The Garden of Betrayal (11 page)

“Worst case,” Walter prompted.

“Worst case …” I began. I fell silent mid-sentence, struck dumb by a sudden appreciation of an enormously unlikely coincidence. The real answer to the question lay in the supposedly unknowable Saudi data that Theresa claimed to have given me that very morning. My brain raced as I struggled to understand what the coincidence might mean. Something fishy was going on, and I didn’t like it at all. Alex rapped me on the leg beneath the table as Walter frowned.

“Worst case is that we’ve already passed global peak oil production,” I managed, regurgitating an analysis I’d expounded a hundred times before. “The Saudis claim to be able to produce another three to four million barrels a day, which represents most of the excess capacity in the world. But no one really knows, because they won’t share their production data.” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to stay focused. “There’s a school of thought that holds the Saudis are lying—to us, and maybe to themselves—and that global oil production is set to turn sharply lower in the near future. Anyone interested in the technical argument should read up on Hubbert peak theory. There’s a lot of literature.”

A number of people were taking notes on their BlackBerrys, and I paused to let them catch up, stealing a glance at Alex. He was staring down at his untouched lunch and chewing a cuticle intently. My gut told me I’d been right to suspect Theresa. She’d lied to me. About how she’d got the data, or about why she’d given it to me, or about whether it was genuine. The timing of our meeting was too great a coincidence not to have something to do with this lunch. Maybe she was secretly trying to further Simpson’s candidacy, or maybe she was trying to torpedo him. Either way, I was betting that Alex knew something was wrong. It was why he’d been avoiding me. It hurt to think he might have tried to mislead me.

“If the Hubbert theorists are correct,” I continued, “then Senator Simpson’s right to think that we’re looking at trouble. It’s going to take the United States twenty years—minimum—to transition away from our current energy paradigm, and our economy will be enormously vulnerable in the event of any shortage.”

“Relax,” the guy who’d coughed “bullshit” earlier interjected. “Energy’s a commodity. If we buy less from Nigeria, we buy more from Mexico. It’s just a matter of price.”

“Two observations,” I snapped, annoyed by his ignorant condescension. “First, there are lots of different types of crude oil, and our refining infrastructure is geared to a very particular mix. It’s not that easy to replace Nigerian sweet with Mexican sour. Second, you have to remember that we’re talking about government sellers, and governments aren’t just interested in money. They’re also interested in things like weapons, technology, and political influence. China did a big-guns-for-oil deal with Saudi in 2006. And we’ve already seen an example of exporters clubbing together for political purposes, in 1973, when the Arab nations boycotted the United States and other Western countries because we supported Israel in the Yom Kippur War. Back then, though, the Arabs didn’t have anywhere else to sell their oil. Things might have turned out a lot worse if China and India had been lifting oil throughout, and if yuan and rupees had been flowing into Arab bank accounts.”

There was a pregnant pause as everyone present digested my argument, and I half regretted having been so forceful. I shouldn’t have let myself be provoked. It was still a low-probability scenario, and I hadn’t figured out what Simpson was advocating as a response.

“Okay, then,” Walter said, addressing himself to Simpson again. “Assume for the moment that you’re right to be concerned. What do you suggest?”

“Let’s start by turning back the clock,” he answered. “Post–World War II, one of America’s biggest strategic imperatives was to secure our oil supply by keeping the Soviet Union out of the Middle East. Six different American presidents saw the need to address the issue. Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, and Carter all affirmed a commitment to military action against the Russians if necessary. Nixon and Reagan extended that policy beyond the Soviet Union, committing us to intervene against any external threat to the region—from China, say, or from India. But as your associate Mr. Wallace has already pointed out, only Nixon faced the kind of problem I’m talking about here today, back when the Arabs boycotted us in 1973. And what was Nixon’s response?”

Simpson looked at me expectantly.

“The Emergency Petroleum Allocation Act—” I began.

“EPAA was a tactical measure,” Simpson interrupted, “intended to deal with the immediate shortage. What
strategic
action was Nixon contemplating if the boycott hadn’t collapsed when it did?”

“An invasion,” I answered uneasily. “Schlesinger, Nixon’s secretary of defense, told the U.K. ambassador that the United States wasn’t willing to abide threats by ‘underdeveloped, underpopulated’ countries, and that if the embargo didn’t end, America would send troops to seize oil fields in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and Abu Dhabi. Of course, Nixon was also in the middle of Watergate, and falling down drunk half the time.…”

“It was the only option America had at the time,” Simpson said dismissively. “And it’s the only option we’d have today.”

“So, let me see if I understand you,” I said, pissed off at having been used as his straight man. “You’re planning to run for president on a platform of invading
more
of the Middle East?”

He gave a patronizing laugh.

“Of course not. Three Democratic presidents and three Republican presidents committed America to defending our Middle Eastern energy supply against disruptions external to the region. My policy will build on those precedents to make clear that we’ll also intervene against disruptions
internal
to the region. The best war is the one that’s never fought. The Arabs would never have dared boycott America in 1973 if they’d known we’d respond militarily.”

It was an argument I’d heard before but never from a mainstream politician.

“So, if the Arabs don’t want to sell their oil to us, we’ll just take it, correct? What exactly do you call that policy?”

“I call it energy security,” Simpson riposted silkily. “And I think the time for it is now.”

White popped to his feet before I could respond, a greasy smile on his face.

“Questions?” he said.

The room erupted.

Walter calmed the crowd with another forceful application of his butter knife, insisting that anyone who wanted to speak raise his hand. White, moderating, proceeded to deliberately ignore me—not that it mattered much. Simpson was mainly ducking the questions, seeming to have said as much as he wanted to say. The tone of the questions reflected a pretty even split in the audience—half sounded as if they thought Simpson was on the right track, and half sounded as if they thought he was a dangerous lunatic. Walter kept quiet, not giving anything away. I knew which camp I was in. America was going to have to transition from oil and gas at some point—far better we begin addressing the issue now and try to avoid the implicit moral hazard. Because no matter what Simpson might argue, American insistence on unfettered access to oil and gas wouldn’t just be about busting boycotts. When the supply and demand curves crossed, and genuine energy shortages arose, it would be about maintaining an automobile-oriented lifestyle at the expense of heat, food, and potable water for the developing world. It was a choice I didn’t want to have to make.

Alex got up and left the room just before White brought the session to a close, leaving his suit jacket on his chair. I followed a moment later, brushing past the security staff and searching left and right for the men’s room, where I assumed I’d find him. I wanted a word in private, to get to the bottom of the Theresa Roxas business. Someone touched my arm from behind, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Nikolay Narimanov. I’d been so worked up that I’d forgotten about him.

“Mr. Wallace,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m an admirer of your work.”

He had a strong grip and an incongruous hint of a Scottish burr.

“Thanks,” I said. “Call me Mark, please. I wasn’t aware that you read my work. Do you mind my asking who’s been forwarding it to you?”

“Friends send me things of interest. I hope that’s not a problem.”

I was a little taken aback by how good his English was. I’d read that he’d been the Soviet equivalent of a scholarship student—a bright kid from the butt end of nowhere who’d gotten fast-tracked to a top engineering program after he won a regional math competition. My line of work brought me into contact with a lot of foreigners who’d learned English as part of a technical secondary education. They were rarely so fluent, no matter how much exposure they had to the language later in life.

“Not at all,” I said. “I only wish I’d known sooner that we had a connection. It might be interesting to talk from time to time.”

“Perhaps a word in private now? I have my car. I can give you a lift.”

“That’d be great,” I said, making a spur-of-the-moment decision to let Alex go for the time being. He couldn’t avoid me for long, and the opportunity to get to know Narimanov was too compelling to pass up. “Let me get my coat and briefcase.”

He lifted a finger, and a bulky bodyguard I’d mistaken for another of the senator’s security staff snapped to attention.

“My associate will retrieve your things. Shall we?”

He led the way out a side entrance, through a courtyard, and to Madison Avenue beyond. Three black SUVs with tinted windows were parked in the shadow of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The rear window was open in the last car, and I could see two guys sitting backward in the third row of seats with unzipped gym bags in their laps. I wondered if Narimanov carried a diplomatic passport and what kind of strings he’d had to pull to get permission to ride around New York City in a heavily armed motorcade.

Yet another large man opened the rear door of the center car, and we both got in. The interior was crammed with electronics—flat screens, keyboards, and telephones, all professionally mounted and ready to hand.

“Nice,” I said, as the door closed. My experience of billionaires was that they liked to have their toys complimented.

“Functional,” Narimanov replied offhandedly. “So. Senator Simpson’s associate, Mr. White, reached out through a mutual acquaintance to suggest I attend today. Why do you imagine I was invited?”

The pleasantries were over.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I spent a few minutes with Senator Simpson and Mr. White before lunch. The senator told me that he is a great admirer of the Russian people. He wanted to know if I played tennis.”

I laughed and then gave the question some thought. Narimanov hadn’t been invited because of his money. Simpson was evidently willing to run the risk of cozying up to the hedge-fund community, but no mainstream politician would be dumb enough to take money from a foreign national or a foreign-controlled company.

“You’re plugged into the Kremlin,” I said tentatively. “Maybe Simpson wants you as a back channel to your government, to give them a window on what he’s thinking.”

“My conclusion exactly,” Narimanov said. “But why?”

It was a tougher question. Russia had become a major energy exporter since the collapse of the Soviet Union, so their only stake in the game was political.

“Pushing his plan will mean trouble with Europe and Asia,” I ventured. “They’re not going to like the idea of America formally asserting a first call on Middle Eastern oil and gas. Maybe he wants Russian support?”

“Again, my conclusion. In exchange for what?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, having exhausted my ingenuity.

“Nor do I.”

“You could ask.”

“If I wished to be a messenger. It’s not always a desirable role.”

I took his point. Politics was a means for businesspeople, not an end. The front door opened, and the bulky bodyguard got in the passenger side, handing my coat and briefcase back to me.

“Where to?” Narimanov said.

“Forty-sixth and Park, if it’s not out of your way. I could walk as easily.”

“It’s not a problem.”

The bodyguard murmured something into his sleeve, and all three cars pulled away from the curb simultaneously. Narimanov craned his
neck to look up at the cathedral as we passed beneath its spires. I took advantage of his distraction to pose a question of my own.

“How do you think your government is going to respond to the Nord Stream attack?”

“Do you know the word
‘laldie’
?” he asked, still gazing out the window.

“No. Is it Russian?”

“Scottish. I spent a year on an offshore rig in the Sea of Okhotsk when I was in my twenties, apprenticed to a Glaswegian chief engineer. When a worker reported drunk, he’d give them a
laldie
—a thorough beating with a pipe wrench. It sent a message.”

“And you think Russia’s getting ready to give someone a
laldie
?” I asked, catching his drift.

“Russia and our new allies, the French. Most definitely.”

“The Ukrainians?”

“I’ll let you know if I hear.”

“Will you?” It never hurt to ask.

“Perhaps,” he said seriously, turning away from the window to look at me. “In exchange for your candid opinion of Senator Simpson’s proposal.”

I knew he was just jerking me around, but I liked the fact that we were talking. Any dialogue was a good start.

“It’s a bad idea. We’d only be postponing our problems. And creating categories of haves and have-nots reduces the likelihood of global cooperation on other fronts, which is important if we want to spread the cost of next-generation energy projects or tackle ecological issues. China has a lot of dirty coal they can burn if their backs are to the wall. Not to mention the fact that any genuine energy shortage would be an enormous drag on global growth, which would inevitably hurt our economy anyway. The whole notion is stupid.”

“And your suggestion?”

“Big science is something governments have done well. Nuclear, wind, syngas, solar, and fuel cells are all promising. At a minimum, Washington should be making carbon-based energy more expensive, to spur research on alternatives. The real difficulty is that there’s no sense of urgency, both because the economy is weak right now and because nobody really knows when the oil and gas are going to run out.”