Whitewash

by Alex Kava

  She had done formal presentations all the time when she worked at the university, some of them—not many—impromptu. And she knew the thermal-conversion process backward and forward. It had fascinated her enough that she insisted on knowing every aspect. She could do this tour. So what was bothering her? How unexpected and sudden it was or the fact that Lansik had chosen her above the others?

  Sabrina had met the CEO of EchoEnergy, William Sidel, only once. Well, she hadn’t actually met him. O’Hearn had pointed him out to her at one of their employee-appreciation events. Sidel had been patting a lot of backs and making everyone laugh, but he never seemed to make his way over to the group of scientists. O’Hearn claimed it wasn’t personal, but simply that he avoided them so he didn’t have to pretend to know what they were talking about. According to O’Hearn, William Sidel was an incredible entrepreneur when it came to getting investors and lobbying the government, but the man had no idea of, or interest in, the day-to-day process.

  Sabrina stopped at the lab to stow her briefcase, almost making her late. Now, as she hurried to Reactor #1 to meet the man who had recently made the covers of Forbes, Time and Discover magazines, Sabrina wondered if she should have also stopped at a restroom. At least to check for food in her teeth, wash her hands, maybe give her hair a swipe. Instead, she pushed a strand behind her ear.

  She was nonchalant about her appearance—too nonchalant her mother had always complained. She glanced down at herself: the lab coat was bright white and pressed, even if the pockets sagged a little from her constantly putting her hands in them. Her black trousers were part of her standard wardrobe. There were six other pairs, exactly the same, back in her bedroom closet. Years ago Sabrina resigned herself to the fact that she had no fashion sense. Her artistic and sometimes flamboyant mother had confirmed it, going a step further and declaring Sabrina “fashion retarded.” To which Sabrina usually responded, in her own defense, that if Albert Einstein could wear the same outfit every single day, then so could she.

  Even her jewelry she kept to a minimum—classic but simple: an eighteen-karat gold rope chain that had belonged to her mother and a Movado watch her father had given her when she made tenure. As she approached Reactor #1 Sabrina decided that had she known about the tour this morning she still wouldn’t have changed a single thing about her appearance or herself.

  She’d do just fine and she stuffed her hands, sweaty palms and all, into her lab-coat pockets.

  7

  Washington, D.C.

  Natalie Richards shook her head while she watched the small TV in her office.

  “Do you believe this guy?” She pointed at the TV screen, only glancing at the man sitting in her guest chair. Ordinarily she’d be equally frustrated with his sitting back, all relaxed with his legs crossed as though he really were a guest. She kept her eyes on the TV. Her hands rested on her ample hips when she really wanted to strangle something…or someone.

  She had already flipped through the channels. Senator John Quincy Allen was live on every blasted cable channel. And unless a terrorist attack or natural disaster happened in the next few hours he would, undoubtedly, lead all three of the evening broadcast-news channels.

  She kept the sound turned down, not out of courtesy to the man who occupied her guest chair, but because she was expecting the phone to ring. Her boss would be furious and it wouldn’t take long. News traveled fast in this town. At least Natalie wouldn’t need to be the messenger of this bad news.

  “So what’s he up to?” Now she came around behind her small, ornate desk and looked Colin Jernigan in the eyes—tired eyes. He probably hadn’t gotten any sleep the last few days. She swore every time she saw him these days those brilliant blue eyes seemed to get dimmer and dimmer and his close-cropped hair more and more peppered with gray. If she remembered correctly he wasn’t even forty yet. Poor bastard, not that it hurt his looks any. He was still fit, trim and handsome, and most annoying to her was that he was as calm as ever. Nothing seemed to faze him. No doubt just one of the reasons he was the best in the business. Or at least he used to be. Forget about the physical wear and tear. That meant nothing. Natalie Richards prided herself on being able to look someone in the eye and see what was bullshit and what was passion. But in this case what she didn’t like was what she didn’t see at all, what she hadn’t seen in quite some time—a missing spark behind his eyes.

  “Anything?” she asked when he still didn’t respond. “I’ve got to have some line of bullshit, some credible bullshit or my ass is gonna get one helluva kickin’.”

  “I have no idea why Senator Allen does the things he does.” Then he gave her a rare smile. “I’m surprised you don’t know. I thought you were the most powerful woman in this town.”

  “I will have you know I am the most powerful black woman in this town,” she said, besting his attempt at humor. “And that’s about as good as saying I’m the most beautiful woman in the dugout. Not like there’re dozens of us coming up to bat.”

  She leaned against the desk and crossed her arms, getting serious again. “Listen, if the senior senator from the great state of Florida screws up the energy summit I will personally kick your ass.”

  “My ass? Not his?”

  “I can’t control his. I can control yours.”

  She didn’t expect him to flinch even if she hoped he would. She reminded herself that she wouldn’t trust him if he did flinch easily. What a wicked circle politics had become.

  A knock at the door interrupted them.

  “Come on in!” Natalie yelled.

  Her assistant opened the door. “Excuse me, Ms. Richards.” Then she stood back to let in a young man dressed in black jeans, leather boots and leather jacket, a laminated ID badge swinging from a cord around his neck. His tangle of hair was matted down from the helmet he now carried tucked under one arm. Had it not been for the leather messenger pouch he handed across the desk, Natalie would never have allowed him in her office dressed this way. As soon as she took it, he turned and was gone without a word. Her assistant smiled, nodded and closed the door gently behind her.

  “You’re back to using messengers?”

  “We never stopped. Let all those other idiots use e-mail and then be shocked when someone accesses all their precious messages they thought they deleted. This—” she opened the pouch and pulled out the single envelope fastened with a wax seal “—can’t be traced. And even if someone hijacked it and opened it, they’d never know what it meant.”

  “Seems a bit archaic in this vast technological world, doesn’t it?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not like your methods aren’t a bit archaic?” She grabbed the TV remote from the corner of her desk and shot it at the TV screen, clicking it off. “So tell me, what went wrong?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not acceptable,” she said, shaking her head slowly. She had learned long ago that her gestures garnered more authority than her words ever would.

  “Forgive the pun, but maybe Dr. Lansik simply chickened out.”

  She stared at him, raising her eyebrow and giving him a frown that indicated she wasn’t in the mood for puns or sarcasm or any more of his usual dry humor.

  “You’d have me believe this is all some coincidence? The senator’s tour not even twenty-four hours after a botched meeting? A coincidence,” she repeated, enunciating the word syllable by syllable.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” He said it with no apology, but he shifted in his chair slightly, just enough for her to recognize she had him on the edge. She had him exactly where she wanted him.

  “It’s getting too late to wait around for another opportunity like this. You hear what I’m saying?” But she didn’t expect him to respond. “You know we have to have this all taken care of before the energy summit?”

  “Dr. Lansik decides not to talk, then disappears. I can’t get blood from a turnip,” he said, but at least he wasn’t smiling.

  “What about one of the other scientis
ts?”

  “It doesn’t look hopeful. This close to the summit? I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Natalie Richards tapped the envelope she had pulled out of the leather pouch and without opening it, she handed it to him.

  “Then we need to move on to plan B.” She hoped he had come up with something—anything else. She didn’t like plan B. “Your next assignment,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest. “William Sidel can get oil from chicken guts. I’d rather you bring me back blood from that turnip.”

  8

  EchoEnergy

  Sabrina was beginning to wonder why William Sidel had insisted she lead this tour. So far he interrupted her every step of the way. It surprised her. Sidel had the reputation of being a charmer. Of course, everything she knew about the man came from articles and news clips instead of firsthand. A Time magazine article called him a “wizard,” a modern-day Rumpelstiltskin who had found a way to magically spin garbage into oil. His magic would most likely continue if EchoEnergy was awarded a $140-million government contract to supply the entire U.S. military. That feat alone, the article had contended, would be a major coup considering the contract had never gone to a domestic company, but rather the same Middle Eastern oil company. Sabrina knew that obtaining that single contract could mean the difference between EchoEnergy becoming a serious supplier of alternative oil or simply remaining an interesting novelty.

  Meeting him in person today, for all his supposed charm and wizardry, Sabrina didn’t think him charming or magical. Instead, William Sidel resembled the ex-linebacker that he had been in college. Still a large man, Sabrina noticed his middle overlapped his belt just enough to betray his lack of an exercise regimen. However, he did still possess a boyish face along with the mannerisms to match. In fact, he reminded Sabrina of a middle-aged frat boy who didn’t trust that his deep voice and physical presence would demand enough attention, so he compensated with outbursts, offhand observations or awkward jokes. At first it had been extraneous information he interjected between Sabrina’s pauses as if he was uncomfortable with only the hum and rattle of the pipes overhead. She wondered if perhaps he was simply as nervous as she was.

  Sabrina started to explain to the group of fifteen, several potential investors and one senator that, “Thermal conversion speeds up the same process of pressurization and extreme heat that the earth has been doing naturally to turn carbon-based objects into oil. We take that same—”

  “You know, that reminds me of my third-grade teacher,” Sidel suddenly interrupted. “I could never get that earth science crap.” He laughed. He was the only one who did. Sabrina and the others stared at him and yet he continued. “You know what she’d do if we forgot our homework? She’d make us stand facing the blackboard with our noses pressed into a chalked circle. And let me tell you, this schnoz took up quite a bit of the blackboard.”

  This time several in the group laughed. And that’s when Sabrina saw Sidel relax; his hands came out of his trouser pockets and he shifted his weight, no longer looking like he was ready for the next tackle. Sidel was that guy who demanded constant attention but did so in such a manner that no one really minded, or rather, no one really minded for the first few times as long as the humor was self-deprecating and not aimed at anyone else. Sabrina was used to dealing with men like Sidel, but in the past they were usually her students, not her boss. One thing she knew for certain was that guys like Sidel quickly became more annoying than entertaining.

  “But it must take a tremendous amount of fuel to run this place,” Glenn Owens, an investor, said.

  “In our case, it takes plenty of guts,” Sidel joked.

  Owens didn’t laugh. “Seriously, is the output worth the input?” he asked, this time directing his question to Sabrina and purposely turning away from Sidel.

  Owens had been introduced as a billionaire from Omaha who had made a good deal of his fortune investing decades ago alongside billionaire Warren Buffet. The tall, silver-haired gentleman had dressed casually—a blue Ralph Lauren polo and khakis—as if the tour had been a last-minute side stop on his way to play golf. However, there was nothing casual about his manner and when it looked as if Sidel would answer the question again, Owens put up a hand to silence him.

  “We’re 85 percent energy sufficient,” Sabrina answered after an uncomfortable pause. “That means for every 100 BTUs in feedstock, we use only 15 BTUs to run the process. The oil can be used immediately to fuel electrical-powered generators. Most of it goes a step further and we distill it into vehicle-grade diesel and gasoline.”

  “And what about waste removal?” Owens wasn’t satisfied.

  “Nothing hazardous comes from feedstock, which is the only carbon-based garbage we process. Also with feedstock everything is used in some capacity,” Sabrina explained. The efficiency of EchoEnergy was one of the selling points that had lured her to the position. “What’s not separated off as oil is shunted and sold to be used in high-concentrate fertilizer. The depolymerization takes apart materials at the molecular level…” Sabrina stopped. She was losing them with her jargon. She smiled and tried again, “Anything dangerous is destroyed by the high temperatures so the runoff is flushed then brought back to room temperature. It’s clean enough by EPA standards to be used again in the next cycle or released into the river.”

  “If I might just add to what Dr. Galloway said.” Sidel stepped forward, serious now. “Our runoff is so clean the plant isn’t even required to register as a waste-management industry by the EPA.”

  “Sounds too good to be true,” Owens insisted.

  “That’s why I wanted you to take a look for yourself, Glenn,” Senator Allen said as he patted Owens on the back. “It’s the wave of the future.” The senator addressed the group of men on the tour. “This plant, and hopefully others like it, will be our freedom from foreign oil companies. Think about it—” and now he had managed to move into the center of the group “—oil from refuse, from slaughterhouse garbage. Never again will we be held captive by Middle Eastern oil sheikhs. No more guises of war over oil. It truly is quite remarkable.”

  Sabrina watched from the sidelines, waiting patiently for some sign that the political speech was finished. She realized now this was probably why Jason Brill, Senator Allen’s chief of staff, had argued earlier when Sidel announced at the beginning of their tour that no media would be included. Still, Sabrina couldn’t help thinking Mr. Brill was probably relieved. Despite the senator’s eloquent voice and refined posture the yellow hard hat and plastic goggles didn’t quite flatter his slight frame, making him look a bit like a caricature, a bulbous yellow bobble-head with alien-like goggle eyes.

  Senator Allen gestured toward Sidel, reaching up to put a congratulatory hand on the big man’s shoulder and bringing him back into the fold. “And this man is the genius behind it all.”

  That’s when Sabrina noticed it as she was standing back and waiting.

  The sounds from above weren’t the familiar hum and swish of wet feedstock, sloshing and being flushed. Instead, there was a high-pitched ping and rattle like pebbles traveling within the pipes. She stepped away from the men and listened, trying not to look up and stare. A glance told her the valve to Reactor #5 was open.

  Impossible. And yet, the sound confirmed it.

  There was solid matter, unrefined bits and pieces traveling into the reactor, a reactor that wasn’t used for anything other than releasing clear, liquid runoff.

  She looked over at William Sidel, who was now smiling and joking again. She could hear him inviting the group to take a detour and “get a good look at the magic feedstock.” He reminded Sabrina of a chef eager to share his secret ingredient. He turned her way and for a second she thought he had noticed her looking up at the valve. Should she give him a wave, distract him and pull him aside?

  The men were all laughing again. No, it was definitely not the time to mention what might be a dangerous mistake. Besides, how did she know for certain? Perhaps Lansik had made the change
recently. There was probably a logical explanation. She’d need to check it out before she went off sounding like Chicken Little, and the odd but seemingly appropriate analogy made her grimace as she followed Sidel with the rest of the group.

  9

  Jason Brill couldn’t believe how bad it smelled. And he wasn’t even thinking about the rotting chicken guts. It was the stink inside the limousine that challenged his gag reflex and brought him close to upchucking his own lunch.

  Jesus! The entire limousine smelled like vomit despite having all the windows rolled down. Yet he tried not to look away from the senator, tried not to look repulsed.

  Marek handed Senator Allen another wet towel. “I not get stench out for weeks,” the limo driver said, shaking his head and not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he climbed into the front seat totally unaware of the senator looking up and staring at the back of the driver’s head like that was exactly where he’d like to shoot a poisoned dart.

  Jason refrained from helping, other than offering to hold a discarded towel or two. Unlike Marek, he knew when to sit back and shut up. He knew that the navy suit was probably toast. Instead of focusing on the smell, he concentrated on what had happened. Jason couldn’t help thinking that asshole Sidel knew exactly what he was doing when he took them all up the catwalk that overlooked the holding tank with his “magic feedstock.”

  Whatever his intention, it didn’t matter. What Jason would never forget was that Sidel had laughed like some fucking frat boy when Senator Allen started puking over the railing, yelling not to worry, they could break that down, too, with the rest of the “magic” garbage. Jason used to teach guys bigger than Sidel a lesson with an elbow to the kidneys and a fist to the throat. It seemed cleaner and more fair than the way the senator insisted things be done. And all Jason could think at the time was, “Thank God there weren’t any media around.”