The Duke of Oil – Chapter 11

The following is a work of fiction. Here is the Table of Contents, which is updated as new chapters are written.

It is the third in a series of sci-fi novels of the type known as
alternate history. What’s different is that this series takes place in
our time, with characters familiar in your real life.

The first book in the series, The Chinese Century, was written late 2004. Its table of contents is here. The second,  The American Diaspora, was written in 2005. The table of contents for that book is here.

The lady of the house took a sip of
champagne. It was mid-afternoon in Dubai, the heart of summer, the
heat of August. Where few ventured out into a Wyoming winter, still
fewer walked into a Dubai summer afternoon.

But, if you had the wherewithal, both
stayed outside. Where you could watch them from behind glass, admire
their beauty, and never be touched.

Dick was still at work. But he would
return in time for dinner, something he had not done in years before
this move. Her new grandson and his mothers were moving into their
own place, a few blocks away, and her other daughter had gone with
them.

She was alone. She was out of power.
But she was rich. Not just wealthy, rich. Dick assured her of it each
day. There was a huge difference. Wealthy people could afford
apartments like this. Rich people took them as their right.

She took another sip, just a tiny one
this time. Just to smell the bubbles.

The apartment her husband had bought
for her was sumptuous, everything she had ever dreamed of. It was
halfway up a brand new tower and took up two floors, all the way
around. It offered spectacular views of the new city to the north,
south and west, and this incredible view of the Persian Gulf to the
east.

Such a contrast to that dump, the Naval
Observatory, where she had been living as the "mere" wife
of the U.S. Vice President. So different her new life was from what
she had known. There were no sycophants to placate, no interest
groups to play off, no boring receptions to go to, nothing but family
and what friends she might bring in, nothing but luxury and a husband
who even smiled once in a while.

No one else need love that smile. She
did. Always had.

It was a little strange, being a
private person again. There were no reporters calling, no paparazzi
on the streets. She did not see her name in the newspapers anymore,
or even on the Web sites she visited. Her whole life had been spent
in public, in Washington, the exile to Dallas, then back to
Washington. Yet she seemed to have suddenly died and left no trace.

Suffering fools in the name of vague
political goals. What had been her real life for most of her life now
appeared to her as a bad dream.

Let Laura and George have it. They
could be dictators if they wanted, for all the happiness it might
bring them. She’d been there, done that, got the t-shirt, and left
office poor compared to those her husband had been sent to serve.

No more of that. No more, her husband
said. And she agreed. Given a choice between money and power, she’d
take money. Money endured.

Above her head, on a large HDTV screen
CNN International played softly. It was late evening in the States,
Larry King should be on. Not here, though.

Before she turned the sound down the
anchors were talking of how Dubai was now the world’s third financial
capital, bigger than New York, thanks to oil wealth and the lack of
an income tax. Thanks in no small part to my husband, Lynne thought,
thinking back to some of the stories Dick had told her, these last
weeks, about his work with the Dubai Central Market.

Imagine Dallas, back in the 1970s, during the Oil Boom, but
with the South having won that dreadful Civil War. Imagine if that
horrible Dr. Martin Luther Coon had never happened. (She could say
that now, even out loud. Amazing.) That’s what Dubai is, she thought.
A rigid class system, enforced and endorsed by unbreakable laws. All
the wealth of the world flooding in, to trade with, to spend freely,
to enjoy. Servants who worked for pennies, it seemed, as many as you
wanted, and who seemed happy to get it, who sent most of it home to
India or Bangladesh, to the Philippines or to China, and who would
themselves be deported once their usefulness was past. Without so
much as a second glance, with no appeal at all.

It was paradise. Real family values.
The Arab people were wonderful. So what if women were kept in their
place. It was a beautiful place. Shiny, chrome fixtures, the best
produce and meats from around the world, delivered to the door, along
with world class chefs to cook it for you if you wanted. To be an
American millionaire – no, Lynne thought quickly – soon, a
billionaire, in Dubai, was to be a true Master of the Universe.

A notebook fell off her lap, onto the
floor. She bent to pick it up. Notes on a new novel. She had written
little romance pieces before, even had them published under her own
name. She had been savaged for it. But they were, after all, just
harmless fantasies.

What’s wrong with harmless fantasies?

Somewhere between a woman’s giving
birth and her daughter’s giving birth, she learns that fantasies can
be more fun than reality. Fantasies can’t argue, they hold no
grudges, nor even memories. Fantasies can delight and tantalize, just
as reality can, but fantasies can be wiped away, clean, leaving one
refreshed, and without even any pulled muscles.

So now she indulged her taste in
fantasy. Even while surrounded by what others would call fantasy in
her reality.

She chuckled softly to herself. Behind
her the maid, Maria, hovered quietly, her household chores done,
nothing else left but to attend madam.

Suddenly Maria cleared her throat.
"Madam," she said, in her soft Filipino accent. The
Bluetooth headset in her right ear glittered in the light, as Lynne
turned to face her. "There is a man at the front door. A
masseuse."

"I didn’t order any masseuse. Send
him away."

Maria blushed. "Ma’am, he says he
was sent by your husband. He is a very handsome man. From his accent,
I would guess, he is Italian."

"My husband sent me an Italian
masseuse?" Lynne Cheney was startled.

"He has a message from your
husband," Maria continued. "He says, Happy Birthday.

And he asks that you dismiss me until
tomorrow. You may listen yourself." Maria pointed down to the
side table, where a small phone sat, its red message light blinking.

Lynne smiled. She loved her husband so.
"What is the man’s name?" she asked her maid. "The
masseuse, does he have a name?"

A pause, soft voices. "Ignacio,"
said Maria. The same name Lynne had given the Latin lover in her
latest draft. Was that really his name, or had her husband been
peeking? Did it matter?

She smiled once more. "It seems my
husband has thought of both of us. You may go, dear. Show the
gentleman in." She picked up her glass, touched her hair, and
pretended to be 22.