by Sean McFate
“My associates,” Cavendish said.
Winters shook hands with the other two men. One was classically British, Sir Hyphen-Something, no doubt followed by a string of letters for arcane knighthoods. The other was Indian subcontinent by race, English by every other measure. No doubt his ancestors had been among the collaborators who made the Empire possible. Despite his dark skin, he was as British as Cavendish, from his facial expressions to his pointy shoes.
The last man in the group, who didn’t seek or receive a handshake, was younger than the others, but impeccably groomed and attired. No doubt he was next in a line of private bankers that stretched back to the Glorious Revolution of 1688 and forward as far as London’s existence. He took a seat in the back. He was empty-handed, without a pad of paper or cell phone. Winters hadn’t noticed electronics anywhere, even though he knew this bank was connected.
“Have you given up on North Africa?” Cavendish asked.
“Temporarily.”
“Why?”
Winters shifted, already off guard. How did the bankers know about his North African operation? “There’s more opportunity in Eastern Europe,” he said.
“I doubt that.”
“A better opportunity, anyway. For me. And you.” He had to be careful here.
Cavendish turned and walked past the large brown globe to his desk. Winters could taste the skepticism, but then again, it could have been the British mannerisms. These men had a way of looking down their noses at everything, including their own noses. He wouldn’t have brought his partners, Winters assured himself, if he wasn’t interested.
“I know you have interests in Ukraine,” Winters said.
“We have interests everywhere.”
“Yes, but Ukraine is special. There’s enough shale gas there to power Europe until Putin retires, and enough infrastructure to get it here within six months.” It wasn’t the right word, men like Putin never retired, but he had shied away from expires. Look how long Castro had held on. Putin would outlive Sir Hyphen for sure, and probably a few others.
The bankers weren’t impressed. They hadn’t agreed to meet him for his philosophy. It was time to be American.
“I know you secretly backed the Nabucco pipeline,” Winters said, shifting into direct mode. “It was a smart idea. Bring gas directly from Turkey into Europe, castrating Gazprom and dimming Russia’s influence. I know that, in retaliation, Putin began a pipeline of his own, South Stream, from Russia through the Black Sea. It was an old-fashioned arms race, with pipes instead of nukes, and it killed Nabucco. You took a haircut. A big one. Do you know why he did it?”
Nothing.
“Because he could.”
Cavendish breathed deeply. Or maybe he just breathed. “Your point, sir.”
“I can change the dynamic. I can put Putin on his heels, and Europe in the driver’s seat.” He was mixing metaphors, losing his edge. Jesus, Brad, get a hold of yourself. “But it’s more than that,” he said, moving quickly past the momentary stumble. “It’s more than business deals or a few billion dollars.” Let them chew that number. “It’s victory, gentlemen. I’m talking about taking Russia off the world stage and snuffing out its last chance to rival the West. The end of an era.” He glanced around the room for effect. “The end of an enemy.”
The bankers stared at him in silence, but Cavendish must have signaled for the meeting to proceed, because after a few seconds the younger man rose from his seat and walked to the credenza, where an ornate crystal decanter of Scotch was perfectly positioned on a silver tray. He poured four glasses, and added a few drops of water to each. Winters took his with a nod. Nobody else acknowledged the young man’s existence.
“Tell us,” Cavendish said.
It was a blunt statement, but Winters could read the significance. We are listening. These men knew war. They had profited off everything from the Boer War to Afghanistan. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had backed the winners at the Battle of Hastings. But they rarely started wars; they finished them. That was why they endured. He was going to have to make them stretch.
“We have the power, gentlemen,” Winters said. “The West is distracted by the Arabs, and our citizens are tired, but Russia is worse. It is hollow. Their economy is one-dimensional, dependent on oil and gas, and any rupture—supply, transport, price drops—will cripple them. Their military has spent a decade feasting on children—Georgia, Chechnya, Azerbijan—to hide its inadequacy, but their officer corps is thin and their soldiers poorly trained. They couldn’t even control a third-tier shithole like Georgia without the help of mercenaries.”
“And America couldn’t control a second-tier shithole like Iraq, even with mercenaries,” Sir Hyphen huffed, but for business purposes—the business purposes only—Winters let it slide.
“They are a paper tiger, gentleman, fatally flawed on two fronts. All we need is a spark, and they will go up in flames.”
“And the invasion of Ukraine is that spark,” Cavendish said, in the dry British way that made it impossible to tell questions from answers.
“My firm has three hundred top military professionals operating in the Balkans. I’ve trained hundreds of fighters in the region. Within three months, I could have an army of thousands, well trained, heavily armed, and under elite command. And that doesn’t include the official Ukrainian army. With minimal effort, we could hold Russia in a stalemate for years. That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact. But why settle for that? It gains us little. Why not destroy them instead?”
“How?”
“First, we break their military in Ukraine. It is easier than you imagine, and more effective than you might think. Putin has wrapped Russia in the symbolism of strength. A proud nation resurgent, a northern bear reborn. When we shatter that image, we shatter the people’s faith. Then we break them economically.”
“With oil.”
Winters nodded. “Once we roll back the Russians, I will install my own man as the Ukrainian Minister of Energy. We will control their shale gas reserve in the East, which only the violence has kept Shell from exploiting. We will control the pipelines between Putin and the West. Ukraine has enough untapped natural gas reserves to become Europe’s main supplier of energy within two years. That will make you powerful, gentlemen. And better, it will make Putin poor.”
“It could also cause a devastating spike in energy prices,” Sir Hyphen said with unprofessional fluster. He was probably a legacy. “Just the threat of all-out war could cause a market panic that could crater the world economy.”
“That’s the fear Putin counts on,” Winters said calmly. “It’s his currency of power. But the window here is small: only two years before the East—our East—is pumping enough oil to make Gazprom dispensable. There is easily enough oil output amongst our other suppliers: Norway, Venezuela, Nigeria, Saudi Arabia . . .”
“The Saudis hate Putin,” Cavendish said thoughtfully, “because Putin is propping up Syria and Iran.”
“Exactly. It’s to the Saudis’ advantage to fill the supply gap. And you have the contacts”—Winters glanced quickly from man to man—“to show them why.”
Cavendish nodded. Winters was coming to them with a different kind of proposal: a request to use their influence, instead of their cash. At least, Winters assumed it was a new kind of proposal, because it was unlike any he had made before.
“This all hinges on your man in Ukraine,” the Indian said languidly, speaking for the first time.
Exactly, Winters thought, hoping the change of direction meant they had bought the oil argument. “As you probably know,” he said, “I have been grooming Kostyantyn Karpenko for some time.”
The Indian sipped his Scotch, as if he’d never heard the name. But these men not only knew Karpenko, they owned him, or at least the part of him not currently listed on the London Stock Exchange. Karpenko had told Winters as much.
“You are invested in him, I believe, to the tune of a billion or more. So am I, but in sweat equity and persona
l reputation. Right now, in fact, his future is in my hands. Which practically makes us partners.”
The Indian scowled, and Winters regretted his flippancy.
“Tomorrow morning, Karpenko will lead an assault on a Russian army unit that has taken over a strategic natural gas facility in the city of Kramatorsk. Karpenko’s forces are Ukrainian patriots, all men who have volunteered, a citizen army . . . with a bit of professional help, of course. It will be a small battle, but an enormous symbol. These are Russian troops, threatening a major energy hub, a hundred miles from the Russian border. When Karpenko climbs on a troop carrier to proclaim his victory, he will show the world not just proof of an invasion, but his personal resolve to fight for Ukrainian freedom. This will be his Yeltsin moment.”
“You have press, I assume?”
“Two helicopters, thirty passengers each. Reporters, photographers, video, Internet and traditional outlets, from Europe and the United States. We will manufacture a CNN effect, and drive the news cycle until it gets enough airlift. After Kramatorsk, it is a short drive to the next pipeline trunk station, and an even shorter one to the next. Within a week, Karpenko will become a national hero, my army will make sure of that.”
“And then?”
“Ukraine will rally to him, and so will the West.”
Another long pause. The Brits were masters of feigned disinterest. “The Americans will never go for it,” Cavendish said.
“Do you think I would come,” Winters said slowly, “if I didn’t have that angle covered?”
He saw Sir Hyphen squirm. Was he impressing them, or had he gone too far? The only way to find out was to plunge on.
“If you’ve seen the news from our Congress, you know the United States is looking for a point of entry”—this wasn’t true, they were looking for a way out, but there were layers under the administration with more insight and courage. “The congressional resolution in support of Ukraine introduced this week; the war hawks on the talk circuit. Freedom gas. The timing is not an accident. There are many who agree with my plan, even if they don’t know the details, and we have been carefully amplifying their voices. Karpenko’s triumph will prove they were right to demand action, and give them a way to respond.”
“Obama will never agree to military action.”
“He doesn’t have to. I have Houston, gentleman. I have the Pentagon and cover in Congress. I have five current contracts with the United States government that can be rolled into a private military offensive under Ukrainian army cover. All Obama has to do is stand aside and let me work, and he will, because he always avoids hard choices, and that is the easiest choice.”
In the silence, Winters realized he was leaning forward, and that he’d spoken with more passion than he’d intended. He wanted to say, Fuck it, this was years of work, this is my big chance, I’m not going to come in half-cocked. But instead, he sat back and adjusted his cuffs, to signal his casual reserve.
“You’re absolutely right,” Winters said. “The U.S. won’t intervene to help us. But they won’t stop us either”—as long as we’re winning—“not with my business, military, and Congressional coalition. If you can simply rally the EU, publicly or privately . . .”
He left them the opening, but the bankers didn’t respond. They could rally the British—they could make the British government do almost anything—but they wouldn’t commit. Yet.
“Are you sure Karpenko will do as you ask?” It was the Indian again.
Winters nodded. “We’re partners. He has agreed to everything.”
“And when he starts to believe his own press?”
“I have leverage.” Personal leverage. Family leverage. The best kind.
“What about the current government of Ukraine?” Sir Hyphen asked. “What if they don’t want him to be the Minister of Energy?”
“Why would they refuse? It is a low profile position for a national hero. It strengthens their government, instead of threatening it.”
“And when Karpenko is in place?” It was the Indian, cutting to the crux.
Winters smiled. “Pipelines, oil fields, leases in the Black Sea, anything you want. Anything you have desired. It must be a fair price, of course, but gentlemen . . . how can you place a price on a country’s freedom?”
The Brits didn’t even nod. They simply looked at him, as if they’d never seen him before. Winters had heard of stiff lips, but this made concrete look like Silly Putty.
“And if Putin returns?”
“That’s part of my fee, gentleman, a long-term lease on a private military base in eastern Ukraine: airstrip, training grounds, fortified installations. From that base, I will not only keep your investments in Ukraine safe, I will keep Putin on the defensive, and I will keep the peace from Belarus to the Balkans. Think of it, gentlemen, a new Eastern Europe, free from Russian tyranny. And all of it, or at least the military portion, paid for by the United States government.”
“You have that guaranteed?”
Winters shook his head. “No, but that is the least of my concerns.” Once he had sent Putin scurrying, he’d be up to his elbows in Title 10 contracts. He would be so in demand, he could write them himself. And he would.
The Indian leaned back, as if trying to see him at a new angle. He had a regal nose, and bushy eyebrows, and a stare that told Winters this was the man he needed to impress. And that he was listening.
“You’ve split with your New York bankers,” the Indian remarked.
Winters swallowed his surprise. Of course they knew. “I think you know why.”
Cavendish nodded. Everyone understood this room was an upgrade over New York. “What is the other part of your fee?” he asked. Sharp. These men never missed anything.
“A partnership with you, on a gas field in Eastern Ukraine. Preferably a big one.” Winters had no intention of stealing oil leases from potential allies in Houston, but there were fields still available, especially just across the border in Russia, because why would he stop at the border, gentlemen, once he had Putin on the run?
“We secure the lease for your congolomerate—”
“—and you share the profits as silent partners.”
Cavendish sniffed. “At what percentage?”
“I need 40 percent. The rest is unimportant to me.”
“That is a remarkably poor negotiating technique.”
It wasn’t about negotiating. In New York, yes. But not at this level.
“It’s enough to keep our mutual friends in Houston happy and heavily invested in the democratic future of Ukraine. I’ll make my stake on the security contracts.” With a tidy taste off the top of the shale profits, of course. “It’s not just the Balkans, gentlemen,” he said, lifting his glass. “A base in Eastern Ukraine is the perfect staging area for the Middle East, Russia, the Caucuses, Iran. As I said at the top: from Ukraine, together, we can”—he almost said control, but caught himself—“change the world.”
He sipped his Scotch. It was strong and smoky, straight out of a peat bog. Fifteen years in a barrel, at least. In the scope of things, that wasn’t long.
“You are asking for nothing up front,” Cavendish said.
“Nothing,” Winters confirmed, “until Karpenko is in Kiev. Then I will need your influence, as well as your money, to make sure Europe and the markets go along.”
“What are the chances of success?” the Indian asked.
Winters grimaced, but only to hide a smile. “It depends on your determination,” he said. “With your help, greater than 90 percent. And that’s to secure Ukraine for a generation.”
Or plunge Europe into war. Those were the stakes. And still, the bankers didn’t react. Was there anything that could make them flinch? What if he told them their wives had been murdered? Or their mistresses?
“And if the assault on the gas facility fails? That is the first step, is it not?”
Winters smiled. “The assault won’t fail.”
Cavendish and the Indian glanced at each other,
but Winters couldn’t read their expressions. He hated not being able to read expressions.
“You said tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken,” Cavendish said.
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” the Indian said slowly. “What time?”
He hadn’t known how the bankers would react. They had kept him waiting, alone in the office, for an eternity, and beneath his cool nonchalance, Winters was nervous and cold. The world on a string, and he was sitting in a London office, counting the minutes until these starched-collared bankers returned. Was his plan too bold? Had he chosen the wrong partners? He didn’t worry if the plan would work. He only worried that he wouldn’t get the chance.
A half an hour. An hour. And then, finally, Cavendish and the Indian returned, this time without Sir Hyphen. “We need you to meet an associate of ours,” Cavendish said. “Now. Before your operation.”
Inside, Winters relaxed. He had thought, only half in jest, that they were going to have him arrested for off-the-books ballsiness. Or worse, exiled to Virginia.
“An honor,” he said.
“A car is downstairs. It will take you to Farnborough.”
Winters hid his shock. Farnborough was the corporate airport where London’s superrich stowed their private jets. Maybe they were going to take him to a secret CIA prison in Poland after all.
“Who am I to meet?”
“All will be made plain soon enough,” the Indian said.
Winters bowed. “Thank you, Mr. Beckham.”
The Indian smiled. “Please. Call me Kabir.”
CHAPTER 41
Alie tried not to panic. She tried to think straight. How had this happened?
She had stayed outside the shattered social club for an hour, maybe more, making notes and talking with citizens, trying to piece together what had happened. She had seen the Ukrainian, or Russian, maybe he was Russian, as she walked back to her car three blocks away. He was big, scowling, watching her. But it had only been, what? Two minutes since she’d left the site of the attack. God, they were fast.