“Excuse my interruption, Your Highness,” Zakir said in a low voice, “the Frenchman has arrived.”
The Prince nodded. “I’ll meet him in the lounge in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Prince bin Al-Farhan sipped his 1998 vintage Dom Pérignon Rosé from a tulip-shaped glass with a gold-plated foot. His thick fingers held the stem gently while he rocked the glass, looking at the slight movements of the golden grape juice. Smacking his lips in complete satisfaction, the Prince offered a smile at his guest, Pierre Bouitillier, the CEO of FranceOil, one of the largest petroleum companies in Europe.
“You, the French, are masters of creating the best wines in the world,” the Prince spoke softly, referring to Bouitillier’s present.
“I’m extremely satisfied it pleases Your Highness,” the Frenchman replied with a wide grin of gratitude and a great bow of servitude.
Bouitillier nursed his own glass, to quench his thirst and to drown his urge to tell the Prince the French were also masters at squeezing another type of liquid from the earth. This time, not in the northeast province of Champagne, the land of the prestige French wine, but far away, in the home of the Prince. The area of Jubail, Saudi Arabia, was a top priority in the FranceOil’s expansion in the Persian Gulf. Bouitillier’s task was to convince the Prince to whisper a good word on behalf of FranceOil to the House of Saud royals.
The Prince nodded and finished his drink with a swift gesture of his hand and a quick gulp. He raised the glass up, as his 10-carat diamond ring brushed against it. Immediately, a sommelier, another present of the Frenchman, appeared and refilled the Prince’s glass. He glanced at the wine but did not drink from it. He placed the glass aside, over a small side table. Then, he leaned back on the white velvet couch, his arms resting on the black pillows around him. The Prince and his guest were in their private meeting on the top deck of the “Arabia”—the Prince’s two hundred and seventy feet sailing yacht — a hundred miles away from everything and everyone.
“I’m a man of the desert. I like to be alone, by myself. Undisturbed.” The Prince rubbed the corners of his gray thin moustache. He arranged a flap of his red-and-white checkered headdress after a gust of wind blew it into his face. Flattening the front of his white robe, he continued, “This is why I like to sail. It’s the closest I can get to solitude when I’m travelling around Europe. I come out here to think, analyze, decide. I come here to make important business decisions.”
I wish you would decide on our business, Bouitiller thought. A long time ago, he had mastered a great command of his tongue. He was an experienced business negotiator, carrying the weight of many years of fighting with energy tycoons throughout Eastern Europe and the Middle East. Bouitiller had haggled over exploration and refinery contracts with democratic governments and dictators, tribal chiefs and warlords. He believed he knew how to handle the Prince, but he was not going to allow his natural arrogance to get in the way of achieving his goal. The Prince very rarely met potential business partners in his floating office quarters. Bouitillier was not going to waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“I’m flattered and very thankful for your generous invitation, especially to meet here, aboard your majestic yacht,” he said, his gaze taking in the expanse of the luxury vessel.
Bouitillier had heard that the Arabia was once owned by a now bankrupt billionaire, and another time it was the set for one of the James Bond thrillers. That was before Prince Al-Farhan purchased the yacht at an auction, completely renovated it and turned it into one of his offices. The Arabia was very spacious and very fast. The Prince loved it.
“I’m confident I’ll be of good advice as you make your wise business decisions,” the Frenchman said.
The Prince nodded, his headdress wavering in the wind. The morning had started perfect: a gorgeous, cloudless sky, with a cool breeze forming foamy wavelets around the yacht. However, about an hour ago clouds had begun to gather in the east. White crests of tall waves now were crashing against the bow.
“Yes, I will decide, in good time,” the Prince replied dryly. Accustomed to flattery and obedience throughout the entire fifty years of his life, he had come to hate false praise from his business partners. He knew that underneath their veneer of reverence they masked their hegemony-sharpened claws and hid their dollar-injected muscles. Still, he found amusement in this type of vain worship and had come to expect nothing less.
“Tell me, what is the experience of FranceOil in oilfield explorations?” The Prince leaned forward and held his hands together.
Bouitillier smiled and contained a frown that began to form on his sloped, moist forehead. He had given detailed reports of FranceOil exploration activities to one of the Prince’s aides a week ago, and he was sure Prince Al-Farhan had received the information. The Prince was a shrewd businessman, known for his familiarity with business operations of his partners, potential partners, and, above all, his business rivals. He’s testing me, to see if I can live up to my reputation. Bouitillier kept his smile ironed on his face and reached for a company’s portfolio, inside one of the folders on the glass table standing between him and the Prince. He glanced at it, as if double-checking some information, although most details of the company’s explorations were stored in his memory.
“FranceOil has considerable experience in managing the downstream oil industry, from Algeria to Uzbekistan, since 1969. Over the last five years, we’ve made substantial investments in the North Sea, in the Gyda oilfield, as well as in the Gulf of Mexico. Our experience with oil explorations in the Persian Gulf region is in its development stage. We’re present in the area with several upstream deals in the Tasour Field in Yemen and the Burgan Field in Kuwait.”
“What’s FranceOil’s stake in Libya’s oil fields, particularly in the Sirte Basin?”
Bouitillier peered into the Prince’s eyes concealed behind oval-shaped sunglasses. The Frenchman opened his mouth but waved his left hand in front of his face, as if to dismiss the thought.
“Libya remains on our radar screens, but for the time being, the country represents a difficult market. The new government is still hostile toward foreign investment in that area. Along with Libya’s National Oil Corporation, they have made the entry of new firms in the exploration market practically impossible.”
“Still, would you invest in Libya if the political environment was, let’s say… more favorable?”
Bouitillier hesitated, pondering his options. In truth, he did not have any. He knew the Prince did not like to hear “no” as an answer. On the other hand, Bouitillier was aware that the relationship between Prince Al-Farhan and the Prime Minister of Libya was not stellar, to say the least. The Frenchman could not see how the Prince would shift the balance of interests of Libya’s government officials and top oil executives to give FranceOil a fair chance.
“Of course, Your Highness. Our Board of Directors will give serious consideration to all offers for exploration or development of new blocks in the Sirte Basin and elsewhere in Libya.”
The Prince nodded. “A round of new leases for the Murzuq and Ghadames basins is in the works. The new chairman of NOC and the new Minister of Oil will be reviewing FranceOil’s bids with special attention, once they have been submitted to my aides.”
Bouitillier noticed the Prince used “once” and not “if” when describing the FranceOil bids for explorations in Libya. The Frenchman nodded, and his broad smile stretched from ear to ear. His eyes could already see the enthusiasm of the Board of Directors and their eagerness to sign his bonus as per his performance contract. Sealing a deal for exploration rights in the highly coveted Ghadames fields in Libya was equivalent to a refinery building contract in Saudi Arabia.