“Meanwhile?”
“Meanwhile, Congressman Castle, I believe I heard the rattle of ice cubes. Allow me to refresh your drink.”
Castle handed over his glass, wondering when Grayle would get to the point.
Grayle made invisible magic with his decanters and pressed the result into Castle’s hand. “Getting impatient, are you, Congressman?”
“Not at all,” lied Castle.
“That’s good. Because we are on the verge of discovering the only crisis that can vault you into the presidency in 2008. Shall we drink to it?”
And about time, too, you old goat, thought David D. Castle to himself. He touched his glass to the other’s in the dark.
He drank deeply…
He tried to scream, but the pain was too intense. Liquid fire seared his mouth, scorched his tongue, flamed down his esophagus, poured into his stomach like red-hot lava. The son of a bitch had filled his glass with Tabasco sauce!
“Water!” he croaked.
“Precisely,” said William S. Grayle.
4. TAKEOVER
12 NOVEMBER 2004
“ICE?” ASKED YUSSEF MANSOUR.
Ripley Forte glowered.
Mansour laughed, a remarkably deep and robust laugh from so small a man, and filled the glass with bourbon. Had it not been for ice, in the form of icebergs, neither of them would have been in the main salon of Mansour’s 1,600-ton yacht Linno to discuss the fate of the Yellow Rose Oil Company. Conferring a silent blessing on ice in all its myriad forms, Mansour dropped a cube into his own glass, added two fingers of Scotch, and smiled over the rim at the Texan.
“Cheers!”
Forte grunted and sampled the bourbon. It was the best. But then, everything about Joe Mansour was the best. Forte put the glass on the spindly little Louis XVI table beside him. He would drink no more, for he needed a clear head.
“I’m flattered that you found my loan request for a mere $300 million important enough to come all the way from Beirut,” Forte said.
“I have been following your battle with icebergs for several years, Mr. Forte, and I’m happy for the excuse to make your acquaintance. Besides, Beirut is horribly crowded these days, what with the Russians and Germans and Poles flocking to our beaches and–”
“Beaches?” broke in Forte. “In November?”
“Why not? The water along their Baltic beaches in the middle of July is colder than our Mediterranean coast in midwinter.” He glanced through the salon’s picture window at the howling snowstorm that was sweeping the deck outside and shuddered.
Mansour’s delicate gesture seemed to Forte right in character with his rather effeminate appearance. Short and rotund, he was resplendently dressed. His shoes came from his personal shoemaker in Milan, his silk shirts from his shirtmaker in Geneva, his foulards from an artisan in Lyon to designs by Miss Noon, his linen from Madeira, his suits from his tailor in Brussels, his belts from his Seville beltmaker, his hats from his Bond Street hatter.
What Forte failed to appreciate was that Mansour’s sartorial elegance was only partly a matter of personal fastidiousness. For Mansour, it was a weapon: he had learned that his splendid attire inspired condescension in his adversaries, who imagined that a man so preoccupied with his appearance could spare little thought for business.
“Well,” observed Forte, gesturing toward the driving snow, “as you can see, we sure don’t have any shortage of rotten weather here. That, as I explained in detail in the loan application, is all that has been holding up the Yellow Rose Field. During the past twelve months we have had close to fifteen thousand bergs to worry about.”
“Really?” said Joe Mansour, arching an eyebrow. “Strange, I thought that twelve thousand was the maximum.”
Forte looked sharply at the little Lebanese financier, with his long nose and patent-leather hair. Clearly it would be best not to talk down to Joe Mansour. “Well, you’re right, of course. Ten to twelve thousand is the usual figure. But for the past three years, a one-and-a-half-degree drop in global temperatures has fouled up rainfall patterns in the entire northern hemisphere, and the number has jumped to around fifteen thousand. If we hadn’t thought of using high-speed, high-powered propfan seasleds to drag them away from our rigs, they would have beaten us.”
The small Lebanese smiled gently. “They have beaten you, Mr. Forte.”
“How do you mean?”
“My Phoenicia Holding Company is only one of four international banking consortia that you have approached for loans during the past thirty days. That sounds to me suspiciously like desperation, a last-ditch attempt to stave off ruin.”
Forte forced a laugh. “Not desperation–haste. You see, my seasleds have solved the only real problem in extracting Grand Banks oil–icebergs. From here on in, it’s smooth sailing. The oil’s there. What I need now is financing for the gathering system, a tanker fleet, and certain downstream facilities. Then all I have to do is turn on the tap and watch the money pour in.”
“Provided you have the $300 million, that is.”
“Yes, sure. But there’s no worry about my getting it. Our Grand Banks reserves have proved out at nearly 4 billion barrels. Rigs, tankers, and auxiliary equipment are available. Nearby American markets for sweet crude are getting better every day. No banker in his right mind would turn down a loan request under these conditions. The only area of negotiation is the rate of interest. And since you’re the first on the scene, and known for quick decision, I am prepared to be flexible.”
“Very good of you, I’m sure,” murmured Mansour. He gazed out the window. The snow squall had ended as
abruptly as it had begun. The masts and stacks of the other ships that lay at anchor in Argentia Bay stood out starkly against the Newfoundland snowscape. “But according to your credit application, the Fourth First National Bank of Houston, the Bank of Chicago, and Boston Federal all hold your notes totaling more than a billion dollars. If your prospects are so rosy, Mr. Forte, why don’t you approach them for the relatively paltry sum you still need to put your field into production? Surely they would be more than happy to advance what you require.”
Forte fidgeted in the period chair, which barely contained his spacious frame. He took a pull from the glass of bourbon, held it up to the light, and nodded resignedly.
“I did go to those three banks. They turned me down. I still don’t know why.”
“Maybe they have doubts about your management ability.”
“I don’t think so. After all, I have brought the company this far, from a standing start to the point where profits are about to take off into, the wild blue yonder.”
“But what if you–Ripley Forte–were no longer present? I speak of the unpleasant but ever-present possibility of accidents in this hazardous line of work. Where would that leave the Yellow Rose Oil Company?”
“Just where it is now–in top-notch shape. I’ve developed strong, experienced managers in every department. Any one of half a dozen men could replace me tomorrow.”
“It’s all very puzzling,” Joe Mansour observed. “Tell me, what would be the situation if, for any reason, you were unable to negotiate this $300 million loan?”
Forte laughed bitterly. “Nothing, except I’d be wiped out for the third time in my life.”
Mansour rose and walked across the big salon. It could have been an elegant eighteenth-century Parisian drawing room, with its Beauvias tapestry and works by Valesquez, Steen, Arthur Frick, and Cezanne on the walls, Boulle cabinet and desk, Louis XVI chairs and tables, Bohemian crystal chandelier, and enormous blood-red Bakhtiari carpet. From the desk he took a pink slip of paper. He handed it to Forte.
It was a bank draft for $300 million, dated this day, November 12, 2004, drawn on the Phoenicia Holding Corporation and payable to the Yellow Rose Oil Company.
Forte inspected it, bit his lip in puzzlement, and put it down on the table next to him. He picked up his drink and sipped it carefully. Bankers didn’t do things this way.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate your confidence in the Yellow Rose Oil Company,” he began, “but it would be more businesslike if we discussed the interest rate and conditions of repayment before I accept this, Mr. Mansour.”
“There is no interest. There are no conditions.”
“I don’t get it. I–”
“When I say there are no conditions, I am not being strictly accurate. In fact, there is one condition: that you turn over your responsibilities to any subordinate you select and come work with–observe that I did not say ‘for’–me.”
Forte pulled his nose and looked at Mansour suspiciously. “Doing what?”
“I will tell you in good time. But first you must have a rest, a vacation, to put yourself in the proper frame of mind to tackle the biggest project in the history of mankind.”
“Sounds promising, if a little vague. I don’t suppose you could be a bit more specific.” Forte frowned thoughtfully as he said this, but actually he felt like laughing out loud at the little man and his pompous “biggest project in the history of mankind.”