“No, thank you … I was looking for … There he is, thank you.” The rangy Representative from Oregon eased past the table and headed toward the silver-haired and well-tanned Congressman and the founder of Ecology Now!—both still immersed in their conversation.
As Congresswoman Sperlen neared, the two men turned.
“Gladys!” Richards’ voice boomed across the still-muted voices around the buffet tables. “My favorite debating partner!”
Cal Griffen smiled at the Congresswoman, said a few words lost in the rising hubbub, and stepped back, still smiling, turning toward a sandy-haired man in a three-button charcoal pinstriped suit. “Andy! I’m glad you could come.”
“You know my personal concerns, Cal…”
Thomas shook his head, turning away from the two men. Both fists clenched at his sides for a moment, and his jaw tightened before he took a long deep breath, then another.
“Easy, Ray.”
“Right. Right. Politics makes me puke.” Thomas watched as the balding ecologist talked for a few moments more with the sandy-haired businessman before excusing himself and heading toward the reception greeting table.
“Cal?”
“Just a minute, Ray.” The ecologist leaned over toward the dark-haired woman who had tried to calm Thomas. “Has the Chairman arrived yet, Martha?”
“Chairman Sloan? No, but he was leading the floor debate on the tariff bill. Bill said he’d make an appearance at least.”
“If he comes in and I miss him, get me. Same if Mort Hancock should show up.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Martha.” Griffen turned toward his staff attorney. “Ray, you look like … Loosen up a little.”
“You invited Bang-Bang Richards?”
“Congressman Richards? Sure,” Griffen answered.
“Why? He sees commies under every bed, and he’d nuke them all, even if his own mother was sleeping there.”
“He’s kind of conservative on defense, but you couldn’t ask for a better voting record on most environmental issues.” Griffen looked past the attorney at the Hill staffers—primarily junior legislative assistants and interns—edging toward the food.
“Kind of conservative?” Thomas’ voice was harsh. “That man never met an atom bomb he didn’t like. He thinks the NRA are a bunch of weenies for stopping with just supporting the right to carry assault weapons. He feels they should have demanded the right to keep and bear MX missiles.”
“You’re exaggerating. In case you don’t remember, he was the one who persuaded the Chairman to force DOD facilities into compliance with DEP cleanup schedules for Superfund sites. He also blocked oil exploration off the Carolina and the Delaware coasts last year.”
“That’s only because he didn’t want to see oil towers when he went marlin fishing in that fancy boat of his. Anyway, his constituents would have handed him his head if he hadn’t.”
“Still, no one without his seniority and position could have faced down both the defense contractors and the oil industry. Besides, he’s a nice guy.” Griffen’s voice dropped into weariness.
“How can you deal with someone like that? When you started Ecology Now! the idea was to avoid wheeling and dealing.” Thomas waved at the tables still loaded with food and the waiters removing empty plates and glasses.
“I guess that all depends on whether you’re interested in accomplishing something worthwhile or mouthing self-righteous slogans. Richards is someone to talk to if you want to accomplish something. Now, if you’ll excuse me … We happen to need some support on the joint DEP/OSHA initiative.”
Griffen turned and eased toward a heavyset man heading toward Richards, timing his approach to coincide with the younger Representative’s.
Thomas headed for the bar, his jaw set and his head shaking.
9
PYOTR KAPRUSHKIN STARED OUT HIS WINDOW at the gray slush, gray concrete, gray sky. Was he in the same country—or even on the same planet—as his old home in Slyudyanka on the southern tip of Lake Baikal? The air, the water, even the vegetables all had had a fresh taste, like spring water. That had been then.
Now the great lake smelled of dirt, on good days, and so did the food. Looking at the gray outside, he shook his head. Then he wiped his damp forehead. His fingers moved to loosen the heavy woolen uniform jacket.
“The heat…” The Colonel did not finish the sentence as he studied the sealed window of the modern Western-style building. “At least in the old offices, the windows opened.” He shook his head again slowly. “This city living. It softens people. With the first chill in the cities, everyone hurries into an oven to bake. They can’t breathe. Yet they want to come here. They beg and bribe for the chance to live in Moscow. How will we survive if farmers want to leave the land—their life—to live in a concrete hovel?” The Colonel struck his fist lightly against the unbreakable glass.
Tap … tap …
“Yes?”
“General Voloninov is here, Colonel.”
The Colonel nodded and stepped around the desk toward the burly General.
“Greetings, Pyotr Alexandrovich.” Voloninov’s voice rasped through the warm air. His forehead was also damp under the short and heavy silver hair.
“Greetings, General Voloninov.” The Colonel gestured toward the leather armchair he had obtained just for Voloninov.
The General had not waited for the invitation, but gestured from the red leather chair toward the wooden armchair across from it. “Sit down.”
The Colonel sat.
“So … Pyotr, you have a new agent in place. Will he give me the plans for the American space laser or stop them from building their new bomber?” General Voloninov’s voice, almost soft, rumbled toward the Colonel. “Or will he at least support technical aid for our industry?”
“The new agent is a woman.”
“Ah, yes.” The General looked past the Colonel toward the gray reflected in the window. “You spend our money—hard currency—on recruiting ‘special’ agents in the American government. Will this one ever supply anything more than pesticide control plans, Pyotr Alexandrovich?” The General’s deep-set eyes fixed on the Colonel, and his voice dropped almost to a rumbling whisper. “Information—or results. Those are what I need.”
The Colonel knew to keep silent.
“So … Colonel, how did you recruit this new person? As you did the others?”
“Yes, General. With the same strategy.” The Colonel let his voice reflect the role of the correct senior officer. “We found someone who bent a few rules to accomplish what she thought was right. She needed money. Her son is in a private hospital—a drug problem. One of our people thanked her by paying the back bill before the boy was thrown out on the street. She was shown the record of the payment and told that future bills would be taken care of. She doesn’t even know who she’s working for.” The Colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“Now she is ours. But what will she do for us?”
“She determines the safe level of exposures to workplace chemicals. She will be encouraged to make those levels as low and as safe as possible.”
“And will that stop the Americans from building their advanced tactical fighter?” pursued Voloninov.
The Colonel shrugged. “It will increase the cost of any materials fabrications, General. And since cost drives the military procurement system, it will reduce the number of weapons built.”
“They still build too many.”
“But less each year,” observed the Colonel.
“For all the good that will do us.” Voloninov shrugged, then stood. “Make your reports as usual.”
The Colonel had risen with the General.
“Do not trouble yourself to see me out, Colonel.”
The heavy door closed.
The Colonel looked at the door, then turned and looked at the gray outside. His steps took him to the window.
The meeting had gone like all the others. Explaining his work to Voloninov w
as like describing Copernican astronomy to a medieval pope. The General listened, but he never seemed to hear. The plan wasn’t too complicated or advanced to understand. If the Americans were induced to develop environmental and health laws that made high-technology industry and weapons building more difficult, then war would become more difficult—and far more costly. The American war machine ran on money.
Voloninov wanted industrial secrets, yet the General did not appreciate what the program had already provided. Did he understand that the environmental disclosure rules—another coup—had revealed more technical details than the Americans had ever realized?
The rain, ice crystals in water, splashed against the glass. Pyotr wiped his forehead again, wondering who had protected his program for so long without ever stepping out from the shadows.
For years General Voloninov had interrogated him, and before him General Salnikov, yet his operations had remained funded, at a low level perhaps, but enough to continue with an ever-increasing number of agents.
Kaprushkin pursed his lips, then pulled out the desk chair. It should have been time to report success, but full knowledge of the extent of his success would be his undoing.
“And yet it moves,” he muttered to himself. He began shifting papers from his desktop to the second drawer, the one in which he always placed them before leaving the office. “It moves.”
10
JONNIE BLACK STRAIGHTENED HIS TIE one last time. The real reason he was going to the Ecology Now! reception on the Hill was boredom. Ever since Sandra had decided their relationship wasn’t heading anywhere, his nights had been more than slightly lonely.
Not that he had been invited to the reception. Crashing Hill parties was a skill mastered during his days as a foreign-policy student at Georgetown. Really no trick to it at all. Dress well; shake a few strangers’ hands; greet a passing acquaintance who was also crashing. Pretty soon you were accepted, even expected, at almost any of the meet-greet-lobby events which constituted the core of professional congressional social life. Only a handful actually required invitations. After all, no lobbyist wanted to admit there was someone he didn’t know at first sight, and there were always one or two Congressmen who looked young enough to be interns.
At the first few parties, Jonnie had concentrated on guzzling free booze from the open bars—before he had realized that the food was the real treasure trove. The lanky figure in the well-cut suits who was thought to be some variety of congressional aide would methodically consume a balanced gourmet meal from the buffet tables. Crab-stuffed mushroom caps, caviar canapés, and jumbo shrimp became his nutritional mainstays.
During his low-budget student days, it had been more of a matter of survival. Now it was mainly nostalgia. Sometimes, if rarely, he picked up worthwhile information.
Besides sustenance, the receptions had provided Jonnie with a simultaneous introduction and advanced course in Washington politics—as well as a few lady friends. By listening and talking, especially listening, the young student learned how much real power resided in a mastery of details and controlling the process. Never mind the broad philosophical statements made in public. The committee reports and legislative subclauses told the true story—a lesson that more than a few old hands had failed to learn.
A veteran representative of the corn industry who had enjoyed corrupting young minds with facts had found a ready student in Jonnie. A long discussion at a well-endowed buffet in the Cannon Caucus Room years earlier had left him with an insight into the whys and wherefores of Washington, an abiding belief in the need for reasonable grain prices, and an ongoing interest in researching obscure legislative language, especially arcane numbers buried in committee reports and regulatory preambles.
Jonnie checked his watch. Six-ten. Not too late, although the shrimp would be gone before he arrived.
By the time he had walked the three blocks from his Potomac Place apartment building to the Rosslyn Metro station, it was close to six-thirty. The street was still slick from the day’s on-and-off drizzle, but the air was pleasantly cool and damp, a trace chillier than normal for late September.
Despite the refreshing breeze off the river, Jonnie thought once again about whether he really wanted to attend the Ecology Now! reception. He needed to do something to take his mind off Larry’s death. Besides, he might meet someone interesting and attractive.
The in-bound blue line train took him all the way to the Capitol South station. As he stepped off the escalator and walked to the corner between the Capitol Hill Club, the Cannon Building of Congress and the Library of Congress Annex, he glanced to his right, down past the library annex and the church—right where Larry had been gunned down. He turned toward Rayburn, his steps measured.
He marched up the walk beside the circular drive, ignoring the pair of black limousines, through the ubiquitous metal detectors, showing the contractor ID card he used in his free-lance work, and toward the main hearing room of the Energy and Commerce Committee. The Capitol policeman paid more attention to the young intern who followed him.
Jonnie did not share the young officer’s enthusiasm, perhaps because the girl looked more like one of the increasing number of high school–age interns.
Once inside the committee room, out of habit, he found himself sidling up to the food. The shrimp were not gone. There had never been any—not with the question of overshrimping the Gulf waters. He contented himself with the mushrooms stuffed with crab, eyeing the crowd as he maneuvered toward the other end of the hearing dais, where he recognized the senior Representative from South Carolina.
The fresh veggies came last. They’d last all night. He worked his way through seafood, beef, and chicken and was just considering the crudités.
“Do you really want to eat them? Those are Mexican tomatoes. They still use DDT and 2,4,5T,” announced a young woman with auburn hair down to her waist and lightly tanned arms extending from a short-sleeved and low-cut black dress fringed with red.
“What about the apples?” He eyed her long, shining, and well-combed hair.
“The growers say they’re not using Alar, but all the tests show they are.”
“I’m Jonnie Black,” he offered, rather than comment on her statements about the food.
“I’m Veronica Lakas.”
Jonnie nodded, realizing belatedly that the long hair had drifted across an Ecology Now! name tag bearing her name. “How long have you been with Ecology Now!?”
“I started as an intern a year ago. But I’ve been involved with the issues for a while.”
“You find it interesting, I gather?”
“The politics are fascinating. We use pesticides to boost farm production, and then we guarantee that agribusiness gets taxpayer-financed price supports for all the extra grain. We also encourage them to use pesticides and chemical fertilizers by keeping oil prices low. Even after the Iraq mess. And the small farmers, and the ones who use organics, have to fight to keep their land. That doesn’t even include the effect of the tax cuts on the environment.”
“Tax cuts?” Jonnie asked politely, again looking to the end of the room and toward Congressman Richards, his silver hair and hawk nose visible between the woman and two men in the small group. “The environment is important,” he added noncommittally, trying to figure out the balding man talking to Richards.
“It’s not just the pesticides,” added Veronica. “That’s why I like working at Ecology Now! Cal is so good at showing how it all fits together. I mean, the real cause of the big Alaska oil spill wasn’t a drunken captain, a single-hulled tanker, or a greedy corporation. It was caused by not enough mass transit and because too much natural gas is used to make synthetic fertilizers we don’t even need.”
Cal? Jonnie puzzled, then nodded. The balding man was Cal Griffen, the founder of Ecology Now! But what did Griffen have in common with the defense-minded ranking Republican on the House Armed Services Committee? “You really think fertilizers are that big a problem?” he asked absently, his eyes fo
cusing on the low vee neckline of the black dress.
“They’re just one part of the problem … What sort of environmental work do you do?” She looked at his nearly empty plate.
“I work with environmental regulations, mainly solid waste and water issues, but from the financial side. Very boring, I’m afraid. And you?”
“Agriculture, mostly.” She smiled, but her eyes did not lighten as the corners of her mouth turned up. “I’d like to do more, but there’s so much to learn…”
Jonnie nodded sympathetically. “Everything in Washington is deeper than you think, even when you’ve lived here for a while. It just takes time…” He grinned. “Then you realize you’ll never learn it all.”
This time, her smile was a little more genuine.
“Let’s not talk shop,” he suggested. “What do you think of Washington so far?”
“It’s a beautiful city.”
“Have you ever seen the Jefferson Memorial at night?” asked Jonnie. “Or the Lincoln Memorial at night from across the river?” Like from my balcony, he thought.
“No.”
“I know where you can get one of the best views…”
11
McDARVID BRUSHED PAST THE USHER and made his way down the side aisle and out of the church. Above the whisper of soles and voices, the organ continued playing. Bach or something equally baroque, McDarvid decided. Funeral or not, the ordered and sterile melody conflicted with the modern decor of the church and even more violently with the life of the thoroughly modern Joseph Laurance Partello—he of the gunmetal gray Seville that should have been a Lincoln Town Car, or the red suspenders, or … yet Larry had been dated in his own ways, preferring sex and good wine over drugs and wall-screen televisions.
Saint Mark’s emptied quickly, despite the hundreds of people who had come to pay last respects to a man whose obituary had taken nearly a quarter page of The Washington Post—but, like Larry himself, on the inside of the paper. Then again, Saint Mark’s was a suburban church, chosen because Larry’s older daughter belonged, and because Larry had belonged to no church, at least not one that wasn’t of his own making.
The Green Progression Page 4