Now, back at his office, Khalid shed his suit coat. Though many businessmen in the Arab world wore the traditional flowing wraps of white cotton, he preferred Western-style suits. His were not the overpriced boxy Italian suits favored by the Saudis and Kuwaitis, but a conservative English cut of superior cloth. Siri came from behind her expansive desk to hang the jacket properly on an ornate stand. Khalid stalked into his office beyond the antechamber, closing the door behind him as if that simple act would shut out the problems he was facing.
Siri entered a moment later, her body moving with a rhythm all its own. Khalid paid no attention to her as she took a seat before his desk.
His office was large, much too large for his austere tastes. The walls were richly carved panels of cherry, oiled daily so that they glowed with the light beaming through the tall windows behind the neatly kept desk. The floor was also wood, most of it covered by an intricate rug of either Afghani or Uzbeki origin. There were only a few pictures on the walls, one an official reproduction portrait of the Crown Prince and the others original paintings of the native landscape, each scene seeming to capture the essence of the open desert lurking just beyond the glass and steel confines of the city.
“Has Trevor James-Price phoned yet?” Khalid asked, absently shuffling through the papers Siri had set on the blotter during his meeting with the Crown Prince.
“No, the phone’s been quiet all morning.” It was odd for his phone to be silent for five seconds let alone an entire morning. But most people probably thought he was already in London. “Are you going to the OPEC meeting?”
Khalid looked up tiredly. “I have no choice. You might as well book me on the next available flight. And keep it quiet, no official reception at the airport and no bodyguards either.”
“You could take one of the corporate jets.”
As Petroleum Minister, Khalid ranked a board seat on AD-NOC, the Abu Dhabi National Oil Company, and thus was allowed many of the perks that went with the position. Yet for some reason that Siri couldn’t figure, but which endeared him even more to her, Khalid refused many of the benefits, preferring to use commercial flights and dispensing with the usual retinue that went with his position.
Siri went back to her office to make the arrangements, leaving Khalid alone with his thoughts, which frustrated him to the point of distraction. Rather than deal with the summary reports Siri had left for him as preparation for the OPEC meeting, he swiveled around in his chair and looked out across the Persian Gulf. Immediately, he noticed the tanker he had seen when returning from his reconnoiter with Bigelow. The vessel was still hove to, although today he couldn’t see any movement around the behemoth. She looked like a ghost ship.
Khalid spun back to his desk, putting the ship out of his mind. He spent a few minutes working on the papers before curiosity got the best of him. Jim Gibson, a consulting petroleum geologist, occupied an office a couple of floors below his. The American had a beautiful brass telescope next to his desk that he used to ogle sunbathers at the Sheraton Hotel. Khalid grabbed the telephone and dialed the in-house number. Gibson answered on the first ring.
“Jim, Khalid Khuddari. Anything worth looking at up the beach?”
“No, last time I checked there was just a couple skinny broads and some woman who must weigh four hundred pounds, Minister.” The north Texas twang made the phone lines resonate.
Khalid laughed with the libidinous American. “In that case, can you do me a favor and tell me the name of that tanker sitting out in the bay?”
“Sure, give me a second.” Gibson set down the phone and was off the line for about a minute. “My angle is pretty poor, but it looks like Southern Arabia.”
“Thanks, Jim. I noticed her yesterday and just wondered who she was.”
“Yesterday, shit. That tub’s been here for two weeks.”
“Know anything about her?” Khalid’s interest was piqued.
“Sorry, I just find the stuff. I don’t haul it around.” Gibson was referring to crude.
“Well, thanks anyway. Let’s get together after I come back from London.”
“Surprised you’re not there now.”
“A bureaucrat’s job is never done, no matter how highly placed.” Khalid hung up before Gibson could ask any questions about Khalid’s delay at attending his first OPEC meeting as the UAE’s official representative.
Khalid’s personal computer was already working, the screen saver bouncing geometric shapes against the VDU’s edges like Ping-Pong balls. It took him a few minutes of scrolling through countless menus to find the information he wanted, an alphabetical list of tankers that regularly plied the waters of the Gulf. Using the mouse he jumped down through the list but found no reference to the Southern Arabia. Curious, he was just about to call the port authorities when Siri’s melodious voice came over the intercom.
“Minister, Trevor James-Price is on line one.”
“Thanks, Siri,” he said, reaching for the phone. Smiling to himself, he recalled the times he and Trevor had spent together at Cambridge.
During their university days, Trevor had been the only one of Khalid’s friends who didn’t see life as a series of obstacles to be overcome. He viewed each day as a precious commodity to be maximized until every second of every hour was used to its fullest potential. Whether it was cramming for final exams or relaxing at a pub with a pint and a pretty girl on his arm, Trevor had the knack of making the most of each moment. He’d once explained the mathematical improbability of any person’s life, the innumerable random events that had occurred since the creation of the universe to allow one person to exist while denying another. He’d summed up by saying the chance that we were alive was somewhere in the realm of infinity-to-one. Why not make the best of living through the greatest long shot in history? Trevor had taken a double first in philosophy and classical literature, graduating with one of the best academic records in Cambridge’s long history.
Trevor had published his first work of philosophy when he was only twenty-four, and by thirty he was the darling of the European intellectual elite. By thirty-five, he was a burned-out alcoholic with an ex-wife and three kids he hadn’t seen in years. He now eked out a living as a freelance journalist and was currently working on an exposé of the OPEC cartel. Khalid had asked James-Price to keep an eye on Hasaan bin-Rufti during his time in London.
“Trev, how’re things in soggy old England?”
“I don’t know what’s more damp, the weather or the lasses’ knickers.”
“Come to think of it, I’d heard it hadn’t rained in Blighty in quite some time.”
“Allow me a little fantasy life, won’t you, old boy? God, how I hate a harsh taskmaster.” Trevor moaned theatrically.
“How’s the meeting going?”
“The preliminaries are over with, and all of the little functionaries have scurried around enough to ensure they’ll stay off the dole for another year. As you know, the heads of OPEC meet tomorrow. The static over the wire leads me to believe that this isn’t a local call, am I right?”
“I’m still in Abu Dhabi. Is anyone else missing?”
“Just you and Juan De la Bruille from Venezuela. All of the other petro-nabobs are present and accounted for, including your corpulent friend.”
“Rufti’s no friend of mine,” Khalid reminded James-Price mildly. “So what’s he been up to?”
“Do you want the full room-and-board itinerary or just the highlights?”
“Keep it short. I’ve got a ton to do before I leave the Gulf.”
“So the anointed one is going to join us, then?” Trevor teased.
“As that American you had as a roommate for your second year would say, anoint this.”