Second, while it was true that Iraqi oil production could eventually be doubled, that would likely take at least five years, and more likely ten to fifteen years.
Third, a new, pro-Western, pro-American oil-producing regime in Baghdad could mean a dramatic shake-up of the internal politics and practices of OPEC. As the biggest player on the block, it was the Saudis who effectively controlled OPEC. But tensions were again rising between the U.S. and the royal family. They were demanding that all U.S. military forces leave the kingdom forever, and just last weekend President MacPherson sent Defense Secretary Burt Trainor to Riyadh to agree to an American withdrawal. What did that mean? Sa'id argued it meant the cozy ties between the United States and Saudi Arabia could very well be coming to an end. The U.S. could be looking for new, non-OPEC oil partners. It could eventually begin shifting its massive oil purchases from Saudi Arabia to Iraq, and then—inshallah, if God were willing — to Medexco. Yes, that might take time, but Sa'id was convinced it was possible, and anything that made the oil cartel weaker would make it easier for Medexco to operate internationally.
Fourth and finally, no Iraqi oil — or, to be more precise, precious little Iraqi oil — could or would be sold on the world markets until the U.N. sanctions were lifted and the oil-for-food program was scrapped entirely, There was no question, Sa'id agreed, that the sanctions would eventually be lifted and those oil sales would begin. But exactly when was an open question, There were serious disagreements among key Security Council members and within the Secretary General's office itself on how to proceed. It could take months to work itself out, and every delay could help Medexco move closer toward achieving its own objective: being fully operational and ready to sell Israeli and Palestinian oil and natural gas on the world markets.
Galishnikov wasn't sure what to make of it all. Sa'id's argument had merit, But Galishnikov was an anxious man, a cautious man, perhaps even some-what paranoid. He found it hard to trust, and harder still to relax. But he came by his neuroses honestly. His were traits conceived in persecution, born
in suffering, and refined in the gulag. He'd been a Jewish petroleum engineer
at the height of the Soviet empire, arrested by the KGB and sentenced to eight years' hard labor in Siberia, only to be brought back to Moscow and sentenced to three years in Lefortovo, the KGB interrogation prison.
The fact that he, an atheist Russian Jew, was alive at all was its own miracle. The fact that he was now a multimillionaire CEO of an Israeli petroleum company in a historic joint venture with Ibrahim Sa'id and Jon Bennett, now an advisor to the president of the United States, was even more remarkable. Maybe he should have faith that this deal would really work out. Maybe he should have faith that they'd all get rich beyond their wildest imaginations.
He'd come this far, hadn't he? Maybe the end wasn't so near.
Pretty impressive in there," McCoy whispered in Bennett's ear.
Bennett wasn't ready to claim victory.
"What do you think he's going to do?"
"I think he's going to follow your advice."
"Really? Why?"
"Two reasons. First, it's the right thing to do, and you made the case well. Second, if he has to, the president can always change his mind and tell the Israelis to go in after all. But it's better to hold them back as long as possible."
Bennett again winced in pain.
"You look awful," McCoy said, feeling his forehead.
"My stomach is killing me. My head's killing me."
"Lie down for a while. There's nothing we can do until the president decides."
"I don't know. Maybe you're right."
The two got up, and headed back toward Ziegler's quarters.
"You need me for anything right now?" McCoy asked when they got there. She was finally about to get a hot shower, and some desperately needed rest.
"No, take it easy for a little while. You deserve it."
"What about you?"
Bennett promised to lie down soon. First he needed to connect with Gal ishnikov and Sa'id and get them working the phones, per the president's directive. He made sure she got into the room, then figured out which hall way led to their two friends.
"Hey, don't you have a phone call to make?" McCoy called after him.
Bennett turned around.
"President's orders." She smiled.
"Don't worry." He smiled back. "I won't forget."
SEVENTEEN
Bennett arrived at the "holding room."
It was actually Tariq's private quarters, and Bennett entered the seven-digit access code Tariq had given him earlier. The door unlocked electroni cally. Galishnikov stood up immediately as Bennett entered their room. Sa'id remained seated. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. The storm raging over Gaza was also raging within him.
"Jonathan, how are you, my friend?" Galishnikov asked, shaking his hand.
"Hanging in there, thanks — please, have a seat. You guys all right in here?"
"Couldn't be better," the Russian lied.
"You guys aren't watching the coverage?"
"Ibrahim has… well, we've both had enough sadness," Galishnikov answered.
"Look, I'm really sorry about this — you guys don't deserve to—"
"Nyet, nyet, please, Jonathan, you don't have to explain. We're safe. We're well fed — well, Ibrahim refuses to eat, but I'm well fed — and we're all washed up.
Despite the gloomy mood, Bennett couldn't help but laugh.
"You've had showers then?"
"That, too," said Galishnikov, a thin smile on his face.
He sat down on the couch beside Sa'id. Bennett sat down next to them in an armchair. There was so much he needed to tell them, and even more he needed them to do. But it was also apparent to him that he needed to respect the trauma both men were experiencing. Each handled it differently, and there was an awkward restlessness in the room. Finally, Sa'id broke the silence.
"Arafat was like a father to us," Sa'id began. "He was like our Moses. He wandered around with us through the wilderness for many years. He talked tough to the Pharoahs — to Bibi and Sharon and Doron, all of them. He put our cause on the world's map, and that was no small thing. But there's more to leadership than making noise. You must make progress. You must achieve something. And where are we now? Arafat lived by the sword, and now he's died by the sword. For decades, he's been playing a dangerous game — talking peace in English and encouraging an armed revolution in Arabic. I couldn't swallow it and so I left to make my fortune elsewhere. Because if you play a game like that you're going to lose. I don't care how clever you think you are, you cannot live a lie for so long without being found out. I knew one day Arafat's game would catch up with him, and now it has. And who is suffering? Is he? Is Arafat? No. Perhaps he's in the arms of seventy virgins. I don't know. I'm not a devout Muslim, and for all his talk I'm not sure if Arafat even believed in Allah. I don't know where he is right now. But I know where I am. I know where my people are."
The man stared into the screen of a television that wasn't on. "He should have followed Oslo," Sa'id continued. "He should have taken Barak's deal at Camp David. He should have accepted Bush's Road Map. Anything. But he didn't. And now we have nothing." Bennett was silent. He'd never heard Sa'id talk this way. "Just like Moses," Sa'id continued, "Yasser Arafat had his day, but he never took us into the Promised Land."
Galishnikov was hardly religious, but he snorted at the irony. "Well, OK, we're already in the Promised Land," Sa'id conceded. "The over-Promised Land," his Russian friend added. "Yes, the Palestinian people are here geographically. But have we arrived emotionally? Diplomatically? Financially? Look at us. We are lost. We are a proud people, Jonathan, rich in culture and heritage and intellectual capital. And we have a serious case to make to the world. We have suffered much, first under the Egyptians and the Jordanians who did nothing to give us a state, and now for all these years under the Israelis who treat us like rabid dogs in a kennel, present company excepted." Galishnikov waved him off, unoffended.