“Spare me the lecture,” said the president. “I’m as angry as you are. If they did it, I’ll be the one screaming ‘kill the bastards.’ But we don’t know who did this. And we need the Saudis’ oil right now. I would not accuse anybody of anything, especially an ally, until we have proof. When we have proof, get out of my way because I’ll be the one who turns Saudi Arabia into a glass fucking parking lot.”
Putnam paused.
“Get the rest of the group,” said the president after a few moments. “I have a Homeland Security briefing I need to get to.”
Putnam waved at the window to the conference room. Scalia and the others filed in and took seats around the conference table.
“Who’s there with you, Roger?” the president asked, his disembodied voice coming from a speaker at the center of the table.
“Mr. President, you have me, along with John Scalia, Antonia Stebbens from Energy, and two of my deputies from State, Garen Adams, who oversees our Middle East desk, and Hank Bishop, who as you know is the undersecretary for operations.”
“The purpose of this call,” said London pointedly, “is to review any further developments as they relate to either Capitana or Savage Island, and to discuss the agenda for tonight’s meeting between the secretary of state and King Fahd.”
“From FBI, there have been no major developments as it relates to either attack site, other than more direct links between Arabs who were on board Capitana and Al-Qaeda,” said Louis Chiles, piped into the conference call from a remote location. “We’ve identified some of the men from Capitana, going from Anson’s records and our debriefings. A number of the men aboard the rig trace back to the early days of the organization and received training at various camps. Additionally, the apparent leader of the cell, a man called Esco, was a student with Hezbollah’s number two, Sheikh Muhammad Hussein Fadlallah, more than two decades ago at Cairo University.”
“So there’s a clear Al-Qaeda connection?” asked the president.
“Lots of them, but distant in virtually every case, and all dated. These were no leaders here. We seem to be talking about midlevel operatives who subsequently disappeared and resurfaced.”
“What does it mean?”
“We don’t know.”
“It could mean a lot of things,” said Holmgren, also from Washington. “But we’re getting nothing from our informants within the two groups. Nobody knew about this. You don’t see the two groups collaborating on anything. Hezbollah despises Al-Qaeda. It doesn’t make sense that they’d be working together. Also, both groups love headlines. They would’ve taken credit, if you ask me, if either were involved.”
“Unless someone paid them a great deal of money,” said Putnam.
“Let’s get to Saudi Arabia,” said the president. “Antonia, we know
Saudi Arabia had it in for Capitana, how it hurt them. But there was no direct motive for hitting Savage Island, right?”
“Right,” said Stebbens. “In an energy context, Savage Island had little material impact.”
“Yet the attacks are clearly linked by a couple of things,” said Chiles. “Same explosive type, highly sophisticated stuff that is new, not yet black market available, and exceedingly difficult and expensive to manufacture. Now links between the individuals involved, via Al-Qaeda and Hezbollah training camps. And timing, of course.”
Putnam cleared his throat. “What if Savage Island was a decoy, a way for the Saudis to say, ‘Why would we do this?’ ”
“There’s no logic to it other than the inexplicability of it,” said Holmgren. “As you say. But it seems a stretch. Especially when you add in the murder of Anson and attempt on Marks. That seems like a purely symbolic act.”
“Right,” said the president. “The ‘decoy’ theory is circular reasoning. I don’t mean to sound like a skeptic but it doesn’t add up.”
“Nor can we rule it out,” said Chiles. “At least not yet.”
“We don’t know either way,” said the president, “yet you land in Saudi Arabia in hours. We need a game plan.”
“To get back to the energy issue, Mr. President,” said Stebbens, “Saudi Arabia is our only option. They have the oil and can ramp up quickly, but at a cost. Their reserves have largely been sold off to China. We have approximately three weeks to run through whatever Capitana throughput was either en route or in refineries, so time is not on our side. We need to start filling the pipeline in a matter of days to avoid shock.”
“What’ll they ask for?” asked London.
“Whatever it is, we need to understand that the cost to our economy in not having adequate supply is staggering,” said Stebbens. “EIA rough estimates were just sent to my BlackBerry—I’ll forward them around. They say once the supply chain thins, the cost of gasoline could spike to seven or eight dollars a gallon. Our models show that every dollar over four dollars a gallon costs this country roughly twenty billion dollars a day in GDP. Those numbers are rough, but they could actually be low.”
“Even if the Saudis didn’t have anything to do with this, they have us by the balls,” said Holmgren.
“It cost the United States one hundred and seventy-seven billion dollars to end the oil embargo in 1973,” said Stebbens.
“In 1973 dollars? My God, the sky’s the limit now,” said London.
“This is shooting from the hip, but based on our experience in ’73, and given the urgency this time around, I wouldn’t be surprised if they ask for four, five, six hundred billion dollars,” said Stebbens. “Nothing would surprise me.”
“Are you hearing this, Roger?” asked the president.
“I hear you,” said Putnam. “And here’s how I’d approach it: remind King Fahd which military superpower enables him to continue to live as royalty, the one country that helps him stop the natives from busting down the front gates and throwing them out on their keisters.” The secretary of state paused. “They need us as much as we need them. I’d tell them we know that they just attacked us, we have evidence linking government officials and Aramco brass to the attacks, and we don’t intend to pay a dime. In fact, I’d demand some heads on a platter along with the oil.”
The conference line went silent for a few moments, until the president cleared his throat. “That approach, Mr. Secretary, could leave us with no oil at all. That’s an intolerable risk.”
“This country was built on intolerable risks,” said Putnam.
“Tonight is not about building,” said the president. “Tonight is about defending the country and preserving economic stability. The Saudis, if it was indeed the Saudis, which I am still dubious about, won this round. Period, end of statement. We need to find out why we didn’t know about this plot, where in our intelligence infrastructure we could have and should have caught this. If nonterrorist states are in fact co-opting Al-Qaeda we need to get to the bottom of that. We need to do a lot of things. But tonight, there’s one job: get the oil flowing. That is our mission. That is your mission. Nothing else. Spend as little money as possible, but bring home the oil. The risk created by any kind of confrontation is unacceptable.”
The phone in the conference room on the secretary of state’s jet went
dead. Putnam didn’t even look around the room. He walked back to his stateroom and slammed the door.
Four and a half hours later, Putnam climbed into the back of a waiting black Mercedes stretch limousine at the U.S. Air Force Base in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The limousine and its six-car motorcade cruised through the late evening across Riyadh to the massive complex that served as King Fahd’s central palace.
Putnam stepped out of the limousine and walked up the steps of the palace, where Roland Que-Marosali, Saudi Arabia’s foreign minster, met him.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” Que-Marosali said. “How was your flight?”
“Nice to see you, Roland,” said Putnam, shaking Que-Marosali’s hand. “The flight was excellent, thank you.”
They walked through the elaborate entrance atrium in the palace and down a long hallway, lit by a series of massive chandeliers. They walked through a large set of French doors. Inside was a spacious living room, decorated with tapestries on the walls, chandeliers, dozens of large couches and chairs.
Seated on a couch in the middle of the room was King Fahd. Next to Fahd was one of his sons, Prince Bandar. At the side of the room, several well-dressed staff members stood at attention. Fahd and his son stood up as Putnam entered the room. They walked slowly toward Putnam.
“Welcome, Roger,” said Fahd.
Putnam took Fahd’s extended hand.
“King Fahd,” he said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. My sincerest apologies.”
Putnam shook Bandar’s hand as well.
“Come, come, Roger,” said Fahd warmly. “You’re always welcome in this house.”
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Bandar. “We look forward to hearing how we might be of service.”
“Thank you, Prince Bandar.”
King Fahd returned to his seat on the sofa, accompanied by Prince Bandar. Que-Marosali, the foreign minister, sat in a chair across from them.
A servant came forward. He placed a tray down on the table. On it was a silver service full of coffee, as well as tea and some cookies.
“Please, help yourself,” said Prince Bandar.
“A cup of coffee,” said Putnam. “Black.”
The servant handed the secretary of state a cup of steaming coffee. He took a sip and looked across the table at King Fahd. “I’ll be brief.”
“We assume this has to do with Capitana,” said Fahd. “We’re so very sorry your country has suffered these tragedies.”
“Thank you. It’s been a difficult week. The reason I’m here now, sir, is to ask for Saudi Arabia’s help. The loss of Capitana creates a challenging situation for the United States.”
“Yes, I would imagine,” said Bandar. “By our own estimates, Capitana was on pace to produce twelve percent of U.S. oil next year, scaling to nearly a fifth of your supply sometime in the next five years. Its production seemed to have no limits. It was an impressive field.”
“What I’m here to seek your help on is Saudi Arabia’s willingness and ability to step into the breach that’s been created. To put it bluntly, America needs to quickly create an alternative to Capitana.”
“Go on,” said Fahd.
“You’re the only country capable of filling the void. I’m prepared to negotiate long-term supply commitments, and to compensate you for your flexibility in this matter.”
The room was silent. Prince Bandar leaned forward and prepared a cup of tea, which he handed to his father.
King Fahd took a small sip, then looked up at Putnam.
“Saudi Arabia is America’s friend,” said Fahd. “As long as the Fahd family rules Saudi Arabia, we will always be America’s greatest ally. We’ll help you, Roger. But getting our production up to the levels required to fill this sudden loss of petroleum, this is indeed a challenge. It’s no secret Ghawar field is in decline. It costs us more and more to bring declining volumes of oil up from the ground. Every barrel becomes more expensive as it becomes harder to locate, find, and produce. To now add what would
be hundreds of billions of barrels of incremental demand would pose a major financial drain on our resources. The oil is there, but getting to it is very expensive.”
“I understand. We would never ask you to be the sole bearer of that up-front cost.”
Fahd looked at his son, Prince Bandar. “Salim,” asked Fahd, “what would it cost to finish completion of Ghawar, including the southern territories?”
Bandar looked at Putnam. “It would cost seven hundred billion dollars.”
Putnam calmly took another sip from his cup.
“Roger, we would never ask the United States to pay that entire amount,” said Fahd. “After all, we will ultimately be the beneficiaries of America’s increased consumption.”
“Understood,” said Putnam. “You wouldn’t want to appear greedy.”
“My proposal to you would be we share in the cost,” said Fahd, stroking his beard. “America invests five hundred billion dollars in jump-starting Saudi Arabia’s infrastructure and locking up increased output. In return, I would begin diverting what we can to your shores immediately—what reserves are in storage in Ghawar and in other fields. That can begin as soon as this evening.”
“Where do those reserves now stand?” asked Putnam. “How much is actually there? I understand that much of Saudi reserve has been taken by the Chinese over the last year.”
Fahd looked at Putnam, then at his son.
“The Chinese have a big appetite, you’re right,” said Bandar. “They’re buying everything they can from whomever will sell it to them.”
“Why then has Saudi Arabia not invested in production at the new fields?” asked Putnam. “Why is there such an investment required to complete Ghawar? If you have a customer such as Sinopec, if you’re serving the fastest-growing economy in the world, why don’t you have the resources to reinvest? Why not charge them now? Must America pay for what will ultimately benefit the Chinese?”
The room was silent. Fahd stood and walked to the window, which overlooked the lights of Riyadh. “We haven’t planned well. Imagine, if
you will, a restaurant somewhere. A small, family-owned restaurant. In this restaurant, there are only two chairs. Behind the counter, a hundred different people wait for the money that comes in. They must split it up, dollar by dollar, as it arrives. Then one day, into the restaurant walks a very fat man. He sits on a chair, but he practically crowds out the other chair. He slobbers. He orders everything on the menu. He pays. The hundred family members are happy. It’s more money that evening than they’ve made in years. The next day the fat man returns. He orders even more. He’s gotten bigger too. No customer can even fit now on the other chair, he needs both, he’s so fat! But today, when the bill comes, he pays half of what he paid the day before. He leaves no tip.”