“He’ll be right with you, Mr. McDarvid. He’s on the phone.”
“Thank you.” McDarvid sat on the saggy couch that had been in the office since before he had joined EPA. “Pretty busy these days?”
The secretary nodded as she reached for the telephone. “Congressional Affairs … No, Ms. Mertz is on the Hill right now. May I take a message?”
The telephone buzzed again, and the secretary shrugged.
“Jack, come on in.” George Rendhaas stood well over six feet, rail thin. What hair he had left was ginger red and short above his ears.
McDarvid settled himself into the chair across the narrow modular government-issue desk.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m just touching base. Usual end-of-session rush?”
“I wish it were. Congress may stay in session until Christmas.”
“You think you’ll get a new clean-air bill?”
“Who knows? It hasn’t been that long since the last one. The Administration has its amendments. Energy and Commerce has its amendments, and Chairman Sloan has his amendments.”
McDarvid shook his head sympathetically. The Air Act wasn’t even under the jurisdiction of the Public Works Committee Chairman, but Sloan maintained an ongoing interest in the Act, especially in air toxics, and his ideas somehow ended up in the final Energy and Commerce markups. “Sam can make life difficult. Some things just don’t change.”
“Not since you left, at any rate.”
“Has Chairman Dennis decided to push on the benzene regulations? You know, the fact that consumer exposures are greater than industrial exposures?”
“Hannigan claims that the studies are window dressing. The new Assistant Secretary for Air is scheduled to testify on the twenty-third. They hope to send the draft rule to OMB before then.”
“Back to zero involuntary exposure levels, then?”
George laughed. “You said that. I didn’t.”
McDarvid had his answer, not that the client would like it. The idea that no emission at all would be allowed would close more than a few plants—since zero emissions levels weren’t technically possible without building an entirely new facility. Another industry headed offshore, and another opportunity for the Japanese and everyone else in Asia.
“What about the question of the California standards?” The previous Energy and Commerce Chairman had blocked tougher California state standards outside of the worst air pollution areas. Sloan wanted them nationwide, but it wasn’t his committee, and he had to use Norm Dennis, who needed ever-larger contributions to defend a seat in an increasingly Republican district.
“Dennis wants them in all states with nonattainment areas.”
“You mean … if any state has any monitoring station that fails to meet the ambient air quality standards…” McDarvid pushed the leading question.
“Not quite that bad. They’d get two violations for two years before the tougher standards and the new construction ban took effect.”
“Wonderful. What do they want to do? Shut down all U.S. manufacturing? Close every dry cleaner in America?” McDarvid kept his tone sardonic.
George laughed. “Of course not. They want electric cars powered by biomass and solar power, bean sprouts in every kitchen, polyester produced without chemistry, and everyone to use mass transit without the subsidies necessary to make it work.”
McDarvid laughed briefly. “Nothing’s changed.”
“You know that.” George paused. “Did you hear about Bill Windreck?”
“Windreck? The Assistant Secretary for OSWER? No.”
“Ended up in the hospital last week. Chest pains. Thought it was a heart attack, but apparently just an overdose of stress.”
“That’s a tough job.”
“He’s resigning—effective at the end of the year. They wanted him to stay through the Appropriations hearings, but Bill said enough was enough.”
“Was Norm Dennis after him?”
“Do bears live in the woods?”
McDarvid shook his head slowly. “Any thoughts on his successor?”
“Leading candidate is Paula Nishimoto—Environmental Commissioner in Oregon…”
By one-thirty, McDarvid was walking into an office on the tenth floor.
“Hi there,” he called, nosing his head around the open door.
“Hi, Jack. Come on in,” returned the heavy woman in the maroon dress.
McDarvid lounged in the scruffy white armchair in the windowless inside office. How Ellie had managed to get an armchair, he had always wondered, but he often wondered how she knew everyone and everything, and liked them all.
Her desk was always spotless, except for the single stack of papers she was working on. Despite her weight, Ellie DiForio was attractive and well groomed. She was also soft-spoken and intelligent. Having her work for him had been a pleasure, even though she had insisted on remaining an analyst.
“What are you snooping around for this time, Jack?”
He grinned. Ellie had never beaten around the bush, either. “Two things. A pesticide called chlorohydrobenzilate, and the metals initiative everyone seems to be whispering about. Chromium, cadmium, beryllium, and gallium.”
“Hmmm … chlorohydrobenzilate. That’s Hassad’s area…”
McDarvid said nothing.
“… but I do know the Health Standards Division at OSHA requested NIOSH investigate its persistence and toxicity. Their report is being reviewed by Pesticide Programs. Very bad actor, according to OPP. The Health Effects people, Esther Saliers especially, are worried about it. High benefit level for specialized citrus, but limited uses. That’s why nothing’s been done yet. The Secretary has a decision memo recommending cancellation, but…”
“He’s either not convinced, or he’s swamped, and that’s at the bottom of the pile,” suggested McDarvid.
“Try the last one. This Secretary will do anything for the environment, particularly when it looks easy. He still thinks he can do it by posturing, just like his predecessor.”
“What about the metals?”
“After you asked about that one, I looked into it a little deeper. But that got a little sticky. Jerry’s handling that himself.”
“He’s not an analyst.”
“No. He’s got Eileen doing the analysis.”
“Oh … Why did Jerry get involved?”
“That’s the funny part. Eileen found an old report about metals and showed it to him. He went to the Federal Facilities semiannual conference and talked about it. The DOE and DOD delegation ignored him, I guess. They didn’t contradict him. They didn’t dispute him. They just ignored him.”
McDarvid shook his head. “So now he’s out to prove it?”
“It’s not that simple. Cadmium has always been a real problem, and everyone has tried to compromise on it. Beryllium’s the same way, and you worked on the hexavalent chrome issue.”
“What about gallium?”
“No one seems to know anything about it, and it’s part of the initiative more because of its compounds. The arsenic side in particular is cause for concern. Jerry keeps asking about the manufacture of new computer chips and the possibilities for arsenic in the home, workplace and waste stream. What the concentration would be, how many tons annually? We don’t have the answers. That was the way this started, more as an inquiry. But now, OSHA’s grabbed it, and they’re talking about restrictive worker exposure limits. That got the cross-media office involved, and they’re asking why our standards for exposure are so much looser than those in the proposal OSHA is developing.”
“It sort of growed, like Topsy?” asked McDarvid.
“That’s as good a way as any of describing it.”
“But what levels are we talking about?” he pressed.
“How about zero?”
McDarvid swallowed. “That’s impossible.”
“You’re right, and they know that. So they’re talking about a half microgram per cubic meter of air for particles.”
“That’s still effectively zero. No industry can afford to meet that.”
“Jerry and Eileen say that’s what industry always claims, but they manage to meet the standards.”
“Yeah, those facilities that remain. How many copper and lead smelters do we have left? How come we haven’t built a new U.S. oil refinery in more than twenty years, and why are all the new oil refineries being built offshore? How come most of our raw steel comes from places like Korea and India?”
“Jack … you asked those questions when you ran Policy Analysis. Look where it got you. They don’t get asked now.”
McDarvid accepted the correction. “Is there any evidence that these wonderfully tight standards will improve health benefits?”
Ellie laughed. “Of course. How can there not be? If you eliminate pollutants, there must be some positive impact.”
McDarvid nodded. More cleanup was always better. Still, he couldn’t resist a last argument. “Are they factoring in the heart attacks from closed plants, the suicides, the spouse and child abuse?”
“Jack … that’s a cheap shot.”
“Yeah. Cheap … but accurate.”
Ellie frowned. “Do you think consulting has really been good for you?”
McDarvid straightened in the shabby armchair. “Probably not. Seeing the other side of the coin has strengthened my cynicism. I’m not sure I trust anyone’s motivations.” He forced a grin. “Not even my own.”
“How is Elizabeth?” Ellie had only met his precocious daughter once, but always asked about her.
“As intellectually oblivious as ever. ‘Yes, Father, I would be pleased to accommodate you,’ or ‘Oughtn’t you turn in presently?’ or…” McDarvid shook his head. “She’s just Elizabeth. Sometimes I want to string her up; the rest of the time I want to keep the world from crashing in on her.”
“She’s a lot like you, Jack.”
“Thanks.” McDarvid returned Ellie’s grin with a smile of his own.
20
KAPRUSHKIN SET THE MUG ON THE SCARRED DESK next to the recent photograph of an attractive black-haired woman, then glanced at the documents—the statistical abstract of U.S. pollution sent by pouch every three months.
“These people are killing themselves … and their children.” Kaprushkin ran his hand through the still-thick gray hair. “Here we justify pollution by saying that the people’s needs must be met before controls can be adopted. The rich Americans have the same pathetic excuses: ‘We can’t afford it. Our factories will close. People will lose their jobs.’” He snorted as he returned the topmost report to the file.
“Isn’t it interesting that the only time the capitalists care about their workers is when their own wealth is at stake?” The woman in the photograph kept smiling. “An automobile is a necessity, but breathable air is an abstract goal. And we kill ourselves in order to imitate the Americans. They believe they have the right to lead disposable lives. That is their real ideology. Yet we spent so much time spying on the Americans, so sure that they had some great secret.” Kaprushkin glanced at the latest U.S. landfill statistics. “We have discarded our ideology for theirs, and we still don’t understand that there is no capitalism, no communism, only industrialism and its suicidal destiny.”
At the knock on the door, the Colonel straightened the papers. “Yes?”
A young Corporal appeared. “I thought you might be calling for me.”
“Really, Corporal?”
“No, sir.” The Corporal disappeared more quickly than he had arrived.
Kaprushkin would study the papers tomorrow. They held no surprises. Besides, Irenia was waiting for him. He never regretted the stars she had undoubtedly cost him. The girl he had rescued from some of Moscow’s seedier streets thirty years ago had not been an ideal match for the promising young intelligence officer, not even close. Friends had warned him that she would ruin his career. The intelligence community was as conservative as any monarchy in approving the mates of its heirs. And why not? thought Kaprushkin. They rule as imperially as any king. And often as foolishly.
Through all the upheavals, someone protected me, and my plan to help the Americans to rip their own economy to shreds. To make weapons production impossible, or impossibly expensive. He smiled, amused at how his superiors focused on the military aspects, how they failed to see the environmental impacts—all of them.
He put the empty mug in the center of the desk where the Corporal would have it clean and in the exact same spot in the morning, then opened the safe near his desk and placed the green folder inside.
The Corporal certainly had the combination, but nothing in the safe itself revealed the information that would damn him.
As Kaprushkin walked down the stairs and into the ice-slickened streets, he wondered yet again about the shadow man—men?—who had protected him for so many years.
Would that protector learn his real plans? Already, there were anonymous fliers and papers appearing in Moscow and St. Petersburg protesting the radioactive waste and filthy air. He shivered in midstep, but continued walking to the metro station, disdaining the car and driver to which his rank entitled him.
21
McDARVID TOOK THE STAIRS DOWN to the ninth floor and the Air Office.
Tina Lederman’s cubicle was empty. So was the entire bay. He glanced at the cards on the secretary’s desk. On top was one he hadn’t seen. He vaguely recognized the name, Andrew Corellian, but not the company—Lao Systems. Andy Corellian—where had he met the man? At some reception? The second card was that of an attorney—Ron Estermann—a former enforcement counsel who now specialized in representing Japanese firms.
“They’re at a staff meeting,” volunteered a young black man McDarvid had not seen before. McDarvid tried not to jump back from his snooping.
“How long…?”
“It just started about five minutes ago.”
“Well—tell Tina I stopped by.” He handed the intern his card and made his way back to the elevator and down to the fourth floor. After passing the snack bar, he turned toward the mall, looking at the employee bulletin board.
A plain black-and-white notice caught his eye.
THE LAO FOUNDATION
Helping Provide the Best for the Best
McDarvid skimmed the text. “… 501 C(3) Foundation … dedicated to providing merit scholarships to outstanding students of middle-class backgrounds … allowing them a collegiate freedom of choice…”
He nodded. Elizabeth could certainly benefit from something like the Lao Foundation. He wondered how he and Allyson would ever afford college for three children.
The attached card holder was empty. It would be a few years before Elizabeth would be eligible for something like that, anyway. Still, it was nice that someone was looking out for the forgotten middle class.
Cocking his head, he wondered if the foundation were connected to the same outfit as Andy Corellian. He studied the fine print in the corner, but nothing indicated whether the Lao Foundation was linked to Lao Systems.
From the entrance to the mall area, he wound his way through the upper level of the Waterside Mall until he reached the area above the Safeway.
Angela was out as well. So he left his card and went down the corner stairs to the Waste Fuels Section. Although the doors were propped open, one of the cardboard arrows usually providing guidance dangled loosely on the wall. McDarvid looked for a clip or some tape, then shrugged and turned right, heading toward Roger Weinberg’s section.
“Jack McDarvid. It really must be slow for you to get down here.” Roger resembled the stereotyped environmental professional—thin, bearded, with gold-rimmed thick glasses. He wore a faded flannel shirt over equally shapeless khaki trousers.
McDarvid leaned against the worktable, the part that wasn’t overflowing with charts, printouts, and reports. “What’s new?”
“Nothing’s new. We have the same old polluters, and they have the same old excuses…”
Glancing down, McDarvid
saw the report title on the second pile—“Practical Limits of Analytical Measurement Technologies.” He picked up the thick spiral-bound volume published by the DEP laboratory in Cincinnati. “This new?”
“I got that last week. It’s nothing special—just what we all know about noise levels and statistics when you get to measurements in the parts-per-billion range.”
“I thought we had a problem below ten parts per million.”
“Oh … that’s true for some organics, but that’s because of the volatilization problems, not the analytics.”
“They tell me that the new metals initiative is a half part per million.”
Roger laughed, an open cheerful laugh. “That’s what happens when you get policy ahead of science.”
“You think five hundred parts per billion might be a little hard to measure accurately?” McDarvid lifted the book. “Does Carpenzio think so?”
“Hell, we all think so. Oh, with gas chromatography and good quality assurance … you can do it under laboratory conditions. But in the field, in a sampling well, or even in handling our stuff—especially waste oils—you’ve got a consistency problem.”
“Could I borrow this?”
“Just take it. It doesn’t say anything we don’t already know.”
“Thanks, Roger. It’ll be useful.”
Roger grinned. “If it’s not, you’ll find a way. What else is on your mind?”
“Definitions of on-site fuels.”
“That wouldn’t be the Moreland Reclamation issue?”
“Same one.”
“Jack, that’s nothing more than a sham recycling operation.”
McDarvid nodded. “Let me ask a question, Roger. Now, of course, you’re absolutely right that some of Moreland’s operations have been … creative in their interpretation of the recycling exemption…”
“Creative is a polite way…”
“I understand. But in the fuel case, we’re talking something else. None of this stuff leaves the site. That’s not like the aggregate. This is burned in the cement kiln. What if Moreland installed a full set of stack monitors?”
“That’s not our problem. It’s the toxicity of the still bottoms, and they’re not an on-site process waste.”
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