“Dan lived in orbit for more than a year,” Jane was saying.
“Really?”
“I helped to build the Japanese power satellite,” Dan explained.
“And now you’ve built one for the United States,” Scanwell said, showing that at least he had been briefed about Dan. “We’ll have to talk about that later on.”
That was the cue to move away and let the people behind him shake the governor’s hand.
“Yes,” Dan said. “I’d like to talk to you about that.”
Another of the governor’s aides ushered Dan and Kinsky away from Scanwell. And Jane.
“Let’s hit the buffet line and get some appetizers,” Kinsky said, tugging at his collar. “I’m starving. And dinner’s going to be stupid, I bet. No pastrami. No blintzes. Nothing but dumb Texas steaks.”
“You go. I’m not hungry.”Dan stood in the milling, swirling crowd and let the chatter and laughter and clink of glasses surround him as he kept his eyes riveted on Jane, standing beside Morgan Scanwell. She never looked his way. Not once.
New York City
Asim al-Bashir traveled on a Tunisian passport. Tunisia was a moderate Arab nation, not known by Western intelligence to have links with international terrorism. Al-Bashir had actually been born in the city of Tunis, and kept a sumptuous home there, which eased any suspicions that an investigator might have.
Moreover, al-Bashir was a member of the board of directors of one of the largest oil companies in the world. As a director of Tricontinental Oil Corporation, he had legitimate business in America. The quarterly board meeting was scheduled to take place in Houston within two days.
His traveling secretary directed an assistant to handle al-Bashir’s considerable luggage while he escorted his employer to the white stretch limousine waiting for them at curbside. Without waiting for the luggage, the limo pulled into JFK’s thrumming, snarling traffic and headed for the Queensboro Bridge and Manhattan.
With the male secretary sitting up front with the chauffeur, al-Bashir leaned back patiently and watched the dreary traffic speed its growling, fume-spewing way past the gray and dismal houses huddled along the highway. The Americans prized their individual houses and their automobiles, their televisions and other luxuries. All dependent on energy, he thought. Energy from electricity. Energy from oil. America grows fat and prosperous on Arab oil. Most of the other people of the world could only dream about the luxuries Americans take for granted. Dream and be envious. Envy is a powerful emotion, al-Bashir thought. Envy can breed hatred, and hate is the greatest motivator of them all.
He dozed slightly, but awoke when the limo’s tires suddenly changed the tone of their sound against the paving. They were on the Queensboro Bridge, he saw. He shifted in the seat and looked out to find the United Nations building. There it stood, by the East River. From where he was, al-Bashir could not see the ruins of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Americans were rebuilding it to look exactly as it had before the attack knocked it down.
My colleagues thought it a glorious day when the bridges were destroyed, al-Bashir remembered. A magnificent day. The faithful around the world celebrated their great victory. The Nine were overjoyed at their success. Al-Bashir had smiled and congratulated them, especially the Egyptian, who had brilliantly directed the complex operation.
Three bridges destroyed. Nearly five thousand Americans killed, many of them Jews. A day of wild celebration.
But to what end? he asked himself. The Americans swept into the Middle East in overwhelming force and no one would gainsay them, not even other Moslem nations.
Terrorism is the tactic of the desperate, the weak against the strong. Like a child throwing a stone through the window of a mansion. Yet it has its uses, al-Bashir conceded. In this long war we can use terrorists, both suicidal fanatics and brilliant planners like the Egyptian. But the war will be won as all wars are eventually won, by economic power. Mao Zedong wrote that power comes out of the barrel of a gun, but one must have the money to buy the guns. We will win this war because we will control the economic power of the oil industry. We must ruthlessly suppress any challenge to that power. Ruthlessly.
Two days later al-Bashir was in Houston, sitting at another conference table, much longer and more gleamingly polished than the one in the dilapidated Khartoum hotel. The boardroom of Tricontinental Oil reeked of wealth. Its walls were paneled with redwood. Its long sweeping windows looked out on the city of Houston, far below the lofty level of this skyscraper. The room was air-conditioned to the point where al-Bashir felt chilly. Texans and their air conditioning, he thought. Conspicuous waste of energy. Flaunting their affluence.
A table laden with drinks and finger foods ran across the back wall. The opposite wall was completely taken up by a new kind of computer screen that the technical people called a “smart wall.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t working properly this day. The board members had to rely on the small screens set into the table at each seat.
Like the other men around the table al-Bashir wore a conservative Western business suit and tie. Even the women were dressed in tailored blouses and skirted suits.
But crusty old Wendell T. Garrison, sitting in his powered wheelchair at the head of the table, was in shirtsleeves and a black onyx bolo tie, its silver-tipped strings hanging halfway down his wrinkled shirt front. He looks like an evil djinn, al-Bashir thought: shriveled and wizened, his bald pate speckled with liver spots, the wisps of his remaining hair dead white. But he has great power, enormous power. Just the touch of his fingertips can move nations.
This is the man I must defeat, al-Bashir told himself. To gain control of Tricontinental Oil, I must overcome Garrison.
The board meeting had been quite routine. The only real item of contention was over the corporation’s involvement in Iraq, where Tricontinental was rebuilding the Iraqi oil fields under contract to the U.S. government. The profit margin was slim, but Garrison insisted that they renew the contract at the same rate.
“When the reconstruction is finished and we start pumpin’ oil again,” he said in his grating, rasping voice, “that’s when we up the ante with the feds.”
One of the women halfway down the table pointed out that Washington had promised to turn the oil fields back to the Iraqi government once the reconstruction was finished.
Garrison gave her one of his patented sour looks. “Yep, they’ll hand it back to the Iraqis, all right And specify that we run the operation.”
“Under contract to the Iraqi government,” the woman added.
“Under terms that we set,” Garrison said flatly.
Al-Bashir said nothing. No one asked his opinion. He was content to leave it at that.
Finally Garrison rasped, “That’s it, then, ’less there’s some new business.”
Al-Bashir raised his hand.
Garrison had already started to back his chair away from the table. Frowning, he said, “Mr. al-Bashir.” He pronounced it “awl-Basher.”
“There is the matter of the solar power satellite to be considered.”
Brows rose around the table.
“Astro Corporation?”
“They had that spaceship crash, didn’t they?”
“They’re finished. Going bankrupt.”
Garrison’s flinty eyes went crafty, though. “What about the solar power satellite?”
“I believe we should invest in it.”