Acquiring Chevron
The Russian Empire’s finances were far worse than I had expected.
Had the defeat in the Balkan War really done this much damage?
Capital bleeding out of the country without end, an economy sinking under internal chaos. Faced with a bout of stagflation that had arrived decades ahead of schedule, the empire had finally made the worst choice imaginable: just keep printing money.
“…At that rate, isn’t it a country that collapses in a few years?”
One trigger and the whole state could flip overnight.
“I think so too. The problem is that we, the ones who have to start the revolution, don’t have any money either.”
So Stalin knows it.
Revolution needs money. If you cannot prepare the people in an organized way, what follows is only more chaos—something Stalin, Dzhugashvili, understood perfectly.
“Actually, in a few weeks I’m going to Switzerland to meet Lenin.”
The light in Stalin’s eyes changed.
“I’ll do whatever I can about the funding. In return, give me one promise.”
“…What is it?”
I know this man will reverse himself as easily as turning over a hand later. But that is Iosif Stalin, the Man of Steel Secretary—not the young Iosif Dzhugashvili who throws himself into the revolution and the Social Democratic Party without looking left or right. Besides, their economy is so thoroughly wrecked that they can hand over that kind of money like a charitable donation.
“If you ever take the center of politics, support our plan to dominate the southern Caucasus—excluding Georgia—and Egypt.”
I will put the exact same condition to Lenin. We bankroll the revolution; you give us the Caucasus. When the Russia of the Triple Entente collapses and the Soviets take its place, we pull them onto the side of the Central Powers. That is my grand strategy, and the talk of Egypt is merely the bait.
“…Why exclude Georgia?”
“It’s nothing but rough mountains, so it’s not much use. And to be honest…”
“I truly love Georgian literature.”
“Georgian literature?”
I drew a poem from my wallet and showed it to him.
O Moon
“Th-this is…”
“A piece by a poet named Soselo. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I’ve kept this passage close since the days of the revolution. Even though we are Ottomans, not Georgians.”
In truth I had scribbled it earlier with trembling hands. There is no writer alive who hates praise from a reader.
“In any case, we need the Caucasus. Promise me.”
“…Understood. I promise.”
Stalin took his leave with a face that looked ready to cry.
“It’s time to go. Well then—let’s meet in Moscow someday.”
“…Ismet.”
“…Yes.”
“Russia. Let’s just smash them ourselves.”
“We’ll go back and prepare.”
The talk with Stalin had given me a great deal. Perhaps a worldline in which we actually win the First World War was opening at last.
“Shall we be off as well?”
Outside, the light had already grown dim. I had wanted to wander and sightsee longer, yet meeting Stalin face to face was more than enough. This was worth several times any New York tour.
“Tomorrow we meet Mr. Rockefeller, so everyone prepare properly in advance.”
Wall Street.
The canyon of stone façades and dark suits was more than enough to overwhelm three men. The tallest building on that street was our destination.
“Let’s go, Ismet.”
“Yes, Pasha.”
Ah—where was Esra? I had meant to bring her, but one look at women’s rights in this era and I decided the two of us alone would be wiser. So I had turned her loose in the city to hunt for anything worth introducing to the Ottoman Empire.
“Ismail Enver. I have come to see Mr. Rockefeller.”
After receiving a visitor’s card in the lobby we rose to the upper floors. An old man and a younger man who resembled him waited for us.
“I’ve been expecting you. This is my son.”
“Rockefeller Junior. A pleasure.”
The son who had taken the helm once the elder Rockefeller stepped back from day-to-day management.
“So—you want to acquire the California branch.”
Straight to the point?
What a fiery temperament.
“I understand the antitrust laws have given you a number of worries.”
“They have.”
“If we take the California branch, it will be read as a good-faith effort to comply with those laws, and the Supreme Court will reject any dissolution of the company.”
“Optimism aside—why California?”
“Because it is one of the few branches that already possesses every technology we need.”
Cut off from the eastern pipelines, California had developed its own drilling and refining capacity. And these people end up taking Middle Eastern oil later. I could not say that to Rockefeller now, but this was the chance to turn Saudi Aramco into Ottoman Aramco. If that ever became reality, religious strife could be swept aside by sheer money. What weight does faith carry against overwhelming capital?
“What price have you prepared?”
I named the figure I had ready. Rockefeller Junior smiled thinly.
“It may be a great sum in the Ottoman Empire. In New York it is not especially attractive.”
How much money do these bastards even make?
We were offering a slice of the national budget and they brushed it off with a chuckle. Still, this lay inside the range I had expected.
“Which is why we prepared one additional condition.”
“And that is?”
“As everyone knows, a great deal of oil is coming out near the Persian Gulf—and every drop of it is flowing into British mouths.”
Rockefeller’s ears seemed to prick.
“But we also hold land in that same neighborhood.”
“…!”
“The government of the Ottoman Empire will sell exclusive development rights for the Levant.”
Rockefeller Junior glanced once at his father. The man in that chair was no longer a terminal old man; he was a gambler and a great capitalist.
“That is a fair enough condition.”
“Then under those terms the contract—”
“You, however.”
“You are hiding one more thing, are you not?”
My heart dropped.
“Is there not another oil-bearing region right beside the Persian Gulf?”
“…You mean Mesopotamia.”
“Throw in exclusive rights there as well, and I will sell you the Standard Oil California branch.”
Junior looked startled, but the father’s face never moved. Under ordinary circumstances the demand would have been thrown out as absurd.
He knows.
He knows we are the ones in a hurry. Even so, surrendering Iraq is too great a loss. The moment we give up Iraq we have to take the Arabian Peninsula. Crawling into the desert to fight every emirate is madness. Iraq cannot be yielded, even if we die.
“Mesopotamia borders the Qajar dynasty. Developing it would make friction with Britain unavoidable.”
“Ah—then there is nothing for it. The Levant alone will do.”
Junior moved quickly to close the matter.
“…Very well. We settle on the Levant.”
Rockefeller glared at his son; the younger man seemed not to notice at all.
Thank God that bastard is the one on the front line of management…
Had the old man still held the reins we would have been stripped of Mesopotamia as well. Looking ahead, that was a price I refused to pay.
Contract signed, we left Wall Street.
“Mr. Rockefeller is fierce.”
“It would have been hard without the son.”
I had taken him for an old snake. He was a seasoned lion. The reminder that people of this age are by no means my inferiors struck hard.
I need to keep my head straight.
“We got what we came for. Shall we head back?”
“Eh—right away?”
“What else?”
About a week of the American schedule remained. After that, Switzerland and the meeting with Lenin. Rest early tonight, sightsee from tomorrow—
“This may be the last chance on the whole trip to enjoy yourself without your wife, Pasha.”
“…!!”
Lately I had been stuck to Esra so tightly that solitary hours had all but vanished. Tomorrow we would be glued together again; I ought to savor a little freedom while I could.
“You’re right, Ismet.”
“Shall we try the theater district first?”
As expected, Kemal’s eye for people was excellent.
Night in the theater district.
In a bar somewhere along those streets I sat alone, watching a performance.
Where was Ismet? He had declared he wanted to run wild tonight and vanished into a club by himself.
Traitor.
I had come expecting jazz. What greeted me was cheerful piano.
So much for a jazz show.
Not that I dislike piano…
Louis Armstrong? Charlie Parker? Trumpet and bass?
For the record, I rather like jazz. The 1910s New York night performance I had dreamed of in my previous life was unfolding right in front of me—and it was classical all evening? If this was the plan I should have gone to the club with Ismet. Please do not lecture a married man about clubs.
Of course their real era is still years away, but a man can hope for something in that direction…
Surely I would hear at least one jazz number before closing. I was in America during the dawn of the jazz age, after all.
I sipped and waited. A white band filed in.
Oh—Dixieland? Is that Dixieland?
The Original Dixieland Jazz Band. The first to put jazz on record and leave the tracks we still hear. I had come hoping for the music that existed before they ever recorded, yet hearing this live was still something.
The emcee said a few words in English I did not catch. Listening comprehension after drinking is never easy.
I held my racing heart and waited for the first note.
Ah, shit—piano again?
If you are going to do this, at least give me ragtime. Why am I sitting through a classical recital?
In the end the irritation won and I spoke to the person beside me. Skin color I cannot recall—probably too dark in the room. The conversation itself is hazy, though I am fairly sure it concerned jazz. It felt pleasant while it lasted.
Then I left the bar.
A bed. A room that was not our lodging. Two people in one bed.
“…Fuck.”
Where the hell am I?