Kathleen made a face. “I’ll have to ask—is it Veronica?—how well you carry through on that promise.”
“Besides, I am the project manager, maybe not on paper, but it’s my baby. It was my idea—at least the important refinements were. And anyway, Bill’s not sober enough to be project manager.”
“Tell me about it.” She looked toward the closed door. “Meanwhile, if we don’t start getting better equipment from Lao, this whole project’s going to be derailed no matter how much money they … But there’s no point in us both getting angry by talking through it again.”
Jonnie tilted his head slightly and ran his hand over his beard. “Funny thing, Jack McDarvid, the guy I work with at the law firm, he was asking me about Lao Systems. Nothing specific, just wanted to see if I knew anything about the company.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Not much. I hinted that a lot of Lao types were corrupt sons of bitches. I don’t know if he picked it up, but I also suggested that they shouldn’t be trusted in national security situations.”
“Why was he asking about Lao?”
“I didn’t ask, any more than he asked where I got my information.”
“Does he know who you work for?” Kathleen looked concerned.
“No. He knows I do some outside work on info systems. I’m sure he knows that at least some of it’s government-related, but we don’t ask about each other’s private affairs.”
“I’ll never get used to Washington. Where I grew up, everyone knew everyone else’s business. This has to be the most impersonal damn place I have ever seen.”
“That’s the way this town is.” Jonnie shrugged. “It’ll be okay. I didn’t disclose anything that’s not already public. Besides, I know Jack well enough, and he’s not going to do anything that would cause me trouble.”
63
McDARVID LOOKED AT THE CALENDAR, mentally calculating when he had talked to Renni and Tom in December. Nearly two months, and nothing had really happened. He’d talked to Renni in early January to ensure that the committee inquiry had, in fact, been sent, a conversation that had been all too formal.
With a sigh, he pulled the House of Representatives directory from his top desk drawer and flipped through to the committee section. Then he picked up the telephone and punched in the number.
“Subcommittee on Oversight.”
“Jack McDarvid for Renni Fowler.”
“She’s in with the Chairman, Mr. McDarvid.”
“Would you have her call me?”
“I’ll give her the message that you called.”
“Thank you.”
McDarvid looked at the computer screen and the unfinished status report to Pierre Devenant. Then he turned to the “in” basket and a request from Bill Heidlinger for a memo summarizing the status of the new DEP restrictive-use rule-making for granular pesticides. He reached for the DEP semiannual regulatory agenda. He couldn’t remember who in Pesticides was handling the issue. After finding the name in the agenda, he dialed another number.
“Office of Pesticide Programs.”
“Jack McDarvid for Khereem Ydulla.”
“I’m sorry. He’s out of the office.”
McDarvid left his name and number and shuffled to the next item—his own note to have Jonnie check the OSHA metals docket again.
He looked at the telephone, then stood up and headed for Jonnie’s office.
Jonnie was in, studying a spreadsheet on his screen.
“I think your beard is getting grayer,” McDarvid observed.
“Thanks lots. It must be because of the exciting work we’re doing.” Jonnie blanked the screen. “What’s on your mind?”
“I think you ought to check out the metals docket at OSHA, if you wouldn’t mind. It’s all billable.”
“What am I looking for?”
McDarvid shrugged. “I don’t know. But we’ve concentrated on Environment. What if OSHA has some surprise buried in its docket?”
“Good point. Tomorrow soon enough?”
“Fine. The world won’t collapse, but it would be nice to put in the update to Devenant.”
“You hope it won’t collapse.”
McDarvid shook his head. “You’re right. This one bothers me. And it keeps bothering me.”
“It wouldn’t be that you’re worried about the total destruction of high-tech industry in the U.S.?”
“Heaven forbid. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about computers.”
“Wrong. You’d just have to worry about whether your kids learned German or Japanese.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” grumbled the older consultant.
“You know … that’s what’s so encouraging,” Jonnie mused.
“What?”
“If you were wrong, Jack, why did we get hired? If you were wrong, why hasn’t anyone bothered to tell us we’re wrong? It’s strange. Your friends don’t tell you to stop. No one offers any proof against us. It’s as though they’re pointedly ignoring us.” Jonnie paused. “Someone I respect told me a long time ago that when people in this town acted as though you’d committed a blunder, and just ignored you—that was the time to run, because you’d either told a truth that was unacceptable or you were about to lose your job.”
“That’s even more encouraging.”
“Sorry.”
“My guts still bother me.” McDarvid paused. “Maybe … I don’t know.”
“Maybe, Jack, because we aren’t thinking big enough,” suggested Jonnie.
“Not big enough?”
“I’ve been thinking about something you keep pointing out. It started out with your incident at the airport.”
McDarvid frowned. “Go on.”
“Who really has an interest in standards that force U.S. industry offshore? That make us more and more vulnerable to third-world resource cutoffs? That give the rest of the world more and more control over our economy?”
“Jonnie, I don’t believe in conspiracy theories. Besides, what evidence is there?”
“Evidence?” Jonnie shrugged. “There’s not much. Larry’s dead. That’s a little odd when you consider he’s the only one who’s ever had much success in bringing common sense to environmental rules. Then, there’s the business about the metals initiative, and how it could cripple the independence of the U.S. space effort. Meanwhile, that’s one area where the Russians are having real money problems.
“As you pointed out, Jack, each rule shuts down a little more basic industry. You told me last year that there was only one factory that could build the castings for the main battle tank. A couple of weeks ago, there was a spiel on the old battleships, and one of the commentators said that there wasn’t a steel mill left in the U.S. that could supply the plate for those ships. And the Middle East stuff—there was a piece in the paper about how no new oil refineries have been built in the U.S. in twenty years.”
“And?” McDarvid prompted.
“Well … it might be cheaper for the Russians to make our weapons either impossible to build or so expensive that we have to build less.”
“A lot of speculation, Jonnie.”
“Probably. But the Russians really haven’t been able to afford the arms race for a while. Did they just lie back and say, ‘We give up’?”
McDarvid shook his head. “No. But there’s no way you’d find homegrown U.S. environmentalists siding with the Russkies. Hell, they can’t even agree with one another.”
Jonnie laughed. “I never thought of that. What if they just helped our dear little capitalistic environmentalists to keep doing what they were already doing?”
McDarvid swallowed, then he grinned. “Nice theory. It would probably even work, but, somehow, I don’t think the Russians could keep that sort of thing quiet, not the way…” McDarvid swallowed, then grinned. “Anyway, it’s a nice theory.” He half turned. “Let me know about OSHA.”
“No problem.”
Back in his office, McDarvid leaned back in the chair. Was Jonnie
right? Or crazy? And what else could he do to get people interested in the issue?
The intercom buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Jack? Steve Greene. Bill said you were working on an update to the granular pesticides thing.”
“I need to talk to a couple more people at Environment, Steve. With a little luck, I should have the whole thing tomorrow.”
“Let me know. They’re coming in next week.”
“Understand. I’ll do what I can.”
McDarvid looked at the papers spread across the blotter, then at the computer screen, then at the buzzing phone.
“A Ms. Fowler for you.”
“Put her through.”
McDarvid cleared his throat before touching the button. “Renni?”
“You called. What can I do for you?”
“It’s been a month since we talked, and I was curious about how we might be coming on a hearing on the metals initiative?”
“Jack, we still don’t have a response from DEP.” Renni Fowler’s voice carried an exasperated tone, clear enough even over the telephone.
“Who did you send it to? Jerry Killorin?”
“We sent it to the Secretary. As usual. The department decides who drafts the response. You know the pattern, probably better than I do.”
McDarvid did. The DEP correspondence center had already told him that Killorin’s office had been assigned the response.
“Did you give them a deadline?” McDarvid glanced at his computer screen, bearing his latest status report to Devenant.
“No. We just asked for an answer as soon as practicable.”
“No great urgency, I see.”
“Jack, you’re rather sarcastic about this, considering we’re doing you a favor.”
“Sorry, but I’m not sure that looking into the destruction of U.S. high technology is a favor to me. It is the committee’s business.”
“Jack…”
“Sorry. I am worried.” McDarvid tried to sound contrite.
“You’re always worried. So are we. We’re worried about health, environment, and the research that supports environmental protection.”
McDarvid repressed a sigh. “I stand corrected. How long before you do a follow-up or hold a hearing?”
“Jack, I told you before, and you know as well as I do, that this isn’t what we hold hearings on. As for a follow-up, if we don’t get some sort of response from DEP by the end of next week, say, I’d be happy to send a note over asking for some response to the committee.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“No problem.” Renni’s voice was cool. “Anything else?”
“Not much. How’s Hal?”
“Same as always. Working hard to please Hal Senior.”
“The kids?”
“They’re fine. I really have to go, Jack. Keep in touch.”
McDarvid replaced the phone, shaking his head. Clearly, Renni had no intention of doing anything except sending a letter or two. And a letter or two wouldn’t budge DEP a millimeter.
What else could he do? Was there any way he could push Jerry Killorin into responding? What did he know about Jerry? Really know?
McDarvid leaned back in the chair, thinking.
64
“JONNIE?” McDarvid leaned into the small office.
“What can I do you for?”
“Some creative financials.”
“Aren’t all financials creative?”
McDarvid shut the door. “These are more creative. I need a financial profile based on these numbers. Of an individual.” McDarvid thrust three sheets of paper at his colleague.
Jonnie placed them on top of the stack of paper closest to the computer table that adjoined his desk. His desk was his filing system, consisting of stacks of paper of varying heights. “What are you up to?”
“No good, as usual. The Technology Committee can’t be budged. At least, I can’t figure out any way. But the more I look into it, Killorin is hiding something, and I’m going to give him another push.”
Jonnie raised both eyebrows and took off his silver-rimmed glasses. “Just how are you presuming to administer such a push.”
“Killorin never had money. He pays a shitload of alimony to his ex-wife, plus the house payment. He has a daughter in college. Even at a state school, it’s not that cheap, and I think she goes to some private college. He drinks like a fish and spends all weekend at the track. And he has a small condo of his own. He can’t borrow that kind of money. Yet his credit rating is all right.”
“Do I want to know how you found that out?”
“I used the firm’s service.”
“So what do you want?”
“A nice tabular and graphic report that shows the minimum annual income necessary to support all of this. I think I’ve covered all the basics, like electricity and food, but if I haven’t, make an estimate.”
“Do I want to know what you’re going to do with it?”
“Me? I’m just going to talk to somebody about it.”
“That wouldn’t be Killorin, would it?”
“Well … he’s the first one.”
“Jack … I sometimes wonder how anyone as devoted to public service and loving his family can come up with such nasty ideas. This fringes on blackmail.”
“It’s scarcely blackmail. In the first place, I’m not asking for anything. In the second place, Killorin is on someone’s payroll, and he’s not reporting the income.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Simple enough. I just went and asked for his ethics form—his and several others. I said I was doing a study. He lists no other income except his job. Nothing except a small savings account earning two hundred a year at the most. Nothing else.”
“Maybe he made the extra money at the track.”
“Come on. Nobody, at least no civil servant, makes money at the track on a regular basis. Not unless they’re tied into organized crime, and that’s something that even Killorin wouldn’t touch.”
“Not true. There was somebody over at OPM who used some variety of exotic mathematical theory to turn a profit at the track on a regular basis.”
McDarvid looked at him quizzically. “How did you find that out?”
“Because he taught me his system before he left government.”
“You?” McDarvid shook his head.
Jonnie smiled slightly in return before continuing. “It was a while ago, before that place became so damn politicized. Now, instead of math whizzes, the place has become a refuge for low-grade political hacks. I heard there’s even one crackpot whose big thing is to try and fire any SESers who have more than three documents turned back for spelling, grammar, or typos, even if they didn’t write the document.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Jonnie cleared his throat. “Anyway, about Killorin—he could have won the money at the track.”
“He could have, but he didn’t,” McDarvid insisted. “Besides, even if he did win the money honestly, he’d still have to report it on his ethics forms, and it isn’t there.”
“What’s this ‘study’ about? Assuming you intend to write it.”
“Oh, I’ll write it up. I asked for the forms of all the regulatory decision-makers at DEP and OSHA. I also requested their travel schedules for the past year.”
“You have a nasty mind. I assume most of them are innocent.”
“About half appear as pure as the driven snow. Including Killorin. But that’s what bothers me. I know he’s guilty. What I don’t know is how guilty, or how many others are just like him.”
“You realize that this is all hypothetical?” Jonnie lifted the three sheets of paper from where he had laid them.
“I suppose so. But Killorin is part of that group that can affect rules before any real scrutiny takes place.”
“How will this help?”
McDarvid shrugged. “The ethics officer will send him a letter saying his form was released and that the reason for th
e request was a study. If he’s innocent, well, I imagine not much will happen.”
“Like I said, you have a nasty mind.”
McDarvid shrugged again. “I’m running out of time and ideas. It’s like punching a mattress. Unless you really zap people, they just write letters and smile and thank you for your time.” He looked past Jonnie and out the window into the twilight. “The hell of it is that I still don’t know who’s doing this. All I know is that with every one of these regulations, we’re losing a little more of our industrial base. And it’s so gradual. It could be coincidence. Just sheer coincidence.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“No. But I don’t believe in grand conspiracies, either. Always thought the people who did were nuts. So maybe I’m just losing it.”
“That’s possible,” answered Jonnie brightly. “But so many coincidences tend to be unlikely.” He paused. “And you could be right and losing it.”
“Thanks,” McDarvid grumbled.
“But that brings up one other question.”
“Oh? I need another question like a hole in the head.”
“Maybe Larry’s death was a coincidence.”
“What?”
“Look at it this way. Everything else you’ve run into is very polite, very well organized. And almost completely nonviolent. You may get ignored, but not killed, at least not physically. And just as interesting is one other thing—you can only figure out the picture by relating very disparate facts and by understanding an entire range of regulations. How many people even deal with more than one environmental media? How many laws and regs are there?”
McDarvid nodded. “People—outside of government? I don’t know. Might be a hundred people.”
“And how many of those are also outside the greenie movement?”
“Oh…”
“Exactly. Lawyers and business people specialize. The high executives don’t know the details, and the details have changed since they did. Government policymakers are all political, and they know nothing.”
“Thanks. You just reinforced my paranoia.”
“Well—who else looks at regs the way we do?”
“There’s that outfit on Dupont Circle.”
The Green Progression Page 22