Sam baulked at Daingerfield’s labelling of him, but for the first time that afternoon he saw the familiar combative glint reappear in Daingerfield’s eyes.
‘Now get out of here, Jardine, and when you have transformed the bill you can come back to collect the Egyptian minister of petroleum’s first carbon offset cheque.’
‘Yes, Mr Daingerfield.’ Sam picked up his briefcase and headed towards the door.
‘Oh, Sam?’
‘Yes, Mr Daingerfield?’
‘A piece of advice. If you want to get out of the swamp alive, best not mention you are a closet environmentalist. Get my drift?’
CHAPTER 26
The Oilman’s Snook, The Woodlands
‘Hey, Buddy. Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?’ the barman said to the drunk swaying on the bar stool.
Chad Bolger dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. He peeled off five of the notes and slapped them on the top of the bar. ‘The drinksh’r on me,’ he said. ‘And here’sh a tip fer you too, barman.’ He peeled off another couple of hundred-dollar bills and handed them to the barman. ‘God blesh Mr Daingerfield! Yer besht brandy pleesh, barman.’
The barman shrugged, poured Bolger a house brandy and refreshed the glass with a sticky black soft drink from the soda pump. He picked up the pile of high denomination notes from the bar and started a tab for the drunk. He turned his attention to a group of four young men of middle eastern appearance who had entered the bar. They were dusting off the snow from their clothes and stamping their boots to bring back the circulation to their feet. It rarely snowed this far south and yet it lay ten centimetres thick in the streets outside. The Woodlands locals were talking about the unseasonal cold snap that was gripping the country.
‘It sure is cold,’ the barman said to the leader of the group. ‘Where y’all from?
‘New York,’ Jamal replied in a perfect east coast accent, ‘but my parents were born in Egypt.’
‘We’re as New York as apple pie and cream,’ said Omar with a grin. ‘But we’re trying to get work on the oil rigs.’
‘This is the place to be,’ said the barman. ‘The Woodlands is full of oil companies. What can I get you boys?’
The group ordered a round of non-alcoholic drinks and were surprised to learn their drinks had already been paid for by the spectacled man perched on his stool. Within minutes, the drunk had become the most popular man in the bar. A group of oilmen crowded around Bolger and engaged him in small talk.
‘What the hell’s going on with this crazy weather?’ said one.
‘Well it sure ain’t global warming,’ replied another. Laughter echoed through the bar. Climate change theory was not popular among the oilmen.
Bolger stirred. He was feeling ill and his good humour had given way to belligerence. He attempted to control his slurred speech. ‘It’sh called climate change, not global warming,’ he snapped. ‘More wind, more rain, more heat, more shnow, more everythink.’
‘Bullshit!’ said a large oilman. ‘The whole thing’s a conspiracy so that fancy scientists can get millions of dollars in government research grants. Of course they’re gonna say the earth’s warming up. It means easy money.’
‘They gotta keep scaring the shit outta us, ain’t they?’ said a moustachioed man with gaudy neck tattoos. ‘First it was the commies, then it was the A-bomb, and now it’s global warming. How else they gonna keep us under control? I mean, it stands to reason.’
‘The President reckons it’s a Chinese conspiracy to stop us from making America prosperous again,’ said another.
Murmurs of assent rumbled around the room. Sensing a violent argument was about to erupt, scores of bored oilmen, each as hard as nails, left their seats to join the sport.
‘You guys ain’t gotta fuckin’ clue, have yer?’ Bolger stared at his audience through the dirty lenses of his glasses. ‘I mean, look at y’all. I bet there ain’t a single engineering degree between the bar and the shitter, yet y’all think yer a bunch of frigging Einsteins when it comes to climate change. What is it with you assholes?’ He pushed his spectacles up his nose in an aggressive manner.
Maddened growls erupted. Only the two hundred dollars of credit on his tab kept the angry mob at bay.
‘So how come you know so much?’ said the man with the tattoos.
‘’Cos I’ve seen climate change with my own fuckin’ eyes an’ I tell yer, I ain’t slept a wink since.’
The room went as silent as a morgue.
‘Now I know you’re talking shit,’ said the large oilman.
‘What’s it look like then, if you’re so smart?’ said another.
‘I ain’t supposed to tell y’all this. They’d take my bonus away and I wouldn’t never work in the oil industry again.’
‘Y’can tell us,’ said the tattooed man. ‘We won’t say a thing, will we boys?’
‘No way.’
‘Well, all right then. Two months ago, I flew over the biggest freakin’ ice dam y’ever saw in yer life. I tell yer, the dam’s gonna break any minute despite what Crawford says. And when it does, its gonna send us back to the freakin’ stone age. Or maybe the ice age.’ Bolger burped and signalled to the barman for another brandy.
‘Ice age? I thought it was supposed to get warmer,’ said the man with the tattoos.
‘What’s an ice dam?’ asked the giant oilman.
‘It’s an iceberg a mile high that’s got wedged between two mountains in a fjord. Then behind it, billions of tons of meltwater forms a lake of freezing water bigger than Texas.’
‘That’s impossible!’ shouted a man from the back.
‘Well, it ain’t gonna flood Texas, is it?’ Bolger explained. ‘We’re too far away.’
There was a ripple of relief around the room.
‘But that ain’t the freakin’ point, is it?’ he continued. ‘When the dam bursts, so much water is gonna pour into the North Atlantic that sea levels will rise up to here.’ He placed the flat of his hand next to his ample belly.
There was stunned silence around the room.
‘And that ain’t the fuckin’ half of it. When all that freezing water hits the North Atlantic, all the currents in the world will stop, just like that.’ Bolger clicked his fingers for emphasis.
It was too much for the tattooed man. ‘I’ve heard some shit in my time, but that takes the cake. I’m outta here.’
‘And North America will enter a new ice age and...’
‘He’s as drunk as a skunk,’ shouted someone from the back.’
‘You’ve had too much,’ said the barman. ‘I’m closing your tab and calling you a taxi. You’ve no right to scare these good folk. There’s about a hundred bucks left on your tab.’
As the crowd thinned around Chad Bolger, the four young men of middle eastern appearance stepped forward.
‘It’s okay, barman. He’s a friend of ours. We will make sure he gets home safely,’ said Ibrahim. He had been a ferocious fighter in the Syrian conflict and held an Egyptian pilot’s licence.
‘Yeah, he’s offered to help us get a job,’ said Rashid.
The barman looked relieved. ‘I can’t thank you boys enough. Here, take his hundred-dollar bill. It will help pay for your taxi.’
* * *
The headquarters of the political action committee known as the American Fossil Fuels Alliance was an opulent building in Washington three blocks from Capitol Hill. The president of America’s largest super PAC was an obese man named Clint Cobb. He had once been the owner of a string of coal mines in Wyoming before declaring bankruptcy in 2014. This event may have been considered unfortunate by some, but for Cobb it was the start of a career that led to riches and influence of unimaginable proportions. Congressmen, senators and even presidents considered him an odious character, but they respected the depths of his war chest and the power of his acerbic tongue. Few radio stations or local newspapers across America were immune from the lure of his largesse, and ma
ny wrote fossil fuel-friendly editorials in acknowledgement of his generosity.
Cobb struggled to rise from his soft leather chair as Sam entered his palatial office. ‘Mr Jardine! Welcome to my humble abode. I have heard so much about you.’
Sam forced a smile and shook Cobb’s sweaty hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Cobb.’
The super PAC president gestured to the comfortable chair on the other side of his colossal desk. ‘Mr Daingerfield spoke in glowing terms about you, Sam. He said you were one of the best negotiators he has ever met. That’s some compliment coming from Rex, I must say.’
‘Mr Daingerfield is too kind,’ Sam replied.
‘He tells me you may have discovered a massive oil shale deposit in the Sahara Desert.’
‘We’ve conducted preliminary analyses on the samples retrieved from our experimental well. All the signs are pointing to the fact that we’ve rediscovered the legendary Nefertari Shale.’
‘But I hear the Make America Prosperous bill could stop Rex from exploiting the licence?’
‘The problem is Mr Daingerfield has certain... cash flow issues. If this bill is passed in its current form, it could kill off one of the corporations it was designed to protect. The law of unintended consequences, you see.’
Cobb frowned. ‘Ah yes, I see. Rex has been a generous member of the Alliance until recently. I was wondering what had led to his drop-off in campaign contributions.’
‘A mere oversight,’ said Sam. ‘Mr Daingerfield has given me authority to make a pre-payment against his next two years’ subscriptions to the Alliance.’
‘That would be most generous.’
‘He said he will be even more generous if his cash flow position improves.’
‘You mean if the American Fossil Fuels Alliance were to support an amendment to the Make America Prosperous bill?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m afraid the American Fossil Fuel Alliance has spent months lobbying for this bill. In fact, we drafted most of the wording. And Rex himself is not blameless. The fracking industry is driving oil prices below sustainable levels. We have to think of the greater good of all our members.’
‘We’re talking about a minor amendment. You see, Mr Daingerfield believes the Make America Prosperous bill would stand a much greater chance of success if it was targeted only against those nations who operate anti-competitive cartels against America’s commercial interests.’
‘You’re talking about targeting OPEC nations rather than the whole Arab-speaking world?’
‘Precisely.
‘But not Egypt?’
‘Correct. Egypt is not a member of OPEC and is in the front line of the President’s campaign against terror. We should do everything in our power to support them.’
‘How much more generous would Mr Daingerfield be if the Alliance supported your proposed amendment?’
‘He is suggesting a five-year pre-payment against his membership fees.’
Cobb’s eyes widened. A five-year advanced payment was worth over a million dollars. Enough to build a new tennis court and indoor swimming pool in his Potomac Manors mansion outside Washington DC. ‘I’m sure the Alliance can support any motion that removes such “unintended consequences”. After all, our member’s interests are our lifeblood.’
‘I took the liberty of suggesting the revised wording in this document here,’ Sam said, pulling out an eight-page document. ‘The mark-ups to your wording are in red. You will find the essence of the bill has been retained, but we have taken out the reference to “unstable Arab-speaking nations” and replaced it with the wording “foreign nations engaging in anti-competitive practices”.’
‘That seems reasonable,’ conceded Cobb. ‘But what’s this?’ He read from the document. “For the avoidance of doubt, Egypt is neither an OPEC member nor a country that engages in anti-competitive behaviour”. I think that goes without saying, Mr Jardine.’
‘Rex was most insistent. We don’t want any confusion.’
Cobb pulled out a dossier and scanned through the list of congressmen who were on the Energy and Natural Resources committee. ‘Ah, as I thought. There are three congressmen due for re-election in 2020 who have been neglecting their fundraising duties.’ He tutted at the meagre state of their re-election war chest. ‘They will be lucky to win another term unless they choose their friends wisely.’
Cobb drummed his fat fingers on the table as he thought through Sam’s dilemma. ‘I don’t think I can be seen to be helping you directly, Mr Jardine. The Alliance could lose face with its members by backtracking on the bill when it has lobbied so hard to get it in front of Congress.’
Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘But you know a man who can?’
‘I do indeed. I’m going to introduce you to the most powerful political lobbyist in K Street. It may cost Rex another generous donation, but Art Shaughnessy of Shaughnessy and Associates is the best there is when it comes to persuading congressman where their real duties lie.’
The blatant manipulation of the American political process made Sam feel nauseous but he reminded himself it was for the greater good. ‘Thank you, Mr Cobb. We appreciate your help.’
‘Don’t mention it. I hope it’s enough to convince the congressmen and senators to make the necessary amendments. Good luck with your amendment, Mr Jardine.’
CHAPTER 27
Art Shaughnessy was an urbane man in his early seventies. He had founded the first and most successful lobbying firm in Washington. He was a second-generation American of Irish descent and displayed a ruthlessness in business that was a product of a childhood riven by poverty and family violence. He was also the richest man in Washington.
‘I must say, Mr Jardine, it’s terrible luck Daingerfield Oil has found itself in financial difficulties as an unintended consequence of the proposed new bill. But rest assured, our public relations division is the most sophisticated in the world. When it comes to influencing Congress on our clients’ behalf, we have an eighty-five per cent success rate,’ said Shaughnessy.
‘That is reassuring,’ Sam conceded, sizing up the older man’s tailored 6 Avenue New York business suit and trim white goatee beard.
‘Unfortunately, the political landscape has changed for the worse and we’ve had to adapt to the times. We’ve created a whole new PR team whose role is to influence the new force in Washington politics, the Alternative Right. Your project will be handled by this team, as the fossil fuel industry has embraced this new philosophy.’
‘The Alternative Right?’
‘I’ve been in this business for forty years and I’ve never seen anything like it. They wield a political influence way beyond their tiny support base. It’s defined more by what it stands against than what it stands for.’
‘And what does it stand against?’
‘Immigration, political correctness, establishment politics, climate science and minority interests for starters. Our team helped the new president achieve office, so you’ll be in good hands. Ah, here’s the head of the department, Sylvester La Rue.’
Sam watched as a suave young man strutted towards them. He was tall with dark curly hair and had a pair of bright green Ralph Lauren spectacles perched on his long Gallic nose.
‘I must rush,’ said Shaughnessy. ‘I have lunch with the CEO of Boeing. He’s an old friend. I will leave the two of you to work out a campaign strategy.’
‘I must say, I’m a big admirer of Rex Daingerfield,’ La Rue said once Shaughnessy had left. ‘It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, sir.’
Sam followed La Rue into a large open office on the fifth floor. The office was a hive of activity and occupied by energetic, smartly dressed staff.
‘We have already established a Post-Truth team who will be working on your amendment,’ said La Rue.
‘Post-Truth?’
La Rue looked at him incredulously, which made Sam feel as if he had been living with the Amish community for the last twelve months. ‘We create a series o
f arguments designed to appeal to the target audience’s emotions rather than their intelligence—’
‘You mean lies,’ Sam interrupted.
‘Not at all. Truth is not an absolute commodity. Two people with different belief systems can have contrary views as to what constitutes the truth.’
‘Regardless of the facts?’
‘There are always facts that substantiate our client’s position, no matter how improbable.’
The two men walked to the far end of the floor where a group of young graduates were standing around an electronic whiteboard. A professional artist was drawing cartoon-like pictures on the whiteboard of strategies the team had developed so far.
La Rue walked towards the facilitator and tapped on her shoulder. An elegant young woman turned around. ‘Sam, may I introduce you to Mandy Malone. She’s one of our brightest new graduates.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Malone,’ Sam said to the young team leader. ‘Perhaps you would give me a summary of your campaign strategy?’
‘Yes, Mr Jardine. The Make America Prosperous bill is a Republican-sponsored bill designed to reward the blue-collar workers who voted for the current president. The bill has been embraced by the oil, gas and coal industries as a simple way to raise profits. Even the airline industry sees this bill as an opportunity to maintain their current shoddy service levels and keep out foreign competition. Unfortunately, Daingerfield is one of the few companies that will lose out, but your amendment is a means of redressing the balance.’
‘How will this bill make America prosperous?’
‘That’s not our concern, Mr Jardine. We have assessed Congress based on their likely voting intentions for your amendment and we believe we need to influence two key congressmen to get your amendment through.’
Sam was impressed. ‘Only two?’
‘The Make America Prosperous bill will need to pass through both houses of Congress. However, we have managed to schedule a special hearing of the House Energy subcommittee whose job is to assess your amendment and report back to Congress with a recommendation.’
The Last Oracle: A Climate Fiction Thriller (Sam Jardine Crime Thrillers Book 3) Page 20