to the young woman. ‘Though why they keep that fruit loop around,’ Pink said, as he pointed at Falcus, ‘is beyond me.’

  The door to the consultancy office banged open again and Jonathan was frog marched in by the men in black. Falcus was sitting in Jonathan’s chair, with his cowboy boots up on the table, resting next to Jonathan’s laptop.

  ‘Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,’ sighed Falcus, ‘I feel like my own son does not want to talk to me.’

  ‘You’re insane.’ said Jonathan. Everyone in the office was staring at them.

  ‘All great pioneers were misunderstood in their own time. Van Gogh, me, Edison, me, the list goes on. I do not feel hurt though. My happiness that we are working together again outweighs your misperception.’

  ‘WHAT!’ Jonathan almost spat the word.

  ‘That’s right! The interesting little piece of work you are engaged in right now…is for me. Well, not me directly, I’m doing it as a favour for an old buddy in Oil Production. Know him from a brief foray into Siberia. You know you can feel your lips freezing together at minus forty degrees Celsius up there? Never mind. Look, it’s a simple cross checking of something done by a spreadsheet monkey on the other side of the fence in Production. Sit him down boys.’

  Falcus stood up and swung the chair around. The two men muscled him into the chair and Falcus swung the chair to face the table and the laptop. He leant in and Jonathan flinched away as far as he could.

  ‘I’ve got special dispensation from your boss,’ Falcus said, ‘you are working for me on this and nothing else. It needs to be complete by next Wednesday – or else your career and life as you know it is over! There is a meeting of bigwigs in Moscow in the next few days to decide if we are in on slapping some new pipelines across big sections of the map. Our company needs good reasons to show why we need to be in on that deal – that is what your analysis must show. Nobody knows about the pipeline now, but when it is announced in the next few days, we need to be prepared and all over it like that rash I picked up in Sao Paulo.’

  Jonathan visibly slumped in his chair. It was like a trapdoor to hell had been opened up beneath him.

  ‘It doesn’t add up.’ he mumbled.

  ‘Hush, hush, hush, you know I don’t get involved in the detail. I’m a high level guy. That’s why we have people like you!’ Falcus said, as he clapped his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. Jonathan winced.

  ‘Finish it!’ Falcus said. ‘Put that disclaimer about it being a draft in font size six…on the back…in light green so the colour blind can’t read it. That immediately takes out one eighth of all men you know. Then if the whole thing turns to custard, we can say it was just a draft.’

  ‘Insane.’ Jonathan whispered.

  Falcus stood up straight and puffed out his chest.

  ‘Right!’ he yelled, so the whole office could hear, ‘You better have it delivered by close of play Wednesday.’

  He clapped his hands together twice. The muscle men released Jonathan and stood to attention. Falcus clapped his hands together once and the men turned; then the three of them started walking out. Falcus was whistling “Is this the way to Amarillo?” as he exited the doorway.

  Jonathan could barely register his own reflection on the computer screen.

  He looked like he had just been lobotomised.

  3

  Moscow

  Hoot Mitchell, Chief Executive Officer of the largest and most influential oil company in the world; surveyed the Moscow skyline from his top floor hotel room.

  ‘Uh, Sir, you probably shouldn’t stand so close to the window.’ said one of the security men standing by the door to the room.

  ‘It’s bullet-proof glass, dufus.’ Mitchell said.

  ‘Still Sir, we have instructions.’ the security man said in a slightly plaintive voice.

  ‘Here is a new one. Get out.’

  The two security men at the back of the room looked at each other.

  ‘Now.’ said Mitchell.

  The two men slowly slunk out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  Hoot Mitchell put one hand on his enormous belt buckle and the other behind his back while widening his stance.

  ‘Like I’m ridin’ this sucker!’ he said, loudly to himself as he looked over the city.

  He noisily sucked in air through his nostrils and puffed out his chest. ‘Good to be on top, baby. Yeah!’

  He was in the plushest hotel room in the land. Exotic fruits and expensive drinks from far off places adorned all the tables. The only thing missing was a girl with a palm frond, in a loincloth, fanning him.

  Got to take moments like these to enjoy the fruits of hard work, he thought.

  Hoot Mitchell was fifty-seven; his place in oil industry history was already assured and he had enough money to buy all the ranches adjoining his in Texas. He still had time to run on his tenure as CEO, yet these days he kept finding his mind turning to the breeding of his heifers rather slaying the next oil Elephant.

  He heard the main door opening again but did not turn around. He knew it was his head of security.

  ‘Sir, you shouldn’t be in here alone.’ the security officer said, as he closed the door behind him.

  Mitchell ignored him; sucked another blast of air into his nostrils until his eyes bulged.

  ‘Russian security is really busting our balls, Sir. Say they won’t set up the meeting with their man tomorrow unless we comply with some of their rules.’

  ‘Aaah, the meeting.’ Mitchell said, savouring the words; rolling them around in his mouth as if they were delicious sweets.

  The global energy picture for the next twenty years hinged on the outcome of this meeting.

  Would the Russians tie up with Europe and the American Oil Companies? Would it be enough to shift the balance of power away from the Middle East? Would the cost of trampling human and property rights in ramming a massive pipeline across Eurasia be worth it? All in the name of squeezing terrorist funding and advancing humanity?

  It was up to Mitchell as head of the largest oil company in the world to decide which way it went. Mitchell had already decided he was not going to go ‘All in’ - bet on the full-house scenario with his stake.

  He was going to go in with a ‘lite’ version that he knew was acceptable to the environmentally minded Russian Vice-President. There would be a deal, but not the one many stakeholders were expecting. No massive pipeline to bind the infrastructures of the West and Russia but a number of smaller development projects to still draw their economies closer. He would still bow out on a high and he was so close now he could smell it. He sniffed again loudly through his nose.

  ‘Whatever.’ he said to his security man. ‘I tell ya, I’ve been in this game since I was fifteen. If I was worried about security, I wouldn’t have got into oil in the first place.’

  ‘Yes sir, however, they do seem seriously serious.’

  ‘Fine, tell them they can set it up and I’ll comply. Now get out.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Mitchell heard the door click closed behind him.

  Big intake of air into the nostrils.

  ‘Ridin’ this sucker!’

  On a higher floor at the other end of the building, in the suite of the hotel adjoining the conference centre, Viktor Maslov, the Vice President of the Russian Federation, poured himself a mineral water with ice from the bar as his security people briefed him on the upcoming meeting.

  ‘The American will not listen to us about security.’ One of the agents said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Viktor Maslov, ‘I will talk to him. I want you to set up the logistics of the meeting tomorrow. He must follow instructions or it does not happen. Mitchell may be a complete boorish asshole, and those being his best qualities, but we still need him to agree. There are too many other interested parties wanting this not to happen. I think he will. He wants this as well. It wil
l allow him to ride off into the sunset in his stupid cowboy hat.’

  Maslov leaned forward to sit on the edge of his seat. ‘Make sure he gets to the meeting. We have to save the environment for future generations. The project that has been bandied around for decades that no-one speaks of-’ Maslov paused. His face darkened.

  ‘The one which you only hear whispers, and what whispers you hear scare you - must stop. We can have concessions in the north and east where there are plenty of resources. Russia needs the development and the Americans will be satisfied. This week we end the whispers with ink on paper.’

  The security agent nodded. He was of the old school and would do whatever was instructed of him. He looked around the room at the six agents lining the wall. All good men - handpicked by him. Ready to do their duty.

  ‘It is all arranged.’ the agent said. ‘Everything is ready for tomorrow; right down to the statements of the press secretary.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black mobile phone. His fingers quickly jabbed a number on the keypad and he reached across to give it to the Vice-President. ‘Just tell John Wayne to be ready at eight thirty in the morning.’

  Across the building and two floors down, the phone next to Hoot Mitchell rang. He picked it up.

  ‘Let’s meet.’ said the voice of Viktor Maslov through the phone.

  4

  Moscow

  In a hotel room on the third floor of the Zhinovsky Conference Centre, a group of ten assassins were pulling all sorts of disassembled weaponry out of carrier bags. Having been given their fake uniforms and necessary passes, they had arrived in Moscow the previous night and moved into the hotel part of the conference centre this morning. They were all dressed as catering staff. The kitchens to the venue were huge and a hive of activity as the breakfast needs of over two thousand people were taken care of.

  Their official entry cards were checked out at the entrance and passed without incident. They had walked through the kitchen carrying a variety of assorted catering boxes and carrier bags. Only one security guard addressed them as they were getting into the service elevator for the third floor. They would probably find his body on top of the elevator tomorrow after he failed to report in and a thorough search of the premises undertaken; by which time, the killers would be in unmarked cars being dispersed in all directions of the compass.