The Storm by Clive Cussler, Graham Brown Page A

soft mix of white and lavender. Supportive leather seating cushioned the bones of the passengers while air purifiers and conditioners kept the cabin feeling fresh at a perfect temperature of seventy-four degrees.
    Chinese and Pakistani delicacies sat in trays tended by a pair of chefs. Out of respect for Mustafa’s religion, there was no alcohol present, but herbal teas quenched the thirst and refreshed the palate.
    Despite the opulence, this was a business meeting.
    Xhou spoke firmly. “You must understand the position we’re in,” he said.
    “The position you’re in,” Mustafa corrected.
    “No,” Xhou insisted. “All of us. We have made the gravest of mistakes. And only now does the full scope of reality become plain to us. The technology Jinn controls will be one of the most powerful ever developed. It will remake the world, but our stake in it is limited. We have invested in an outcome without any claim to the machinery that will produce that outcome. We are nothing more than end users of what Jinn is selling. Like those who buy power from a utility instead of building a power plant of their own.”
    Mustafa shook his head. “We have no use for the Jinn’s technology,” he said. “There are none in my country who would be able to use it. All we want is for the Jinn to keep his promises, divert the monsoon from India to Pakistan. Change the weather in our favor. Weather can build an empire or destroy it. My people hope it will do both.”
    A condescending look appeared on Xhou’s face for a moment. He knew Mustafa as a shrewd but simple man. Simple desires, revenge against an enemy. Simple thoughts, not the kind that extended beyond short-term gain.
    “Yes,” he said. “But you must understand, the weather change is not once and for all. It is not permanent. In this form, it is a gift from Jinn, revocable at his will. Once the rains begin falling on our lands, we become as dependent on them as those in India who are now desperately watching the skies. There is little to stop Jinn from changing his mind and sending the rains back.”
    Xhou paused to let this sink in, and then added, “If he wishes, Jinn will become the rainmaker, selling to the highest bidder year in and year out.”
    Mustafa lifted his cup of tea but did not take a sip. The truth hit him, and he placed it back on the saucer.
    “India is more wealthy than my country,” he said.
    Xhou nodded. “You will not be successful bidding against them.”
    Mustafa seemed to brood. “Jinn is Arab, he is Muslim, he would not chose the Sikhs and Hindus of India over us.”
    “Can you be sure of that?” Xhou asked. “You told me that Jinn’s family have long been called foxes of the desert. How else to explain their rise to wealth? He will choose what is right for his clan.”
    Still considering Xhou’s point, Mustafa placed the cup and saucer back on the table. He glanced at the food and then turned away disgustedly. It seemed his appetite was gone.
    “I fear you might be right,” he said. “And what’s more, I now suspect this has occurred to Jinn long before it occurred to any of us. Why else would he insist on keeping the production facilities in his tiny country?”
    “So we agree,” Xhou said. “With only the Jinn’s promises and no way to enforce them, we are all in a precarious situation.”
    “None as precarious as mine,” Mustafa said. “I do not enjoy the luxuries you have here. We have no bullet trains in my country or new cities with gleaming buildings and untraveled roads. We have little in the way of foreign reserves to cushion our fall if it should come.”
    “But you have something we do not,” Xhou said. “You have people with long memories and a history of dealing with Jinn. He is far more likely to trust you than an envoy of mine.”
    “Jinn will never let us near his technology,” Mustafa said.
    Xhou grinned. “We do not need it immediately.”
    “I don’t understand,” Mustafa said. “I