Oil & Corruption

by Gareth Flood

  ‘Holy Crap.’

  ‘Standard practice in every global multinational.’ Lambdon shrugged.

  ‘And this Jonathan Marshall person somehow found about it?’ asked another of the head agents.

  ‘He did more than that chief,’ broke in the agent called Jerry.

  Jerry had been fully briefed by Jorge on other workings within the company that fleshed out the storyline. Jorge could not be in the current meeting himself as it would blow his cover – Lambdon might recognise him as a mole.

  The agency still needed the services of Jorge in relation to the company in the future. Lambdon still had no idea how Jerry had gotten onto him in the first place and the agency was determined to keep it that way.

  ‘Normally these types of employees and consultants work under what is called “separation of duty”,’ Jerry explained, ‘that means Mr. Bijlani here was working on the financial model and various inputs given to him and may have a vague idea about the overall objective of the project, but wouldn’t know other vital parts – only pieces of the puzzle.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Lambdon, ‘I have told you everything I know which is mainly around running the economic model. As to who is involved in my company or who the external partners would be, or who would make such a thing happen, I have no idea. What I have by itself on my computer remains a piece of theory. Just a model that someone has built in a spreadsheet.’

  ‘And this Marshall fellow?’ Gladstone asked, as he tapped the table impatiently.

  ‘It seems,’ Jerry continued, ‘that Mr. Marshall, given a few pieces of the puzzle to cross-check as an outsider to the project, under his own initiative, put the pieces together and summarized the entire project as a hypothesis and sent it on email to his boss, who sent it to a senior manager. The group running this at the top would have been alarmed that there was a leak and immediately set wheels in motion to plug the leaks. Either their own people or those of more shadowy business partners became involved and people started dying. Marshall’s boss, Falcus Loader, died soon after in an aviation accident. They missed Mr. Marshall in Paris and it started leaking all over the place. They won’t stop until Mr. Marshall and anyone else who has wind of this is are erased – the stakes are too high.’

  Gladstone leaned forward and levelled his cold, grey eyes at Jerry.

  ‘Do you have a copy of this summary? His hypothesis.’ he asked in a monotone voice.

  ‘No. Only he would know where to access it on the systems. It is standard protocol among consultants to rename and hide files in obscure places in systems as a backup. As well as mail them to Internet based email accounts.’

  ‘Well the solution remains obvious.’ Gladstone intoned hollowly across the table, ‘We need to find this Marshall chap and bring him in – PDQ!’

  Lambdon lived in a world of acronyms but had never heard that one before. He quickly surmised though, that it stood for “Pretty Damn Quick”.

  ‘Yes Sir.’ Jerry replied, completely unfazed as though he was expecting this response. ‘Just one problem, Sir, we haven’t heard from Mr. Marshall for the last forty-eight hours. He seems to have completely dropped off the grid.’

  47

  Corsica

  Mr. 3.64 Percent listened to the entire story while sipping ice tea.

  Not much had changed since Jonathan had told the story a day earlier in Madrid. There was a long pause after Jonathan finished speaking.

  ‘Well? Any, um, feedback?’ Jonathan asked eventually, after watching his audience circle the rim of his fine china teacup for over two minutes.

  The eyes of Avi widened in alarm.

  ‘What did you say?’ Demanded Mr. 3.64 Percent.

  ‘Please forgive your guest.’ Avi said, stepping in with a large, placating hand. ‘It was just a heart palpitation. This British man has endured an undue amount of stress.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mr.3.64 Percent intoned with a scowl on his face as he tapped the side of the china cup impatiently. ‘I am considering!’ he yelled at the sky in a loud voice.

  Whoah! Jonathan thought. Here we go again. Another person that’s a major player in the most important industry in the world and he’s clearly slightly unhinged!

  The situation returned Jonathan to his thoughts in the car on the way to the hotel, that essentially you had people making decisions in this industry that affected hundreds of thousands of people. After his misadventures of the last week, it had become apparent to Jonathan that the majority of these people seemed to fall into three camps: either not qualified to make the decisions, blinded by ambition and/or arrogance or just plain old fashioned proper window licking nutcases.

  This is the situation we have. he thought. With the most powerful people in the world running the most powerful industry in the world. Unbelievable.

  Mr. 3.64 Percent broke the short interlude.

  ‘What’s in this for me?’ he asked churlishly, his pink face scrunching up within his ball head under the baking sun.

  Luckily Jonathan had already thought of this eventuality.

  ‘Do you own shares in the company?’ he ventured bravely with an attempted tone of authority in his voice

  ‘Of course! I have many shares in all major oil enterprises in the world.’ Mr. 3.64 Percent retorted.

  ‘Good. Short sell the lot of them. The stock will dive when this news gets out. You will make a fortune.’ Jonathan banged the table in front of him for effect.

  Mr. 3.64 Percent smiled at the childish minds in front of him. He always considered it amazing that the world continued to move forward with so many tiny brains running all over the place. Due to the blessing of his own gargantuan cranium, money would never be a motivating factor ever again for the rest of his tea sipping, sun soaking days on earth. There was however something that did appeal to him from the situation that had been presented. One that had been immediately obvious and then grown in opportunity as Jonathan had related his tale.

  For Mr. 3.64 Percent - that was the chance to screw over the Russians. That certainly appealed. The Government there had shut down his initial foray into Russia, and although he had kept his contacts and bribes up there, he had nothing to show for it. It was the only other major piece of action in the world these days and they kept it ridiculously close to their chests.

  All his overtures over the years there - spurned! Him!

  At a secondary level, he would also find it quite satisfying to screw over another International Oil Company. Since they had been on a respectability drive and tried to clean up their acts over the last few decades, they had also made it clear that they would have nothing to do with him in the future either. Despite him having brought a lot of wealth to their doors during the fifties and sixties. Him! It was another insult, but not as bad as the Commies. So yes, Jonathan’s proposal was appealing to the podgy, well connected billionaire in the white suit.

  He decided he would help.

  He surveyed the motley crew of indigents before him as they sweated on his patio while waiting for him to declare their fates.

  ‘I know someone who would know who is behind this.’ he watched the tension in their faces turn to near smiles as they realised he would help.

  ‘You have to go to Moscow’ Mr. 3.64 Percent said.

  The faces of the audience turned to quizzical looks of confusion.

  ‘For this to come out into the open, you have to draw the prey.’ Little pink claw hands were making pulling movements towards his little fat body for elaboration.

  ‘And Russia is only half the equation, the other half resides within your organisation,’ A little pink podgy hand jabbed towards Jonathan, ‘But if you can draw out the Russian bear, you will also draw out the spider from within.’ With that, Mr. 3.64 Percent picked up a silver bell from one of five on the table beside him and rang it.

  A tall, dark man with slicked back hair and obsidian eyes, dressed smartly in black trousers, polo neck and jacket emerged from a door nearby.

  ‘I give you my best man, Zlatan. H
e is of gypsy stock and crafty killing is in the blood, as well as trickery with knives. I will organise Russian visas tonight and you leave tomorrow.’ Mr. 3.64 Percent informed them.

  Jonathan attempted to sidestep the difficult new information to assimilate of the crafty killing gypsy to instead focus on logistics.

  ‘Russian visas overnight?’ he asked incredulously, ‘How can you get forgeries that quickly?’

  Mr. 3.64 Percent gave his little red smug smile again. ‘They will not be forgeries, you forget, you are going to Russia my friend, where a judge can be bought for three kopeks. You leave tomorrow.’

  Great, Jonathan thought, I am going charging into Russia, probably to take on the mafia and security services with a crazy Israeli, a fanatical Arab and now a genetically bloodthirsty gypsy. I’ll be dead by tomorrow night!

  48

  Moscow

  By afternoon of the following day, Jonathan and his strange entourage were in Moscow’s Sheremetyvo Airport, smiling politely at the impassive faces of Russian immigration control authorities.

  Their passports had been taken off them yesterday afternoon. They had been handed back in the morning as they boarded a private plane at the Corsican airport. Inside each passport, as promised, was a perfect, official, entry visa for Russia.

  Even the Desert Falcon had an official pet passport with all the correct documentation. The visas were so perfect, that even the border control officials, one of the last great vestiges of the bureaucratic Soviet past, when confronted with the relative horror of allowing a Gypsy, Jew and Arab into their relatively right wing country, could do nothing but narrow their eyes and stamp the entry date on the Visa with a visceral force of disgust.

  Soon they were travelling in a hire car down the billboard smitten main motorway into Moscow itself.

  Zlatan had insisted on driving. No-one argued with the Gypsy. Zlatan had yet to speak very much. He had spent his time on the plane sharpening a myriad of knives that seemed to be concealed all over his body. Once they passed the metal sculptures that marked the halt of the German army on Moscow in the Second World War, Zlatan finally broke the silence.

  ‘It is time to brief you on the person we are going to meet.’ he started. ‘This person is well known as a man no one can trust but everyone uses him, as his information and contacts are always good. He cannot be trusted because he will always go for the highest bidder. His only allegiance is to the filthy American Dollar. The boss has agreed to pay him a handsome fee to set up a meeting with a representative of the Vice-President of Russia, formerly the Energy Minister, who is pulling all the energy strings in this country at the moment.’

  ‘This is good.’ Avi replied, ‘I have contacted my employer last night. Once we have the meeting with the high Government official, he has have an idea for drawing everyone out who has an interest in this.’

  Jonathan turned to look at him in the back seat. ‘Mind telling us what it is?’ he asked.

  ‘All in good time.’ Avi said, as he patted Jonathan’s leg reassuringly.

  With his British “No Contact” zone breached by personal touch, Jonathan was too disturbed to press the matter further.

  An hour after leaving the airport, they pulled up outside a Starbucks within a leafy ‘new’ suburb that had been created for “New Russians” with money made often in shady circumstances.

  ‘Starbucks? What the hell are we doing at a Starbucks?’ Jonathan asked incredulously.

  Zlatan sighed as he killed the motor. ‘Yes. This man we are to meet is crazy for how you say? Americana. He probably has his Chevy Corvette parked around the back.’

  Great! Jonathan thought, another nutter to welcome to the circus.

  Zlatan twisted around in the front seat to face them. ‘All of you stay here. The man knows whom I represent and will only deal with me. Besides, a large party will only upset his bodyguards who will be scattered throughout the shop. It will not take long.’ With that he started to climb out of the car.

  ‘Great.’ Jonathan said. ‘How long is “not long” in your culture?’

  Zlatan was already outside of the car but his head popped back in momentarily.

  ‘This is nothing to do with my culture. I will be as long as it takes to perform a Swiss bank transfer. This is the culture of money.’ With that, he closed the door hard enough for the car to rock slightly on its springs.

  The Desert Falcon on the arm of the Arab looked around wildly for a moment until the Arab said ‘Kuckkukukkkkk’, upon which, it closed its eyes and looked as though it was once more asleep.

  Just over five minutes later, Zlatan emerged from the coffee shop and jumped back into the car to immediately begin driving off.

  ‘It is arranged.’ he said as they merged once more into the Moscow traffic. ‘The assistant to the Vice President will meet us in a public place tomorrow, a very public place at twelve noon.’

  ‘Which is?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘The small square before the entrance to Red Square, PloschadRevolyutsii.’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Jonathan said, as he leaned forward in his seat. ‘Why would the assistant to the Vice President agree to meet some random bodies he doesn’t know, even in a public place? I mean, we could be anybody.’

  Zlatan smiled at the road ahead of him. ‘Ah, you are new to how the real Oil game works. We are not random people. The man back in Starbucks knows whom I, as well as your colleagues in the back, work for. We have come bearing information on this secret pipeline that could affect the partnerships behind it. This is enough to draw out any of the local partners to investigate it further. The key to this game is information. You got into trouble because you knew information you were not supposed to. The Vice President of Russia will always send one of his senior men to investigate anyone sent by the man in Starbucks who claims to have information on people or deals that could affect them.’

  ‘He is right.’ Cut in Avi. ‘This is quite normal. But what will happen tomorrow will not be a normal meeting and exchange of mutually beneficial information.’

  Jonathan reminded himself to just give in again and go with the flow. Zlatan was right. He had no real understanding of how the industry worked behind the curtain, while his comrades seemed quite relaxed with the way things were going.

  He decided that he should react as he would to situations on a plane – only panic when the cabin staff is seen to be panicking.

  ‘How long before we get to the hotel?’ Avi asked.

  ‘About forty minutes.’ Zlatan replied.

  ‘Good.’ Avi said. ‘I have formed the basis of a plan. That will give us enough time to discuss and agree things during the journey. Here is what I propose…’

  Exactly forty minutes later, as they pulled up outside the Hotel Karnegie, they had their plan.

  Every one of them left the car with a smile on their face.

  49

  Moscow

  Thirty minutes later the entire detail of men were back in the car and en route to another hotel.

  The first part of their newly formulated plan was complete.

  Zlatan had pre-booked a room in the Hotel Karnegie under a valid but untraceable name. After checking in, they all went for a drink at the sumptuous marble bar. Once everyone had finished their drink, Jonathan paid for the drinks on his personal credit card and then reassembled his global roaming cellular phone, before turning it on. It beeped and flashed up on the screen that he had forty new messages.

  He switched it off and disassembled it once more.

  ‘Now,’ Avi said as he took the phone off Jonathan, ‘we shall see how many people are interested in you, and what they are willing to do. This gives them all a day to get to Moscow and set up.’

  En-route to their true hotel, they stopped the car and parked illegally on the edge of Ploschad Revolyutsii square.

  Avi repeated the process to turn Jonathan’s cellular phone on and off once more.

  This would ensure that whoever was interested in Jonathan would a
lso converge on the square. They would watch known areas he had been to - hoping he would go there again.

  ‘There,’ Avi said, ‘the scene is set. All that remains is for us to get a good night sleep. We have to get up early tomorrow. A lot is going to happen.’

  50

  Moscow

  From atop the Okhotnyj Ryad shopping centre, hidden by a dormant neon sign, Jonathan and his entourage, apart from Zlatan who was not with them, focused their binoculars on the people coming and going through Ploschad Revolyutsii Square.

  It was ten minutes to midday and everything seemed normal. The square was bustling with tourists partaking in the usual tourist activities in the area: taking snaps of the National Historical Museum, the statue of World War Two Red Army Commander Georgi K. Zhukov, looking around for how to get into red square, joining the queue to see the embalmed Lenin.

  Shoppers went into and out of the entrance to the shopping mall that the Jonathan and his companions stood on. Everything appeared as a normal day.

  Zlatan emerged from a stairwell behind them and jogged to rejoin the group at the edge. Once crouched down with the others, he picked up a set of binoculars to survey the scene.

  Avi leant over to Zlatan, ‘How did it go planting the final piece?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem.’ Zlatan replied, ‘It is in the phone box at the far end of the square.’

  ‘Good.’ Avi pulled back and relayed the message to the others around him.

  From the sky above came two short, sharp shrieks as the Desert Falcon made a low pass near them. The Arab quickly shifted his binoculars left and away from the square to the large road of Teartal’nyjProezd that led down the hill and into the square from nearby Lubyanka square, where the former offices of the KGB where.