Jonnie ignored Snake’s pitch. “Besides, once this is on-line, there’ll be plenty of work.”
“It’ll work, my friend. I promise. Everyone will love it. You just insert your key, turn the machine on, achieve crypto-ignition—”
“Snake! You know better.”
“I told you to get a STU-III.”
“Who’s going to pay for it? Bill doesn’t like consultants in general and me in particular. You think he’s going to get me a secure telephone so I can spend even less time on-site?”
“Hang on,” Snake announced. “I got another call.”
Jonnie looked from the Lao notice to the computer screen, and then to his watch.
“Gotta go,” Snake’s voice resumed. “It’s Lisa. She’s crazy about me again and wants to see me.”
“So go. Talk to you later.”
45
“I READ YOUR POLICY PAPER, JACK. Tom insisted that I should.” Renni Fowler, her shoulder-length mahogany-red hair swept away from her face with a pair of black combs, looked over the heavy desk at McDarvid.
Her office contained two couches, both upholstered in the blue leather of the House of Representatives, a pair of stuffed and battered wooden bookcases, the desk with a credenza and the A.A.’s chair behind it, and the two barely padded, blue leather armchairs. There might have been ten square feet of open floor space. Stacks of papers covered the desk, and a console rested on the credenza—a Macintosh computer.
McDarvid wondered how anyone could use an icon-driven machine. Then, his brother wondered how anyone could possibly settle for anything else.
McDarvid sat in one of the uncomfortable armchairs. “And?”
“It’s very good. You make a clear case that environmental policy has hampered the space effort. The metals initiative looks particularly damaging.” Her voice was calm, as it had always been on the few times he had met with her when he had been with EPA. “The Chairman would be happy, I’m sure, to make an inquiry at Environment. We can’t do much with OSHA, you understand. We don’t have any jurisdiction there.”
McDarvid pursed his lips. “It’s far more serious than that. I suspect the Chairman would find ample material and interest if he held a hearing.”
The subcommittee counsel looked toward the single window, then back at McDarvid. “The schedule’s filled already.”
“I know you can’t do anything in December,” McDarvid admitted amiably. “But I checked with … I checked already. You’ve only got one hearing set for the entire month of January.”
“I can’t schedule hearings in January. No one will be back until after the twentieth, just before the State of the Union and the President’s Budget.”
“What’s the problem?” McDarvid pushed again.
“The Chairman would be happy to send a letter over to the Secretary.”
“What? Basically enclose our paper and ask for comment?”
“Yes. That’s the normal procedure. Then, if there’s no suitable response, there might be grounds for further inquiry.”
“Renni, you know as well as I do that it will be two months before you get an answer. In the meantime, DEP will finish drafting the NPRM. The department response will say nothing, except that the department will consider all the factors submitted during the comment period.”
“That’s what they’re supposed to do.” Rennie smiled politely. “I would hope your old department would continue to follow the laws, Jack.”
“I’m not asking them to do anything else, Renni. I am asking you to do more than draft a cover letter about a serious problem affecting U.S. heavy industry and high technology.” McDarvid swallowed. “Let me put it another way. DEP has never issued a less restrictive final regulation than when they first proposed a rule. The only times rules have been changed is under a court order, and you can’t get a court order until after the final rule is promulgated. So what you’re telling me is that you’ll be happy to look into the damage after it has occurred.”
“Jack, I’m sure the department and the environmental groups who filed the petitions for emergency temporary standards have material almost as good as yours showing why tighter standards are vitally necessary.”
“There’s one difference, Renni.”
“Oh?”
“Even their own material fails to show the need for tighter standards. Everything has a threshold value. Even water. Too little and you die. Too much and you drown. Just because cadmium causes kidney disease at high levels doesn’t mean you ban it at any level. Arsenic is toxic at high levels, but the human body needs trace amounts to function properly. The same is true of iron.”
“You’ve always been rather convincing, Jack. But the schedule doesn’t allow a hearing in January. We will be happy to send an inquiry, however, and I’ll even make an exception to the rule and send you a copy.”
“No chance of a hearing?” McDarvid persisted.
“Not now.”
“Thank you.” He rose. “Mind if I keep in touch?” He did not ask about Michael Alroy, although he wondered how much the engineer/lobbyist/boyfriend influenced Renni.
“Certainly, but you know how we operate.” She did not stand, but watched from behind the desk.
McDarvid closed the door.
Tom Lerwinsky looked up from the small desk in the alcove to the right of the empty secretary’s desk. “How did it go?”
“Renni’s agreed to send an inquiry from the subcommittee. I tried to persuade her to call a hearing, but she felt that was … premature.” McDarvid shrugged. “I guess I need to be more persuasive.”
“That paper seemed persuasive to me, Jack.”
McDarvid forced a smile. “I thought so, but I’m not exactly unbiased. Rennie pointed out that the other side has some facts to back their case. Anyway, back to the drawing board.” He nodded to the deputy counsel. “See you around.” Then he paused. “Is Renni … I mean, I didn’t want to say anything, but Mike Alroy … is he still in the picture?”
“You interested?” Tom’s face showed disapproval.
“Lord, no. That wasn’t what I meant at all. But this is an aerospace issue, and it might affect Mike’s outfit. So I don’t want to rock any boats.”
“Oh … yeah, that might be a problem.” Lerwinsky lowered his voice. “Yes. More than ever, but I didn’t tell you.”
McDarvid nodded. Was that why Renni was sticking to the safe formal track? Maybe Jonnie could check out whether Hesterton Engineering was involved with JAFFE’s competitors. Then, again … “Thanks, Tom. I’ll send you anything else we develop on this.”
“No problem, Jack. Good luck.”
“Thanks. Might need more than luck, though.”
As McDarvid waited for the modernized elevator, he recalled when the building had been the FBI warehouse/annex. Now it housed floor after floor of subcommittee and support staff. He didn’t know which use was worse.
46
MCDARVID KNOCKED ON THE DOOR and walked in without waiting. “You know anyone who has a large telephoto lens?”
“A telephoto lens?” Jonnie leaned back in the brown upholstered desk chair that matched neither the narrow desk nor the dark gray institutional carpet. The same carpet graced McDarvid’s floor.
“Yeah. One that will fit my thirty-five millimeter. It’s a Canon.”
“You don’t want to buy one, I take it?”
“Not really. This isn’t exactly the time to go spending money we don’t have. Except you’re single.”
“But I do have assorted obligations, albeit nothing in comparison to your encumbrances. Also student loans.”
“I stand corrected.”
“What do you want it for?”
“I want to take some pictures in the bright sunshine. In the light of day, at least.” McDarvid smiled faintly as he noted the grayness of the afternoon through the narrow window behind his accomplice.
“You aren’t taking up bird-watching?”
“That’s another way of putting it.”
“Do I really want to know?”
“No. But I’ll show you the pictures if they turn out. Assuming I can get the lens.” McDarvid wondered if he really wanted to go through with it. Did he really have any choice? Everywhere he turned, everyone was so polite, and so reluctant to do anything.
“My sister has one she might let me borrow.”
“When?”
“My, you are in a hurry.”
“The season’s short.”
“I’ll give her a call as soon as I can.”
“Thanks.” McDarvid edged toward the doorway.
“I take it your meetings didn’t go quite as planned.”
“Not all that badly,” he lied. “But it leaves a lot of work to do,” he added more truthfully.
Jonnie raised his eyebrows.
“I need to write up some materials, suggest several dozen nasty questions, a background paper or two, and maybe a press release—that’s for starters.”
“Then the real work begins?”
McDarvid nodded. “Yeah.”
47
FAR BENEATH HIS WINGS SHIMMERED THE PATCHY WHITE, broken only by highways and buildings. Winter, always the winter—the ever-present winter.
He glanced back at the instruments. The already-low fuel state was all too familiar. He rechecked the single small radar screen, then swallowed as the blip solidified at one o’clock—a red dot that no longer pulsed, but glowed bright red, then flared a handful of red sparks that darted toward him.
He jabbed the red button, then snapped the stick down and left with one hand, and the throttles through the detent with the other. The cockpit lurched as the missile separated.
The afterburners roared in his ears, and the green light showed his own lock-on, but the red sparks on the screen grew larger, larger …
McDarvid bolted upright, shaking, his forehead sweating cold droplets.
He took a deep breath, then another.
The same damned nightmare—except this time he had launched his own missiles. So damned real, just as though he had been back at the controls.
He shivered again, then slipped to his feet.
“Jack, are you all right?”
“Fine … I’m fine. Just having trouble sleeping … Back in a minute.”
In the darkness, he walked down to the kitchen, his steps as soft as he could make them.
Why the Soviet cockpit? Was his subconscious telling him that the Russians weren’t the real enemy? Or was it the uncertainty? The never knowing whether he’d be looking for yet another job, just like poor Ned Llewellyn? Or was it all the unconnected pieces involved with the metals initiative? Or just all the years of having to live by intuition, knowing you had to decide before you really knew what was going to happen?
He found the box of Popsicles in the freezer. All that were left were grape ones. After peeling down the paper, he bit off the tip, chewing the grape ice into slushy chips that cooled his raw throat. Several bites later, he closed the freezer door and walked toward the front of the house, stopping at the foot of the stairs.
The antique mantel clock chimed the half hour, but McDarvid didn’t know which half hour, since he hadn’t looked at the bedside clock radio.
Instead of going back upstairs, he stepped into the study. Looking out the side window, he took a bite of the grape ice. The streetlight sketched out the shadows of bare tree limbs on the nearly melted pile of snow by the driveway, on the flaking cold white concrete, and on the frozen lawn.
When he had finished the Popsicle, the last cold threads of liquid trickling down his throat, he dropped the stick and the damp paper into the wastebasket under his desk. With a last look at the shadows on the chill lawn, he stepped back into the hall, letting his bare feet carry him back upstairs and into the queen-sized Queen Anne bed.
Allyson’s breathing was regular, unsnoring, and easy.
“The sleep of the guiltless,” he murmured as he slipped under the covers, wondering why the nightmare recurred.
48
“VERONICA, I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.” Peter’s breath came in small frosty puffs that hovered above the grayness of the sidewalk.
“What are you doing here?” Veronica had just started up the steps of the Capitol Hill row house which housed the Ecology Now! operations.
“I want to talk with you. Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I didn’t think we had anything to talk about. Besides, talking here isn’t the best idea.”
“Why? Afraid that Mr. Clean will fire you for consorting with someone who’s willing to take some real action for the environment?”
“Oh, Christ, you know better than that. You’re the one who’s got problems. Not me. If you want to talk, let’s get a cup of coffee. I’m not about to stand out here and freeze. The place up the street should be open by now.” Veronica quickly turned without looking to see if Peter followed.
She had a table and a small Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee by the time Peter appeared. He sat down without buying anything.
“So what do you want to talk to me about?” Veronica had her hands around the cup.
“I want to talk to you about rejoining the group.”
“I told you once. I’m not going to take part in any crazy scheme to spread radiation.” Her hushed tone did nothing to hide her anger.
“It’s got to be that Black guy. You’re never home, and you don’t want to talk to your old friends. I never thought you were the kind of girl who would turn into a sappy-minded little lackey just because you finally got laid.”
Veronica sighed. “You didn’t listen the last time, and you’re not listening now.”
“Who’s not listening? I told you that you’ve lost your nerve and your principles, and all you want to do is run away.” Peter’s voice rose.
“No. All I want to do is what’s right.”
“We’re doing what’s right.”
“Bullshit. For the first time, we’ve finally got really strong grass-roots support. Even average consumers worry about the products they buy. More and more of them are recycling. The politicians are worrying about their environmental votes—”
“That’s all little crap.”
“Damn it. People are willing to make sacrifices for the environment. Little ones, but it’s a start. The big danger is something crazy like this will alienate the public from the green movement.”
“Public opinion. You’ve sold out to a pretty image, babe!”
She shook her head. “You’re not listening. All you want to do is play the big macho protester. And I’m not getting tied up with your crazy scheme.”
“You’re going to listen to me for once, bitch.” Peter grabbed Veronica’s arm and pulled her back down.
Veronica clamped her lips together as she dropped into the hard chair.
“You listen to whoever you fuck? I’ll fuck your brains out. Maybe then you’ll come to your senses.” Peter continued his painful grip on Veronica’s arm. The counterman, having seen too many similar scenes and knowing the danger of getting involved, looked away.
“Fuck my brains out? You wouldn’t know how.”
“You…” Peter choked, and squeezed her arm harder.
“Now you’ve got two choices,” Veronica hissed. “You can either let go of my arm, or you can see a plastic surgeon about getting your face repaired.”
In Veronica’s hand was a small, razor-edged Tekna knife she had pulled from her purse. The serrated blade was only inches from Peter’s face.
Peter released the pressure on Veronica’s arm without breaking contact.
“Okay, I’ll go. But you just made it ten times worse. Instead of just dusting the fence line and a part of that field, I’m going to dust the creek and the water. Then, when people find out they’re drinking radioactive water, they’ll finally take some action. And your name, like it or not, is going to be written all over this one.
“Like I told you before,” Peter said as he finally lifted his hand from Veronica’s arm, “we’r
e going to do whatever it takes to close that plant. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop us, not without ruining that carefully planned future of yours.
“You see, babe,” he added as he stood up, “you got yourself in too deep to walk away.”
“You just went one step too far,” Veronica said slowly, “and the only environmental groups that will have you will be the ones already in jail.”
“Sure, babe.”
She slowly replaced the knife, holding the coffee with the other hand, watching the man in the scratched leather jacket disappear.
49
“CAL, DO YOU HAVE A MINUTE?”
The balding ecologist looked up from the calendar. “You look worried. For that, and because you usually bring cheer around here, you can have as many minutes as you like. But you had better close the door. Otherwise, Ray will be in here at least twice in the next five minutes.” His quick grin faded as he watched her face.
Veronica reached back and shut the door. Then she eased into the straight-backed chair across the desk from him.
“What’s on your mind?” Griffen leaned back in the creased leather swivel, steepling his hands across his flat stomach.
“Do you remember Peter—Peter Andrewson? He used to be a friend of Ray’s, I think.”
Griffen’s forehead creased; then he nodded slowly. “Didn’t he have a motorcycle? He always wanted some sort of extreme action. Struck me as very unstable. I told Ray to ease him out—that happened about the time you became an intern, I think.”
“He started his own group, and I went to the meetings for a while. Now he’s decided to dump radioactive dust in the creek beside the Fayettetown processing plant as part of the big protest there next month. I told him it was a crazy idea…”
“That’s insane,” reflected the deep-voiced environmentalist. “The last thing the movement needs is a poisoned water supply. What do you want me to do?”
Veronica took a deep breath. “I kept going to the meetings longer than I should. Originally, he was just going to scatter a little yellowcake dust around the fence. But a couple of days ago, he came up with this latest idea. He won’t listen. Now he says that he’s somehow going to document that I had something to do with it. If I go to the police, they either won’t believe me, or I’ll be tarred with the same brush. Is there anything else I can do?”
The Green Progression Page 17