Chapter Fifteen
Michael Devlin had just relaxed with a Bushmill and a John LeCarré when his phone rang. The intrusion jarred him for a second or two even though the sound was what he had been anticipating.
“Yes?”
A foreign cultured voice asked the obvious. “I wish to peak to Mr. Michael Devlin, former officer of the Irish Fusiliers.”
“Who the hell wants to know?”
“My name is unimportant, but the nature of my call could be of the utmost importance to you.”
“In what bloody way?”
“Money, for one. A new adventure for another.”
Devlin remained quiet, digesting the news. He certainly could use a few extra pounds, he reasoned. His luck at the tables had not been good lately and his creditors had been pressuring him. Besides, he needed a different venue. But he decided to play the caller along.
“I’m enjoying my retirement. Dublin has all that I need for comfort and peace of mind.”
“Your statement is all jiggery-pokery. I happen to know that you are up to your neck in muck and the devil is passing by in his motorboat. There’s a limit to the swill you can lap up on the Dublin pubs. Well, are you coming aboard?”
“I’m in. What do you want me to do?”
“You have two days to make your way to Shannon. There will be a ticket in your name at the British Airways counter. Is that clear?”
“I need time to arrange my affairs, especially with my bank.”
“You will not need money. Two days.”
The phone went dead.
The packet that Devlin picked up at the airport contained a substantial sum of dollars and pounds along with a first-class ticket. It was his first encounter with the affluent, so he made the most of it. He splurged on new clothes and new luggage. His gray three-piece suit, brightly polished Oxford black shoes, dark gray knit tie complemented his tall, lean, sturdy body. Devlin’s blond wavy hair, his steady gaze and trim mustache along with his military bearing set him off as a self-reliant and proud “measure of all things.”
He cursed himself and fell into a brief fit of self-reproach and self-pity as he reviewed the past few months. The Irish adventurer rationalized that his dissipation of the last few months had not diminished his martial sharpness, that it reflected the lowering of his self-control as an antidote to his regimented and disciplined military life.
Michael Devlin, perplexed by the nature of the trip, relaxed in his seat, and forced himself to enjoy his flight to JFK.
The customs official gave the Irishman’s Irish passport a cursory look and then instructed the man to exit through a side door. Devlin followed instructions. The black Mercedes moved smartly along the Van Wyck, crossed over at Whitestone and proceeded into the Berkshire Hills of Connecticut. The Irishman was the lone passenger. The driver never said a word. At noon he turned off the highway and drove along a winding road through a pine forest and an animal preserve. The house that Devlin observed reflecting the summer sun was fit for any bloody duke who ever lived. As he stepped into the study, he was not as interested in the room’s opulence as he was in the man who moved forward to take his hand.
“Mr. Devlin, my name is J.W. Hawkins. I will now remain silent while my importance sinks in.”
The Irish adventurer broke out in laughter that could be heard all over the house. The other man did likewise.
“May I offer you some refreshment?”
“Irish coffee will be just right.”
“Your sense of irreverence is refreshing. Please sit down, and I’ll get to the reason for my James Bondish behavior.”
Devlin watched the smooth-talking, well-dressed man and instantly decided that he was facing a barracuda from Seville Row. No amount of sophistication could hide the fact that Hawkins was a throwback to the old-time pirates.
As both men sipped their drinks, Michael Devlin realized that his trip was to be more than a friendly chat between a soldier-of-fortune and an oil corporation CEO. He was being asked in subtle ways to go back to war. His human instincts told him to excuse himself and leave at top speed, but his martial antennae were up and vibrating. He sat still as Hawkins got to the point.
“And so you see that if I’m to stay at the top of the oil business, I must use drastic means. Arab governments and Arab princes, none of whom is ultra friendly to America and the West, control the Middle East oil fields. They are sledgehammered by volatile religious fanatics as well as by a ruling class determined to preserve its perks and privileges at all costs. Caught in the midst of this insane volatility is the general population whose welfare is completely ignored. But that’s another story, best left to the sociologists. My business is oil exploration, exploitation, and transportation. That’s where you come in, Mr. Devlin. But before we go any further may I say that what we discuss will remain between the two of us. I have your promise as a gentleman and a former Fusilier.”
Devlin replied, somewhat awed, and flattered. “You have it, sir.”
Hawkins pushed a button.
The empty west wall instantly lit up and a projector threw a large map on it.
He took a pointer and hit the map. “The Caspian Sea, possibly the last frontier in oil exploration. Six nations surround it, other nations in the area claim or will claim part of the wealth since the oil may some day pass through their lands on the way to the loading ports. You may possibly have never heard of these countries, or the names may strike you as fantasies, but they are all involved in exploration, deal-making or political machinations. They are, clockwise from the top: Russia, Kazakstan, Uzbekistan, Turkemistan, Iran and Azerbaijan, possibly the most important player in what Kipling once called, “The Great Game”. Are there any questions so far?”
Devlin shook his head in the negative, waited patiently for the man to get to the point. It did not take long.
“The rush for Caspian oil really began back in the 1870s when the Rockefellers, Nobels, Rothschilds and agents of the Russian Czars descended on Baku in a free-for-all frenzy that only ended in the turmoil of the Russian Revolution. Josef Stalin succeeded in closing off the area to the outside world. However, the Soviets made a mess of things and pushed development back to a new low. Now with so much turmoil in the Middle East and played-out fields in the US, the world has suddenly re-discovered the Caspian Sea.
While it is the stated official policy of our government that any commercial routes, whether pipeline or road, in and out of the area is to be open to every nation, thus creating a modern silk road, the volatile political climate in the former Soviet countries bordering the Sea is rendering the whole idea impractical. Here it is 1995 and as we sit here discussing the situation countries like Azerbaijan located here,“ Hawkins cracked his pointer against the map, “are undergoing another change in government, thus making the whole area a tinderbox like the Balkans and the Middle East. Do you have any ideas about managing oil fields and impressive investments in that cauldron?”
Devlin sat up a bit straighter. The old boy is about to unload on me, he thought. He made a stab at an answer.
“You buy out politicians?”
“That’s a good start. But once you have them in your pocket, what happens if they get greedy or politically impotent, what happens if the army and the police take matters in their own hands and decide to switch allegiance to a better-paying competitor?”
“I see your dilemma.” The Irishman puffed on his cigar while trying to come up with an answer that would make him look smart and properly ruthless. He took a deep breath and blurted out. “You simply take matters into your own hands.”
“Your deduction is correct, but only up to a point. You need to take one more step.”
“You take over the country?”
“Precisely!”
The enormity and implications astounded Devlin. He had read about such things in fictional stories, but he had always dismissed them as fanciful reveries on the authors’ part. He examined the oil magnate again. The light blazing from his eyes lit up the map outlining everything, thus creating an image of Messianic proportions. Devlin watched Hawkins intently, wondering about his part in this grand enterprise. When the man dropped the next bombshell, the Irishman had already accepted the task in his mind.
“Do you have any qualms about being the point man?”
“I have no experience in politics. I would not know how to go about kidnapping a country.”
“Leave those details to me.”
“What then do you want from me?”
“You can recruit your friends that I’m sure you have in various parts of the world, ex-mercenaries from the African wars, ex officers and men from the French and Spanish foreign legions who have nothing to do and nowhere to go.”
“How many will I need?”
“That can be decided later. Get all the men you can get, quality rather than quantity. Money will be no object. You will deal directly with me. Here is a special number to reach me. Are there any questions?”
“What about a timetable?”
“This is the month of May. What about a progress report the first of each month, starting with July?”
‘Fair enough.”
Hawkins rolled up the map and shut off the light. He and his headman raised a toast in silence.
“Here’s to crime. Needles to say, Devlin, we must work quickly and silently. I want no word of this endeavor to slip out. You must handle your new recruits carefully. Do not tell them anymore than is necessary. Where will your headquarters be?”
“Dublin, of course. Here’s where you can reach me.”
“Good luck—to all of us.”
