The Trojan Sea (7 page)

Marsten’s voice cut through the fog. “Ah, there you are.” Steiner came awake and blinked his eyes. “You do remember who I am?”

Steiner nodded, his mouth unbelievably dry. He wanted a drink but his lips were taped shut. Fear shot through him when he realized he was naked and tied spread-eagle on the bed. His eyes darted around the room. The women were still there, all dressed and wearing the coldest expressions he had ever seen. Surely the games they’d played hadn’t been that bad? One of them opened an aluminum briefcase and pulled out two syringes and two small vials. With a cold efficiency that matched the look in her eyes, she filled one syringe. He wet the bed.

“Really, Dr. Steiner,” Marsten said. “We expected better of you. Perhaps you’re wondering what we’re doing here.” Steiner bobbed his head vigorously. “Think of this as contract renegotiations.” The woman holding the syringe sat on the bed beside Steiner and looked at Marsten. “Of course,” Marsten continued, “you’re thinking that we can’t get away with this sort of thing, what with the police and its being the twenty-first century, yes?” Marsten paused for effect. “Please disabuse yourself of that thinking. This is Texas. Actually, we like to reward our friends because we value them. We want to value you, Dr. Steiner. Please give us a reason to do so.”

He nodded at the woman sitting on the bed. She grabbed Steiner’s arm and jabbed the needle into his left biceps. She quickly filled another syringe from the second vial. “I assure you, it’s very painless,” Marsten said, his voice friendly. “You will feel a little warmth before lapsing into unconsciousness. That’s all. The medical examiner will report the cause of your death as an overdose of a controlled substance, which, of course, laboratory tests will confirm.” He pointed to the woman. “She’s holding the antidote. But it must be administered within a few minutes, seconds actually, to be effective. Would you like to know the price of the antidote?” Steiner bobbed his head up and down. “Ah, I thought you would. We want the Seismic Double Reflection process as well as the exact location of the oil field.” He reached over and peeled the tape away from Steiner’s mouth.

Steiner babbled in French while one of the women translated. “He says it’s all in his computer. The computer is in the safe. The safe is in the dressing room.” She wrote down the numbers as Steiner rattled off the combination. She handed the note to another woman, who hurried into the dressing room.

“I do hope the computer is there,” Marsten said.

“Please,” Steiner pleaded, “the antidote. I feel very warm.”

“I would imagine you do,” Marsten replied. “You’ve soiled yourself.” He gave a slight nod, and the woman sitting on the bed administered the second shot. Steiner relaxed as tears streaked down his face in relief. The woman who had left was back with a laptop computer and a stack of nine disks. She handed it all to Marsten. “The password, please.”

“There are six.” Steiner answered in English. He babbled a string of French words, which the woman acting as translator wrote down in clear block letters.

Marsten carefully placed the computer and the disks into his briefcase. “I do hope this all works,” he said, pocketing the note with the passwords. He walked to the door. “I hope you don’t mind waiting while I validate your offer.” He spoke to one of the women. “It smells terrible in here. I know it’s not part of our agreement, but do clean him up.”

The drive back to the Fountain Plaza building took less than twenty minutes, and Marsten rode the express elevator to the top floor. He walked quickly through the deserted offices, ignoring the night cleaning crew. He locked the door to his office and sat at his desk. For a moment he stared at Steiner’s computer. An inner voice warned him that he was taking a fateful step and there would be no turning back. He drew in a deep breath and opened the computer. Fortunately, Marsten’s French was very good, and Steiner was quite pedantic, and predictable, in creating files. Still, it took Marsten twenty minutes to find the correct opening menu. Then it required all six passwords Steiner had given him to reach the directory he wanted.

He looked at the screen in amazement, not believing what he saw. He picked up the phone and hit the speed dial. Within seconds L.J. was on the line. “I do believe you need to see this,” Marsten said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact as he stared at the map on the screen.

Dallas

The Parke Royale prided itself on its discretion and service, and the two maids never batted an eyelash as they repaired the chaos in Steiner’s suite. L.J. sipped her breakfast tea until they finished and handed each a twenty-dollar tip as they left. Then she sat Steiner’s laptop computer and the nine disks on the coffee table in front of her. “They’re gone,” she called to Steiner, who had taken refuge in a bathroom.

A very subdued scientist poked his head out the door. He glanced around to ensure they were alone. Satisfied, he finally emerged, dressed in a conservative dark suit, his tie carefully knotted. He rubbed his wrists as he sat down opposite her. For once his little feet were still, and his normally flushed face was very pale. “I’m so sorry,” L.J. said. “I came over the moment I heard.” She handed him a cup of coffee. “One sugar, yes?” He nodded, a little surprised that she remembered. She gave him a repentant look and nudged the computer in his direction. “Please, what can I do to set things right?”

“The man’s a barbarian. He must be punished.” L.J. reached for the phone and asked the operator to connect her with the Dallas Police Department. “Considering who you are and the circumstances,” she said as they waited, “there will be some bad publicity. Reporters never seem to sleep. But it can’t be avoided.”

Steiner’s face turned a paler shade of white. “Perhaps, perhaps,” he stammered, not sure what to do.

“Please,” she said, “let me take care of it. In my own way.” He nodded, and she broke the connection.

“I want Marsten fired, broken, ruined,” Steiner said.

“I can do that,” L.J. said in a low voice. “But you must understand, Lloyd only thought he was protecting RayTex and me.”

“He would have killed me.”

“He was bluffing.”

Steiner shook his head. “You weren’t here.”

“But I do know Lloyd.” She searched for the right words to explain. “He has…well, an exaggerated sense of loyalty to me. It goes back to Eritrea when that group of rebels took my exploration team hostage. He flew in to negotiate our release, but he ended up a prisoner himself.” She shuddered involuntarily. “They did unspeakable things to him.”

“What did they do?”

She answered in a low voice filled with pain. “Please, I don’t like to talk about it.” She pulled into herself, for a moment back in time. Then she looked directly at Steiner. “I did what I could and, fortunately, was able to convince them to release us. We managed to get Lloyd to a hospital in time to save him. It created a special bond between us, and I can’t desert him, not after all we’ve been through together. But Lloyd has always felt”—she searched for the right words—“well, that he failed me, and he’s never ceased trying to make up for it.” She gave him a pleading look. “I do hope you understand. I value loyalty above all else, and I was hoping”—she paused for effect—“I was hoping that perhaps you and I, after this terrible experience…” Her voice trailed off. She studied Steiner, reading his body language, correctly gauging his emotional state. Now it was time for renegotiations.

She gave him a tentative smile, little more than a flicker before it disappeared. “I must tell you, I was impressed by the way you negotiated. Half a billion dollars for nothing.” She gave the computer a definite push in his direction. A little sigh. “I do wish you were on our team.”

Steiner was a very confused man. “Nothing? How can you say the largest offshore oil deposit in the world is nothing?”

“Oh, Emil,” she said, leaning into him, keying on the confused look on his face. She patted the couch beside her. “Please.” She pulled the computer to her while he moved over to her side. She turned it on and worked her way to the seismic cross-section in question. “Just like Saudi Arabia’s Safaniyah field, correct?” Steiner nodded in answer. “But there is one big difference,” she said. “Safaniyah is a proven reserve, but we won’t know if there’s oil here until we drill.”

“There’s oil there,” Steiner muttered.

She sighed. “Have you ever heard of Mukluk?” He shook his head. “Well,” she continued, surprised by his ignorance, “Mukluk is near Alaska’s North Slope and has a perfect profile. So perfect that the rock-trappers at Sohio thought they had an elephant to rival the Saudi fields. They calculated the odds of finding oil at one in three, not the normal one in eight, and formed a joint venture. Together the companies spent over two billion dollars drilling, and when Dr. Drill finally spoke, they had the most expensive dry hole in history. Oh, the oil had been there, but it had either migrated or leaked to the surface over thirty million years ago.”

She had his undivided attention. “There’s another problem. Right now oil is a glut on the market. The world is awash in it, and only artificial supports are keeping the price per barrel at the current level. A find like this will drive prices so low that the oil industry in the United States will not be able to compete and will go bankrupt.” Her fingers danced on the keyboard as she called up a map.

“Consider the geopolitics,” she urged. “Look where it’s located. Do you really think he’ll do business with the United States? Or any Western democracy?”

“Oil must have a market,” Steiner said.

“Exactly,” she said. “If oil is there, and if it is put into production, he’ll use it as an economic weapon against us. Prices will be driven to half their current level, and RayTex will be one of the first to go under. Not even the majors can survive for long. Obviously you knew that, and that’s why you wanted half a billion dollars up front. Absolutely brilliant. Take the money and run.”

Steiner was crestfallen. “Then no other company will be interested?”

“Oh, they’ll be interested—in keeping it a secret. I imagine they’ll react much like Lloyd. But they won’t be bluffing.” Now she was feeding his paranoia. “I do wish you were on my team. I could protect you, and we might…well, who knows what we might be able to do? All at the right time, of course.”

Steiner reached over and punched at the keyboard. “Is it all inside their territorial waters?”

“I believe so,” she said. Together they leaned forward and studied the map of Cuba.

Marsten was waiting for L.J. in his limousine when she left the Parke Royale. He arched an eyebrow, asking the unspoken question. “He’s in,” she answered. “For how long, I can’t say. Fortunately for us, he’s paranoid and doesn’t know who to trust.”

“He’s very bright,” Marsten said. “Don’t underestimate him.”

“I’ll try not to. We do have some leverage. Underneath he’s furious that he was twice refused a Nobel Prize, and he needs validation. We can dangle that carrot in front of him.”

“Sooner or later,” Marsten said, “he’s going to want money. Large amounts of it. More than we can provide.”

“That’ll probably happen about the time he figures it all out,” L.J. said. “He’s such a sneaky little weasel, so have ARA watch him. We must maintain secrecy—at all costs until we can lock in the concessions.” She thought for a few moments. “Where’s the weak link? Who besides you, me, and Steiner could possibly know?”

“The seismic crew on the research ship?”

“Doubtful,” L.J. replied. “The readouts were downlinked to Steiner by satellite. Even if the crew did see something, they wouldn’t know what it meant.”

“But they would know where they’d been shooting seismic,” Marsten said.

“That’s a possible connection. Check it out.”

Marsten made a note in his diary before handing her a small package. “The videotape from ARA. Good quality. No doubt who they are. Or what they were doing. It is, shall we say, beneficial, when one is paying the bills.”

She agreed with him. “It most certainly is.” The limousine pulled into the roundabout of the Regency Hotel, and she dropped the package into her handbag. “Do they know?”

“They were contacted yesterday evening. I believe they spent a very sleepless night.”

“I’ll catch a taxi back,” she told Marsten, getting out of the limo.

Ann Silton answered the door, her face ravaged with worry and tears. At first she refused to let L.J. in. “We have nothing to say to you.” Her eyes filled with hate. “I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she said, her voice low and cutting, “but you won’t get away with it.”

L.J. fumbled in her handbag for the package and tentatively extended it to the woman. “This came in the mail. Do you want to see the letter?” Now it was her turn to cry, and tears ran down her cheeks.

The woman hesitated, not sure what to do. But L.J.’s tears decided her. She took the package and opened the door. “Did you get a letter?” L.J. asked. Ann shook her head. “Mine’s with the tape,” L.J. said, walking into the hotel suite.

Clarissa looked at L.J., unsure how to react. L.J. rushed over to her while Ann read the letter. “The bastards,” L.J. hissed. They held hands for a moment. Softly L.J. said, “When I saw the tape, I saw a beautiful, loving moment. There is absolutely nothing for you to be ashamed of.”

“It’s just that…” Clarissa replied, tears streaking her face, adding years to her look.

“I know,” L.J. said. “Our society isn’t ready to accept people for who they are.” She straightened her shoulders. “This has nothing to do with what we’re trying to do. I won’t have it. I just won’t have it.” She stood up and paced the floor, taking charge. “Have you shown this to John?”

“He’s a man,” Ann said, obviously distrustful of Front Uni’s executive director.

“He’s a good person,” L.J. said. “We need to tell him. Now.”

John Frobisher fumbled with the second cassette, finally inserting it into the VCR. The screen flashed, and an image of two nude women making love on the same couch he was sitting on appeared on the screen. They watched in silence for a few moments, confirming the two tapes were identical. But L.J. split her attention, closely judging Frobisher’s reaction. It was a combination of fascination and lust.

“It’s the same tape,” Frobisher said. “Unfortunately, there’s no doubt who it is. When was this taken?”

Ann’s words were barely audible. “Monday night.”

“Well,” Frobisher muttered, “considering it’s Wednesday morning, they didn’t waste time.” He stared at L.J., thinking the obvious. “What’s your game, Ms. Ellis?” He stressed the “Ms.”

L.J. shook her head. “I don’t play games, John.” She stood up, full of resolve, and paced the floor. “So what do they want?”

“As the letter says,” Frobisher replied. “‘You don’t need friends like these.’”

“I don’t desert my friends,” L.J. said. “Why do you think I came here?” Frobisher didn’t answer. “So who do you think did it?” she demanded.

“Your friends in the oil business,” he answered.

She shook her head. “They’re too sophisticated to try something this crude. No, it’s got to be someone else.” She stopped and studied him for a moment. “Are you having internal problems in Front Uni?”

“Only the normal disagreements,” Frobisher said. “The environmental movement is a loose confederation of highly principled individuals who—”

L.J. interrupted him. “Do any of you have a personal problem?” They all told her no, and her lips compressed into a narrow line. “Do you want to call the police?”

Frobisher thought for a moment. “If they want to disgrace us, make us lose credibility with the public, wouldn’t that be playing right into their hands?”

L.J. nodded, conceding the point. “I’m a woman in one of the most male-dominated businesses in the world,” she said, feeding their preconceptions and personal biases. She was also telling them the truth. Her face grew cold. “I have to play hardball to survive.” She paused. “Give me a little time to get to the bottom of this. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” Clarissa said. Ann and Frobisher nodded in unison.

The Pentagon

General Butler was impressed. The big poster boards with the yellow Post-its arranged in a flow pattern, the neatly ordered folders, the quick-reference chart for the computer files, and the blue talking folder for Butler’s initial briefing to the National Security Council on the Strategic Petroleum Reserve were ample proof that Mike Stuart was an accomplished staff officer. “You did all this in nine days?” Stuart nodded. “When do you go home?”

“I’m divorced,” Stuart replied, as if that explained it all.

“I know promotions are tough these days,” Butler said. “But this is much more than I expected.”

No emotion crossed Stuart’s face. “It’s pretty clear that I’m not going to be promoted, so I plan on retiring in eighteen months.”

Stuart’s reply stunned Butler. It was a constant surprise to him that men like Stuart continued to give their best and sacrifice their personal lives even when their careers were at a dead end. He thumbed through the blue talking folder on the current status of the SPR. “Good work,” he muttered. “Even I understand it. Okay, what’s next?”

Stuart pointed to a third poster board. “The oil world is divided into three parts: upstream, midstream, and downstream. Upstream is exploration and production, midstream is the transportation net that moves crude oil to refineries, and downstream is marketing and distribution. As a user, the military is all downstream. But what ultimately determines what is available to us is the upstream part of the equation. I think,” Stuart ventured, “we need to take a detailed look at what’s coming on-line in the future, in terms of exploration and production.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“We ask the oil companies what their plans are for exploration in the next five years.” From the incredulous look on the general’s face, Stuart knew he was on shaky ground.

Butler humphed. “There’s no way they’ll tell us that!”

Stuart shrugged. “We won’t know until we ask. And we promise to treat their answers as secret, not to go beyond this committee.”

“Even if we know how much exploration is planned, that doesn’t tell us how much oil will be discovered.”

“But it gives us some clues,” Stuart replied. “We know what the past success rate has been. We can assume a lower success rate in the future and plot it out against the discovery curve of the last ten years to establish a trend.”