F
EBRUARY
15, 2003
T
wo days before his twenty-sixth birthday, David made a life-altering discovery: there was no cocktail more dangerous than the combination of jetlag and frustration. With thoughts blurred by a sixteen-hour flight, jet lag amplified by a thirteen-hour time-zone difference, and a heavy dose of seemingly insurmountable aggravation, you were bound to do something stupid, if not downright suicidal. After all, you weren’t thinking right to begin with, and then some fucking asshole pushed you that extra step, and suddenly there you were—hanging from the edge of a third-story balcony by your fingertips, trying to reach a fire escape five feet below with the points of your brand-new Ferragamo shoes.
David grunted with effort as his extended arms struggled against his weight. He could see the deserted alley that ran past the Beijing Grand Hyatt three stories beneath him, and he knew that if he missed the fire escape, his skull was going to make quite a mess on the unforgiving cement sidewalk. More than that, his apparent suicide—because what else could you call it when a young man, locked in a lavish, four-star hotel room from the outside, toppled to his death from a partially enclosed third-floor
balcony—would cause one hell of an international incident. He doubted that Khaled—who was watching his efforts, wide-eyed, from a matching balcony one floor above—would have been able to explain the situation to their minders, or to the international press, or, for that matter, to David’s mother, who would most likely cause an all-out war over the incident. But then, the death-defying stunt hadn’t been Khaled’s idea. David had only himself—and his jet lag–tinged frustration—to blame.
They certainly didn’t teach you this at Harvard Business School.
David strained his body a few more inches toward the lip of the fire escape. The air was warm outside, and he could feel the sweat building beneath his Oxford shirt and tailored slacks. He knew that if anyone—say, a bellboy or someone from the kitchen staff—had wandered into the hotel’s back alley at that moment and looked up, David would have had a lot of explaining to do to the official Chinese minders who were no doubt still gathered somewhere on the other side of his locked hotel door. He didn’t know if they’d arrest him or simply haul him right back to the airport for deportation—but either way, he and Khaled would return to the U.S. empty-handed. That was something David simply could not allow.
He certainly hadn’t expected his last-minute trip to Beijing to go like this. When Khaled had finally told him the truth—that the “consultant” who could help them arrange a meeting with the Saudi religious leaders was in China’s capital city on some unrelated business—David had actually been thrilled by the idea of the trip. He’d always wanted to see China, and even though he and Khaled would be there for only one night, he’d hoped to get a chance to be a pure tourist, at least for a few hours. But from the minute they’d landed at Beijing International Airport, David had realized that things were not going to go as planned.
A
T FIRST GLANCE,
the old woman had seemed innocuous enough.
David had spotted her first, as he’d stepped out of the jetway. She’d been easy to locate, because of the sign she held high above
her head, as if she were the leader of some bizarre, septuagenarian cheerleading squad:
DAVID RUSSO. KHALED ABDUL-AZIZ. CHINA WELCOMES YOU.
“It’s not a silver BMW, but it’s not bad,” David had whispered to Khaled as they approached her. The woman had been all smiles and compliments as they exchanged bows. David had been expecting a translator and a driver, which Khaled’s people had arranged; a den mother seemed twice as good. As the amiable Ms. Chen had led them through the airport, she explained, in fairly good English, that she would act as both their translator and their tour guide.
“Many wonderful things to see in our city,” she had clucked. “You will have wonderful time in Beijing.”
Of course, David and Khaled hadn’t budgeted much time for sightseeing, but it was a nice thought anyway. As they had finished passing through customs and were about to step out into the main terminal of the airport, Khaled explained their time crunch to Ms. Chen.
“Actually, we need to head straight to our meeting. Maybe we’ll have time for a more leisurely tour on our next visit.”
And that’s when things had turned; the smiling and amiable Ms. Chen was suddenly all frowns.
“I’m sorry, this is not possible. Unfortunately, due to a state holiday celebration, we must head directly to your hotel. Your business will have to wait until tomorrow.”
And before David or Khaled could respond, the old woman had gestured with her hands—and four uniformed police officers had suddenly appeared, two on each side. Stone-faced but not menacing, the men had wordlessly escorted them—David and Khaled too shocked to even respond—to a waiting limousine. It wasn’t until they were enclosed in the backseat of the car that David had finally found his voice.
“What holiday? What are you talking about? Ms. Chen, our papers are in order, and we’ve got an important meeting—”
“No meeting. Not possible. I am sorry.”
It had taken another twenty minutes of intense questioning before David finally squeezed out of her the real reason for the police escort—and the “holiday” that prevented them from moving freely. In truth, there was no state celebration. The government regulatory agency for which Ms. Chen worked had been asked to keep tight control over David and Khaled—and the request hadn’t come from Beijing but from David’s own bosses at the Merc. Someone, it seemed, had made a phone call to a high-up official in the Chinese government to “warn” the Chinese about two “known” agitators who were on their way to the Chinese capital.
“This is ludicrous,” David had countered, his face turning red. But Khaled had quieted him with a look—and he had understood. They could only get themselves in more trouble by arguing with this woman. She wasn’t the one making the decisions. Obviously, someone had taken great pains to screw with their plans.
Once secured and alone in his hotel room at the Grand Hyatt—the four armed police officers and Ms. Chen outside in the hall—David had immediately called Reston, and although the Texan didn’t know for sure, he had agreed with David that Gallo was probably to blame. David had no idea how Gallo had known about the Beijing trip—but then again, the man had hired someone to take photos of David and Serena in front of a Gucci store on Fifth Avenue. Adding that to their confrontation in the boardroom, David could not afford to underestimate the Don’s abilities—or his enthusiasm.
Reston had been certain that he could work out the situation—but it would take at least until the next day. The problem was that Khaled’s “consultant” would have left Beijing by then, and God only knew when or where they’d be able to track him down next. According to Khaled, the man was beyond enigmatic; he was a third-world legend, a Nigerian Arab known in circles throughout the developing world only as “the Fat Man.” For some reason nobody quite understood, the Fat Man—really a mercenary who offered his services to the highest bidders—was
the quickest connection to the Saudi religious leaders when it came to matters of business; over the past ten years, he had somehow built up extreme goodwill through numerous successful projects in Saudi Arabia and around the region. Although it all sounded very James Bond, Khaled had explained that the evening’s meeting with the Fat Man in the lobby of the Commander Beijing was their best and most efficient means of getting to the Saudis in a favorable way.
Irony of ironies, instead of the lobby of the Commander, David had been separated from Khaled and locked in a third-floor hotel suite in the Grand Hyatt—which, it turned out, was a mere four blocks away. But it might as well have been a continent between the two hotels: there was no way past the minders outside in the hallway, and there was no way to reschedule the meeting either. The Fat Man was going to slip out of their grasp.
Unbelievably frustrated, but resigned to failure, David had stepped out onto the balcony to at least try to get a glimpse of the city he wasn’t going to get to see. Then he had heard Khaled’s voice from upstairs and realized that their two hotel rooms, though on different floors, were close enough for them to communicate. At some point while they were discussing their plight, David had shifted his attention to the street below and noticed the fire escape winding downward.
Of course, Khaled had tried to talk him out of it—but David had only grinned up at him.
N
OW, MINUTES LATER,
David was regretting his bravado. The drop onto the fire escape was a good five feet, and if his shoes slipped when he hit the metal grating—well, he didn’t want to think about it. For the first time in his life, he wished he had chosen gymnastics over football, baseball, and crew. But he wasn’t a gymnast, he was an American in a suit and tie trying to make a business meeting.
Welcome to the wonderful world of oil.
Without another thought, he swung himself full force toward the fire escape and let go of the balcony. There was a sickening moment of weightlessness—and then his shoes touched metal and he came crashing down on the extended platform. The entire fire escape shook beneath him, but somehow he managed to regain his balance before he toppled forward toward the street.
He gave Khaled a quick thumbs-up and then clambered down the escape, taking the metal rungs as quietly as possible. There was another five-foot drop from the last metal rung to the sidewalk, which he took in a controlled fall. He landed with one foot in a three-inch-deep puddle, sending up a fountain of grimy water—and then he was moving forward down the alley at full speed, away from the hotel.
The alley opened into a wide, three-lane street with low, boxy gray buildings on either side. David spun on his heels to get his bearings; he had memorized a map of the area during the flight from New York, as they had known they’d be on a tight schedule to get to the meeting with the Fat Man a mere hour after they arrived. Of course, David hadn’t factored in climbing out of his hotel window—but he’d always been a pretty good improviser.
David glanced at his watch as he jogged to the next corner; it was after 10:00
P.M.
, which partially explained how deserted the street seemed to be. David assumed that the demonstration—and the resulting crackdown—that the minders had mentioned also had something to do with the emptiness of the sidewalks and the fact that there were only a few cars whizzing by, but he tried not to dwell on the thought. Getting caught in a Chinese “crackdown” might not be the best thing for his résumé.
He took the next corner and saw that he was now in the heart of the city’s financial district. Glass and steel buildings rose up on either side, but there was no doubt that he was in a foreign city: all of the signs and billboards were in Chinese, and even the McDonald’s across the street was covered in Chinese lettering. He quickly moved to the next corner—and there, at the end of the next block, was the Commander Beijing. From the outside, it
looked more like a glorified Holiday Inn, but it was modern, with a rounded driveway encircling a huge, well-lit fountain.
David wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened his suit jacket as he calmly strolled down the driveway; the uniformed Chinese bellhops outside bowed at him respectfully, and he smiled back. Then he passed through the hotel’s glass revolving doors and into a well-air-conditioned lobby.
The lobby was nice, if a little kitschy. The walls were done up in wood tones, and the carpets were lush and green. There were high California palm trees spaced all around the room, and yet another fountain along the far wall, spitting backlit water up toward the spherical ceiling.
There were a few Americans and Europeans sitting in wicker chairs and cushioned love seats strewn about the lobby, as well as a handful of Chinese businessmen—but even so, David had no problem quickly identifying his quarry.
James Bond or not, the Fat Man lived up to his nom de plume. At least three hundred pounds, he was stretched out across a wicker couch, nursing a glass of red wine. His skin was coal black, and his rolls of fat were covered by brightly colored African robes. He seemed to be smiling as David approached, and he raised the glass of wine in his thick, grublike fingers.
“You’re early, my young friend,” the man said in a heavy Arabic accident.
“I took a shortcut,” David said, trying to control his breathing. The Fat Man looked to be about forty, but it was almost impossible to read his expression; his eyes and mouth were fighting a losing battle with the gravity-worn topography of his obese face.
“Where is your Arab colleague? I thought there were going to be two of you.”
David shrugged as he pulled a nearby wicker chair over to the couch.
“He got detained. But I’m ready and authorized to give you whatever you need.”
The Fat Man looked him over. Then he slouched forward, the rolls of fat beneath his drooping, hangdog face rippling like oil from a desert well.
“I don’t like surprises. I was expecting two, now there’s one. Why should I believe that you have the authority that you say?”
David eyed the man for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed a sealed envelope. Although Khaled hadn’t expected the two of them to be separated in China, he’d given David the envelope before they’d boarded the flight to Beijing. When David had asked what was inside, Khaled simply shrugged: “On this trip, we are both representatives of the emir; I assure you, the seal on that envelope opens more doors in this part of the world than your American passport and your Mercantile Exchange ID.”
Obviously, from the look on the Fat Man’s face as he ran his thick fingers over the wax royal seal on the back of the envelope—imprinted with the names of two sheiks—Khaled had been correct. He handed the envelope back to David, unopened, and showed his wide palms.
“So tell me about this exchange of yours,” he said, grinning once again. Yes, he was a mercenary—and the seal on that envelope guaranteed that David and Khaled could match any price he desired. Now it was just a matter of convincing him that he could get them what they needed in return. Without further niceties, David launched into his practiced—tried-and-true—pitch about the Dubai energy exchange.