As a representative of the JCTF, McBurney waited for the
accusatory glance his direction. The focus remained on the President.
The President grumbled. “Fellas—dammit, I need that Task
Force to start giving me answers. We’ve got to get our hands around the neck of
this terrorist duck. If we don’t, it’s gonna be my neck.”
Hoffman broke the momentary silence. “Mr. President.”
Denis lowered his gaze from the ceiling to his energy
secretary.
“Given our current situation...it’s not too late to reconsider
expanding domestic drilling operations. That might alleviate the downward drag
on the economy, as well as the upper hand that OPEC appears to enjoy.”
Denis appeared to ponder the idea.
Herman asked, “You mean, like the six months worth of
reserve they think is still up in ANWR? It’s not enough oil to justify the
investment.”
“I don’t mean to single out ANWR, but the private sector certainly
seems willing enough to make the investment.”
“The private sector brought us the Edsel.” Herman jabbed
his finger in the air. “Let Russia and Mexico and all the others fuck up
their
environments drilling for oil! And doesn’t anyone here care about climate
change any more?”
Denis heaved a sigh. “Let’s examine the energy secretary’s
proposal for a moment. Anybody know the latest unemployment figures?”
There was an uncomfortable silence—surely the president
knew the unemployment figures, didn’t he? Walter Laynas cleared his throat. “I
believe Commerce last week announced nine-point-six per cent.”
“Ten per cent of the workforce,” the President concurred. He
passed his gaze over the men at the table, all withholding opinion on the
powder keg issue that domestic energy policy had become. “Call it twenty
million people. Folks with an awful lot of time on their hands. How long does
anyone think it would take before, oh, four of five per cent of
them
—several
hundred thousand, maybe a million? How long for that number of disgruntled,
disenfranchised, demoralized Americans to be whipped up into carrying placards
and march hither and yon, probably in front of the White House and all over the
Mall, chanting that I am destroying the planet, poisoning the air, killing our
children? Shit, that’s what I’d have them do if the other party was sitting in
here. Well, how long?” Denis smiled. “Adam?”
The energy secretary warily regarded the President.
“No? I’ll tell you how long. Long before any more drill
bits tear open the bowels of the Alaskan tundra. And they’d camp out there
right up to Election Day. You know what the funniest thing of it is? There
wouldn’t be a single drop of oil from any of those wells until after my second
term—which I seriously doubt I would have—and not until well after the
next
president’s sworn into office. But gentlemen, far be it from me to repress
creative ideas.” Denis fixed his eyes on Hoffman. “Only, let’s limit ourselves
to ideas that benefit the
current
administration—not the next one. That
okay with you, Adam?”
Hoffman’s eyes were glassy and blank. He nodded.
President Denis turned toward McBurney. “How is it that these
Asian economies, especially China’s, are able to afford this pricey market for
oil?”
McBurney thought for a moment. “It can be difficult to know
what some of these countries actually pay for imported oil.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Well, take an importer like, say, Malaysia. We usually
examine their balance of payments, currency reserves and exchange rates, that
sort of thing, and then estimate what portion of their GNP is devoted to
energy. You can roughly calculate the import costs of their oil, as we’ve done.
Problem is, the calculated number for Malaysia happens to be somewhat lower
than the market price set by the commodities indices.”
“What, they’re buying oil on the black market?”
“Sort of. Many governments subsidize energy costs for their
citizenry. We confirm that just by scouting the open sources. Take it a step
further. Maybe the subsidies themselves are funded through rebates against the
market price they’re paying for crude oil.”
“Rebates?” The President turned to share a look with Herman.
“It’s only a theory, sir.” McBurney had earned himself a
cautionary look from Director Burns.
“How does it work?”
“Theoretically.”
“If you insist.”
“Okay. Oil brokers would be paid at market price through
the usual funds transfer to an agreed-upon bank. Then at some later date the
exporting country, say a member of OPEC, directs a rebate back through the
financial system. Net the rebate, the importing country gets a discount,
perhaps pre-embargo level prices. With the market mechanisms all cut out, such
a transaction would be difficult to trace. OPEC would thus limit the scope of
their oil war, transferring any profit windfall through rebates to selected
countries in order to prevent decimation of those economies.”
“What about China? How can they afford to accumulate these
vast amounts of oil?”
McBurney noted Lester Burns watching him closely. “Actually,
we don’t see how, not at current market prices. And we don’t think a rebate
mechanism fully explains the discrepancy.”
Herman asked, “Why not?”
“The rebate to China would have to be huge. We’ve gone over
their budgets and balance of payments, and they could only afford to be paying
what amounts to maybe seven or eight dollars a barrel. That doesn’t make a lot
of sense. But that’s what we came up with.”
President Denis studied his face. “Are you sure?”
“No, Mr. President,” Lester Burns cut in. “I want to stress
that while I agree with Sam’s study, it is the result of very recent analysis.”
McBurney reflected on Carolyn Ross’s conjecture during
their struggle last night to make sense of the macroeconomic mystery. “If these
numbers eventually do stand up, numbers generally don’t lie. As it stands, no
more than eight dollars per barrel, not without sacrificing China’s monetary
stability, by either ballooning an enormous debt that already vastly exceeds
their GDP, or inflating the yuan. There’s no evidence in the currency markets
to suggest either.”
Herman said, “Then they must be cutting back elsewhere.”
“They’re certainly not cutting back on defense outlays,” Director
Burns said. “They continue to build up their navy, and pursue other major
military modernization, like DF-41 missile and their new Sukhoi fighter production.
Sam, how about domestic spending programs? Maybe government reform, speeding up
privatization efforts, that sort of thing, to free up some cash?”
McBurney shook his head doubtfully. “For my other briefing,
I’d had Miss Ross construct a plot of major expenditures, adjusted for the past
fifteen years. You can almost lay a straight edge on it. Chinese are nothing if
not good planners. Whatever their petroleum industry spending, we’ve not seen
anything that suggests a major fiscal dislocation.” He added that fiscal
analyses had been conducted for the oil exporters, most of whom did their
business in dollars. The results were inconclusive.
McBurney thought Tom Herman looked strangely on edge. He
also noted something odd in the way President Denis was responding to his
points, frowning in contemplative interest while distantly focusing his eyes,
as if he was troubled by the bearing on some other issue.
The President cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose any of
this sheds light on the missile defense issue, does it?”
What the...?
McBurney shared a confused look with
the DCI—
So how do I handle this?
Especially since he had no idea where
the President was coming from, McBurney hated venturing unscripted into this
particular topic. The confusing amalgam of issues made complicated anything
involving missile defense, not least among them the eleventh hour hue and cry
of voices calling to kill it off. The bribery and senatorial blackmail alleged
in the controversial
Washington Post
coverage was only the latest fly in
the ointment.
Burns reluctantly asked the President, “Which issue is
that?”
“China’s always threatened to MIRV all of their warheads,”
Herman replied, citing the country’s desire to upgrade from single to ‘multiple
independent re-entry vehicle’ warheads atop each of their ballistic missiles. “
And
build more missiles,
and
deploy more submarines, if we decide to deploy
a national missile defense shield. Can they still afford to do all that?”
McBurney wasn’t sure where Herman was leading them. Against
his better judgment he said, “Despite the rhetoric, whether they can afford to
or not, they do not appear to be MIRV-ing their warheads. Even after
congressional legislation approving it, there has not been a shred of evidence
that our plan to deploy missile defense has provoked a strategic shift in their
military doctrine.”
Except maybe for one,
he came precariously close to
adding. Nobody seemed ready to share his suspicion of what China’s vanishing
satellite might actually represent.
“Mr. President,” Director Burns interceded, “I suggest we
reschedule the comprehensive briefing on missile defense, if that’s what you’d
like. We came prepared this morning to discuss China’s petroleum estimate.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Lester,” Denis said with a reassuring
wave. “Sam? I sensed you had something to add.”
With five sets of eyes trained on him the Cabinet Room
became uncomfortably warm. McBurney swallowed and said: “We still have reason
to suspect that China’s stealth satellite may be part of a system, a weapon
system, intended to neutralize our missile defense shield.”
President Denis’s smile faded. Herman arched his eyebrows.
McBurney waded deeper. “Consider the facts presented today.
China’s suspected duplicity with Iran to conduct espionage, and their collaboration
with OPEC, as apparently seems—”
President Denis gritted his teeth. “I ask a question about
oil consumption, and I get mystery! Fantasy! Vanishing fucking...whatever! Just
tell me how
China’s
able to purchase
that much FUCKIN’ OIL!
”
McBurney felt himself turning red—the White House was no
place for anyone but the President to be losing his temper. He let out a
breath. “China may be buying oil with an offsetting rebate, but I don’t think
so. There’s every possibility that they’re not buying it at all, not in the
conventional sense.”
Denis narrowed his eyes menacingly.
“We should not dismiss the possibility that oil is being
swapped in a sort of barter agreement.”
“Barter? Some sort of cashless transaction?”
“It would reconcile much of the discrepancy in the standard
analysis.”
“I see. And they would enter into this barter agreement in
exchange for...?”
“Well, an anti-satellite weapon would be a very expensive
undertaking, so that’s one possibility. Such a capability also would be viewed
by Iran, and probably others, as in their strategic interest as much as it is
China’s...sir.”
The President said nothing for several heartbeats. Herman
averted his eyes to the surface of the table.
President Denis shifted his gaze to the CIA director. He
cracked a smile. “Lester, I think it’s fair that I expect you and your staff to
come prepared to answer more questions than you raise. This meeting is
adjourned.”
51
Wednesday, June 10
FEAR AND EXHAUSTION
were
taking their toll on Emily Chang’s nerves. She had spent half the night
exploiting the time difference between the eastern U.S. and China—Beijing was
thirteen hours ahead of Washington—urgently placing calls to relatives and
their connections in Shanghai, to the American consulate in Hong Kong, and to
the embassy in Beijing.
Emily’s drive north from Richmond, Virginia had gone well until
several miles from Lorton, where the morning’s commuter traffic in all five
northbound lanes slowed to a crawl. It soon became apparent that another
truckers strike was underway. Justifiably angered over the rising fuel taxes
gouging their incomes, the rank-and-file had gotten good at inflicting the
maximum inconvenience. Staring out at the endlessly glistening river of
motionless vehicles, she listened aghast to her radio how the blocked traffic stretched
all the way from Washington at 14
th
& Constitution, beyond the
Pentagon, past Alexandria and further south for another thirty-three miles.
Emily watched two men in hooded sweatshirts standing a
short distance ahead of her in the breakdown lane. They exchanged belligerent
insults with slowly passing motorists as they waved a lone semi-tractor trailer
forward along the shoulder beside the highway, blocking the last trickle of
traffic. Cursing her broken GPS, she impatiently unfolded her AAA map for the
state of Virginia—she had not taken precious time from work to participate in
such nonsense. Even in China, the Communist Party heavily regulated collective
bargaining organizations. Wondering why such things were permitted in of all
places America, with trembling hands she traced an alternate root—beginning
from the exit just ahead, and about to be blocked. She could see in her
rearview mirror the big tractor-trailer truck crawling along the breakdown
lane, closing the gap with these insolent men. A hissing sound announced the
driver applying his brakes.
I’ve got to get to Langley today!
Emily thought. She
carved the wheels of her Toyota to the right—the action caught the attention of
one of the men standing several yards away. He shook his head, smiling.
Don’t
even think about it
, the striker seemed to be warning her.