Chapter 9 - CHAPTER 9

Two days after the party, the estate was once again a stage, and this time, the performance was not one of elegance and pageantry, but of power and profit. The gravel driveway shimmered faintly under the soft morning sun, and at its mouth rolled in a convoy of blacked-out luxury SUVs with mirrored windows, escorted by silent, gloved drivers. Flags of the United Arab Emirates fluttered discreetly from the front corners of the lead vehicle. Mr. Linton was already waiting in the west drawing room, seated like a monarch upon a deep, tufted leather armchair. He wore a charcoal gray three-piece suit, the fabric threaded with understated silver lines that caught the morning light like whispers of lightning. His tie was burgundy silk, and on his lapel sat a small, square pin: black and gold, the logo of Linton Global Petrochem. Eric, sharp as ever in a navy suit and thin-rimmed glasses, stood beside the chair, watching the approach from one of the massive arched windows. He turned slightly toward his employer. "They're here," he said calmly. Linton nodded, his face unreadable. "Bring them in." Moments later, the butler—Haystrings, ever poised and wordlessly elegant—opened the double doors with a bow and stepped aside to allow entrance. Three men entered, flowing into the room like a desert wind in tailored silk and quiet gravity. They were dressed in pristine thobes, the fabric white as moonlight, with gold-trimmed Bisht's draped over their shoulders. Each wore a keffiyeh neatly secured with a black agal. Their shoes were Italian, gleaming, and handmade. But it was their eyes that told the story—sharp, calculating, ancient, and unblinking. The leader stepped forward. He was tall and commanding, with a trimmed beard dusted with silver and an aura of heatless fire. "Mr. Linton," he said in flawless English, extending a hand. "I am Sheikh Ammar bin Khalid Al-Maktoum. I trust you are well?" Linton rose, shook his hand firmly. "Sheikh Ammar. Welcome to my home. You honor me." The other two sheikhs bowed slightly, offering subdued greetings. Ammar smiled faintly. "It is not honor, Mr. Linton. It is interest. And, perhaps, opportunity." They all took their seats around a low, marble coffee table upon which gold-rimmed glasses of pomegranate juice and small bowls of almonds had been placed. Eric remained standing, tablet in hand, while Haystrings closed the doors quietly behind him. Ammar leaned forward slightly. "We have reviewed your refinery capacities, shipping lanes, and reserve reports. What we see, Mr. Linton, is potential. But potential alone does not fill tankers." Linton steepled his fingers. "You'll have your tankers filled. To the brim. With the best-grade crude you've ever run through your machines." Ammar's companions exchanged a look but remained silent. The Sheikh, clearly the voice among them, smiled again—thinly. "There are others," he said. "Brazil. Nigeria. Even Russia. Each of them seeks our contracts." Linton leaned forward, matching his guest's tone with his own brand of cold fire. "And each of them is buried in bureaucracy, outdated infrastructure, or volatile politics. What I offer is clean. Private. Fast." Ammar's eyebrow rose. "And expensive." A beat passed. Linton allowed himself a small grin. "Quality always is." Sheikh Ammar leaned back, fingers tapping the armrest in a slow rhythm. "Let us speak plainly. We are prepared to offer one hundred and seventy dollars per barrel. That includes logistics." Eric stiffened, but said nothing. Linton turned to his assistant. "Eric?" Eric pulled up the data. "Sir, given the current extraction cost and logistics, at 170 per barrel, we'd clear only a twelve percent profit margin after tax. It's… tight." Linton turned back to Ammar. "One-eighty-five. That's the floor. Below that, I'm bleeding for your convenience." The other two sheikhs murmured in Arabic. Ammar raised a hand, silencing them. "One-eighty," he countered. "But we lock in a five-year exclusivity clause. No other Gulf state receives your crude." Linton narrowed his eyes. "You're asking me to close off an entire region." "I'm offering you an empire. One loyal buyer. Five years of uninterrupted revenue. Control." Linton stood and walked toward the window, looking out over the estate grounds, where staff moved like silent pawns resetting the chessboard. He spoke without turning. "What you're asking, Sheikh Ammar, is not just barrels. You're asking for allegiance." Ammar's voice followed like a shadow. "I am offering you something more valuable than gold, Mr. Linton—reliability. When the world wavers, we stand firm. And when we bind a man to us, we do not break that bond." Linton turned back to them slowly. "One-eighty-five. Exclusive for three years. After that, we renegotiate." The sheikhs conversed again in hushed tones. Eric shifted on his feet, watching Linton's posture. Still, rooted. Dominant. Finally, Ammar looked up. "Three years. At one-eighty-five. Provided that we receive priority shipping and first rights to any expansion capacity you develop." Linton gave a small, sharp nod. "Agreed." There was a moment of silence—like the world paused to watch the ink dry on a future carved in oil. Then, Linton rang a small bell on the side table. A few moments later, Ellen appeared. She wore a sleek black dress with a silver pin at her collar. Her hair was tied back, face composed but alert. "You rang, sir?" Linton didn't break eye contact with the sheikh. "Ellen, see that the dining room is set. Eleven courses. Start with saffron soup and work your way to rosewater sorbet. Have the wine chilled and the non-alcoholic pairings prepared for our guests." Ellen nodded. "Of course." He turned to her then, voice softer but still commanding. "Bring out the gold service. Not the silver." She hesitated for only a second before bowing slightly. "Yes, Mr. Linton." The sheikhs watched her go with expressions of quiet approval. Ammar spoke next. "She runs your home well." "She runs it like it's her own," Linton said, eyes still on the door Ellen had passed through. "Which is why it works." The conversation shifted then, into specifics. Dates of the first shipment. Refinery throughput capacity. Port security. The sheikhs asked questions like surgeons, precise and clinical, and Linton answered like a general—strategic and sharp. Eric recorded every word, nodding, adding notations, organizing a blueprint of a billion-dollar future. After nearly an hour of discussion, Linton stood. "Gentlemen," he said, "let's continue this over lunch. My chef has prepared a tasting menu tailored to your region's palette, with some surprises of my own." Ammar smiled. "Then let us taste the future, Mr. Linton." They followed him through the wide, arched corridors of the estate. Paintings of oil fields, desert caravans, and abstract power lined the walls, punctuated by modern art and minimalist design. Everything smelled faintly of lemon oil and roses. The dining hall was a grand chamber with arched windows overlooking the estate gardens. A single table of polished onyx stretched its length, set with gold-rimmed plates and crystal goblets. Ellen stood near the far end, supervising the final adjustments—each fork placed precisely, each napkin folded like origami. As the guests were seated, waiters moved silently, pouring pomegranate spritzers, and serving steaming bowls of saffron soup garnished with edible flowers and citrus. Linton took his seat at the head of the table. "Eat," he said. "We talk politics on empty stomachs. But money, we discuss after lamb." Laughter bubbled softly among the men. The meal unfolded like theater. Each course more lavish than the last: dates wrapped in duck bacon, hummus with truffle oil, spiced lamb with a smoked honey glaze, and finally, rosewater sorbet served in bowls made of hand-carved ice. Between bites, the conversation became less rigid, more fluid. Ammar told a story of his first oil field as a young prince, knee-deep in sand and dreaming of airplanes. Linton countered with a memory of his first hostile takeover—at age twenty-eight, a boardroom massacre masked in tailored civility. "People think oil is about fire," Ammar said, swirling a spoon. "But it's about patience. Heat without haste." Linton nodded. "And power without noise." Ellen refilled a glass beside him, quietly. He glanced up at her, murmuring, "You've done well." She gave the smallest smile. "Thank you, sir." As dessert was cleared, Ammar stood. "I believe we have the foundation of a great partnership," he said. "One that will not just move tankers, but shape futures." Linton rose as well. "Then let's not toast it—we'll sign it. Monday. Contracts will be ready." They shook hands again—firmer this time, with understanding in the grip. As the sheikhs were led back to their cars by Eric and Haystrings, Linton remained in the dining room, hands behind his back. Ellen stood beside him, looking at the now-empty seats. "You think it will hold?" she asked quietly. He didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed beyond the windows, toward the horizon. "It's not about holding," he said finally. "It's about knowing where to bend." She looked at him. "You've just changed the future." Linton turned to her. "No, Ellen. I've bought it."