“She doesn’t know about this, does she?”
“Not the slightest suspicion.”
“Keep it that way,” said Forte.
He swung. The shot was a beauty, landing between Joe Mansour’s ball and the pin.
On the clubhouse terrace, Joe Mansour added up his score. It was 83.
Forte, who had reached 110 before he stopped counting on the fourteenth hole, tore up the card and dropped it in the ashtray. “Enough of this kid’s game,” he said, before telling the waitress to bring them something as long, cool, and refreshing as her gorgeous legs. “Let’s talk icebergs.”
“Let us, indeed.”
“Got lots of loose money laying around?”
“I’ll tell you when you’ve overspent your allowance, Rip.”
“Well, then, item one: a refrigerating plant, portable, capable of supercooling 5 million liters of water daily to -18° Centigrade. I’ll give you the specs when we get back aboard the Linno.”
“A refrigerating plant–for the Antarctic!”
“Check. Item two: Ultravac, the Alcor Company in Vestry, Alabama, makes material for ski suits. It’s called Supervac. Buy the plant.”
“Check,” said Joe Mansour, wondering if his was going to cover Ripley Forte’s growing needs.
“Item three: Sol Brothers of San Antonio manufactures a photovoltaic panel that comes in rolls six meters wide. We need half a million square meters. I see no reason to buy the company if they’ll supply it.”
“I marvel at your consideration.”
“Ever heard of a Japanese corporation named Masayuke Kara, Inc.? No? Well, it doesn’t matter. Buy it.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me what it makes?” said Joe Mansour plaintively.
“At the moment, oceans of red ink, but we’ll turn it around.”
“Sure we will,” said Mansour without conviction. He raised the glass that the leggy waitress had brought and made a mental note to give Forte a crash course in finance.
“Item three–”
“Item five,” amended the little Lebanese. “If you must think in millions, at least learn to count to ten.”
“One of these days, Joe,” said Forte with a shrug. “Item five: In Sandusky, Ohio, there’s a rolling mill for specialty steels named, surprisingly enough, Sandusky Specialty Steels. It filed for bankruptcy two months ago. You should be able to pick it up cheap. Kindly do so.”
“Anything to oblige. Any other little thing?” he said, prepared to cringe.
“As a matter of fact, no, unless real estate interests you.”
“You aren’t about to suggest I buy the United States, are you?”
“Later, maybe. Listen, Joe,” said Forte, leaning toward him confidentially. “In south-central Australia lies the Nullarbor Plain. It’s desert now, but in prehistoric times, the Nullarbor was a fertile land–”
“Sure, but what about harbors?” said Joe Mansour, already way ahead of him. The Australian government would own the barren land and be happy to unload any amount of it at any price. How much should he buy, 10 million acres? Twenty? As much, certainly, as he could afford. With world population increasing at 1.7 percent, or nearly the population of Japan, every year, one couldn’t own too much irrigated wheatland.
Forte grinned. “There’s a dandy little bay between Mount Arid and Cape Pasley.” It was nice to have a partner you didn’t have to draw pictures for.
But after Ripley Forte left for Texas, Mansour had second thoughts. Soon Ripley Forte would be fighting the powerful forces of nature. He would be fighting Secretary of Water Resources David D. Castle, who would now be his implacable enemy with the full weight of a government agency behind him. But his most formidable enemy would be Mrs. Jennifer Red Cloud. She was proud, single-minded, and unforgiving.
He tried to suppress the thought, but the businessman in Joe Mansour prevailed. He kept thinking, What a perfect time to take out a million-dollar life insurance policy on Ripley Forte.
16. PIPELINES AND PYRAMIDS
9 JUNE 2006
“YOU WERE PROBABLY TOO BUSY HAULING ICE TO notice,” said Mark Medina, who had just greeted Ripley Forte at Houston International Airport, “but down here we’re in deep trouble: oil wells dry, range lands dry, treasury dry. The only thing that hasn’t dried up is crime. When the government couldn’t stop it, vigilante groups took over, and we sort of got used to seeing rapists and robbers and crooked bank managers dangling from telephone poles when we went out in the morning. The legislators in Austin began to wet their jeans, thinking–with some justification–they’d be next, and voted Governor Cherokee Tom Traynor power to rule by decree.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” said Forte vaguely.
“I’ll bet you did. He drafted thousands of hard-assed vets into the police force and instructed them not to spare the rod. He made states attorneys bring the accused to trial within ten days, judges to sentence the guilty within two. He decreed hanging the day after sentencing for murderers, rapists, armed robbers, drug dealers, drunken drivers guilty of manslaughter, and white-collar thieves stealing more than $50,000. He put welfare recipients to work fifty hours a week on public works and cut all payments for those with more than two kids. He doubled insurance rates for smokers, drinkers, and fat bodies. He quadrupled gas taxes to encourage car pooling and public transport.”
“That’s Cherokee Tom, all right. Pretty impressive.”
“Band-aids. He’s merely stopped the slide. Right now he’s walking a tightrope,” said Mark Medina, opening the door to the limousine. “The only thing keeping him afloat is his evenhandedness: he’s hurt everybody. But our economy is based on oil, grain, and cattle, and unless he can revive those industries, we’re going to have us a nice little revolution.”
“How long can he hang on?” Forte asked.
“Two, maybe three years. Why?”
“That’ll be time enough.”
That afternoon on the long veranda of El Cabellejo Ranch, Forte and Medina sat in rocking chairs and discussed strategy.
“I made a deal with President Turnbull, Mark. He’s going to ram Forte Ocean Engineering as new prime contractor for the iceberg project down Secretary Castle’s throat. As a cosmetic change to salve poor David’s
wounded pride, I’ve agreed to remove my name from the title. The joint U. S.-Forte Ocean Engineering project is going to be called Iceberg International, Incorporated– Triple Eye for short. Castle hasn’t the leverage to object. He can only hope we come through with the berg so he can bask in our glory.”
“That could be dangerous, Rip. The son-of-a-bitch could claim the credit and build up a national following on his California base.”
“Not if he doesn’t have a California base.”
Mark Medina frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither does David D. Castle. We get the berg, and he gets the finger, although he doesn’t realize that yet.”
“You mean you’re going to bring the berg to Texas!”
“Yep.”
“When did you dream up that hot idea?”
“I never had any other. What the hell do I care about California? What’s California ever done for me?”
“There’s that. But how are you–”
“Ah, there’s the answer to your question coming up the road right now. Part of the answer, at least. As for the rest, Mark, my friend, all in good time.”
A rusty pickup truck materialized out of the brown cloud that had whirled up the dirt road like a dust devil and rattled to a stop in front of the veranda. Forte and Medina greeted the driver, a big stooped man with face and arms stained a rich mahogany from years under the Texas sun, dressed in sweaty dungarees and shirt and a new Stetson of aching white.
“By God, Rip, it’s good to see you,” said the newcomer, working Forte’s hand like a pump handle. “What is it, five years?”
“At least. You know Mark Medina, don’t you, Phil?”
Phil Guthrie looked at the white-haired, white-mustachioed man–who could have stepped out of a castle in Spain and been entirely in character–and squinted. “Well, I did know a Mexican horse thief named Mark Medina once. Had him build me a products pipeline from Houston to Wichita. Cheated me, he did, and I can prove it–not a goddamn drop of oil is running through that pipeline today.” He broke into a grin and grasped the older man’s hand. “How the hell are you, Mark? Long time no see.”
“I know. You’re too busy running away from your creditors to see anything but the handwriting on the wall.”
They all laughed and went inside, where it was cool amid the softening shadows of the Texas afternoon.
“So, how are things going, Phil?” said Forte. “Last time we met you were putting together the Texas-Southern consortium. You were going to get a stranglehold on oil distribution all the way from Texas to Chicago, maybe even to Denver.”
Guthrie grimaced. “More like it’s got a stranglehold on me, Rip. Mark here was right. I’m running away from my creditors. You know what they call my company now, don’t you? T-S Corp.”
“Bad as that?”
“Worse. A lot worse.”
“What are Texas-Southern shares selling for right now?”
“You can have all you want for $1.25. Imagine, just two years ago they were going for $36, and I was a paper billionaire.”