Oil & Corruption

by Gareth Flood

  ‘Yeah?’ Mitchell said, annoyed at the intrusion.

  ‘Hoot Mitchell?’ a voice asked.

  ‘O’ course jackass! It’s my ph-’

  Hoot Mitchell’s words were cut short as a forty five-calibre slug tore a small hole through the front of his head and a big hole out the back. A little ‘splat’ sound was heard as his head dropped, face first, into the soup bowl.

  Svetlana screamed with a mixture of shock and delight.

  From a rooftop opposite, the man in a grey coat turned off a mobile phone that was connected to his ear via an earpiece. He then quickly disconnected his high-powered sniper rifle and packed away the pieces back into an innocuous looking business briefcase.

  He carefully scanned the ground for any other debris that might have fallen on the floor. The McDonald’s wrappers had been carefully packed away earlier. The man belched slightly and then shook his head as he headed back towards the stairwell.

  He always regretted eating the American garbage.

  6

  Moscow, London, Washington D.C., Houston

  Andrei Demetchev, the head of domestic investigations at the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the FSB, was slowly dragged from the depths of a deep sleep. A consistent, piercing ringing, gradually entered his consciousness. It was his office mobile phone. He looked dazedly at the clock on the wall opposite, to see it was eleven thirty at night.

  Demetchev had made a special effort to come home early, and had fallen asleep in his comfy chair watching the television. His bleary eyes gradually refocused on the pulsating square of the television screen.

  Moscow Sparta was losing by two goals in the Champions League football tournament.

  ‘Atyebis!’ Demetchev swore at the television, before stirring his large frame to pick up the ringing phone. He looked at the number flashing blue on the screen. It was the office. He had left strict instructions not to be disturbed unless it was extremely urgent.

  He snapped open the phone and brought it to his head.

  ‘Da’ he grunted into it as he glared at the television in disgust. His eyes widened as his brain interpreted the words coming through his ear.

  There was an explosion of blankets and crisps as Demetchev shot out of his chair like a man possessed.

  ‘Na Kuye!’ he swore violently, racing for the door. There was already a car waiting for him downstairs.

  Twenty minutes later, Demetchev was raging at his cowering underlings in the FSB offices on Lubyanka Square.

  ‘How could this have happened?’ he yelled, blasting them indiscriminately with plumes of blame from his coal burning eyes, ‘In the conference centre of all places. Heads will roll for this!’

  The yelling came in waves and the underlings bobbed and weaved slightly as they rode the storm. Many of them had this down to an art form from experience. Most of them knew that the real reason Demetchev was raging was that the Russian President would be calling imminently - with the sole purpose of raging at Demetchev.

  Somebody brought another phone in and held it for Demetchev to take.

  ‘It’s him, Medvjed.’ the man said, as Demetchev took the phone.

  Demetchev was a huge man; he had been a weightlifter in his student days but was drafted into the secret service instead of turning professional. He had picked up the nickname Medvjed, meaning “Russian Bear” when he was an athlete. He still lifted weights and maintained large muscle mass. Thus the name had stuck long after he had finished competing.

  As he took the phone everybody watched his huge frame sink a couple of feet lower.

  They could hear the yelling coming from the small phone held up to Demetchev’s head. Demetchev pinched the top of the bridge of his nose in pain and kept muttering ‘Da’ into the phone. He grimaced occasionally and pulled the phone away momentarily every so often when the yelling hit a peak.

  The Russian President was unflappable in front of the media and public. Those who worked for him, though, knew full well that when a temper tantrum hit - he could spit a dummy ten feet further than the next largest baby.

  After a couple of minutes of intense yelling and obedient agreeing, Demetchev hung up the phone. His eyes darkened.

  ‘Well that about sums up our lives for the next few weeks,’ he said, ‘our exclusive mission is to find who ordered these murders that have so badly embarrassed the Russian Federation - and damn quickly.’

  It was four in the afternoon in London. In the not so secret headquarters of the British Secret Service on the Southbank of the Thames, William Gladstone, the head of MI6 took another sip of tea while looking over the churning river.

  ‘I’m sorry you have decided to go early, Henry.’ Gladstone said, as he replaced his cup onto its saucer with a clink. ‘Sorry I had to say goodbye over afternoon tea. In another four hours we could have done this in an even more civilised manner with a whiskey.’

  ‘It’s not problem, Sir. Retirement comes to us all. For me, I know the time is right – it is not like the old days.’ said Henry Marsdon, an MI6 manager in his early sixties.

  ‘I’m glad we could sit opposite your desk for a final cup of tea though.’ Henry said.

  Gladstone turned from the window and returned to sitting in his high backed, red leather chair.

  ‘I know what you mean – about the old days.’ Gladstone sighed.

  He was also in his early sixties but his full head of completely white hair had always made him look older than he was. Recently, he had been feeling his age.

  ‘The world seems as dangerous a place as it has ever been in my lifetime, Henry.’ Henry nodded philosophically and took another sip of tea.

  ‘When we started in this game, there was only one enemy and you knew who they were.’ Gladstone continued. ‘Today, threats come at you from every angle. Even within your own country; sometimes-’ he paused, ‘sometimes within your own Government.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir.’ Henry agreed. ‘People were better when we had one giant dragon to slay. Everyone united. Since there has been no dragon, it’s like everyone turned to picking fights over minor disagreements or, dare I say it Sir, just plain greed.’

  ‘It is nice to reminisce.’ Gladstone said. ‘Still, as my mother always said to me, one must continue and do one’s best, if it is right - if it is duty. These are the important things.’

  Henry Marsden laughed. ‘Right you are, Sir. Right you are.’ he said. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’

  One of the phones on Gladstone’s desk rang sharply to end the interlude with an old colleague. Gladstone’s left eyebrow arched as he looked at it. It was the special phone.

  Henry Marsden knew what the phone meant. Both men stood and shook hands. Marsden turned to wordlessly exit the office.

  William Gladstone sat down, adjusted his tie, cleared his throat and picked up the phone.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ he said into the receiver.

  ‘Ah, Gladstone.’ came the haughty, yet slightly camp voice of the British Prime Minister down the line. ‘You’ve seen this business with Maslov and Hoot Michell.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister. Fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘I want you to quietly get some people involved.’

  ‘I thought you might, Prime Minister, I have already given the orders.’

  ‘Ah, very good. We need to find out why the head of a global company that brings in so much revenue in tax with being domiciled in the UK has been slain.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Gladstone said.

  ‘And find out if it was a one off thing with terrorists or something or if it is part of something wider. The Chancellor is quite worried, you understand. His budget surplus is already looking decidedly…squiffy.’

  ‘I understand fully, Prime Minister. The wheels are in Motion.’ Gladstone said.

  ‘Good man. Good man. Keep me abreast.’

  The line went dead. Gladstone turned in his chair to face the river again. There was still two minutes left of afternoon tea. He was already looking
forward to the whiskey.

  It was ten in the morning in Washington D.C., Chris Calhoun, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency was in a semi-lit briefing room deep within the Pentagon.

  The President of the United States was on the phone.

  ‘Damnit Calhoun,’ said the President, ‘I want a briefing on my desk this afternoon of what happened in Moscow - dispatch people on this.’

  ‘But Sir, the Russian Vice President seems to be a Russian issue, and Mitchell, although an American, was head of a company based in Europe. We have no direct remit or reason to be involved. We could be treading on a lot of toes here.’

  ‘Dispatch people quietly.’ The President whispered down the line.

  ‘Yes, Sir, but we still need-’

  ‘Damnit Calhoun!’ The President interjected, ‘Hoot Mitchell was a damn fine American. I want to know, and the American people want to know, how and more importantly why, such a grand captain of industry and! And! Ambassadorial American! Has been slain!’

  Calhoun knew the President was of the old school mould of commanders in chief. The President was having a Presidential “Because I said so” moment. Yet in the current political structure and climate, Calhoun needed to cover his ass if the indictments started flying.

  ‘Yes Sir, I maintain we need a stronger mandate-’

  ‘This call being taped?’

  ‘No, Sir.’ Calhoun lied. Calhoun smiled.

  ‘Good. Then here’s your reason for being involved – BECAUSE WE DAMN WELL SHOULD BE AND I DAMN WELL SAID SO!’

  Calhoun smile grew wider.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Agents dispatched. Report by this afternoon.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ The President said, before hanging up the phone.

  Calhoun put down the phone and stopped the recording.

  He picked up the receiver again to start yelling at people.

  It was nine in the morning in Houston, Texas, the global capital of oil. The kingpin of the city was surveying his domain from the top of the tallest building on the skyline.

  ‘That’s a damn fine sight!’ Roscoe Y. Ickes said, as he watched the sun stretch its rays over a city that looked like an unplanned car park.

  Roscoe Y. Ickes was the head of the largest American oil company and second largest oil company on the planet.

  ‘Anus!’ he barked at the window.

  ‘Uh, it’s Amus, Sir.’ came a young voice from behind him.

  ‘Whatever.’ Ickes snapped back. ‘Get me Kaczynski.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Drippy MBA upstart trying to correct me, thought Ickes, he’ll be monitoring an oil well in Northern Alaska by the end of the week - always much sweeter than a straight out firing.

  Ickes was unofficially known as either “No-small talk” or “Yeehaw!” or just, “Yikes!” All were monikers generated from his behaviour in meetings.

  A third generation Texan oil man who had never left America, he had gone straight into refining after qualifying as an engineer and was soon hurdling his way to the top. Disliked entirely by the rest of the world for having no concept of culture other than his own, he was once overheard saying that the route out of poverty for third world countries was to, “just make themselves like America.” Consequently he was not the best person to have negotiating oil rights with rich Muslim Arabs who predominantly presided over third world countries.

  He was also famous for making unilateral decisions in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. His meteoric rise was due to all of his contrarian decisions paying off handsomely.

  Everybody from the most high profile analyst on Wall Street to the mail boy in his own company was waiting with baited breath for the day, and accompanying fall out when one of his unilateral decisions went spectacularly against him.

  In the meantime, as he surveyed the city - he was the top dog in oil town.

  A man in a black suit entered the office, which was the size of a small European state.

  ‘Kaczynski!’ Ickes barked, ‘You heard about this business with Hoot Mitchell?’

  ‘Yes Sir, it’s just breaking on the news networks now.’

  ‘Good. Look into it.’ Ickes said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Hoot and I used to play golf together. Regulators would shit their pants if they ever knew what we really talked about. He was a great son of Texas. It’s a crying shame for a man like that to go out with his face plopped in a plate of commie soup!’ Ickes said.

  ‘Yes, Sir, do you want me to release the Cajun?’ Kaczynski asked.

  ‘No, no, no. Did I say that? Sometimes I think you’re like a full six-pack but lacking the plastic thingy to hold it all together. Know what I’m saying? Listen carefully from now on. So…No! No need to go that far. Just have some of our boys on the unofficial payroll look into it - real quiet like.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Kaczynski said, already turning for the door.

  7

  London

  It was five in the afternoon in London as Jonathan Marshall made his way home from work. He had just finished a couple of hours on the “Loser shift”. This was when all the consultants who were behind on their projects, went in on Saturday afternoon to try and catch up. It was a good idea in theory, but so many other consultants turned up that the distractions one was trying to get away from in the weekday were there again on the weekend.

  He had got some work done on his piece for Falcus Loader, before the noise of the office got to him. Once he decided he was no longer being productive – he shut his laptop down.

  It was October in London and the days were customary grey with light rain. It was not yet cold but he could feel on his face that the air was starting to turn colder.

  He walked past an electronics store that had rammed the window full of flat screen televisions on special offer. All the televisions were tuned into BBC news.

  Jonathan’s jaw almost hit the pavement when he read the ticker tape of “Breaking News” at the bottom of a screen.

  I don’t believe it! his mind screamed.

  The scrolling text kept going from left to right across the screen: Hoot Mitchell, CEO of largest oil company and Viktor Maslov, the Vice President of Russia, both assassinated in Moscow.

  Jonathan was dumbstruck.

  Hoot Mitchell was the CEO of his company!

  He stood mute for a while as the news sank in.

  There was no sound and the ticker tape was not providing any more information.

  Eventually, Jonathan closed his mouth and decided to continue going home to get the full story - it would be running repeat all day on the news channels.

  He set off again as quickly as possible, hoping his flatmate, Harry, was not at home; he needed some space to process what was going on.

  Once he was home, he checked Harry wasn’t there, changed, grabbed a beer and sat down in front of the television. He pushed aside the pile of DVD’s of spy movies on the couch that was going to be his evening’s entertainment from his vast collection of espionage movies and books. He had a mild obsession in with the genre, which always injected a thrill into his otherwise dull weekend evenings. He flicked on the television and caught up on the patchy details that were available - then wondered whom to call.

  It was clear the journalists did not know much at this stage. The Russian government was being its usual source of disinformation. ‘Special Experts’ were on all the news shows, postulating all sorts of random people as being responsible: from the Chechens to Muslim fundamentalists to the Russian Mafia.

  Just as Jonathan put his feet up and took his first swig of beer, his mobile phone rang on the table next to him. He looked at the caller identification in horror.

  Falcus!

  Jonathan had to answer at a time like this. His hand trembled as it picked up the phone and hit the answer button.

  ‘You watching the news, boy?’ Falcus’ booming voice came over the phone.

  ‘Yes.’ Jonathan said dejectedly as he slumped in h
is chair slightly.

  ‘Can you freakin’ believe it!’ Falcus exclaimed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m so excited I could pee on the carpet.’ Falcus said, the pitch in his voice rising as he spoke.

  ‘Huh?’ Jonathan grunted.

  ‘You know what this means don’t you?’ Falcus asked.

  ‘Hopefully absolutely nothing to do with me.’ Jonathan replied, truthfully.

  ‘It means a shake up in the management structure of the company. Everyone will be jockeying for new positions.’

  ‘Oh. No sadness at all then that people have been killed?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Hoot? Hell, if some terrorist hadn’t done it, his wife probably would have as soon as he retired. Besides - he knew the risks. You want to swim with the big sharks you got to be prepared to lose some flesh - know what I mean.’

  ‘He lost half his brains apparently.’ Jonathan said, as he took another big swig of beer.

  ‘For us this is bigger than Hoot!’ Falcus yelled.

  ‘For you, you mean.’

  ‘Aw, don’t be like that son. Look, you haven’t figured this out yet, so I will tell you what this is. This is my chance at redemption for Venezuela!’

  ‘Ahh, I see. Time to come back in from the cold.’

  ‘You damn right. And to make it happen, every card in the deck must be stacked in my favour boy. So you better have that report finished by Wednesday- or else!’

  Jonathan tilted his head away from the phone as Falcus yelled.

  ‘Ooh,’ Falcus said, calming down again but still very excited. ‘Got another call already - let the jockeying begin!’

  With a click, Falcus had hung up.

  ‘Thanks, Falcus. Always a pleasure, cheers for sorting everything out.’ Jonathan put the phone down and downed the rest of his beer. He picked up the phone again and auto dialled Captain Pink. Pink would still be in the office at this time.