The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [132]
“A quiet word here and there about the senator’s libido,” Shimon said. “The Republicans don’t want a Bill Clinton.”
“And relations between America and the Persian Gulf States?”
“Fluid,” Ari suggested.
I smiled, but Shimon looked annoyed.
“Unchanged. The French withdrew their security proposal to the Saudis. They seem quite put out with the Russians these days.” He took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes. “There is some reason other than your curiosity for me to have traveled seven thousand miles to see you, isn’t there?”
I nodded, gesturing toward an old windmill a few hundred yards away. The blades were spinning slowly, the iron shaft creaking on ancient bearings.
“The windmill drives the pump that lifts water from the aquifer. I had an engineer out here the other day, to talk about replacing it with a more modern windmill so I could do a little cogeneration at the same time. I mentioned that I planned to install a solar array as well, so I could get myself off the grid. He laughed. Oil’s cheap, he explained, because of the financial crisis. It would take forever to get any kind of payback on my investment. His advice was to do nothing.”
Shimon shrugged.
“We made another round of the Western governments, identifying Rashid as the source of our Saudi estimates. No one wants to talk about an energy problem twenty years from now. They’re all preoccupied with unemployment and stimulus plans and budget deficits.”
“They’d focus if they really understood the consequences. We’re running out of time.”
“So, what do you want us to do?” Ari asked.
“Send me Rashid’s information. The real information. I still have an audience.”
“Possible,” Shimon said, frowning, “but this is a political problem—”
“I read the news accounts of Narimanov’s plane crash,” I said, deliberately interrupting him. “And I made a few phone calls. It’s interesting. The plane dropped off radar almost a hundred miles away from the crash site, and the search-and-rescue team never found Narimanov’s body. There’s a German air base nearby. I’m not usually a big conspiracy theorist, but it made me wonder: What if the crash was staged, so the Germans—or their friends—could secretly grab Narimanov?”
Shimon stared at me, his eyes hooded.
“Mohler was feeding money to dozens of bank accounts,” I continued. “White told us that Narimanov controlled business and political leaders all over the world. If Narimanov was secretly in custody, whoever held him would have leverage over everyone he’d been bribing.”
“Tread lightly here,” Ari advised softly. “Very, very lightly.”
“Let me be very clear,” I said. “I’m not threatening anybody with anything. Nothing I know or suspect goes any further, ever. But I want you to know that I’ve established a nonprofit organization to promote awareness of impending energy shortages and to lobby for more action on alternative energy strategies. Walter Coleman gifted us an endowment. It would be nice if the business and political leaders who were on Narimanov’s payroll were encouraged to be supportive as well.”
“That’s it?” Ari asked.
“That’s it.”
He glanced at Shimon and then back at me.
“You have information on this organization?”
I fished one of my new business cards from my hip pocket.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a little damp.”
Shimon put his sunglasses on again and nodded curtly.
“I’ll tell my superiors about your organization,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll approve. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a number of calls in the near future, offering donations or help. And I’ll have a word with Rashid’s executor in Jerusalem. My recollection is that he left some papers for you. I’ll see that they’re sent along.”
“Thanks.”
Shimon turned and began walking back toward his car, Ari trailing behind. He glanced at the fence posts I’d set and came to a halt.
“You’re