The BP Corollary

By Rick Lacey

The Truth is Out! Be the first in your personal circle to actually know the facts about BP, the spill, and the cover-up. A former BP insider with a conscience has written a critically acclaimed and very powerful novel that exposes everything, answers all your questions, and provides a final solution. If you think you can handle the truth, prepare to be entertained, informed, and shocked.

Has America sold its soul for BP dollars? Did a corrupt foreign corporation buy off our government, courts, media, and the scientific and academic communities?

Who profited from history’s worst environmental disaster? Did BP spend $500 million to perpetuate a lie and suppress news coverage? Is our government involved in a cover up? Are cleanup workers dying from illegal toxic dispersants? Did our military provide deadly oil-eating microbes? Is the $20 billion compensation fund really coming from taxpayers? Would our Founding Fathers have allowed a foreign corporation to murder Americans, destroy a national treasure, and go unpunished?

Two fired BP insiders and the women who love them set out to answer those questions and force BP out of America forever.

Follow them around the world as they unravel an intrigue that only begins with the explosion. Join their life-and-death struggle as they become warriors in a 200-year-old battle between the world’s most powerful families, ... a fight they will win ... and the world will lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Lacey
• Release date: Mar 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311971333

Rick Lacey

Rick spent eight years in the belly of the beast working at BP's corporate headquarters in various increasingly responsible positions until his involuntary separation during a corporate downsizing. He knows where the bodies are buried and is uniquely qualified to tell the story and expose the ugly truth about BP.The less relevant bio information about Rick is detailed below for those who enjoy getting to know their author.Rick’s philosophy of life was set when his father's early death brought the revelation that men in his family die young. That sent him off to cram a lifetime into too few years. Instead, he’s enjoyed a long life, pursued several careers, and accumulated multiple lifetimes of experience. When he sits down to write, he draws on a wealth of real-life events and interactions.He was born in Pennsylvania and spent his first years in an Allegheny-mountain coal town. The family escaped to San Francisco before settling in a suburb of Cleveland where Rick benefited from a middle-class upbringing and old-fashioned family values. He earned Bachelors and Masters Degrees from Cleveland State University.He worked twelve years at the Lincoln Electric Company in the infamous Lincoln Incentive System. He spent eight years at BP America where he worked his way up to Senior Financial Analyst. After accepting a buyout during a corporate downsizing, he relocated to Florida and speculated in real estate before rejoining the workforce as Controller of the Sundial Beach & Golf Resort and the Dunes Golf & Tennis Club. In an effort to give back, he finished his working career as a Financial Adviser and Accountant for Love A Child, Inc., a non-profit dedicated to housing, clothing, and educating poor children.Rick spent two years in an RV visiting every state and traveling from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Arctic Circle to the Tropic of Cancer. While there are still a lot of countries on his bucket list, he continues to check them off.Intertwined in that life he invested in the financial markets, traded bond futures and index options, and counted cards at Blackjack tables. He was the fool who acts as his own lawyer, even winning a case in Ohio's Court of Appeals and beating the IRS in tax court. He climbed mountains and glaciers and explored deserts, caves, and rain forests. He rode in a hot air balloon, bungee jumped, hang glided, shot the rapids, skied, sky dived, and scuba dived. He dined in exclusive restaurants and dirt-floor cantinas. He worked on a shrimp boat and witnessed a murder. He slept in the fanciest hotels and camped under the stars. He got into bar fights, was pepper sprayed, and spent nights in jail. He met up with rattlesnake and grizzly bear, ran from a moose, and spent a night against a redwood in big-foot country. He admired nature's wonders from her most beautiful creations to her most savage devastation. He enjoyed desert sex and Arctic Circle sex, palace sex and trailer-park sex. He soaked in desert hot springs and swam in mountain lakes. He went to Roswell and Area 51 and watched a Space Shuttle blast off. He waded the Rio Grande and cruised Prince William Sound. He hitchhiked across the country and flew across oceans. He caught King Salmon and watched Humpback whales. He was chased by Indian braves and panhandled by Indian alcoholics. He hit a golf ball further than Tiger Woods and saw more of America than John Muir.As important as education, career, and travel are to a novelist’s arsenal are interactions with people. Rick's been privileged to meet some incredible characters and to have loved and lost. From the murderer to the philanthropist, the Nobel scholar to the Hopi elder, billionaire to bag lady, executive to limo driver, Aztec stud to Korean lesbian, librarian to stripper, rock star to groupie, laid-back Jamaican to proper English Lord, politician to priest, whore to nun, lunatic boss to perfectionist golf pro, the cowboy just wanting a bourbon and a hot meal to the Chairman of the Board bent on ruling the world he learned something from them all.Though hardly the sort of life of which biographies are demanded, it is the best preparation for a novelist to bring realism to his stories. He paraphrase a great many of our most admired authors, . . . "I lived it, I write it."

Book preview

Also By Rick Lacey

Novels

Cat Fever

Involuntary Separation

Autonovel

On the Road Again!

Coming Soon by Rick Lacey

Interview with the Dolphin

The Truth is Down There! This companion to The BP Corollary tells the story of the Deepwater Horizon disaster from the perspective of the mammal most affected. Our Dolphin reveals the extent of the oil still spreading across the ocean floor and the terrible consequences of the BP Corexit cover-up. Learn whether the entire human race or just BP has Fallen from Grace with the Sea.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Also By Rick Lacey

What Others are Saying

Disclaimer

Copyright

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

BP Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine

Prologue

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Thank You Note

What Others are Saying

The book is very well written, so much so that an unknowing reader may mistake this for a Grisham tale (or other well established author). I suspect we will see more of Mr. Lacey's writing in the future (hopefully so). By Tom Young

Mr. Lacey interweaves fact and fiction to create a novel with great characterizations and action. By Robert Semenak

Amazing in concept to reading. Like the book is being written as you read it. By Joe K.

If you're interested in intrigue, suspense, and just a really great story to keep pace with, you will love this and you will finish the book thinking you'd just read something from a well known author- I think perhaps that will be true in the very near future. By Jay Mittener

It was refreshing to actually hear the truth from a former BP executive! By Michelle Jeckel

… an ingenious fast-paced political thriller which is highly entertaining and informative. In this superbly crafted story where the thin line between fiction and truth is blurred by the fact that the writer is a former insider of the corporation on which the novel is based, truth may be stranger than fiction. By Khamneithang Vaiphei

Great job combining the facts with an action packed thriller. His take on a very real oil spill in the Gulf and the practices that lead up to it creates intrigue and insight for the reader. If you are looking for an interesting read you’ll find one here. By Scott

Whether you read the news or not, this story will open your eyes to a new perspective on the Oil spill. By Jackie Paulson Addicted to Reading

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and organizations are products of the author’s imagination or, if real, have been used fictitiously without intending to relate their actual conduct. The philosophies are either those of the author or were included so that he might expose and discredit them. In either case, it was not the author’s intent to attribute them to any real individual or organization.

Copyright

The BP Corollary

By Rick Lacey

Copyright © 2013 by Rick Lacey Estate Trust, Inc.

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Note

The BP Corollary is a novel written from two different alternating points of view, each of which has certain advantages.

Most chapters are written from the third person omniscient perspective in the past tense from the point of view of a narrator who knows everything other than the innermost thoughts of the characters. This is the favored method of most novels. It has the advantage of conveying the objective reality the reader must understand regarding the events surrounding the BP disaster and the organization of the world.

The remaining chapters are written from the first person in present tense from the point of view of a narrator who is also the main character within the story. This more personal approach was used to allow the innermost thoughts and emotions of that character to be revealed. Because that character is a former BP insider, the reader gains an understanding no previous book treating the subject could provide.

The intended result is that the reader will be thoroughly entertained and will come away with a complete understanding of the BP tragedy and the organization of the world that only an authoritative novel could possibly provide.

You will find my contact information at the end of the novel. I hope you enjoy my work, and I look forward to reading your comments.

To Wava,

Acknowledgements

For this author, producing a novel is an intensive, all-consuming task that must be avoided if at all possible. The greatest sacrifice has to be made by the person with whom my time would otherwise have been shared. So, Wava, you have my gratitude, not just for tolerating my neglect but for your active participation in the project. The many hours you spent reading the novel back to me improved the finished project in every respect.

Back in 2010, when I was doing radio and television interviews in the aftermath of the Deepwater Horizon explosion and trying to sell movie rights to my prior anti-BP novel, some of my Facebook friends encouraged me to write a sequel. It was from their suggestions, especially Chrissie Biehl, Nancy Holzheimer, Pat Donovan, and my daughters, Krissy and Chelle, that the idea for this novel first began to form. Another Facebook friend, Gypsy Raine, inspired the New Orleans witchcraft scene. A great many of the postings on the Boycott BP Facebook page provided inspiration and motivation to begin the project. Facebook itself was a huge help, and the book has its own page.

The few corrupt Officers of the Cape Coral Police Department who compete to arrest drivers with no regard for justice in order to boast their own celebrity with MADD by pursuing arbitrary arrest goals inspired the related scenes.

My former co-workers at the Sundial Beach and Golf Resort and the Dunes Golf and Tennis Club, especially Mandy Shrum, Sean Balliet, and my former boss Lisa O’Connor, deserve credit for inspiring some of the early scenes.

Some of my former co-workers at BP provided encouragement while others provided information and still others served as character studies including Lord Ashburton. Without the experiences of my eight years working inside the corporate headquarters of BP this novel would not have been possible or necessary.

Twitter served as an enormous motivational force as I started tweeting my progress on the day I started the novel. I made good contacts using the BP hashtag. Were it not for committing to those daily progress tweets, I doubt that I would have finished in anything close to the 180 days it actually took me.

Special thanks go out to Joseph F. Kaminski who unselfishly expedited his ideas and methods to BP to help contain the spill and mitigate the size of the disaster. Because his primary concerns were for nature and mankind rather than himself, he naively trusted BP to treat him fairly. Instead, BP used his ideas and discredited him. He is a national hero.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge those few who control our world especially the Rothschild family and the Bilderberg Group.

BP Corollary to the Monroe Doctrine

Whenever a foreign corporation with investments and operations in the Americas engages in flagrant and chronic wrongdoing whether through overt act or negligence and irresponsibility to the actual or anticipated detriment of America, its people, or its resources the United States reserves the right to force said corporation to divest its American assets, make restitution for financial harms to America or Americans, and to leave the hemisphere of the Americas.

Prologue

April 20, 2010

THE earth moved. The explosion and fire killed eleven men and would send the Deepwater Horizon drilling platform to the sea floor a mile below. The televised oil gusher forty miles off the Louisiana coast would last an agonizing eighty-seven days and devastate the ecosystem of the Gulf of Mexico with five million barrels of crude oil.

The oil slick, measured by satellite at nearly twelve thousand square miles on the surface of the Gulf, gave little indication of what was spreading across the ocean floor.

By the time the oil would begin washing up on the beaches some three weeks after the explosion, BP will have lost over one hundred billion dollars in market capitalization. Though the ultimate dollar cost could not be known with any degree of certainty for several years, the stock market is generally the best predictor. The direct and obvious economic impact, which BP would promise to pay in its entirety, should be very close to that figure. The indirect and obscure, human and environmental impact would reveal itself gradually over many years and be left for the planet and its people to endure.

Within days of the explosion and with the continued existence of the fourth largest company in the world in doubt, BP would disregard man and nature to engage in a cover-up so daring, devious, and deadly that the decision to attempt it could only come from those few who are completely above all law.

BP would launch the largest public relations campaign in the history of the world, spending hundreds of millions of dollars in an effort to convince Americans that the company cared about something other than its corporate bottom line.

Two good and different men would be forced by their own value systems into a second collaboration and confrontation with the oil giant. This time they would win … and we would lose.

1

April 21, 2010

THE earth moved. He had not felt it yet, safe, secure, and content in his own bed, in his own house, surrounded by more luxury and excess than any man deserved. His life had stabilized after years of searching for a new purpose, but even tucked away there in the opulent seclusion of South Seas Island Resort, a gated community on Captiva Island, Florida, the seismic wave was about to engulf him.

It was nearly six o’clock when the first call from an aggressive reporter woke him. Liam Camron, he answered, without thinking.

I apologize for waking you at this early hour, Mr. Camron, but I was wondering if you have any comment on the tragedy at BP.

No. No problem. I’m generally up by six anyway. What tragedy?

There was an explosion on an oil platform under contract to BP Exploration in the Gulf of Mexico. There was loss of life, Sir. The rig is burning and first indications are that it will be a total loss and may even go down. Sink, I mean. We don’t know much else. We were hoping you could shed some light.

Do you have the name of the rig?

Yes, Sir. The Deepwater Horizon.

Liam gasped. He still followed the oil industry closely enough to know the Deepwater Horizon was an enormous platform that operated many miles from shore and would likely have a crew of well more than a hundred men. His sorrow turned immediately to anger. He knew exactly who was to blame. He wanted desperately to let loose a deluge of accusations that would certainly provide the reporter a choice of provocative headlines, but he remembered the confidentiality agreement he had signed when he separated from BP nearly ten years ago. He thought for a long minute before speaking calmly. You didn’t get this from me? He waited.

Understood, Mr. Camron.

For legal reasons, I cannot comment on anything having to do with BP. I’ll take a chance and give you a name.

Thank you, Sir.

"Talk to Maximilian Thomas. He lives in Cape Coral, Florida and works as Controller for the Sundial Beach and Golf Resort on Sanibel Island. He is a former BP insider, and he wrote a novel called Involuntary Separation to call attention to abuses at BP. The book virtually predicted incidents like this one and explains why they happen at BP facilities. My other phone is ringing, so I’ll say goodbye and good luck."

Thanks again.

Liam ignored the other calls coming in while he scrolled his iPhone’s contact list and pressed Max.

2

April 21, 2010

THE earth moved. I didn’t feel it yet, safe, secure, and content in my own bed, in my own house, surrounded by the few possessions the injustice system let me keep. My life is stable after three years of subdued anguish and one of naïve litigation, but even tucked away here in the ridiculous retirement community of Cape Coral, Florida, the seismic wave is about to engulf me.

My subconscious mind is engaged in an effort to disguise the ringing of my cell phone in order to buy itself some extra playtime by keeping me asleep. The dream has me lying on a raft on a smooth sea drifting toward the music from a yacht anchored nearby. My hand explores the curves of a sleeping woman sharing my raft until she rolls over and holds up my phone. My conscious mind recognizes the woman is real and the music is Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down, the ring tone of my old friend and secret ally, Liam Camron. I sit up and take the phone from her outstretched hand.

Good morning, Liam, I answer, much more cheerfully than he must have expected. Liam is not a man to wake me with good news. We haven’t spoken in well over a year.

You haven’t heard, he deduces.

You woke me. I haven’t even turned on the news. What’s up?

Turn on CNBC. Your phone’ll be ringing again soon. I’m already taking calls, and I’m giving them your name. Explosion and fire. Eleven to fifteen men dead. BP negligence, profit ahead of safety, corrupt corporate culture. You know the sermon. Don’t equivocate, but please, avoid portraying the new Chairman as a blood-thirsty psychopath this time. It was corporate greed. Regardless of what they ask, ‘corporate greed’ is your answer.

Got it, I say, watching Elizabeth gathering last night’s clothes from the floor. Payback’s a bitch. Which refinery?

Not a refinery. An oil platform. Deepwater rig.

Okay. I’ll call you on my way to the island.

Max! he nearly shouts.

What is it?

Let’s get together … today. Can you come out to South Seas? To my place?

Watching Elizabeth walking away toward the bathroom, I check out her curves and recall how Mandy and I met her last evening after work.

Absolutely, I say, drawing out the word to convey a touch of sarcasm. This is my first ever invitation to his home. I’ll call you from my office once I rearrange my schedule.

3

LIAM Camron was a former high-ranking BP insider. He was once a rising star, having climbed the corporate ladder from an entry-level accounting position into the executive suite as Vice President of Finance for BP America. He had built a solid resume and gained enormous respect in the oil business by excelling at every position and interaction. He was an avid reader and a thorough fact checker who retained enormous amounts of information and stayed on top of industry trends. Once a course of action was decided, Liam could focus on the vision, articulate it to his team, and make it happen. He was bright, logical, and wise with exceptional loyalty to his perceived duty. He developed a strong management team and took responsibility for their actions. He enjoyed the power of his position and could make the difficult decision where others might waiver. The company could not promote him fast enough or compensate him well enough. He had been under the watchful eye of the BP executive committee in London and was being groomed for international leadership. His secret ambitions had plotted a course all the way to CEO, and his political acumen had taken him to within one step of that lofty goal before he had come face-to-face with his conscience in the form of Max Thomas.

Maximilian Thomas was much much more complex. He was gifted, or cursed, with a mind that could function as well in the realm of numbers as it could in the realm of words. He was both a Type A and a Type B personality. He could be hard driving and competitive or easy going and laid back. He could be the manly man that the name Max implied or the intellectual that the name Maximilian implied. He might be the life of the party or disappear into the background. He was as artistic as he was analytical, as emotional as he was practical, as sympathetic as demanding, as likely to praise as to insult. He had convinced himself that his bipolar nature was merely a pleasant personality quirk. He was simultaneously an idealist and a cynic. He disliked rules and artificial standards, so he constantly re-evaluated and questioned. Anyone who did not have the ability, talent, or inclination to see his point, including upper management, lost his respect. Everything he said and did surprised someone. He possessed the unusual combination of decisiveness and vivid imagination, so he could both design and implement a plan. Often he would do so without consulting his peers and without permission. He, too, had started as an entry-level BP accountant. However, he reached his peak with his promotion to Senior Financial Analyst. He reported to Liam, but unlike Liam, he could write. His words gave life to the numbers in a way that had never been seen or even contemplated in financial analysis. His fatal flaw was an inability to relate to or understand people or social rituals. Without Liam’s protection, he could not function within the BP power structure. Liam signed him up for one seminar or team-building exercise after another in an ill-fated effort to control him.

One of the seminars listed well-known men who shared Max’s personality type including Thomas Jefferson, Arnold Schwarzenegger, John Kennedy, and Gregory House. That same seminar equated Liam’s personality type with that of George Washington, John D. Rockefeller, Harry S. Truman, and George H.W. Bush.

The two men worked together in the BP Building in Cleveland, Ohio in the 1990s. Max worked in relative anonymity under Liam’s protection. Liam exploited the insights in Max’s work to fuel his own rapid rise through the ranks. It was a symbiotic relationship that worked well until it stopped working entirely.

It was during that period of time when the concept of corporate downsizing was just being vetted. Max’s work proved to Liam that the widespread adoption of the practice of corporate downsizing would ultimately lead to the collapse of the financial markets and drive the world into a depression from which it could not easily recover.

Their current situations were a direct result of the actions they took together while still BP employees in the late 1990s.

4

SANIBEL Island, Florida is a unique and special place. I make the twenty-minute drive out there every day to my job as Controller of the Sundial Beach and Golf Resort and the Dunes Golf and Tennis Club. The highlight of the drive is the shiny new Sanibel Causeway that crosses San Carlos Bay to connect the island to the mainland at Fort Myers. It includes two manmade islands and three bridges, one of which soars over the bay to provide seventy feet of clearance for boats using the Intracoastal Waterway. Because the good people of Sanibel Island restrict buildings to three floors or less, one can see the entire island and its beaches from the top of the causeway. I especially love driving over it on the days when the water is smooth and turquoise as it is today.

Due to my job as Controller, the Sanibel Causeway has a dark side for me, the six-dollar toll. We have over two hundred employees who we do not pay nearly enough to expect them to cover their own tolls. It costs us twelve hundred dollars a day to get them onto the island. The causeway is owned by Lee County and run by the Lee County Department of Transportation. That particular collection of bureaucrats is not in the least bit sympathetic to my plight. I do my best each year to negotiate a deal to reduce that expense, but shooting down my proposals seems to be an annual bureaucrats’ delight.

Today, as I pass through the tollgate without stopping thanks to the transponder the resort purchases for me, I see a group of our overweight Jamaican maids cramming themselves into our van in the toll plaza’s parking lot. I count 16 maids, which equates to a ninety dollar savings. My smile gets wider as I recall the exchange with David, our Rooms Manager, when he finally appreciated the implications of my plan to bus the maids in a leased twelve-passenger van. He was flabbergasted at my suggestion that he stagger their starting times. ‘What about my morning meetings?’ he complained. ‘A waste of time and money. They don’t understand a word you say anyway,’ I countered. ‘You have a lot to learn about the hospitality industry, Max. And my Jamaican Creole is getting pretty good,’ he came back. ‘Just do it, David. And don’t even think about going over my head. Lisa already signed off on the plan.’

No one should get the wrong idea. I really enjoy my job as Controller and feel lucky to have it. The entire combined annual budget for the resort and golf club is less than fifty million dollars. Single transactions during my time at BP could be several times that amount. Still, I prove every day that my skills are transferable. Sundial and Dunes are just two of the properties in a thirty-eight-resort portfolio, so there are another thirty-six Controllers spread out across the country and into the Caribbean. Owing in large part to lessons learned at BP, I’m the best and most effective of the lot. When corporate is in a bind and needs an original idea, they call on me.

About the time I’m reaching the top of the causeway, I hear my Blackberry start to scream. Lisa’s ring tone is from Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album, the screams from the song Breathe. It always makes me laugh. As Area Director of Finance, Lisa is responsible for eight properties and is the Controller of the crown jewel, South Seas Island Resort on Captiva Island. By car, one can only reach Captiva Island by driving the entire length of Sanibel Island then crossing a small bridge over Blind Pass. South Seas encompasses more than three quarters of the island, which ends at Redfish Pass. Some employees take a ferry out to the island across Charlotte Harbor from Pine Island. Because the island is so far removed and inaccessible, Lisa uses foreign labor working on temporary visas and houses them on the resort. Part of Lisa’s own compensation package is a condo on the resort, so she starts her workday as soon as her morning alarm goes off. She came up through the hospitality industry, and we usually disagree about everything. She speaks loudly, bordering on screaming, so phone conversations with her are good exercise for me. I have to bring the phone in close to my mouth to speak then trombone it out to arms length to listen. She has very curly bright-red hair, and her management style includes regular screaming sessions. Because she’s in charge of finance, she thinks everyone reports to her, and in a way, she’s correct. Her daily phone calls and occasional visits to my office always include screaming. She’s given to surprise visits, so I have our guards on notice to call me with a ‘Red Alert’ any time she arrives on either of my two properties.

Good Morning, Lisa.

Where are you? Have you heard about BP? she screams.

I’m just crossing the causeway. I heard. I’ve been getting calls from reporters.

Why are they calling you? You haven’t worked for BP in what … ten years or more? Lisa knows my resume well, but it fails to include the fact that I wrote a novel trashing BP and all but predicting the current tragedy. Now that I’ve proven my abilities and feel secure in the job, I’m ready to tell her.

They want to interview me because I wrote a book about BP. I have a copy for you in the car.

What? she screams, catching me off guard before I can trombone. You’re an author? Her tone moderated and told me she may have some respect for writers.

You know I’m friends with Liam Camron don’t you? The big white house on the beach with the widows walk?

We never knew who actually owned that house. It’s titled to some offshore corporation.

Liam and I worked together at BP. He was a VP. He’s set for life and can afford to live at South Seas because his separation package and his stock options were worth millions.

What was your package worth? she asks with a little hint of worry in her voice. She wants me to need the job.

Mine? Don’t worry. What was left of it went away in the divorce.

Sorry. I let my first husband keep his money.

You must not have been such a bitch back then.

Damn it, Max! I could have people in my office. I should discipline you for that. Next time I will.

Learn to take a joke, Lisa. Anyway, I’m coming out to talk to him sometime today. I’ll drop in with a copy of my book for you.

Goody. I should be around all day. In and out of the office, though. Be sure to sign it for me. And be nice.

By now, I’m pulling into my parking spot at Sundial. I grab my briefcase and head for the front door holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder and hoping Lisa doesn’t shatter my eardrum. Sundial is such a beautiful place, and the entrance is spectacular. All the other employees, including the General Manager and the other members of the Executive Committee, use the employee entrance. I have a lame justification for using the main entrance ready if I need it, but truthfully, my anticipated walkthrough keeps the front-desk personnel on their toes.

I’m probably going to do a few interviews. You know, sell some books.

Don’t let it interfere with your work. And don’t do it from your office. And remember, TV cameras are not permitted on the property.

Got it. Talk to you later.

Our bellman is standing at attention holding the door. Welcome to the Sundial Beach and Golf Resort, Mr. Thomas. If there is anything at all that I might do to make your stay more pleasurable, please don’t hesitate to ask, he says in his most sincere tone, only half kidding. Terry, our General Manager had admonished him for making conversation with me that might be overheard by the guests.

You can send a tray of strawberries and cream and a fifty-dollar whore to my room, thanks, I joke.

Certainly Sir.

I start up the stairway but stop at hearing Mandy’s unmistakable laugh. She’s our Food and Beverage Director. She’s as loud and extraverted as a female can possibly be and remain attractive, all qualities that suit her position. Punctuality, however, is not one of her strengths, so I figure her early presence must mean she’s making a sales presentation. I look around the stairway, further into the lobby, and see her talking to a young couple. Concluding that she must be trying to book their wedding, I hurry up the stairs to the executive offices.

Once I reach my office, I dive into my morning startup routines with the goal of having all my computer equipment up and running before morning standup. My office is the envy of the executive offices. During the stock market crash of 2008, I made a killing shorting the market by trading options on DXD, an exchange traded fund designed to go up in price at twice the rate at which the Dow Industrials go down. Were it not for President Bush betraying every free-market principle to bail out the big financial institutions to save his powerful friends at taxpayers’ expense, I would have walked away a millionaire. I’ll never forget the day I opted to let half my 186 thousand dollar gain ride over the weekend on the expectation that the markets were actually going to collapse. The bailout bill was signed after the markets closed Friday night, and by the time they opened Monday morning, my ninety-three thousand dollars had vanished. I spent part of the other half of my gain upgrading my office with two huge monitors on my desk and a plasma mounted on the wall.

The managers start filing past my open door just before eight to gather in the secretary’s office between my office and Terry’s, the General Manager. Morning standup at first seemed to me a complete waste of time, but now I’ve come to see the value. It’s a combination cheerleading session and information sharing lasting about five minutes each morning. Once it ends, the individual managers have similar standups with their direct reports so that all personnel across the resort are in synch. The buzz on this particular day comes from Sharon, our Beach and Recreation Manager. She proudly announces that the startup of the umbrella-rental program has gone off without incident and her staff has rented out every one of our 120 bright-yellow beach umbrellas at ten dollars each for the day. I raise my hand and she shuffles across the room to give me a high five. She’s thrilled I’m allowing her to take credit even though I had to force her kicking and screaming to do it.

The meeting disperses and most of the managers file out. The Big Four who occupy the executive offices, Mandy, David, Terry, and I, stay for our usual brief follow up. Back when my marriage was falling apart, I tried to stay out late to avoid confrontation. Mandy and David became my drinking buddies, so they know all my dirty secrets including the fact that I wrote a novel about BP. For Terry’s benefit, I pretend they don’t and make the announcement as if it’s news to all. Terry expresses what appears to be genuine surprise and asks for a signed copy, which I promise. He, too, reminds me that TV cameras are not permitted on the resort. Otherwise, he trusts that I’ll keep my priorities straight. Mandy and David say nothing, opting to wait and discuss it later over drinks.

Back in my office, I get a couple-hours work done before heading out for my meeting with Liam at his home at South Seas on Captiva Island.

5

THE crown jewel of the Luxury Resorts and Hotels portfolio was the South Seas Island Resort on Captiva Island, Florida. In addition to the resort and its amenities, including a beachfront golf course, a deep-water marina, and a breathtaking pool complex, there were a number of privately owned homes and luxury condominiums inside the gates. Inaccessible to the unwashed masses, it was a self-contained playground for the rich and famous that occupied fully eighty percent of the island. It bordered the Gulf of Mexico to the west, Charlotte Harbor to the east, and Redfish Pass to the north. Sanibel Island and a series of bridges guarded access from the South.

Within all the luxury and seclusion, Liam Camron further isolated himself. He had never met his neighbors and rarely left the grounds of his beachfront home. To say he had been banished to the island is probably fair. Other than an occasional fishing charter from the South Seas Marina, he had not left the island in years. Other than the live-in couple that served as his butler, driver, maid, and cook and the contractors who did his landscaping, maintenance, and technology work, he did not have any regular interaction with human beings. Other than the welcome and goodbye hugs he received from his daughter on her annual visit, he had not touched a woman in years. To say he was in mourning may have been true for the first years after his wife passed away, but by now, his life could only be classified as celibate.

As he sat on his lanai overlooking the ocean, sipping an iced tea, and staring at the camera feed on his iPad, he thought about the visitor who was at that moment passing through the outer gates of the resort. Monitoring the activities of Max Thomas was one of his most enjoyable distractions. He devoted the remainder of his time to his secret hobby, a pursuit to which he devoted all his considerable energies and resources -- understanding and tracking the influence and decisions of those few who ultimately controlled the world. Liam knew who controlled the wealth of the world, for it was one of their number who had banished him. It was another who had put Max into the job on Sanibel Island. If he was not careful and if he did not control Max, it would likely be those same men who would end both of their lives.

6

MY company sticker would have gotten me through, but Liam warned me to be sure to tell the guards I was going to his house. Liam only seems to get weirder with time. I pluck the South Seas Island Resort brochure from the rack and read it as I wait for the guards to contact him and gain his permission to let me through the gates.

A Secluded Sanctuary

Escape to a tranquil tropical-island destination along the Florida Gulf Coast, where time abides by a softer tempo and nature remains truly unspoiled. Discover South Seas Island Resort – a serene village and wildlife sanctuary unto itself – marked by white-sand beaches, coastal waters that glisten with endless shades of blue, and boundless opportunity.

Setting A Soothing, Refreshing Pace For Captiva Island Resorts

Positioned at the end of a small isle, rich in family recreation and wondrous natural beauty, a secluded haven awaits – South Seas Island Resort. As a quiet retreat thoroughly embraced by the splendor of the Florida Gulf Coast, this breathtaking Captiva Island resort provides families with the reassuring comfort of a safe, natural island destination, peacefully enclosed and surrounded by warm crystal blue waters. Named number three on Parents Magazine’s Top Ten Best Beach Resorts for Families, our exceptionally private, thoughtful accommodations inhabit a distinct coastal setting, signature to this truly iconic Captiva resort. Here, kids are free to board the island’s trolley and explore, with supervised activities that range from family fishing to guided shell walks, kayak adventures, and beyond. Uncover the infinite possibilities that exist within this newly redefined island getaway, poised to inspire and delight both the young, and the young at heart.

Discover myriad Beachfront Activities at this Florida Beach Resort

Engage in a unique island experience – with relaxing activities for the entire family. As an unspoiled refuge at the edge of the Gulf coast of Florida, South Seas welcomes you to experience the genuine freedom to set your own pace in the midst of timeless splendor. Book an extraordinarily memorable Captiva resort vacation online for our Best Rate Guarantee.

To me, it seems more appropriate to think about the island’s history and the way locals insist it got its name. During the 1700s, the pirate captain Jose Gaspar held female prisoners on the island both for ransom and the enjoyment of his fellow pirates. Back then, there were said to be over fifty thousand Calusa Indians in the area. The word calusa meant fierce people, but it didn’t take long for the Europeans to kill all of them. Calusa women were said to be exceptionally beautiful, but there’s no way to judge that now. Somehow, I doubt pirates were all that particular. They thought the manatees were mermaids, after all.

The gates open as the guard leans out to ask, You know the way. Don’t you, Max? I acknowledge with a wave and a thumbs up as I pull away.

Liam’s house is an enormous four-story structure built right on the beach. It wouldn’t even be legal on Sanibel since it’s over three stories. It’s painted bright white and has white shingles. It has rounded towers with conical roofs at the corners. From the island side, the steep sloping roof hides the rooftop deck or widows walk. The property is well palmed. The landscaping is beyond lush, and I know from my own experience in Cape Coral that the landscapers must spend most of their time trimming back and hauling away palm fronds. I climb a semi-circular stair around one of the dual two-car garages to the main entrance on the second floor. It surprises me when a butler dressed in white linen opens the double doors and greats me with, Welcome, Mr. Thomas. Follow me please, Sir. He escorts me through the second floor, which is all diagonally tiled in a glowing pink with islands of conversation pits here and there and two separate dining tables each for twelve persons and each under tray ceilings with two ceiling fans revolving slowly. The art looks expensive to me, but I don’t know art. There are no personal items or photos apparent. The rear wall is almost entirely made of floor-to-ceiling sliding glass, and they’re all pushed open. As we pass through onto the lanai, I hear Jimmy-Buffet music playing just loudly enough to mask the breaking waves and ocean breeze. Another surprise, there’s no Liam in sight. One of several outdoor patio tables is set lavishly with food and drink. Pulling out a chair, the butler says, Please, make yourself comfortable. Mr. Camron will join you momentarily. He turns and retreats into the house, while I proceed to the edge of the lanai and the view. Nearly close enough to jump into from the lanai, the pool sparkles under the day’s highest sun. The lawn of thick-bladed Florida sod extends to sea-oat-covered dunes beyond which the beach stretches another thirty yards to the shoreline and the small breaking waves. There’s no one in or near the pool, but I count six people walking on the beach, none of whom I recognize.

What do you make of my domain? asks a booming voice I do recognize.

Liam, I say, turning to find him coming quickly to me. He wraps me in a warm hug before I can react. Great to see you too, I say as he releases me.

Let’s have some lunch and talk, he says, and I glance over to see the butler stationed at the table.

Iced Tea or Rum Punch?

Rum Punch for me.

For me as well. He waits for the pouring to stop. Would you leave us to our lunch? Thanks. I start to speak, but Liam holds out a hand to silence me until the butler is back in the house. Please, he says, motioning to the table. The avocado is perfect.

I reach forward for my Rum Punch, hold it toward Liam, and toast, To old friends.

He quickly grabs his glass and returns the toast, To the good fight.

As we both sit down to lunch, I try to conceal a bit of intrigue from his toast. He waits, so I start. I just hope to do some interviews and sell some books. Maybe even sell the option on my movie rights.

Their greed is still killing innocent people. Add these eleven to the fifteen killed in the Texas refinery explosion and that’s twenty-six people we know about since you and I left the company.

I nearly choke on my drink. Is that what we did? Liam? Left the company? In case you hadn’t noticed, my life hasn’t been all avocados and tropical drinks for the past ten years. I spent a year writing the novel that we were both convinced would put an end to corporate downsizing. I poured my soul into it and watched it fail. I couldn’t even …

It wasn’t your fault, he interrupts. We both settle back to regroup. You know, Max, he begins again. "I can honestly say that Involuntary Separation is the best novel I’ve ever read. He pauses before joking, And I’m not saying that because I haven’t read many other novels."

Good one, Liam. But the fact remains. I paid the price for our little attack on BP while you reaped huge rewards. I motion to our surroundings.

I can understand how you might feel that way, but you probably don’t appreciate that I’m practically imprisoned here.

Poor, poor, you!

No. I’m serious. The confidentiality agreement I was forced to sign to get my money out of the company is iron clad. The non-disclosure clause is three pages. Putting the letters B and P together is a violation. No contact with you for the first five years. We couldn’t have had this lunch a few years ago. He waited for me to figure it out.

Penalty clauses?

Extremely severe.

For how long?

He smiles. Ten years.

It hasn’t been ten years.

But it has been nine.

So?

"So it took you a year to write Involuntary Separation."

"I’m not doing it. There’s no book here. BP puts profit ahead of safety and tragedy results. It’s a news story. Not a novel. Don’t worry. I won’t hold back. If I do any interviews, I’ll condemn BP in the strongest possible language. I’ll shout ‘I told you so’ and encourage people to buy Involuntary Separation. Unless there’s a whole lot I don’t know, that’s as far as I go."

We settle back and finish our lunch and a second tumbler of Rum Punch before Liam starts again. I’ve done a little preliminary investigative work on my own. Let me give you a few interesting facts that the reporters may not have already uncovered. Okay? If your interviews are newsworthy more reporters will want you.

Fine. I’d really like to see your rooftop deck. Does this place have an elevator?

Follow me. We stand, and I trail him into the house to the elevator that seems to be right in the exact center. As you can imagine, Max, BP owned the well but not the rig. The Deepwater Horizon was a Transocean rig. The prime contractor. Actually, the only contractor on the rig was Halliburton. So there’s just the three companies to share liability.

They’ll blame each other, and BP’ll get away clean. I notice the elevator button for the third floor requires a key but don’t comment. We step out onto the rooftop, and I rush to the edge and the view. Gorgeous, Liam, gorgeous. I’d never get tired of this view. I take a deep breath of sea air and stand thinking of what might have been if I’d only towed the company line instead of trying to save the world by stopping corporate downsizing. What the hell were we thinking, Liam?

Hindsight, Max. Hindsight. Lessons were learned. This time’ll be different.

Yeah. Lessons were learned, and a price was paid … by me!

What would you say if I told you that just a week ago Halliburton paid 250 million dollars for an oil-spill-cleanup company called Boots and Coots?

I’d say they should rename it.

Aside from that.

You know Halliburton. It’s a very savvy company that makes excellent and timely investments.

So you wouldn’t suspect that Halliburton had knowledge of BP cutting corners on their rigs and figured a spill was inevitable?

Yes. Of course. That’s what I mean by savvy. But don’t ask me to believe the spill was deliberate. Even in a novel, I couldn’t expect readers to …

You do know Halliburton has moved its corporate headquarters from Houston to Dubai?

I’m aware, yes.

Are you also aware that Transocean moved its headquarters to Switzerland?

Didn’t know that. So none of the three companies on the rig are American.

You could make that point. It may not be entirely true. Technically.

So the largest oil-field-services company, the largest offshore-drilling contractor, and one of the largest oil companies all without any loyalties to the United States teamed up to exploit our natural resources and end up killing Americans in the process.

Good! Did you know Tony Hayward was a big seller of BP stock in the last few weeks?

CEOs sell company stock. You know how BP uses stock options to incentivize the executives. It doesn’t prove any sort of clandestine operation.

Get on board, Max. Put the information out there, and let the media run with it.

Okay. Okay. Anything else?

That’s all I have for now, but I’ll be digging. I’ll let you know what else I find. You once told me …

I know, I know, I interrupt. Truth is stranger than fiction. I didn’t plan on saying it and don’t really mean it all, but I turn to face him as I blurt it out anyway. "You walked out of BP a multi-millionaire and left me to swing in the breeze. You finessed your way to Vice President of Finance on the back of my financial analysis. You manipulated me into writing the novel and trying to stop corporate downsizing while you cashed in and watched me crash and burn. You’re living in paradise with your millions while I’m still commuting to work every day earning half what I used to make at BP."

That hits home. The expression of guilt on Liam’s face is unmistakable. There may be more truth in that than I’d care to admit, but you have to believe me. My hands were tied. Handcuffed. I couldn’t do anything for you. This time will be different.

Sorry, Liam, but there is no ‘this time.’ I’m just getting my life back together after my divorce. I’m too old to go through it again.

He stands there thinking for so long that I walk off and leave him. I go to the corner of the rooftop to see if there’s a view of Boca Grande Pass. I wait there for him to join me.

I heard Tarpon have already been seen in the pass, he says.

Been wanting to go for years.

I have a boat reserved next month on the full moon. There’s a hill tide that day. Best chance to catch one. He stops short of inviting me, and I don’t comment further.

I’ve got to get moving. I promised to stop and visit with my boss. Her office is out here. Even as I hear myself say it, I know I’ll probably blow Lisa off and hold her book for her next surprise visit.

Crossing the roof again, I notice a lot of expensive-looking communication equipment on the other side. He sees my expression and explains, I got into watching soccer. I never miss a game. As we ride down the elevator, he hands me a card with a phone number. Do you know what a burner phone is Max? I take the card. Get one. If you need to talk to me, use the burner and this number.

He escorts me down the elevator and as far as the front door but doesn’t leave the house. Backing out the long drive, I scrutinize the third floor and notice a thick metal conduit running up the side of the house and going in through the siding at third-floor level. Another conduit runs down from the roof and into the third floor. I don’t think too much of it, but I’m sure it isn’t part of the original construction.

7

HIS business card read Terry Wallace, General Manager, Sundial Beach and Golf Resort. He had just passed his fifty-ninth birthday and had spent his entire working life in the hospitality industry. It was a highly visible position, as the resort was the island’s largest employer. What the business card failed to reveal was that he also had oversight responsibility for the Dunes Golf and Tennis Club, South Seas Island Resort, and the Inns of Sanibel, which included the Sanibel Inn, Sunset Beach, Seaside Inn, and the Song of the Sea.

Those seven properties were already part of the Luxury Resorts Portfolio when it was purchased by The Blackstone Group, Limited Partnership. Blackstone is a multibillion-dollar private equity firm started by two former Lehman Brothers employees who bailed before the firm went bankrupt and precipitated the stock market crash of 2008. Blackstone’s structure is so complex by design that its own accountants do not understand it. Its financial statements and tax returns are so complicated that they are rarely able to publish their financial results or file their income tax returns on time. The real-estate division alone has ten separate limited partnerships contained within it. To manage the internal assets of the group, Blackstone created a fund of hedge funds that includes propriety hedge funds, mezzanine funds, closed-end funds, and a variety of debt vehicles. Though the founders deny it, the group took its name from Sir William Blackstone, the author of the Commentaries on the Laws of England, which he published in 1766 and on which our founding fathers including Thomas Jefferson and George Washington relied when they wrote the Constitution of the United States. In addition to being an Oxford Law Professor, Blackstone was the university’s accountant and treasurer.

In keeping with the above, Terry was charged with preparing the entire Sanibel Collection for repackaging and divestment. That goal was to be achieved without the knowledge of anyone else working on the islands including those much more well versed in finance. Already five years into the plan, he was not close to pulling it off, and it was not his fault. The Sundial was first and foremost a venue for corporate meetings. After the stock market crash of 2008, corporate travel virtually ceased to exist. When he attempted to present the numbers to Blackstone, Terry was told that having an excuse for failure was not the same thing as succeeding. Knowing failure would not be tolerated, Terry was formulating a daring strategy. Once he had the properties running as efficiently as he thought possible, he intended to terminate most of the managers and allow the properties to run on the momentum already established. The increased profitability resulting from the reduction in labor cost would make the financial ratios on which acquiring investors based their decisions appear attractive. The flaw in the plan was that the properties had to be sold before they began the decline in profitability that would result from the lack of effective leadership. It was a gamble that kept Terry working long nights in secret at the kitchen table of his sparsely furnished apartment.

When he accepted the Florida job without any consultation with his wife, she informed him that she was not leaving Atlanta or selling the house under any circumstances. He hadn’t touched her sexually in many years, preferring the company of cheap hookers or his own baby-oiled left hand. Terry was a chubby chaser. He had fought it for much of his life but finally gave in and now embraced it. His own perfectly proportioned wife did not interest him physically in the least, and he could never tell her the reason. He was happy to be so far from her where he could indulge his perversions without fear of her discovery. He liked his job at the Sundial, and he loved the big Jamaican maids.

Terry had hired Mandy and David away from his previous hotel in Atlanta. However, it was on instructions that came down from high in the Blackstone Group that Lisa interviewed and hired his Controller, Max Thomas. Max had figured out what Terry was planning, but due to the secret and convoluted nature of Blackstone, neither man knew whether the other was under the protection of the Blackstone founders.

Terry was a creature of habit. He worked eight to five at Sundial and walked out every day at exactly one minute after five.

8

I LOVE my freedoms as Controller. Though I’m always tethered by my Blackberry and routinely put in a lot of hours, I might be anywhere at any given time during the workday. There are employees who report directly to me working at both the Sundial and Dunes and at our accounting office on the mainland in Fort Myers. I might be anywhere at any given time, but by the end of the day, I’m almost always at my desk at Sundial. Lately, I end every workday by playing the song and video of Beyonce’s hit, Single Ladies, on my plasma and my big-screen monitors.

I watch the screens and listen to Beyonce as she and her two sister dancers begin their routine. ALL THE SINGLE LADIES, all the single ladies, ALL THE SINGLE LADIES, all the single ladies. I hear Mandy coming across the hall and watch her burst into my office and look up at the plasma. She starts her imitation of the Single-Ladies dance. Beyonce is a beautiful woman, and she and her sister dancers are practically naked, but my eyes fixate on Mandy.

Mandy’s a stunning natural beauty with long, soft, lustrous, deep-brown hair highlighting a perfectly proportioned and slightly tanned face. She does the head bob, sending her hair whipping forward over her head and back again, then goes into the arm pump in synch with the dancers on the screen. She smiles to reveal her perfect and bright white teeth as she watches me watching her knowing full well that I’d like nothing more than to grab her and eat her up. She has the most luscious breasts, an impossibly thin waist, and the nicest ass God has ever granted a white woman. She stops dancing and asks, Where to tonight?

Before I can answer, David runs into my office, stops short, and shouts, Damn! Missed it again. He jumps up and down twice like a child throwing a tantrum. Damn! He wanted to see Mandy dancing too. He recovers and takes the next best option and watches Beyonce finish her routine.

Can we go to Nick & Stella’s again? she asks. I feel like wings.

David jokes, You look more like breasts.

She shakes her head in disgust. When is your wife coming down?

Wings are fine by me, I say. "I