WATER WORKS: 19) SAVING THE ARAL SEA

Sunday Funnies: A Novel. Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

25.

I step from the elevator into Mortonland and approach reception.

"I'm Jay Sandak. I'm expecting Mr. Sieff and Mr. Mogens to join me. But I need a few private moments with Morton first."

At 10:10, Tracy comes looking for me.

Out the corner of my eye I catch Sieff and Mogens alighting from the elevator as I disappear down the gauntlet of madness.

My billionaire is seated, lost, it seems, in a hypnogogic trance. He snaps to. "Ah, the water man.”

Before I can respond, Morton blasts me with a barrage. "Since I last saw you, I've been to Romania, Poland, Israel—twice—and Russia. They're all interested in water. I told them I'm going to invest in solving the global water crisis. They were very enthusiastic." Morton pauses.

I try to say something.

"And I bumped into the president of the World Bank at a reception," he continues. "He's excited about water too. He said, ‘let me know if I can be of any help.'"

And I thought I could operate.

"Remember I mentioned the Dulci Acqua Consortium?" I say.

Morton nods.

"A couple of its representatives are going to join us in a few minutes. Dulci Acqua thinks we want to invest in them. I just want you to play along."

"This is the company that's trying to own the world's water supply?"

"Group of companies." I am surprised Morton had remembered; surprised that he'd given water any further thought since our meeting.

"I love it," says Morton. "Where are they?"

"Waiting in reception."

Morton picks up his chair-side phone. "Send Mr. Sandak's guests in."

"Whoa," I say. "I thought I'd brief you more extensively before..."

Morton holds up his palm. "Not necessary. I understand perfectly."

"Okay, just one thing. We're trying to..."

Morton palms me again. "I know, I know."

"But..."

Armand and Fog enter the room.

Hands are pumped, rears rumped.

I slip a "Hi, buddy!" to Armand.

Complete silence follows... until Morton speaks. "The Aral Sea," he says.

Our guests nod. In their dark suits, they look like affluent undertakers.

"We must save it," says Morton.

Fog and Armand exchange bemused glances.

"Impossible." This is Sieff, evoking France's favorite English word.

"Impossible? Nothing's impossible," says Morton. "You see?" Morton points to a colorful coat of arms, sewn in tapestry, framed in glass, with the words Nihil Non Potest scrolled beneath. "But it’s better if people believe it’s impossible. So when we do it, we've done the impossible. Unfortunately, that's not what happens, is it?"

No one responds.

"After you've done the impossible," Morton answers his own question, "people say, oh, anyone could have done that. That's exactly what happened after Columbus discovered America."

We all look at each other, nodding.

Having made his point, Morton smiles.

"If I may say something," says Fog Mogens, "I'm afraid it is truly impossible to restore the Aral Sea to what it once was. It may be possible to preserve the three lakes it has become. And to clean up the poisonous mess left behind. But even that would be a huge task."

"Good," says Morton. "Now we're getting somewhere. Could someone please tell me where, exactly, is the Aral Sea?"

"Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan," says Mogens.

"What are they doing about it?" demands Morton.

"It is the Uzbeks who destroyed the Aral Sea," says Mogens, "by draining it for their cotton crops. Cotton is a nasty crop. It takes too much water and robs the soil of nutrients. All of Central Asia suffers as a result: Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan."

Morton bobs his head back and forth with impatience as Fog reels out the Stans.

"The cancer rate in populations near the Aral Sea are 600 percent higher than normal," Mogens adds.

"So why don't these countries take action?"

"It is not a high priority for these developing nations," says Mogens. "Environmental issues during Soviet times were completely ignored. It is the communist legacy. They make studies, but the problems are so huge, so expensive, no country undertakes to solve the problem by itself. The Caspian Sea comes next. The toxicity level is already unacceptable. The sturgeon is an endangered species, thanks to pollution, and to the black market in caviar."

"Someone must do something," Morton declares. "Has Dulci Acqua attempted to solve this problem?"

"We're in business to make money, Mr. Levi," says Mogens. "The Aral Sea is a losing proposition financially—even in the long-term."

"We must be creative," says Morton. "You just said Uzbekistan needs the Aral Sea to grow cotton. They should spend money to save their cotton industry, right?"

"No," says Mogens. "It would not be cost effective. Uzbekistan must forget about cotton and focus on its natural gas reserves instead."

"All right, all right," says Morton, tiring of this banter. Truth be known, his attention span had spun. "We'll get back to the Aral Sea in due course. I understand you gentlemen would like me to invest in your company?"

An awkward pause.

"We understand," counters Armand, "that you wish to invest in us."

Morton glances at me.

I nod.

"How much?" asks Morton.

"How much?" This is Sieff.

"How much do you want for your company?"

Sieff looks to Mogens for a response.

"Dulci Acqua is not for sale," says Mogens.

"Okay, you must have a value." Morton is nothing if blunt. "What's the value of your company?"

"We like to think," evades Mogens, "that our company has billion-dollar potential."

"I like to think that about everything I'm involved in," says Morton. "The question I'm asking is, what is the value of Dulci Acqua Consortium right now, today, this minute?" Morton snaps his fingers as if a good finger-snapping might jostle the answer he’s looking for.

Mogens hesitates. "As a privately-held company, you understand that we keep financial information strictly confidential."

This was not the answer Morton had snapped for. "You must understand, gentlemen, that if I am going to invest in your company, I must know what it's worth." Morton glances at an antique clock to demonstrate that he is too busy for a pissing contest.

"Yes." Mogens pops open his Louis Vuitton briefcase. "We have prepared a non-disclosure agreement." He passes it to Morton.

Morton tosses the document aside without letting his eyes touch it. "Gentlemen, I never disclose anything to anyone, as a matter of principle, so a document like this is meaningless. Moreover, I don't sign agreements. My CFO does this. And, in any case, my CFO never signs nondisclosure agreements. If you were to look at the courts, you'd find they are clogged with cases based around beautifully written, signed contracts. That's why I prefer a handshake. As soon as you bring legal documents and lawyers into any situation, your quality of life begins to depreciate."

Mogens attempts his eye-grip but Morton stares him down.

"I need to check with our chairmen," say Fog.

As I had thought: someone higher.

"There's the phone," says Morton. He points, then consults his clock again. "Go right ahead."

Mogens hesitates.

"If you need privacy, you're welcome to use the conference room. It's down the hall."

Mogens rises and goes out the door.

"So," I say to Sieff. "When did you get in?"

"Yesterday."

"Who is Fog calling?" I throw this in.

"Tommy Scrogg." Armand catches me off-guard with his sudden candor.

Had Morton hypnotized him?

"The Scrogg twins are behind Dulci Acqua?" I almost fall out of my chair.

Sieff nods.

"Who?" asks Morton. "Who’s that?"

"They're English," I say. "Tommy and Teddy Scrogg. Construction tycoons. Very private." I turn to Armand. "The Scrogg twins don't need investors. They've got all the liquid cash they need."

"True,” replies Sieff. “But they don't like competition.”

Of course. The Scrogg twins do not want anyone getting in their way. They’d assessed my illusion and determined that the Enki Group—with Morton Levi's financial clout—would be a credible threat to their domination of global water. Better to share the spoils—marginally, anyway—than spend time battling a formidable competitor. They could always screw the junior partner later.

Mogens reappears smiling. He re-rumps.

Morton and I study his face in anticipation.

"Our chairmen," says Fog, "have instructed me to discuss our financial situation with you. But only on the basis that you share with us the full extent of your water business."

"Was it Tommy or Teddy that came up with that?" I ask.

Armand shoots an irate look at me.

Fog blinks.

"I told them who we represent," says Sieff, sheepishly, to Mogens.

"We’ve conducted a comprehensive survey of the water situation globally, its geo-political as well as its environmental implications," I say. "Next we broadly examined the state of the water industry. Frankly, gentlemen, we found Dulci Acqua to be the most exciting thing happening. We're impressed by the way you have managed, in a short amount of time, to become an umbrella for companies offering a variety of services and products at all levels of water purification and treatment of wastewater. Countries can come to you for one-stop shopping. Our only criticism is the way you screw small business people out of their livelihoods with bogus equity."

Sieff recoils, as if slapped in the face.

Mogens, meantime, remains grim-faced, his favorite expression.

"We decided," I continue, "to use your model as a basis for our own umbrella—except for screwing people, of course. We'll pay them cash money. And then we got round to thinking, since you're already doing what we hope to do, why not partner up? That's why and where we are now."

"What about your purchase of Aquatech in Santa Fe?" asks Sieff, attempting to fathom the full extent of our actual holdings, not our plans.

"Aquatech is our first acquisition," I say. "Our strength is our capital clout. And a determination to become a dominant force in the industry."

Morton looks at me, like, what acquisition? Until he is distracted by the insane paintings on his walls.

"Let us revisit Morton's question," I say.

Morton, hearing his name, rejoins us.

"What is the current value of your consortium?" I press.

Mogens consults his leather portfolio. "We now have a controlling interest in 42 companies," he says, "each in the one-million-to-five-million-dollar range. It equates to a total value of one hundred million."

"That means 75 million," Morton responds.

"No. One hundred million," says Mogens.

"I assume you can authenticate that figure with balance sheets?" asks Morton.

"Of course.”

Morton glances at me. Since he hadn't given me a chance to brief him, he doesn’t know what to say next. So, Morton being Morton, he improvises. "Have you considered an IPO?"

"We prefer to be privately owned." This is Sieff.

"There is a great advantage to trading publicly," says Morton. "It's called doubling your worth." Morton knows this from experience.

"At the cost of having to account to shareholders," counters Sieff.

"Dulci Acqua's chairmen do not like to be accountable to anyone," adds Mogens.

"When can your chairmen come to New York?" Morton asks.

Mogens shakes his head.

Morton cocks his ear for an explanation.

"The Scrogg twins don't travel," I explain.

"They don't travel?"

This concept is anathema to Morton, who thinks nothing of flying to Singapore for the weekend.

"They never leave their island," says Armand.

"What island?" Morton looks at me.

"The Scrogg twins own an island in the Caribbean," I say. "Officially it belongs to the Antilles, the Greater or the Lesser, I'm not sure—but they claim it as their own. Would you have time, Morton, to fly down there with me?"

"Uh," says Mogens, before Morton can answer. "My chairmen do not meet people."

"C'mon, guys,” I said. “We're prospective partners. They'll meet Morton, surely."

Mogens shakes his head and looks hard at Sieff. "They will not even be happy that their names have been mentioned."

"Well, the bat's out of the cag," I say. "It's just as well—we would have wanted to know sooner or later. But now you've met our principal." I motion at Morton. "We expect to meet yours. My suggestion is you send your balance sheets to our Washington office. We look them over. If everything checks out, Morton and I will fly down to the Caribbean, meet the Scroggs, sign the dotted line and seal this sucker."

Morton nods uncertainly. "What about the Aral Sea?" he asks.

"I thought we covered that?" I say.

"Not to my satisfaction," replies Morton. "Someone must take the lead to do something about the Aral Sea. We should do it. The Aral Sea is the future of this planet. It's up to us to save the Aral Sea and, in effect, save the future. With big profits comes responsibility to give something back. If we merge with Dulci Acqua, I insist that we apportion a small percentage of our profits to finance a fund for fixing the Aral Sea—or, as you say, Mr. Mogens, preserving what's left of it."

Mogens shakes his head. "It's a waste of money."

"Not so," snaps Morton. "Good faith projects generate good publicity, and will improve our relations with foreign governments. Ultimately, it boosts our chances for getting big contracts from foreign leaders. The message we need to get across is, yes, we're in the water business to make money. But there are many ways to make money. I can make money out of soap flakes. We've chosen water specifically so that we can save the planet from ecological disaster. And help make the world a better place."

"I'll mention this to our chairmen," says Mogens.

Morton bristles. "Mention that we're going to fix the Aral Sea with or without a partnership with Dulci Acqua." Morton rises to signal an end to the festivities. "Did we cover enough?"

We all rise, shake hands.

"Can you spare a couple minutes," I whisper to Morton, as Mogens and Sieff exit.

Morton glances at his clock. "Two." And returns to his throne.

"You did good," I say, sitting down. "But this Aral Sea, stuff. Maybe you came across a little too strong."

"The hell I did," says Morton. "I'm serious about the Aral Sea. I'd like you to fly to... where the hell did they say the Aral Sea is?"

"Uzbekistan."

"Yeah, right. I want you to fly to Uzbucketstan and give me a full report on what we need to do."

I consider this and collect my thoughts. "Morton, this is a CIA operation—remember?"

"We're way beyond that now," says Morton. "Dulci Acqua is a CIA operation. The Aral Sea is mine. Who are those people, the Scruggs?"

"Scroggs. East-End cockneys who made a billion from construction and London real estate. All I know is, they're supposed to be very strange. I'll find out more about them in Washington."

"Good. After that, fly to the Aral Sea."

"But I'm working for the agency."

"How much do they pay you?"

I hesitate.

"It doesn't matter," said Morton. "Whatever it is, I'll double it."

"Four thousand dollars a day?" I say.

Morton shrugs. "Fine."

This time I fall out of my chair, catch myself before hitting the floor and stand up straight.

Morton rises. "Come back soon.”

"I'll return with Dulci Acqua's balance sheets for your accountants to study."

The phone rings. Morton picks up the receiver and waves it goodbye at me.