Jonathan could not shake off a nagging feeling that maybe he was being used in just such a way by The Dichotomy. The problem was that a victim of business politics had no way of knowing until the trap was effectively sprung.
Jonathan was troubled enough to turn away from the view of the picturesque brown hills to have one last crack at Avi before they arrived.
‘No need to ask again,’Avi said, pre-empting him. ‘It is time to tell you about the man we are going to meet. His real name is no longer known. He is only known as 3.64 Percent. Originally a Dutch speaking Belgian, he made his fortune and become a man with powerful connections through the exploits of his younger days in The Gabon.
He tied the Then-Dictator of The Gabon into an oil exploration contract when the Dictator desperately needed hard currency to stop his regime toppling. Oil was later struck in the country and our Belgian associate was contractually entitled to 3.64 Percent of it for as “long as there shall be supply”. He now lives his days out on the veranda of the finest hotel in Corsica, with his fingers in most of the dirty oil deals in the world.’
Forty minutes later all the men were standing on the wide marble veranda of the finest hotel in Corsica, in the presence of 3.64 Percent himself, who looked resplendent in a freshly pressed white suit.
3.64 Percent himself, did not appear to be in a good mood, as he sipped his lemon tea and noted that his view of the sea was being blocked by a an apparent collection of madmen standing on the veranda in front of him: a huge Jewish fellow, An Arab with a falcon on his arm and scimitar glinting in his sash, and an occidental who was dressed in a far too ‘casual’ fashion for his liking.
‘Vell,’ he said flatly in his thick Belgian-Dutch accent, as he looked over them with eyes as grey as stone. ‘You all have the expressions of someone who is looking for an answer … ’
46
London
Within the secretive intestines of MI6, William Gladstone and the heads of three different departments, as well as the agent called Terry Kingsley, all sat in chairs around a conference table and whistled in amazement.
‘This is dynamite,’ one of the head agents said.
Lambdon Jilbani had slipped into ‘presentation mode’ for the last forty minutes and elaborated professionally as only highly paid consultants can.
He had detailed the top-secret financial model that made up the internal business case for the entire scheme of shipping oil from east to west in vast quantities. Lambdon had just finished presenting and was taking a sip of water while his audience absorbed the magnitude of it all. Although Lambdon could only know and present a financial model, the intelligence sources around the room pieced together the wider implications of shifting that amount of crude oil across many countries – and the political and property issues involved, even at this early stage. Those in the room were still unaware of the plan for the oil to pass entirely over land that was privately owned by the same consortium that would also own the pipeline. They also still did not know who were involved as stakeholders behind the whole scheme.
Yet all were taken aback by even the limited amount they knew so far.
‘All those people affected,’ one of the head agents said. ‘And the decision to do it is driven by a number on a spreadsheet.’
‘Essentially … yes,’ Lambdon said, as he placed his glass of water back on the table.
‘Tell me,’ asked another agent. ‘What happens when you’re doing this modelling, which is based on a hypothesis from one of the big guys wanting to make a name for himself, and the number comes out less than expected?’
‘Well, the inputs to the model are revisited: GDPs, income levels, sell-out prices, taken from different but equally reliable sources. The GDP forecast from the World Bank versus the International Monetary Fund can vary by as much as 1.8 per cent for a country, but on a project like this, that equates to a couple of billion dollars. Normally the model is reiterated until it comes to within five per cent variation from the initial hypothesis.’
‘Holy crap.’
‘Standard practice in every global multinational,’ Lambdon shrugged.
‘And this Jonathan Marshall person somehow found out about it?’ asked another of the agents.
‘He did more than that, chief,’ broke in the agent called Terry.
Terry 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 recognize him as a mole.
The agency would still needed the services of Jorge in relation to the company in future. Lambdon still had no idea how Terry had got 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”,’ Terry explained. ‘That means Mr Jilbani 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 elements – only pieces of the puzzle.’
‘Correct,’ said Lambdon. ‘I’ve 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 on 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, on his own initiative, put the pieces together and summarized the entire project as a hypothesis, and sent it by 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 it. Either their own people got involved and started dying, or those of more shadowy business partners. Marshall’s boss, Falcus Loader, died soon after in an aviation accident. They missed Marshall in Paris and it started leaking all over the place. They won’t stop until Marshall, and anyone else who has wind of this, 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.
‘No. Only he would know where to access it on the systems. It’s 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,’ Terry replied, completely unfazed as though he was expecting this response. ‘Just one problem, sir, we haven’t heard from Marshall for the last forty-eight hours. He seems to have completely dropped off the grid.’
47
Corsica
3.64 Percent listened to the entire story while sipping iced 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.
Avi’s eyes widened in alarm.
‘What did you say?’ demanded 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,’ 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 voic
e.
Whoah! Jonathan thought. Here we go again. Another person who’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: 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 arrogance, or just plain old-fashioned crazy.
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 silence.
‘What’s in this for me?’ he asked churlishly, his 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,’3.64 Percent retorted.
‘Good. Short-sell the lot of them. The stock will dive when this news gets out. You’ll 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 in the situation that had been presented. One that had been immediately obvious and then grown in potential as Jonathan had related his tale.
For 3.64 Percent, this 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 had been spurned – he took this personally.
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 sixties and seventies. It was another insult, but not as bad as that of the Russians. 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 realized he would help.
‘You have to go to Moscow,’3.64 Percent said.
The expressions of the audience turned to looks of quizzical confusion.
‘For this to come out into the open, you have to draw the prey.’ Little claw-hands made 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 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,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. He is of gypsy stock and the master of the crafty kill, as well as trickery with knives. I will organize Russian visas tonight, and you leave tomorrow,’ 3.64 Percent informed them.
Jonathan attempted to avoid assimilating the difficult new information about the crafty killing gypsy, and instead focus on logistics.
‘Russian visas overnight?’ he asked incredulously. ‘How can you get forgeries that quickly?’
Mr 3.64 Percent again gave his little red smug smile. ‘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’m going charging into Russia, probably to take on the Mafia and security services, with a giant Israeli, a fanatical Arab and now a bloodthirsty gypsy. I’ll be dead by tomorrow night!
48
Moscow
By the afternoon of the following day, Jonathan and his strange entourage were in Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, smiling politely at the impassive faces of Russian immigration control authorities.
Their passports had been taken off them the previous afternoon. They had been handed back in the morning as the group boarded a private plane at Corsica 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 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, a Jew and an 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 rental 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. He had spent his time on the plane sharpening a myriad of knives that seemed to be concealed all over his body. They had been given to a courier once they stepped off the plane and then handed back to at the rental car office. Once they passed the metal sculptures that marked the halt of the German army on Moscow in the Second World War, Zlatan finally broke his 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 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 flatly.
An hour after leaving the airport, they pulled up outside a Starbucks in a leafy ‘new’ suburb that had been created for ‘new Russians’ whose money had often been acquired 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.’ He started to climb out of the car.
‘Great,’ Jonathan said. ‘How long is “not long” in your culture?’
Zlatan was already outside the car, bu
t 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.
Just over five minutes later, Zlatan emerged from the coffee shop, jumped back into the car and drove off.
‘It’s 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, Ploschad Revolyutsii.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Jonathan said, leaning 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 in Starbucks knows who 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.’
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