is why your relationship, close, I expect, is tolerated by the Washington hierarchy, if I can call it that.”
“You’re right. And that’s a good word — hierarchy. So I can say to you, Carl — though you and I’ve just met — I can say that as a single here in London, the most geopolitically influential city in the world, and as the representative of the most powerful nation, the superpower — I assume that you really have to take the utmost care, utmost in what you do with women and which women you do it with.”
Elton sat back, his mind working over Rob Ross’s words. “Yeah. I’ve given that a lot of thought. Sure I worry about AIDS and social diseases. And I’ve been fairly discreet so far...” His voice trailed off momentarily. “But that’s not why you’re here, Rob, to give paternal advice to an old fart.”
“No, it isn’t. As you know, I’ve had my meeting with the Prime Minister. What a great guy he is.”
Elton agreed. “But he can be a cruel, mean sonofabitch if he has to be. Running a government in this country isn’t easy, let me tell you. Mind you, I’ve never run a government so I’m no expert!”
“Well, you’ve certainly run big businesses successfully, so you have a good handle on what makes people or governments act the way they do.”
“Yeah. I suppose you’re right. As I indicated, my briefing note from the Secretary tells me why you’re here, what you’re doing for the President. No details, but enough. You have a fascinating task ahead of you, a very important responsibility to say the least. If you can deal with the Russians, get them on side, it will be a great service for our country.”
Ross almost flinched at that little speech. But Elton was right. “Yes. Well, Carl, it isn’t going to be easy, particularly with the Russians. They don’t trust us. It’s part of their Cold War psyche. We were the enemy right from 1945 and in a sense we still are. I don’t know what it’s going to take to turn them around.”
“Neither do I. But the way our two presidents get along is helping improve the situation. What’s made matters difficult is that the American economy is booming while Russia’s is a shambles. I can tell you trying to do business there is next to impossible — as the mining and oil firms that have had a shot at exploration have found out.”
Ross observed, “But McDonalds has done all right in Moscow, thanks to a Canadian, George Cohon, who persevered.”
“What will you do for a translator? Pick one up when you get there?”
“Don’t need one.” Ross grinned at his host. “I have a Russian mother. Real name is Zolotkov. And I speak and read Russian as my first language along with American English.”
Elton was astonished. “You’re kidding! On second thought there’s a slight Slavic cut about your head structure.”
“Throw Jewish in there, too, and you’ve got it.”
“A modern-day Tony Curtis and just as handsome as he was in his heyday. Friend of mine, great artist. So you won’t have any trouble handling those Russkies. Just don’t let them vodka you into oblivion.”
“No way. My mother taught me all the vodka tricks, like eat a ton of bread before you start drinking. Or have a courtesy card that says, ‘Sorry, no vodka. I have a bad stomach ulcer.’” He reached inside his suit coat for his wallet and pulled out an “ulcer” card. “There you are. You won’t be able to read it. But that’s what it says.”
“Unbelievable. You sure think of everything,” Elton muttered as he fingered the card, then handed it back. “You’re out of here tomorrow morning?”
“Yes. Direct from Biggin Hill to Murmansk. Meet up there with the commander of the Northern Fleet, Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, and with Nikolai Yegerov, Russia’s deputy atomic energy minister and possibly a representative of the Mayak Chemical Combine. That’s the big nuclear installation in the Urals where they dismantle nuclear warheads and where spent nuclear reactors out of the submarines are supposed to go for reprocessing, though they aren’t getting there. I know Nikolai. We’re good friends.”
“What about dinner tonight? I’m hosting a little black tie shindig at the Ritz. Just a few people, about thirty. One of the royals will be there with his mistress, people like that. And I’m dying to meet your executive assistant. I hear she’s a knockout!”
“Sue brought an evening gown — it’s a real body-clinger — just in case. And I always have my black tie. The answer is yes, thank you. Time?”
“Between 7:30 and 8:15. I’ll have a car for you in Blue Ball Yard at the back entrance to the Stafford’s American Bar at 7:25. Okay?”
CHAPTER 10
The flight of the Gulfstream out of Biggin Hill across the North Sea into Murmansk was a spectacular ride for Sue and Rob and their two-person crew: the captain, Major Patricia Titov, who spoke Russian, and the co-pilot, Captain Peter White, a stocky, handsome black American. The aircraft belonged to a dummy corporation owned and operated by the Department of Defense. For the purposes of this trip the crew carried civilian passports, ID, and clothing.
Rob was much impressed by Titov. She was in her middle thirties, tall, almost six feet, reddish brown hair cut just above the collar, angular face, high forehead, hazel eyes, wide mouth, full lips, and great teeth. Ross was an expert girl-sizer-upper, and he rated Titov in the “A” range. Physically attractive, in charge, no nonsense unless she wanted it. Reminded him of that spectacular Air Force woman pilot, the lieutenant colonel who in early 2002 refused an order to wear the traditional Muslim abaya — a black head-to-toe robe worn by women in some Muslim cultures — over her uniform when off the base in Saudi Arabia. She stuck by her beliefs and won. The military brass caved in. Like Ross, Titov was of Russian-American stock and fluent in the first language of her parents.
A cloud-free high-pressure area sat over them for the entire flight to Murmansk, giving all on board an incredibly clear view as the panorama of sea, mountains, plains, fjords, villages, and cities moved slowly under their silver wings. Rob had asked Major Titov to plan the route so he could have a good look at the fabulous Norwegian North Sea oil rigs, producing energy that was critical to the American and other Western world economies.
At the beginning of the new millennium the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, OPEC, had succeeded in getting its member nations (Saudi Arabia and Kuwait being in the forefront) to curb daily output in order to force world prices upward. By early 2005 OPEC had so cut its overall production that not only had the world price broken through record marks but more seriously the supply of oil into the gigantic maw of the United States began to decrease dangerously. The alarm bells were ringing in Washington.
Clinton’s Secretary of Energy, Bill Richardson, had paid an emergency visit to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, pleading and cajoling to persuade them and their OPEC partners to increase production. Then he went north to Oslo to meet with Prime Minister Kjell Magne Bondevik and his Oil and Energy Minister Marit Arnstad. Norway had cut its 3.2 million barrels per day output from its North Sea field by 200,000 bpd. The reason for the cuts? To help OPEC and other producers keep oil prices up. As from the Saudis and Kuwaitis, Richardson received a warm welcome but no assurances that gave comfort to a nation whose buoyant economy was dependent upon an uninterrupted, growing volume of imported crude oil. On the other hand the Russians were pumping oil to the Western world at maximum volume. They were not interested at all in cutting production. So by the beginning of 2003 oil prices were sitting in the range of US$30 per barrel and OPEC was again cutting production in order to boost the price of its oil. By 2006 the price hit over US$70 per barrel, cruel for motorists and fatal for some marginal major U.S. airlines.
Rob Ross had wanted to see with his own eyes the massive Norwegian North Sea oil fields, which were graphically and visually delineated by the scores of production rigs sitting like black, long-legged beetles on the surface of the sea. The black gold that they were sucking up from drill holes hundreds of metres down from the seabed were of near life and death