At the time of his death a few years earlier, the man who had ruled as Sultan of Muara for nearly thirty years had achieved an undreamed of level of wealth. Although ranked only as the forty-seventh wealthiest man in the world, his riches were unique in several respects. He was not an entertainer or athletic god, nor was he a politically elected figure; his affluence did not depend upon his popularity among a fickle public. Neither was he a hedge fund manager, or the chairman of a board of executives, entrusted with the responsibility of making money for others, and therefore beholden to his shareholders. The Sultanate of Muara, a sovereign nation nearly three hundred years old and occupying a few thousand square miles of the island of Borneo, guarded one of the largest petroleum reserves of any nation outside of OPEC. As the supreme ruler of its simple monarchy, the Sultan had been its sole protector and beneficiary.
Despite his wealth, the late Sultan had been a man of moderate habits. Although he had certainly made his share of impulse purchases and lavish gifts for his wife and son, he had been a careful manager of the royal treasury. Under his guidance, Muara’s oil industry, and subsequently its economy, had thrived. So, in turn, had the royal family.
For all his frugality, the Sultan had succumbed to a single expensive vice: he was a collector. For nearly twenty years, he had set his heart upon accumulating art treasures and priceless historical relics, slowly building what was rumored to be the most impressive collection of antiquities anywhere. It was a difficult claim to verify since the international trade in such properties was highly restricted and most of the pieces in his private storehouse had been traded illegally many times over the centuries. During the Sultan’s lifetime, only a few discreet visitors had the privilege of viewing the treasures of Muara. Because the relics were illicitly obtained, they were not reckoned as part of the Sultan’s net worth, and inasmuch as many of the pieces were unarguably priceless, the Sultan of Muara would rightly have earned a place much higher on the list of the world’s wealthiest men; perhaps at its very top.
And then he had died.
The heir to the wealth of Muara, the royal prince, had often demonstrated that he lacked his father’s fiscal discretion but the state-run oil industry was virtually self-perpetuating, so there seemed to be no reason for alarm. The former Sultan had hired the best business managers and paid them well, and they in turn had created a sustainable pipeline of wealth for the small country. The new Sultan, now approaching his thirtieth year of life, needed only to sit back with his American movie star wife, and enjoy the good life for the rest of his years.
Somehow, the young Sultan had done the impossible: he had squandered his father’s legacy. Five years after the death of the old Sultan, the royal house of Muara was bankrupt.
The oil had continued to flow unchecked from the earth’s veins, but the wealth of Muara had hemorrhaged even faster, financing the Sultan’s outrageous parties, expensive hobbies and extravagant gifts to friends and mistresses. It was rumored that guests to the royal residence could have their choice of carnal pleasures, including cocaine and heroine of such purity that doses were regulated and administered by a registered nurse.
The approaching storm had not gone unnoticed; several members of the household staff had openly warned the heir that the wealth of his father was not an unlimited resource. Rather than heeding the message, the Sultan had followed the time-honored tradition of killing the messenger. The staff was relieved of their duties and replaced; the business and financial advisors were dismissed and their jobs given to several of the new Sultan’s friends. Silencing the voices of dissent however could not change the inevitable outcome, and a mere sixty months after his ascension to the throne of Muara, the checks began bouncing.
His newfound friends may not have offered the Sultan worthwhile advice, but they certainly had the wherewithal to get out before the collapse of the kingdom. Stunned at the disappearance of both his riches and his associates, the Sultan had at last turned to the advisors trusted by his father, begging for their help in saving the kingdom. Because they were men of conscience, and recognized that there was more at stake than merely the Sultan’s standard of living, the advisors resumed their duties, laboring feverishly to salvage the wreck of Muara.
It was determined that the oil revenues would be sufficient to bring the Sultanate back into solvency in less than a decade, but that did not take into account the day to day operations of the kingdom. Nor did it address a growing threat from Muara’s neighbor, and chief debtor, Malaysia. The government in Kuala Lumpur was already making overtures to bring the sovereign nation permanently into its fold. If Muara did not allow annexation and could not pay its debts, the Malaysian government would place a lien against any profits from the sale of petroleum in order to pay the interest on the Sultan’s loans, keeping the country indefinitely in the red. What was needed, the financial ministers decided, was a rapid infusion of cash.
The old Sultan’s collection of antiquities had not completely survived the appetites of his heir and the latter’s friends. Several baubles of precious metals and jewels had been gifted to young ladies in exchange for a few hours of entertainment, and several other smaller curiosities of indeterminate value had likewise disappeared. Nevertheless, the bulk of the collection remained intact, an assemblage of artifacts each deservingly appraised as priceless. Yet the Sultan could not sell a single piece.
Although his father had been discreet in acquiring the antiquities, the existence of his private museum was nonetheless well known by those who enforced the laws governing the international art trade. As long as the treasures remained on the soil of a sovereign nation, no one could touch them. But a potential buyer had to face the very real possibility that law enforcement agents from any of a number of national and international bodies would be waiting to seize the relics should they leave the country, and perhaps arrest the purchaser as well.
At last, one of the Sultan’s advisors had hit upon a solution that satisfied not only the letter of the law, but also guaranteed the future of Muara. The treasures of the kingdom would be put on display, touring the world on a floating museum, during which time every nation with a reasonable claim to individual artifacts would be able to make their case for rightful ownership. At the end of a two-year circumnavigation, the collection would be broken and distributed accordingly. Not only would Muara receive a modest finder’s fee, but a percentage of profits from the tour and merchandising would also pour into the emptied treasury. It was a gamble to be sure, but for the young Sultan facing the dissolution of his kingdom, it was the only option.
The oversight of the world tour and the legal proceedings that would determine ownership of the relics fell to the only body capable of maintaining a semblance of objectivity: the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural, Organization’s Global Heritage Commission. Each member nation sent their representatives to begin the tedious process, commencing immediately after the gala opening of the exhibit which was housed aboard The Star of Muara. As the Global Heritage Commission liaison to the United States of America, Nick Kismet was the lucky winner of an all-expenses paid cruise in the South China Sea.
The ship was easily distinguishable in the descending darkness. Its decks were strung with lights, causing it to resemble nothing less than an enormous funeral pyre in the middle of the ocean. Kismet cringed as that image sprang unbidden into his imagination; he tried to think of the lights in a more festive setting and failing that, he simply looked away, which was harder than it seemed. The eye was naturally drawn to the overwhelming light source as a moth to a flame. He turned his head away, deliberately gazing out into the darkest part of the sea.