Whitewash

by Alex Kava

  Sidel had gone too far. After everything the senator had done for him the man should be licking the vomit off Senator Allen’s Italian-leather shoes, not pointing and laughing. Jason had never understood the connection between the two men. He knew they had both attended Florida State University at the same time, but he couldn’t imagine them being friends even as young men. They seemed too different. Sidel had been a linebacker for the Seminoles while Senator Allen headed the debate club. And yet there appeared to be a strong allegiance, at least on the senator’s part.

  Allegiance, unrelenting loyalty, Jason certainly understood. The whole concept was one he had had to learn the hard way. He came from people who trusted no one, who knew how to steal and cheat and lie so well they didn’t realize there were boundaries. Jason supposed it wasn’t much different than politicians. No wonder he had been attracted to D.C. when he was old enough to buy a motorcycle—a sleek, powerful Yamaha—and drive as far away as possible. He got a job as a courier and muscled his cycle around the capital, squeezing in and out of traffic, pushing the limits, breaking a few rules. But then he banged up himself and his bike when he darted in front of a black SUV.

  Jason still delivered the bloodstained package despite three broken ribs and a badly bruised knee. The SUV owner, some hotshot foreign diplomat, threatened to have Jason’s license pulled. Didn’t matter, the bike was busted up worse than Jason. He figured he was out of business.

  Three days later he got a message from the courier service that the recipient of his last delivery wanted to meet him. Immediately Jason thought he was fucked, another asshole upset about the blood, or maybe there had been something important inside that got crushed. He never imagined that the recipient had heard the rumors about Jason’s heroic delivery and actually wanted to offer him a job. Senator John Quincy Allen told Jason he reminded the senator of himself when he was a young man. Evidently it was something good because less than two years later Jason Brill became the youngest chief of staff to a U.S. senator on the Hill. No one had ever shown such trust in Jason before.

  Now Jason couldn’t help wondering what William Sidel had done to garner such trust. Everything he had read about the man painted him as a simpleminded, down-home good ole boy who happened to be a bit of an entrepreneurial whiz. Sidel had no particular talent. Instead, he possessed something much better—the gift of bullshit, the ability to ignite and excite others about his schemes using only words and promises, getting them to follow, to believe, to create, to rally and even to invest. Only, thermal conversion wasn’t a scheme at all. It was brilliant, but it also wasn’t Sidel’s idea. He had bought the patent, hired one of the founding scientists, then added to and improvised the process enough to claim it as his own.

  Sidel’s witty repartee made him the life of the party and his annoying banter made him everyone’s buddy only by default because no one wanted to end up as the butt of his one-sided jokes. The man could pull a zinger even on the best of the best. Jason remembered when a cocky reporter from E: the Environmental Magazine tried to attack Sidel by calling him a snake-oil salesman, Sidel quipped, “It’s not snake oil, it’s real oil. You’d know that if you were smart enough to read your own magazine.”

  And the thing is, Sidel was right. It was the real deal. It was an ingenious process. Jason was proud the senator was a part of it. But he didn’t trust Sidel and he wasn’t sure why Senator Allen did.

  “How do you put up with that guy?” Jason couldn’t help it. He had to ask.

  “Who? Sidel?”

  “Of course, Sidel.”

  Senator Allen finished wiping his silk tie, balled up the last towel and tossed it on the floor across from them. “He gets things done, my boy. He gets things done.” And then he turned to watch the miles of pine trees pass by outside the limousine window as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

  10

  Sabrina rushed back to the lab to hang up her lab coat and retrieve her briefcase. She’d be late, but hopefully she could get to Chattahoochee before dinner was served. It pained her to think of her father needing to be spoon-fed because they refused to take off the restraints. Despite the circumstances she was relieved that the tour had to be cut short.

  She wasn’t surprised to see O’Hearn and Pasha still working. Pasha’s family had all remained in Moscow. O’Hearn had claimed he was a dedicated bachelor though he had mentioned a son once. Earlier, when they had all drawn blanks trying to figure out where Dwight Lansik might be, Sabrina thought it remarkable how little they knew about their boss. And with the exception of Anna Copello, whom Sabrina knew nothing about nor did she wish to know, none of them had anyone to go home to.

  She was on her way out again, car keys dangling, when Pasha asked, “The tour good? No?” He stopped on his way to the back storage area, waiting for an answer. Usually Pasha didn’t even bother to look up from his work. That he had bothered to ask made her realize that the three of them had probably continued to discuss the subject while she was gone.

  “It was good,” Sabrina said, despite remembering the malfunctioning valve to Reactor #5. “Until Mr. Sidel had everyone take a look into the holding tank.”

  “Ow, that couldn’t be good.” O’Hearn crinkled his nose, the mention enough to revive the memory of the stink.

  “Senator Allen puked right over the railing,” she told them.

  O’Hearn let out a rare laugh, but Pasha turned his head.

  “Puk-ed?” Pasha didn’t understand the word.

  “He tossed his cookies,” O’Hearn said, smiling and enjoying the Russian’s confusion. “He upchucked his lunch.”

  Sabrina hated that O’Hearn poked so much fun at Pasha, once even claiming it was his superficial revenge for the cold war.

  “He vomited,” she said before O’Hearn could continue.

  “Oh, right. That no good.” Pasha finally nodded and continued to the storage room.

  Sabrina started to leave again. She glanced at O’Hearn, who now sat in front of one of the computers. Not much got past O’Hearn. If changes had been made to the system, he would probably know. She checked to make sure Pasha was out of earshot then stopped beside the bank of computers. She waited for O’Hearn to look up at her.

  “Do you know if Dr. Lansik reprogrammed the process to include Reactor #5?”

  “Five’s only for Grade 2 garbage—plastics and metals.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We’re not set up to process plastics and metals. Too many toxins are given off. We’d have to find a way to dispose of the toxins.” O’Hearn was matter-of-fact. “We have a long way to go before we use Reactor #5. That’s probably another forty million dollars away.”

  “Yes, I know all that.” Sabrina tried to keep her patience intact. She didn’t need a lecture. She knew this process inside and out, and she also knew what she had heard and seen. The valve to the reactor looked like it had been opened. She was almost certain. “But is there any reason Dr. Lansik may be using Reactor #5? Maybe to increase production?” Only Lansik controlled the computer software that ultimately cranked the gears and lifted levers or, in this case, opened valves.

  “There’s no reason for Reactor #5 to be open except to process Grade 2 garbage,” he repeated. But this time he scratched his head, his fingertips disappearing into the wild mass of hair. He cocked his head as he looked up at her, his dark eyes becoming slits as though he was trying to see what she was getting at. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing, really,” she said and immediately regretted it. Of course he knew it was something at this point. How much did she want to tell him? If it turned out she was wrong and she hadn’t heard what she thought she heard, and if the valve wasn’t opened at all, she would look like a fool. On the other hand, if there was a malfunction…“It’s just that on the tour today I thought it looked like the valve to Reactor #5 was opened. That’s all. But I’m sure I must have been mistaken.”

  She didn’t tell him that it also sounded like gravel running thro
ugh the pipes, exactly what it would sound like if ground-up, pea-sized plastic and metal were, in fact, running through those pipes instead of soupy, soft chicken guts. Even the bones would not make the type of sound she’d heard.

  O’Hearn was still staring up at her, not convinced.

  “Everything always looks a little backward to me when I’m down there, anyway,” she added with a smile, playing his male chauvinism to her benefit for a change. It was the sort of thing Anna Copello would say and none of them would question. “For all I know I was probably looking at the valve to Reactor #3 the whole time.”

  “That’s probably it.” He nodded, satisfied, and he turned his attention to the computer screen.

  Sabrina tightened her grip on her briefcase, hesitant and standing there as if she were waiting to be excused, probably the result of too many years in academia. She had never been a very good team player, too much of a loner to depend on others. She had been at EchoEnergy almost a year and still knew little about her colleagues. But that was obviously the atmosphere Lansik promoted. Look how little any of them knew about Lansik. If there was a problem he might not share it with the rest of them unless he needed their help to fix it. She decided to wait and talk to Lansik about it.

  O’Hearn looked up at her again. “Was there something else?”

  “No, nothing else. I guess I’ll see you on Monday,” she said. “Or tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow. I have plans this weekend,” he said, shifting his weight and tapping the keyboard, abruptly cutting off any further discussion. He sounded a bit defensive this time.

  Sabrina didn’t care and she didn’t wait to find out. She was simply relieved to escape.

  11

  William Sidel waved a hand at Glenn Owens, motioning for him to make himself comfortable in one of the two black leather chairs reserved for guests. Sidel’s corner office was a triangle, two of the three walls floor-to-ceiling glass, triple-paned to block out the sounds of trucks below and positioned to look out over the Apalachicola River. However, guests faced only one of the walls of glass and instead had the best view of what Sidel liked to privately call his wall of honor. There, framed photos and magazine covers defined his life and reinforced to visitors just how important he was.

  Sidel knew Glenn Owens wouldn’t be impressed by the political photos. Okay, cancel out the ones with both Presidents Bush and Clinton along with the current president. Although he caught Owens’s eyes lingering on the one of Sidel with Reagan. Likewise, he was pretty sure Owens wouldn’t care much about any of the framed magazine covers with Sidel’s face next to headlines like The Environmental Wizard.

  No, he knew exactly what would move Owens to respect him, to open up his checkbook. And Sidel refrained from grinning when he saw Owens’s eyes slide down and stop at the photo of Sidel with General Schwarzkopf and another next to it with him in the middle of a group of National Guardsmen. Never mind that the latter was shot outside a training camp in Florida. Sidel had purposely had the photo cropped tight so the background remained indecipherable in the hopes it would be perceived as some mess-hall barracks in Iraq.

  “Senator Allen seems to think this process of yours is our ticket away from OPEC and all those Middle Eastern bloodsuckers.” Owens didn’t waste time or words.

  Sidel was pleased. Rather than answer immediately, he went to the mahogany cabinet behind his desk and slid open the top, revealing an assortment of bottles and glasses. Without asking, he broke the seal on a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, poured two fingers and handed it over the desk to his guest.

  Owens didn’t bother to hide his surprise. It was just one of the unpublicized facts Sidel had been able to dig up on the man who thrived on privacy. Well, Sidel hadn’t actually dug it up himself. That’s what he had staff for.

  “You saw for yourself. The poor guy can’t stomach to be around this stuff and yet that’s how much he believes in it.” Sidel poured himself some of the Scotch to be polite though he didn’t much like it. He’d rather have a couple of beers. He held up his glass in a salute and watched Owens take a long sip. He wanted to tell the silver-haired tightwad that he’d end up filthy rich without Owens’s measly ten-million-dollar investment. But then it wasn’t necessarily the money that mattered to Sidel. He could already buy whatever he wanted, whomever he wanted.

  The phone interrupted. Sidel looked at Owens and he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “This must be terribly important for my staff to interrupt us.”

  He grabbed the phone and instead of a greeting said, “What is it?”

  “We have a problem.”

  Sidel caught himself from jerking forward and blinked in surprise, glancing down to see, indeed, that the call had come in on his direct line.

  “That’s why I pay you the big bucks,” Sidel said, shooting Owens a smile. “If there’s a problem, take care of it.” And he hung up the phone.

  12

  Washington, D.C.

  Abda Hassar pulled his taxicab to the curb and waited. Delivery trucks and vans were required to go around to the back. Two Capitol police officers patrolled the front, one with a whistle constantly in his mouth, the other waving through limos and scolding vans attempting to double-park. But at this time of day Abda was allowed to park without reprimand or notice.

  He opened a new bag of sunflower seeds and popped several into his mouth. This was his second bag. He hadn’t had anything to eat all day. His tongue shoved the seeds into his cheek, and he began sucking the salt from the roasted shells. He pushed his Ray-Ban sunglasses up to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. Three hours of sleep a night used to be enough. Not anymore. By day he drove his cab. It allowed him a communications system without drawing suspicion. By night he handed out assignments and strategized their plan.

  He pulled down the bill of his Red Sox baseball cap and sat back, his head leaning against the headrest. He wanted to close his eyes just for fifteen minutes, even ten. But of course he couldn’t risk it. He avoided looking at those who passed the cab trying to determine whether it was available. Sometimes he got an idiot or two who tapped the window and slapped the hood to get his attention. Couldn’t they read the Off Duty sign lit up on top? Americans were simpleminded and rude.

  Abda glanced at his laminated license on the sun visor. The silly smile bothered him, a flagrant disguise that he worried more than anything else would trip him up. The photo, taken only a year ago, looked like a boy, clean-shaven, close-cropped hair and that smile. His friend and associate, Khaled, had suggested he smile, not just for the photo but often.

  “Americans expect us Arabs to scowl and look sullen,” Khaled explained. “Be friendly and polite. Greet them. Wish them a good day and always, always smile. They will not know what you are up to.”

  Abda had been in America almost ten years now. After 9/11 he practiced his English until his Middle Eastern accent was all but gone. He wanted no association with the mongrels who flew planes into buildings with innocent people. There were much better ways to accomplish a goal, to make a powerful statement. And if anyone needed to pay with a life it should be a company or a country’s leaders, not its people. This was what Abda Hassar believed. This was what brought him to this mission.

  When fares asked him where he was from—and they always did despite his near-flawless English—he told them his mother was French and his father an Arab, leaving out that his father was also one of the richest oil sultans in the United Arab Emirates. Why then was he driving a lowly cab would no doubt be the next question and, of course, suspicions would be raised. But Abda had discovered early on that Americans would much rather talk about themselves.

  “Are you visiting our magnificent capital for business or pleasure?” was all Abda needed to ask. He had decided that taxicab drivers were like bartenders, cheap therapists. And so he heard tales of despairing divorces and cocky career successes.

  Abda saw him coming down the front steps and he snapped to attention, sitting up in the seat. Then he caught a glimpse of hi
mself in the rearview mirror, his eyes reprimanding him.

  “Settle down,” he told himself. He was a lowly errand boy, who was already being used as a simple messenger. He would never be taken seriously. And yet here Abda was waiting for him almost like a slave, anxious and attentive for the scraps his messenger would leave behind.

  Abda tried not to allow his power to be siphoned away. He could not be crippled by a dependence on those who would much rather be his enemies than his comrades. Yes, a common goal brought them together, but ideologies kept them adversaries. Was it wrong to let your enemies use you if you were using them back?

  “Fifteen and Constitution,” the young man said as he opened the door and slid in without glancing at him, pretending he had never gotten into Abda’s cab many times before.

  Abda smiled, playing the game as he greeted him, “Good afternoon on this beautiful day.”

  The young man ignored Abda, wasting no time and pulling out files, riffling through them with one hand while he punched away a text message on the small handheld machine. It was machines like this one that Abda had decided would be the ultimate downfall of human communication. No terrorist act, no massive-scale war, but a simple machine that had civilized men and women tapping out messages to each other rather than sitting down face-to-face.

  Abda stole a glance in the rearview mirror, pretending to check traffic as he pulled the taxi away from the curb and eased his way onto the street. The man was not much younger than Abda and yet already their lives were so very different. He wondered where this young man would be ten years from now, or twenty years. It wouldn’t take long before his constant frown would leave wrinkles around his mouth and an indent in his brow. The blond hair would show bits of gray. The tanned skin would leather. The expensive gold bracelet that dangled from his wrist would no longer hold the significance he believed it projected. And the eyes he hid behind fake eyeglasses—designer glasses that he hoped made him look older and more serious—those eyes would fade and lose their spark and see even less than they pretended not to see now. But more than anything else Abda wondered if in ten to twenty years the young man’s soul would be content. At least Abda knew that his own would be content whether today or twenty years in the future.