Читать книгу New Empires Rising - Mike Trial - Страница 6

As he walked out of London Heathrow customs, JD was pleasantly surprised to find a limo driver holding up a card with his name on it.

“Mr. JD Iselin?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Wolfe sent a car for you.” The chauffer took JD’s suitcase and raincoat, and led him out to a parked limo. “It’s about a forty-five minute drive, sir,” the driver told JD. “There’s hot coffee, water, drinks—in the wee cabinet in front of your knees. And Mr. Wolfe sent a note for you.”

JD watched the rain-darkened hedgerows change to brick row houses as they entered the south London suburbs. Despite his fatigue from the flight, he felt exhilarated. London always did that to him. Cheryl and I need to come here for vacation, he thought. His smile faded. Cheryl.

JD picked up the white envelope lying on the seat.

Mr. Iselin,

The driver will take you to the Savoy and wait while you check in, then bring you to my office.

Jason Wolfe

Global Oil, PLC

At the Savoy Hotel, the driver waited while JD checked in, then drove him to Global Oil’s offices, which turned out to be two floors of a smallish office building with one of the best addresses in the city. JD was checked through building security in the lobby.

A woman emerged from the elevator and clacked across the floor to meet him. Dark blue jacket and skirt, subdued jewelry, black heels, beautiful ash-blonde hair, and a classic English Virginia Woolf face. She smiled a fixed smile and shook JD’s hand. She brought with her the sweet opulence of expensive perfume. “I’m Angela Carter, Global Oil,” she said, leading him to the bank of elevators. On the seventh floor, they stepped off into deep cerulean carpeting covered here and there with Bokhara carpets. Angela swiped her security card at a set of frosted glass double doors with the Global Oil logo on them. They glided aside and JD followed her into a quiet but intensely active office dominated by giant screens full of incomprehensible rows and columns of numbers and cryptic lettering.

A man of about fifty, tall and tweedy, with an over-amount of floppy dark hair, approached. “I’m Charles Nesbit,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Senior Analyst. Mr. Wolfe is delayed, but we are assembled in the conference room.” He led the way to a beautifully appointed conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Four men and one woman were already seated at an oval oak conference table, laptops open.

A secretary asked if anyone wanted coffee or tea, then pulled the door closed.

“While we’re waiting,” JD said, “perhaps you could tell me a little about Global Oil’s presence in Senegal.” The men exchanged glances. Nesbit took the initiative. “Global Oil is an oil trading firm primarily buying and selling oil futures, but we also invest in oil infrastructure—usually tanker leases, but sometimes oil platforms like ESTA-20 and the production concession that goes with it. In this case...”

Just then a slim man, dressed impeccably in Savile Row attire, entered the room. Sandy-haired, with a South of France suntan, he was scowling. “I’m Jason Wolfe,” he said, shaking JD’s hand abruptly before taking a seat at the head of the table. “Thank you for joining us.”

JD was silently amused by tiny changes in the look and posture of Wolfe’s staff as they cowered. Their boss was not happy.

“Another drop in 30-day futures,” Wolfe told the room. “Not Russian production, not American fracking, it’s one of our competitors.”

“Gresham.” Wolfe pointed at a man halfway down the table. “I want you to see what can be done, quietly, about our short position in Nigerian light crude.”

“Right, sir.” A slim man in shirtsleeves jumped to his feet and left the room.

Wolfe smiled at JD, though it seemed to take an effort. “Now, to the business at hand. I see you’ve met Charles Nesbit, my right-hand man. Charles has just returned from Senegal and Somalia.” Wolfe began to sound more cheerful, almost ebullient. “He has my full authority and goes to arrange deals when I am engaged here. He was responsible for getting the Senegal concession, and closing the deal with Cairn Energy to buy the ESTA-20 oil-loading platform, both at very reasonable prices. Quite a successful fortnight—wouldn’t you say, Charles?”

Nesbit nodded and brought a cold smile to his face. “Yes sir, thanks, a bit of good fortune.”

Nesbit darkened the windows electronically and started an LCD display on a giant screen at the end of the conference table.

Wolfe raised his hands off the polished oak tabletop. “Hold for just a moment, Charles,” Wolfe said. He turned to JD. “I almost forgot to advise you that the situation has changed a bit while you’ve been en route to London. Mr. Mitchell has apparently lost contact with his arsenal ship, Challenger, which was bringing his forces to ESTA-20.”

JD said nothing.

“That’s what we were told at any rate,” Nesbit said.

JD frowned. “Strange. Maritime Security has always been a reputable PMC...”

“PMC?” someone asked.

“Private Military Company,” JD told him. “I’m baffled....”

Nesbit interrupted. “They should still be at the platform within a few days. Probably just communications failure on the ship.”

Wolfe looked hard at JD. “The Senegal offshore oil fields are crucial. West Africa is the third largest oil-exporting region in the world after the Middle East and Russia, and Nigeria is the leading West African oil exporter. As you’ve probably been told, we have put a sizeable investment into Senegal. That oil platform must be protected.”

“My team should be in Senegal now,” JD said. “I need to contact them immediately and advise them that Mitchell’s office has lost contact with the Challenger, and there is no telling when Maritime’s security forces will arrive.”

“Charles,” Wolfe said, “show Mr. Iselin to an office he can use. I’ll contact the Cairn Energy people on the tug on site and ask them to wait at the dock at Asara to take your men out to the platform.”

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll get you to an office you can use while you’re here.” JD followed Nesbit to a small but nicely appointed office. “This will be yours while you’re here working on your analysis.”

JD got Lori on the line. It was six in the morning in Washington, and Lori looked like she’d slept in her clothes.

She told JD, “Mitchell’s office doesn’t know where Andy is or where the ship Challenger is.”

“We need to let Flash know immediately,” JD said.

“I messaged him, but I’m not sure he got it.”

“Keep trying.” JD kept Lori’s image on half the screen. “Stay on the line while I get someone here to contact the Cairn Energy ship that’s to take the men out to the platform.”

At JD’s request, Nesbit made contact with the Cairn Energy tugboat. A big, piratical-looking man squinted out of the screen at JD and Nesbit. Behind him was a bit of a ship’s bridge and a flat ocean horizon.

“What can I do for you, Nesbit?” he said in a very strong Australian accent.

“A security team will be at the dock in Asara later today. I’d like for you to bring them out to the platform.”

“Thought you said they’d come in their own vessel.”

“Is the platform in place and ready to produce?” Nesbit asked.

The Australian’s expression darkened. “I’ve told you that at least three times already...”

JD interrupted him. “The ISO security team should be at the dock before nightfall today.”

“What happened to Maritime Security’s team?”

“They are delayed,” Nesbit told him smoothly. “ISO will perform security in the interim.”

The big Aussie grinned a mean-spirited grin. “I’ll wait at the dock until dark today. If your shooters appear, I’ll take them out to the platform. If not, they’re on their own. I’ve got a contract in South Africa I’m two days late for already.”

“It will be ten men and two boxes of supplies, plus personal gear,” JD told him.

The Aussie shook his head. “You Americans do love your guns, don’t you?”

The screen went blank. JD put Lori back full screen. “Did you get all that, Lori?” She told JD she had.

Wolfe had joined Nesbit, in JD’s temporary office. “Ian, the master of that ocean-going tug, may not have the most polished social graces,” Wolfe said, “but he’s one of Cairn Energy’s top men for setting platforms.”

And a pain in the ass, JD said to himself. “Mind if I make another phone call before we start the briefing?”

“Go right ahead. We’ll wait for you in the conference room.” Wolfe and Nesbit left.

JD called Lori again.

“Just got a text message,” she told JD. “Flash has received the two weapons boxes we couriered out to him at Banjul airport in Gambia.”

“Has Wolfe paid us yet?” JD prompted.

“Half a million dollars deposited about an hour ago in the Caymans bank.” A slight hint of a smile crossed her face.

JD put on his most engaging smile. “That’s what I like to see—a smile on the CEO’s face. I haven’t forgotten what we talked about before I left,” JD told her.

She relaxed a little. “I need to go.” She reached for the keyboard. “And you should phone Cheryl. She called here asking about you.”

JD checked his watch. Wolfe was waiting for him. “You’re right.”

JD got Cheryl on the screen. She was sitting in the living room, an art book laid out on the coffee table in front of her.

“Hi Cheryl. Sorry about breaking our plans Sunday.”

Cheryl nodded. She smiled at JD, and he was struck once again by her calm beauty. She was forty-five, but could easily pass for thirty-five.

“Did you get the deal you wanted?” she asked pleasantly. The early morning light behind her was beautiful.

“Yes. Now comes the hard part—accomplishing it without getting any of our team hurt. Anyway, I wanted to apologize for breaking our date last Sunday.”

“Before you go, I need to tell you something,” Cheryl said. “I had a very interesting conversation yesterday about modern ceramic art and its antecedents in Asia.”

JD waited, puzzled.

“With someone you used to know—Monica Hallam,” Cheryl said.

JD paused. “Bill Hallam’s daughter?”

“Yes. Monica is running her own art gallery in Santa Cruz now. She called because she hears your name on the news from time to time. You should be flattered.”

“A high profile in this business is a liability, not an asset,” JD said darkly. He checked his watch again.

Monica Hallam, JD thought. The one photo Admiral Bill Hallam always kept with him. Bill Hallam, dead by his own hand.

Cheryl waited patiently for JD to speak.

“Bill said more than once that he regretted putting his career before his family,” JD said, studying the keys of the computer in front of him. “I don’t want that to happen to us.”

“You have more control over that than I do,” Cheryl said levelly.

An idea occurred to JD. “How about you joining me here in London for a few days? It could be wonderful.”

“Will you have time for us to be together, or will you be in Mr. Wolfe’s office night and day?” Cheryl asked.

“I am not expecting this assignment to take too much effort.”

Cheryl smiled the smile JD was waiting for. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said.

Glowing with anticipation, JD returned to the conference room. Nesbit came out of another office, and walked quickly to the conference room just ahead of him.