The Assassin

In that instant, Bill Matters had to restrain himself from lunging across the table to kiss Lapham’s wrinkled hand. The looney old man had done him a huge favor and ripped the scales from his eyes. He had been thinking too small. Way too small. He suddenly saw the world as Rockefeller did.

That it was definitely code galvanized Matters. He made an educated guess based in part on the six years he’d been circling the rim of the i

How could Rockefeller not be tempted by the spoils? Fighting and destruction in Baku would shut down half the world supply and the price of oil would double or triple to two, to three, to four dollars a barrel, prices that hadn’t been seen in decades. American oil men would cheer. But John D. Rockefeller was no ordinary oil man.

Wouldn’t he imagine much-richer spoils than a temporary jump in price? Wouldn’t he see the chaos of civil war as an opportunity to displace the Rothschilds, overthrow the Nobels, sink Shell, and own it all?

Bill Matters knew in his gut that this was the chance he had been working for. Something this big would never come again. Whatever Rockefeller was scheming in the east, Matters had to make himself part of it.

His success thus far, since joining the Standard—his growing wealth and power within the corporation, though still not in the i

Business was roaring. New markets were enormous: fuel for ships and power plants, gasoline to feed the automobile boom. But supply, too, was growing; vast new oil fields in Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Mexico, and California surpassed the old Pe

The pressure was on the old president to do something.

Thus the Baku push.

—

Bill Matters approached white-haired Averell Comstock, a charter member of the “gang” who often profited from private deals. “I have a scheme for a joint adventure.”

“What sort of scheme?”

“A private partnership with you and Mr. Rockefeller to persuade the Russian government to let Standard Oil build new, modern refineries and refurbish the old ones owned by Rothschild and Nobel.”

Comstock was immediately suspicious.

“Where did you get that idea, Bill? It’s as if you read our minds.”

Matters felt his spirits soar. He had guessed right about a lot of things.

He answered modestly, “I’m an old wildcat driller. Good at guessing. Besides, I recall that in ’03 Mr. Rockefeller considered roping in St. Petersburg banks to buy Baku oil fields.”

“Are you sure you haven’t been eavesdropping on telephone calls?”

“Quite sure, Mr. Comstock.” According to Clyde Lapham, this was not the first time Rockefeller had set sights on the Caucasus. Back in ’98, Standard Oil sent geologists to survey for commercial oil reserves in Azerbaijan.

“Or tapping wires?”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin to tap wires,” Matters lied.

“What else have you ‘guessed’?”

Matters took his best shot. “What if I were to propose to you a plan to beat Sir Marcus Samuel at shipping case oil to Asia?”

Comstock glared. So-called case oil was kerosene shipped in gallon tins packed in wooden boxes. The Asian market was enormous. Chinese and Indians burned the oil in their lamps and used the wood and tin to build their huts, shingle their roofs, make cooking pots and pitchers. Sir Marcus Samuel, the all-powerful English distributor of case oil to India and China, had visited these offices in great secrecy in 1901 to negotiate some sort of partnership. Matters was gambling that Rockefeller and Comstock wished their talks had pa

“Mr. Rockefeller prefers knowing to guessing,” said Comstock.

Bill Matters stood his ground. “I am not guessing.”

Comstock was scornful. “Let me remind you that Standard Oil has not managed to beat Samuel in fifteen years. The co

“I know how to beat Samuel,” Bill Matters shot back.

“How?”

“Bypass the Suez Canal.”

“Bypass the Suez?” Comstock turned more scornful. “Have you any idea how long it takes a tank ship to steam around Africa? Why do you suppose they dug a canal?”

“Bypass the Transcaucasus Railroad, too,” Matters shot back. “And Batum. And the Black Sea. And the Dardanelles, Constantinople, and the Mediterranean.”

“Poppycock! How the devil could we ship kerosene to India and China?”

“Build a pipe line from Baku to the Persian Gulf.”

“A pipe line? . . .” Comstock’s face was a mask. But his eyes grew busy. “Too ambitious. Persia is mountainous and bedeviled by warlords and revolutionaries.”

“No more ambitious than our pipe lines across Pe

Comstock shook his head. “Great Britain will fight a Russian link to the Gulf every inch of the way.”

“Don’t you think Standard Oil should fight back for half the oil in the world and all the markets of Asia?”

Comstock’s face remained a mask. Eventually, he closed his hands in a double fist and gazed at Matters over his interlocked knuckles. “Were Mr. Rockefeller to approve a pipe line, he might invite you to join as a junior partner in the enterprise.”

Averell Comstock would of course be a full partner. Matters had braced himself to pretend humble acquiescence and he said, “I would be deeply honored.”

In fact, he was thrilled—not for a junior partnership but for the access he would gain to the president. Comstock may have his doubts, but he also sensed that the pipe line was a bold idea that Rockefeller would seize upon. In which case, Comstock feared the idea would get to the president from someone else unless he moved quickly.

Matters reminded himself not to get cocky. Older Standard Oil directors, who jealously guarded their power, were the smartest in American industry. There were wise men among them who might intuit Matters’ plot, might guess that for Bill Matters the pipe line was only the begi

As the assassin had proclaimed after shooting Spike Hopewell, those who get too close will be killed.

—

Bill Matters summoned the assassin to his private rail car.

“Word’s come from Texas that C. C. Gustafson did not die.”

“I’m not surprised. He was quick as lightning. I struck him twice, but neither shot felt right.”

“What happened?”

“Fate intervened,” the assassin said blithely, but, unable to abide a deep sense of failure, added in a voice suddenly dark, “I am mortified . . . I promise you that such a failure will never again occur. Never.”

“Don’t worry about Gustafson. The effect of the attack is the same as if he had died. They’ll blame Standard Oil.”

The assassin’s spirits continued to fall. “I have promised myself on my mother’s grave that I will never miss again. Never.”

Matters said, “I need something new from you. Something quite different.”