Walter calmed the crowd with another forceful application of his butter knife, insisting that anyone who wanted to speak raise his hand. White, moderating, proceeded to deliberately ignore me-not that it mattered much. Simpson was mainly ducking the questions, seeming to have said as much as he wanted to say. The tone of the questions reflected a pretty even split in the audience-half sounded as if they thought Simpson was on the right track, and half sounded as if they thought he was a dangerous lunatic. Walter kept quiet, not giving anything away. I knew which camp I was in. America was going to have to transition from oil and gas at some point-far better we begin addressing the issue now and try to avoid the implicit moral hazard. Because no matter what Simpson might argue, American insistence on unfettered access to oil and gas wouldn’t just be about busting boycotts. When the supply and demand curves crossed, and genuine energy shortages arose, it would be about maintaining an automobile-oriented lifestyle at the expense of heat, food, and potable water for the developing world. It was a choice I didn’t want to have to make.
Alex got up and left the room just before White brought the session to a close, leaving his suit jacket on his chair. I followed a moment later, brushing past the security staff and searching left and right for the men’s room, where I assumed I’d find him. I wanted a word in private, to get to the bottom of the Theresa Roxas business. Someone touched my arm from behind, and I turned to find myself face-to-face with Nikolay Narimanov. I’d been so worked up that I’d forgotten about him.
“Mr. Wallace,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m an admirer of your work.”
He had a strong grip and an incongruous hint of a Scottish burr.
“Thanks,” I said. “Call me Mark, please. I wasn’t aware that you read my work. Do you mind my asking who’s been forwarding it to you?”
“Friends send me things of interest. I hope that’s not a problem.”
I was a little taken aback by how good his English was. I’d read that he’d been the Soviet equivalent of a scholarship student-a bright kid from the butt end of nowhere who’d gotten fast-tracked to a top engineering program after he won a regional math competition. My line of work brought me into contact with a lot of foreigners who’d learned English as part of a technical secondary education. They were rarely so fluent, no matter how much exposure they had to the language later in life.
“Not at all,” I said. “I only wish I’d known sooner that we had a connection. It might be interesting to talk from time to time.”
“Perhaps a word in private now? I have my car. I can give you a lift.”
“That’d be great,” I said, making a spur-of-the-moment decision to let Alex go for the time being. He couldn’t avoid me for long, and the opportunity to get to know Narimanov was too compelling to pass up. “Let me get my coat and briefcase.”
He lifted a finger, and a bulky bodyguard I’d mistaken for another of the senator’s security staff snapped to attention.
“My associate will retrieve your things. Shall we?”
He led the way out a side entrance, through a courtyard, and to Madison Avenue beyond. Three black SUVs with tinted windows were parked in the shadow of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The rear window was open in the last car, and I could see two guys sitting backward in the third row of seats with unzipped gym bags in their laps. I wondered if Narimanov carried a diplomatic passport and what kind of strings he’d had to pull to get permission to ride around New York City in a heavily armed motorcade.
Yet another large man opened the rear door of the center car, and we both got in. The interior was crammed with electronics-flat screens, keyboards, and telephones, all professionally mounted and ready to hand.
“Nice,” I said, as the door closed. My experience of billionaires was that they liked to have their toys complimented.
“Functional,” Narimanov replied offhandedly. “So. Senator Simpson’s associate, Mr. White, reached out through a mutual acquaintance to suggest I attend today. Why do you imagine I was invited?”
The pleasantries were over.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“I spent a few minutes with Senator Simpson and Mr. White before lunch. The senator told me that he is a great admirer of the Russian people. He wanted to know if I played tennis.”
I laughed and then gave the question some thought. Narimanov hadn’t been invited because of his money. Simpson was evidently willing to run the risk of cozying up to the hedge-fund community, but no mainstream politician would be dumb enough to take money from a foreign national or a foreign-controlled company.
“You’re plugged into the Kremlin,” I said tentatively. “Maybe Simpson wants you as a back channel to your government, to give them a window on what he’s thinking.”
“My conclusion exactly,” Narimanov said. “But why?”
It was a tougher question. Russia had become a major energy exporter since the collapse of the Soviet Union, so their only stake in the game was political.
“Pushing his plan will mean trouble with Europe and Asia,” I ventured. “They’re not going to like the idea of America formally asserting a first call on Middle Eastern oil and gas. Maybe he wants Russian support?”
“Again, my conclusion. In exchange for what?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, having exhausted my ingenuity.
“Nor do I.”
“You could ask.”
“If I wished to be a messenger. It’s not always a desirable role.”
I took his point. Politics was a means for businesspeople, not an end. The front door opened, and the bulky bodyguard got in the passenger side, handing my coat and briefcase back to me.
“Where to?” Narimanov said.
“Forty-sixth and Park, if it’s not out of your way. I could walk as easily.”
“It’s not a problem.”
The bodyguard murmured something into his sleeve, and all three cars pulled away from the curb simultaneously. Narimanov craned his neck to look up at the cathedral as we passed beneath its spires. I took advantage of his distraction to pose a question of my own.
“How do you think your government is going to respond to the Nord Stream attack?”
“Do you know the word ‘laldie’?” he asked, still gazing out the window.
“No. Is it Russian?”
“Scottish. I spent a year on an offshore rig in the Sea of Okhotsk when I was in my twenties, apprenticed to a Glaswegian chief engineer. When a worker reported drunk, he’d give them a laldie -a thorough beating with a pipe wrench. It sent a message.”
“And you think Russia’s getting ready to give someone a laldie?” I asked, catching his drift.
“Russia and our new allies, the French. Most definitely.”
“The Ukrainians?”
“I’ll let you know if I hear.”
“Will you?” It never hurt to ask.
“Perhaps,” he said seriously, turning away from the window to look at me. “In exchange for your candid opinion of Senator Simpson’s proposal.”
I knew he was just jerking me around, but I liked the fact that we were talking. Any dialogue was a good start.
“It’s a bad idea. We’d only be postponing our problems. And creating categories of haves and have-nots reduces the likelihood of global cooperation on other fronts, which is important if we want to spread the cost of next-generation energy projects or tackle ecological issues. China has a lot of dirty coal they can burn if their backs are to the wall. Not to mention the fact that any genuine energy shortage would be an enormous drag on global growth, which would inevitably hurt our economy anyway. The whole notion is stupid.”
“And your suggestion?”
“Big science is something governments have done well. Nuclear, wind, syngas, solar, and fuel cells are all promising. At a minimum, Washington should be making carbon-based energy more expensive, to spur research on alternatives. The real difficulty is that there’s no sense of urgency, both because the economy is weak right now and because nobody really knows when the oil and gas are going to run out.”
“Agreed,” he said crisply. “Your work gives you access to information, as does mine. I suggest we collaborate.”
“Collaborate on what?” I asked uncertainly.
“On understanding precisely when the oil and gas are going to run out. I can bring information on Russia, Africa, and certain areas of the Middle East to the table.”
It was a fantasy offer, but I had to be straight with him.
“I’d love to collaborate. But we both know that it all comes down to Saudi Arabia.”
“The Saudis have employed a number of foreign workers in their oil fields over the years. Syrians, Iraqis, Palestinians, Indians, and others. I’ve made a point of collecting as much information from these workers as possible. Fragmentary, of course, but voluminous nonetheless. Perhaps you have other fragments?”
The people he’d mentioned were all denizens of countries with strong governmental ties to Russia. It occurred to me to wonder how much of the information he was referencing had flowed to him directly and how much had come through intelligence contacts. Not that it particularly mattered to me who he associated with. Reliable fragments were exactly what I needed to spot-check the information I’d gotten from Alex’s friend.
“I do,” I said firmly. “Quite a few. And some OPEC contacts who might help me confirm the big picture, if we can put it together.”
“We’re agreed, then?” he asked gravely.
I felt a flush of professional excitement. Narimanov would be one of the biggest sources I’d ever reeled in, second only to Rashid.
“We are.”
He offered his hand again, and I shook it.