Trojan Horse

by David Lender

  Daniel looked out the window. Three days. No call, no sign of her since Friday. Then his mind burned and his stomach twisted inside out for the thousandth time since Lydia disappeared. He clenched and unclenched his fist. Damn you. She’d walked out and hadn’t even given him the satisfaction of throwing her out now that he’d made that decision. He started to spew the speech he’d conceived and involuntarily rehearsed on autopilot six times every few hours since the previous Friday night. He slapped his fist on the desk, wondering how long it would be before he’d be able to deliver it, then refocused on the presentation in front of him. In the next half hour he drafted the first few bullet points of the summary of the strategic rationale for the Saudis to acquire additional refining and marketing operations.

  Then his mind curled back upon itself. Never even tried to come up with a logical explanation for what she was doing with my computer. Or the passports or the money. He slumped back in his chair, threw his pencil down, and exhaled heavily. Or the files. And the whole stash disappeared with her. He wondered again where Lydia came from, who she really was. He felt his guts turning over again as his mind worked through what the passports and money meant—a scam? Or was she just nuts? Again his heart moaned with a sense of betrayal.

  Who cares, he tried to tell himself.

  Daniel stood up, circled his neck to crack it again, stretched. He walked from behind his desk and looked out the window at the glitter of lights in Midtown, his features jagged and coarse in his reflection in the window. Does she love me? It was a question he’d repeatedly asked himself the last three days. He felt a painful lump of air muscling its way to his throat, then spun from the window, glaring at the wall as a surrogate for Lydia to satisfy his anger.

  I don’t need this now. Not during his first presentation to Yassar, the first step in creating the liberating windfall the Saudis could bring him, his first opportunity to put the excitement back into his business life. Even if the bubble’s burst again in my private life.

  “I actually believed in you,” he said aloud, fighting back the swelling in his throat and the sting in his eyes.

  He walked to the window again. His heart cried out to her. Who am I kidding? And then he was off someplace else in his mind. Now seeing her, close enough to reach out but unable to move, touch, sense her, as if his nerves had ceased functioning. Unable to satisfy his hunger. It was then he admitted he was in love with her.

  August, This Year. New York City. Kovarik reached down and rubbed his shin. Man, his leg hurt today. Must be the humidity. He sat at his desk, waiting for Kareem Kapur, or whatever the hell his real name was. Two copies of his 26-page list sat on his desk, one for Kapur, one for him. No title, just a list of 14 oil and gas investment bankers, their 56 clients who provided operating software to the industry and 4,128 oil and gas industry customers of the software vendors. It was in rank order by banker with the most clients, with Daniel Youngblood at the top of the list.

  That made him smile, even as he rubbed his leg. Maybe through all of this he’d somehow fix Daniel’s ass for smashing up his leg, for one thing. Sonofabitch put his Aston into the wall on the S-turn at Watkins Glen that Memorial Day; Kovarik had watched that crash in his mind five thousand times, and he still couldn’t understand how Daniel had the balls to hold his line while Kovarik tried to take him on the inside. Enough.

  He shook his head and glanced at his LCD screen to check the markets. His assistant buzzed him. “Mr. Kapur is here.”

  Kovarik pointed to the sofa in his office when Kapur arrived. He walked out from behind his desk with the two copies of his list and sat down next to Kapur. The guy was wearing the same brown suit—looked like he got it at Kmart, hung on him like a sack, sleeves too long. And that rumpled polyester shirt and $10 tie.

  “Welcome,” Kovarik said, shaking Kapur’s hand.

  “That the list?” Kapur looked intense, and not at all friendly.

  “Yeah.” Kovarik handed him a copy. “You’ll be pleased.”

  Kapur leafed through it for a minute or so. “I see you’re pretty far down the list.”

  “I didn’t want to be too conspicuous. I can change it to add the rest of my clients if you want, but it won’t make much difference.”

  “I’m surprised you put your name on it at all.”

  “If it finds its way into the wrong hands, I didn’t want to be conspicuous with my absence, either.”

  “Only way it finds itself in the wrong hands would be through you,” Kapur said, still looking at the list. “It does and I know who to look for.” He looked up, glaring.

  Kovarik’s neck tensed.

  Kapur flipped back to the first page. “This Youngblood. Looks like he’s got half the business if you count the end customers.”

  “Yeah, he’s a player.” The words tasted bad in Kovarik’s mouth.

  “You know him?”

  “We go way back.”

  “Any issues if he gets tangled up in this?”

  Kovarik felt his pulse quicken. “Nothing I’d like to see better. He’s a self-righteous, holier-than-thou asshole.”

  “Sounds personal.”

  “Yeah, so see if you can make something bad happen to him.” Kovarik smiled. He thought about Angie, then rubbed his shin.

  Habib hung around the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria until 8:00 p.m., waiting long enough that he figured the investment banker from Credit Suisse, Philip Adair, would be home from the office. He got out of a cab two blocks from Adair’s co-op building at 90th and Park and walked the rest of the way. He felt comfortable in the FedEx uniform. When he got to the concierge’s desk in the lobby of Adair’s building, he said, “Package for Philip Adair, twelve-G.” He kept his sunglasses on.

  “Leave it here, I’ll sign for it.”

  “I gotta have his signature.”

  The concierge looked at Habib with disdain, then picked up the phone and called upstairs.

  In the elevator, Habib felt the familiar race of adrenaline, the heightened senses—he could smell the lemon oil on the elevator’s woodwork, see the prickly little hairs on the back of the elevator operator’s neck—he always experienced before an engagement. Better to handle this himself. Now that he had the list from Kovarik, he didn’t need Adair. And Adair wanted more money than Kovarik, and he was dragging the process out, sounding whiny and scared in their last conversation. The last thing Habib needed was Adair chickening out and going to the Feds. Habib knew doing Adair himself was best. Besides, if he turned it over to the Sheik’s people, they’d probably either botch it or call too much attention to themselves. And risk the Sheik thinking Habib couldn’t handle his own problems.

  Habib got off the elevator and walked slowly enough that he could hear its door close before he approached Adair’s apartment door. He stopped in front of it and looked to each side, checking, then pulled the silenced Sig Sauer automatic from his bag. He knocked. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  The door opened.

  “Mr. Adair?”

  “Yes.”

  Habib raised the Sig Sauer and put a single shot in Adair’s forehead. He pulled the door shut and walked toward the stairs.

  CHAPTER 18

  AUGUST, THIS YEAR. VIENNA, AUSTRIA. The Hotel Sacher stands across the square to the State Opera in their marriage to the traditions of the Hapsburg monarchy that established the culture of old Vienna. Yassar had slept peacefully in the Madame Butterfly Suite, the Sacher’s most opulent, because his flight had arrived in sufficient time for him to have a pleasant dinner and retire by 9:00 p.m. After his prayers he showered, dressed, ate a modest breakfast in his suite, then took the Sacher’s Rolls Royce to Obere Donaustrasse to the OPEC offices for the general session of members where he joined his cousin, Prince Naser, the Saudi Oil Minister.

  Yassar’s mind drifted during OPEC’s routine update reports—production vs. quota, pricing grids, and on and on—oblivious to the 1960s décor of the 40-by-60-foot central meeting room in OPEC’s building. His sad eyes were
deceptively lifeless, his overall presentation one of outward calm despite his inner animation. From his seat next to Prince Naser he glanced deliberately around the room at his colleagues, the Oil Ministers of all the other 11 OPEC members, including all seven representatives of the United Arab Emirates. His eyes involuntarily found Hectar Vincenzio, the Venezuelan Oil Minister, and his lip curled. Pork-eating bastard. He again affected nonchalance, but steeled for his opportunity to speak, in which he would formally sponsor and propose a vote on the project to put the cartel in the 21st century. Four hours of discussion later and after the vote was tallied, Naser clasped his hands and winked at Yassar in a Western gesture of victory. Yassar arose from his seat to leave, his formal Saudi robe and headdress swishing behind him. Today, he thought, we take the first step to join the diversified Western conglomerates—BP, Exxon/Mobil, Royal Dutch/Shell—who rule the oil business, and the world.

  Two hours later Yassar sat in his suite amidst the scattered remnants of his dinner on the room service cart. He took no pains to mask his fatigue from Assad al-Anoud, the head of his Secret Police, who sat across from him.

  “That’s the last of the surveillance reports on our financial and legal advisors, Minister,” Assad said. “Do you have any further questions?”

  Yassar shook his head no, distractedly fingering an eyebrow. I’m almost afraid to ask what’s going on at home.

  “As you wish. And we’ll have a team stationed to observe Mr. Youngblood’s comings and goings while he’s in town for your meeting tomorrow.”

  Yassar understood and agreed. Assad placed the folders he held in his lap to his side on the end table. “There’s something else I need you to be aware of, Minister Yassar.”

  Yassar heard the change in his tone. What now?

  “We had another demonstration at the Ministry of Labor yesterday. This time five thousand students.”

  Unrelenting, these problems. And they will become unbearable if we do not act quickly. Yassar sought a reserve of strength within him and found little.

  “And our Intelligence reports indicate the student organizations at the main two universities in Riyadh are organizing a march with the Shiite Muslim groups.”

  Bin Abdur. We haven’t much time. He felt a soul-wrenching desire to take the man—Sheik bin Abdur—once and for all eternity in his hands, squeeze his throat until his eyes popped, then throw his body to the worms that ate the refuse in the desert night. Seeing Assad watching him with concern in his eyes, he felt his face burning with shame. Yassar knew Assad’s next topic, dreaded it. He waited a few moments before asking, “And what news on bin Abdur’s other plans?”

  “Our agents now confirm that he is actively soliciting computer hackers for some kind of sabotage of the oil and gas industry.”

  “And?” Yassar rubbed his forehead, staring at the wall.

  “We have agents posing as hackers to try to find out more.” He paused, seeming reluctant. “And we may have had one bit of luck. A hacker he has hired appears to have brought in one of our own agents, called Alica, who may be able to ascertain his specific plans.”

  “That’s fortunate,” Yassar said. “Good work.” Only now he looked up again at Assad, who was pushing out his chest, probably from the compliment. “But don’t get carried away; stay vigilant and see where it might lead us. You had best get home to Riyadh immediately.”

  Assad seemed to deflate. “Yes, Minister.”

  CHAPTER 19

  AUGUST, THIS YEAR. VIENNA, AUSTRIA. Yassar saw the note slipped beneath the door of his suite at the Sacher. He hoped it was from her. He was expecting news. He opened it to see a neatly typed message transcribed by the hotel’s Business Centre:

  WE ARE INSIDE. OUR MAN HAS NOW AGREED ON PRICE TO HIRE ALI FOR STAGE ONE. HE’S PAYING TOP DOLLAR FOR THE BEST. SEVENTY-FIVE THOUSAND ADVANCE AGAINST THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND SUCCESS TO HACK INTO SAUDI ARAMCO’S COMPUTER NETWORK. I WILL KEEP YOU POSTED.

  ALICA

  “Good,” Yassar said aloud. Now he’d see how bin Abdur would make his move. He began pacing, thumbing his eyebrow. One more meeting tomorrow morning and he could fly back to Riyadh. He crossed the room to phone Assad. He would need to put Saudi Aramco on alert.

  CHAPTER 20

  AUGUST, THIS YEAR. VIENNA, AUSTRIA. Delta Flight Number 2770 left Kennedy Airport at 6:30 p.m., with passenger J. Daniel Christian Youngblood III the last to board after receiving the handoff of six copies of a critically important client presentation from a breathless, wild-eyed James Cassidy outside the security checkpoint at 6:14. Daniel landed in Vienna at 9:20 a.m. By the time he walked across the Philharmoniker Strasse to the Sacher, its international flags hanging limp in the still summer morning, its bold, red awnings gleaming in patches of sun, he felt the tear in his arm sockets from the weight of his bags and the taste of the cognac he’d drunk in order to grab at least a few hours sleep on the flight.

  This presentation better do the trick, because it’s my best shot. The Sacher didn’t let Daniel down; the staff pressed his suit to store-mannequin perfection while he showered, and delivered a steaming breakfast with a punctuality that would have made a Swiss hotelier cry. The shower put some glow back into his cheeks, despite his darkened eyes. At 11:00 he knocked on the doors to Prince Yassar’s “Madame Butterfly Suite” chuckling to himself at the butterflies in his own stomach. His briefcase didn’t seem so heavy now. Six copies of his presentation and his wits about him were the only other things he needed at this point. He felt his adrenaline rise.

  Yassar opened the door. Daniel tried not to show his surprise at seeing him in his Saudi robe and headdress. Of course. He must still be in the middle of their OPEC meetings.

  “Daniel, come in, come in, you’re right on time.” He waved his hand in an arc.

  Gracious and polished as ever, but seems distracted. And his face looks as bad as I feel.

  “Did you have a pleasant flight?” Yassar asked as they headed toward a conference table at the far end of the suite.

  “Fine. Uneventful.”

  “I took the liberty of ordering some tea, coffee, juice and breakfast things for you,” Yassar said.

  “Thank you,” Daniel said and fixed himself a cup of tea, though he didn’t want one. When he turned around, Yassar had sat down at the head of the conference table, contemplating its polished surface. This guy’s mind is someplace else. I hope I can get his attention. Maybe I can loosen him up.

  “I’ve had a few changes in my schedule, including some urgent matters that have come up at home,” Yassar said without looking up. “I recognize you’ve come a long way for this meeting, but would it be too much to ask if we commence immediately so that I can get on with the remainder of my day?” Yassar’s look was friendly but Daniel saw the creases in his forehead and the anxiety at the corners of his eyes.

  “Absolutely,” Daniel said. He felt a nerve someplace inside him twang. He sat down, took a sip of his tea, and pulled out the presentation from his briefcase. He felt one more ripple of doubt, then slid a copy of “Presentation to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia on Selected Refining and Marketing Acquisition Opportunities” across the expanse of now-forbidding mahogany. Breathe. Pace yourself. “As you’ll see from the table of contents, we have a general overview of the strategic rationale for your expansion of refining and marketing activities, followed by a succinct review of six specific acquisition targets. They range in size from five hundred million dollars up to forty billion dollars in value.” Yassar flipped open his copy and started skimming through it.

  Okay, roll with it. Stay with him. He’s in no mood to go page by page. “Ah,” Daniel said, adapting, “I see you’ve focused in on ConocoPhillips’ refining and marketing already. As you’ll see, I believe the strategic rationale for them specifically…”

  “Too concentrated in one geographic region,” Yassar said without looking up.

  A little abrupt, Yassar. Okay. Let’s try to get something more of a reaction, even if only to help me know what you do
n’t want in order to zero in more closely on what you do.

  Yassar turned to the next acquisition target. He seemed uninterested.

  Damn, Daniel thought. His eyes darted back and forth from Yassar’s presentation to his own. “Dorchester Refining. An interesting play for you. I know the situation intimately, having helped the LBO fund to acquire it out of bankruptcy earlier this summer. They’ve barely owned it for a month, but they’ve been known to flip things in the past, so…”

  “Tired old facilities, limited brands.” Yassar looked up. “There’s no long-term franchise here for us to buy.” He turned the next three pages, looking down again at the book.

  Daniel made himself sit straight. Forget the butterflies in his stomach. Now a knot was forming. He saw Yassar looking at the first summary page for the refining and marketing operations of Forrester. “This next one would be the smallest deal in the group. As I noted earlier, we estimate it to be a half billion dollars.” Yassar took in the page for the next thirty seconds. A spark of interest?

  Yassar flipped past the next three pages.

  Damn.

  At one point Yassar ran his finger down a page and flipped back a few pages—cross-checking what?—then stopped and pondered the page he had turned to.

  Daniel adapted again, following Yassar. “I’m a little reluctant to give you a full commentary, since you seem to be in quite a hurry, but if I may make just a few points on these last few?” He studied Yassar’s face, telling himself to relax, that the situation was salvageable. No catastrophe, I’ll come back at him with another group of targets.

  Yassar smiled, first with his eyes, then the corners of his mouth. “Nice job. These last three make an interesting opportunity in combination. Simco has refineries and a network of service stations under different brand names throughout Scandinavia, while Petro and Dontol have similar assets across Southern Europe and the East Coast of the United States.”