by Ben Bova
“Same reason. Giggle factor. The suits at the top of the pyramid just don’t see it.”
The look on the black man’s face had gone from anger to despair.
“Is there any chance you could get it into your budget? Maybe as a study? Just to get a toe in the door?”
“We’ve done studies. I could burn down half the fuckin’ city by setting a match to all the studies we’ve got stacked up.”
Thinking furiously, Jake said, “Would it help if Senator Tomlinson met with your top people to talk about the idea?”
Knowles started to snap a reply, thought better of it, and took in a deep breath instead. Then he said, with a weary smile, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
“I’ll set it up,” said Jake.
“Yeah. Okay. Um … thanks.”
The phone screen went blank, and Jake thought that he was learning how things work in this town. Instead of doing something, you arrange a meeting.
* * *
Just before lunch Earl Reynolds popped his head through Jake’s doorway. “Got a nanosecond?”
Looking up from the minutes of the latest meeting of the energy committee, Jake said, “Sure. Come on in.”
Reynolds had a self-satisfied grin on his face as he settled his bulk in one of the visitor’s chairs. “I have just arranged for the senator to appear on Face the Nation next Sunday. And I’m dickering with Sixty Minutes for a piece about the energy situation.”
Jake’s jaw dropped open. “That’s terrific!”
“My phone’s been jangling pretty hard. The senator’s going to be a famous guy.”
Before Jake could say anything, Reynolds added, “For fifteen minutes.”
“More than that,” Jake objected.
“We’ll see,” said Reynolds. “At least he’s getting some attention.”
“Have you looked at the blogs on the Internet?”
His expression turning scornful, Reynolds said, “There’s only a couple of blogs that count in this town. He’s not on either one of them.”
“Political blogs,” Jake guessed.
With some condescension, Reynolds said, “You can get on all the techie geek blogs you want. Doesn’t make any difference. Nobody important follows them. If you want to make an impact you’ve got to get onto the political blogs, like Power Talk.”
“How do we do that?”
“By going to the right parties and schmoozing with the right people.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“Does the pope poop in the Vatican? Sure I know. I’m working on them even as we speak.”
Jake felt his brow furrow. How can he be working on the political blogs while he’s in here talking with me?
Reynolds saw his disbelief. Raising a finger, he said, “Be not afraid, O ye of little faith. The wheels are turning.”
Jake managed to reply, “Good.”
Political Roundtable
Riding in the limousine with Senator Tomlinson and Earl Reynolds, Jake wondered aloud, “Where is this TV studio?”
“Out here in the boonies,” Reynolds replied. “Cheaper rent.”
They had left the District of Columbia and were driving past the campuslike greenery of the National Institutes of Health headquarters, in Bethesda.
“I thought WETA was located in town.”
“The station is,” Reynolds explained, “but the outfit that produces Political Roundtable is out here. They sell their shows to PBS, who broadcasts them on public TV stations all over the country.”
Tomlinson, sitting between Jake and Reynolds with his long legs stretched out comfortably, said, “It’s a long way to go for an hour of airtime.”
“An hour on just about every PBS station in the States,” Reynolds said. “Including Alaska and Hawaii.”
They passed a local police car, parked beneath a NO LEFT TURN sign.
Reynolds called to the driver, “Watch your speed. They love to give tickets here.”
They pulled up at last to a decrepit-looking single-story cinderblock building. The faded sign at the front door proclaimed OSTERMAN BROADCASTING COMPANY. Below that, in smaller letters, HOME OF POLITICAL ROUNDTABLE.
Inside, a young Levis-clad assistant producer led them into the building’s one studio: fake bookcases, three aged-looking TV cameras, a long sofa, and several comfortable armchairs. Three other men and one woman were already there, the men in dark suits the woman in a chic blouse and skirt.
Their host came smiling up to the senator. He was small, spare, dapper in a navy blue blazer and lilac necktie. His thinning hair was starting to turn silver, but his voice was deep and strong.
“Senator Tomlinson, so gracious of you to join us for today’s discussion.”
Tomlinson gave him a full-wattage smile. “Nice of you to invite me, Mr. Osterman.”
“Call me Nate,” Osterman said as he guided Tomlinson and the others onto the set.
The young assistant producer showed Jake and Reynolds to folding metal chairs off to one side of the set as teams of youthful men and women began pushing their cameras into position.
Osterman quickly introduced his five guests to each other and directed each of them to a seat. Tomlinson was assigned to one end of the sofa, next to the middle-aged woman, who looked slim and beautiful enough to have been a model.
The crew bustled around for a few minutes. The overhead lights came on, strong enough for Jake to feel their heat, and the floor director began his countdown.
“Five … four … three…”
The director pointed at Osterman, who smiled into the nearest camera and said, “Welcome once again to Political Roundtable.” He drew a quick breath, then, “Fracking. What is it, and why is it important? To discuss these questions, we have with us…” He introduced his guests.
The woman seated next to Tomlinson turned out to be a volunteer with an environmental group from Pennsylvania. The other three—all in three-piece suits—were from the petroleum industry, the coal industry, and the Pennsylvania Chamber of Commerce.
Osterman spent the first few minutes establishing that fracking essentially consisted of drilling deep into deposits of natural gas and pumping high-pressure water and chemicals into the rock, to fracture it and make it easier to get the gas to flow up to the surface.
“This technology is revolutionizing our energy picture,” said the oil lobbyist. “Thanks to fracking, the United States is now leading the world in natural gas production.”
Before Osterman could say anything, the chamber of commerce man jumped in. “Thanks to fracking, electric utilities are switching from coal to natural gas, which has reduced the nation’s emissions of carbon dioxide by nearly twenty percent!”
“Doesn’t this hurt the coal industry?” Osterman asked.
The coal man nodded dourly. “It’s knocking the bottom out of coal prices and throwing lots of people out of work.”
Osterman nodded sympathetically and turned to Tomlinson. “But I understand that Senator Tomlinson’s energy plan includes new technology that can make coal competitive again.”
Tomlinson took the cue. “Yes, Nate, it does. MHD power generation will allow us to burn coal cleanly and more efficiently…”
And on they went. The environmentalist claimed that fracking contaminates groundwater.
The oil lobbyist countered, “There’s no convincing evidence of that.”
“In my hometown in Pennsylvania,” the environmentalist insisted, “people have gotten sick from contaminated water. And productive farmlands have been torn up and turned into wastelands! Moonscapes!”
Osterman turned to Tomlinson again. “Senator, has your plan considered the environmental damage that fracking might cause?”
Looking quite serious, Tomlinson answered, “We have. There’s some fear of groundwater contamination, but studies by the Environmental Protection Agency and other groups have shown no serious problems. So far.”
Obviously distressed, the environmentalist said, “Instead of tearin
g up the landscape and poisoning our water, we should be moving to solar energy. It’s clean and abundant and—”
“Oh, come on, now!” snapped the chamber of commerce man. “Solar energy will never be more than a niche product. It’s for well-to-do people who can afford to make themselves feel good.”
“That’s not so.”
The oil man chimed in, “Germany went in for solar in a big way, until they realized how expensive it is. The European Union, too. Now they’re rolling back their government subsidies for solar.”
“And turning back to coal,” said the coal man.
“But solar—”
Osterman cut off the environmentalist by turning to Tomlinson. “Senator, what’s your take on all this?”
Smiling handsomely, Tomlinson said, “My energy plan utilizes solar, coal, fracking—every energy source we have available. I don’t see our energy future as a competition among different energy sources, there’s room for all of them. We need them all.”
The environmentalist looked unhappy, the oil guy pleased, and the coal man just shook his head.
The chamber of commerce man said happily, “Fracking is revitalizing whole communities in Pennsylvania and other states. It’s a godsend.”
Jake thought that fracking was here to stay, no matter what environmental damage it might cause. It was reducing CO2 emissions, was cheaper than coal, and was making the US the world leader in energy production.
The trick, Jake realized, was to set it in place alongside the other, competing energy systems. That was what his plan would do—if it got through Santino’s energy committee.
Senate Dining Room
The following morning, it was Senator Tomlinson who dropped into Jake’s office. In shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, the senator stood before Jake’s desk, between the two visitors’ chairs. His suspenders were patterned like a rattlesnake’s skin.
Without preamble, he announced, “Santino wants to have lunch with me.”
Jake blinked with surprise. “He does?”
“Today. In the Senate dining room.”
“Good … I guess.”
“High noon.”
A shootout? Jake wondered. But he said nothing.
“Wear a tie,” Tomlinson said, as he turned toward the door.
“You want me to go with you?”
With a smile that looked almost grim, Tomlinson said, “He wants to talk about your plan.”
Jake nodded. My plan, he thought. That’s not good. If things were going well, he’d call it his plan.
* * *
The Senate dining room had barely half a dozen tables filled at high noon. It was a quiet, genteel place that spoke of understated power. Crisp white tablecloths. Gleaming silverware embossed with the seal of the United States Senate. Sparkling glassware. Waiters and busboys in spotless dark suits.
The maître d’ was an elderly black gentleman who had the air of a world-weary eyewitness to history. With a discreet whisper he asked Jake and the senator to follow him to Senator Santino’s table. It was in a quiet corner of the handsomely decorated room. And empty.
As they approached the table, the maître d’ said softly, “Senator Santino sent word that he’s been unavoidably detained. He said that I should seat you, and that he’ll be here shortly.”
Jake sat to Tomlinson’s left. As the maître d’ left their table, the senator muttered, “Santino’s playing power games.”
“He wants us to stew in our own juices for a while,” Jake said.
Smiling sardonically, Tomlinson said, “Well, we can find better juices than that.” And he beckoned to a waiter standing at attention a few feet from their table, by the window. “Let’s see the wine list, please.”
Santino showed up as the wine steward was pouring chardonnay for the two of them. Tomlinson and Jake both got to their feet. The Little Saint was accompanied by a short, blocky-looking dark-haired man in an ill-fitting dark blue suit. His round face looked misaligned, as if the two halves of it had been pounded out of kilter. He can’t be one of Santino’s staff people, Jake thought.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Jacobi,” said Santino, in his soft voice. To Jacobi, he said, “This is Senator Tomlinson and Mr.—no, it’s Doctor, isn’t it? Dr. Ross.”
“Pleased to meetchya,” said Jacobi.
They all shook hands, then sat down. Jacobi looked out of place, uncomfortable. When Tomlinson offered them some wine, Santino demurred and Jacobi said, “I’d rather have a beer.”
“Mr. Jacobi grew up in my old neighborhood,” Santino said, as their waiter went for the beer, “back in Providence’s Little Italy. I knew his father quite well. He was a good friend for many years. As is his son.”
Jacobi actually bowed his head, as if embarrassed.
Jake thought of Monster, his friend since grammar school, who was no stranger to violence. Monster was serving time for attempted murder, among other crimes. Jacobi was much smaller, but his arms and torso seemed too thick for the suit jacket he was wearing.
The waiter brought them the beer and menus. The Little Saint said to Tomlinson, “Order the bean soup. This is the only place you can get it.”
Tomlinson rarely ate anything heavier than a salad at lunch, but he dutifully ordered the bean soup. Jake asked for the roast beef sandwich, knowing he was going to eat dinner at home, by himself.
Santino kept talking amiably about committee business, and even volunteered that the full Senate would soon be facing a vote on the president’s nominee for the Supreme Court.
“I believe the president should be able to have the people she wants in her Cabinet,” said the Little Saint, “but a Supreme Court Justice serves for life, far beyond a president’s term. We have to be very careful with this nomination.”
Tomlinson nodded as he ladled up some soup.
Jake kept silent, and he noticed that Jacobi did the same. But every time he glanced up at Jacobi, the man’s narrow dark eyes were on him. Jake found it unnerving.
At last, Santino said, in his mild, almost bland voice, “Your energy plan seems to have leaked to the news media, Frank.”
Keeping a perfectly blank face, Tomlinson replied, “Yes, it has. We’re trying to track down whoever leaked it.”
“Of course you are.” Turning to Jacobi, the Little Saint suggested, “Mr. Jacobi, here, could be very helpful to you. He knows how to plug leaks.”
Tomlinson made an accommodating smile, but said, “Thanks very much, but I’d prefer to keep this within my own office. If you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” said Santino. Then he added, “As long as you find who did the leaking and take appropriate steps about it.”
“I appreciate that,” Tomlinson said.
Jacobi maintained his silence, but Jake couldn’t help feeling that the man was glaring at him accusingly.
With a gentle smile, Santino said to Tomlinson, “I understand you’ll be on Face the Nation next Sunday.”
“Yes, they called right after the plan was leaked.”
“I see.”
“I couldn’t refuse them,” Tomlinson explained. “That might look like a cover-up.”
“Of course.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Tomlinson admitted, “Sixty Minutes seems interested, too.”
“Do they?” Santino glanced at Jacobi. “I didn’t know that.”
With an earnest expression, Tomlinson said, “I know the plan hasn’t even been seen by the rest of the committee yet. If you think it’s inappropriate for me to do Sixty Minutes, I’ll turn them down.”
“Oh no, no, not at all,” Santino said. “As you said, the last thing we want to do is give the impression we’re trying to cover up something.”
“I agree,” said Tomlinson. And he returned his attention to his bowl of soup.
Santino, though, turned his eyes toward Jake. “It must be gratifying to have your plan receive so much publicity, even before the energy committee has had a chance to review it.”
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Swallowing hard on a bite of roast beef, Jake managed to choke out, “It’s all very strange to me.”
“Very strange,” said the Little Saint. “Yes.”
Jacobi echoed, “Yeah. Real strange.”
Face the Nation
Walking back to the Hart Building, Tomlinson told Jake, “We’ve got to track down this man Jacobi, find out who he is.”
Jake agreed. “Looks like a hood to me.”
“Maybe.”
They walked slowly through the muggy September afternoon, peeling off their jackets and loosening their neckties. Autumn had begun a week ago, schools were back in session, but the weather was still as hot and sultry as midsummer. The avenue was not crowded, only a few other people strolling along.
Jake said, “He knows we leaked the plan.”
“Well, of course,” said the senator. “It had to be someone in my office, wouldn’t it?”
“No. I mean he knows it was you and me.”
“I didn’t leak anything,” Tomlinson said.
Jake nodded, but he thought, You didn’t leak it. You didn’t even expressly tell me to leak it. But you didn’t tell me not to leak it, either.
As they entered the blessedly air-conditioned Hart Building’s lobby, the senator said, “Don’t lose your cool, Jake. This is all going to work out well, you’ll see.”
“Sure,” said Jake. Then he added, “We ought to prep you for your Face the Nation appearance.”
Shaking his head, Tomlinson said, “Don’t try to stuff me full of details, Jake. All I have to tell them is that my plan will make us energy-independent, create thousands of new jobs, and even balance our international trade.”
So now it’s your plan, Jake said to himself.
“But find out who this Jacobi guy is, will you? I don’t like the looks of him.”
Jake nodded obediently. Now I’m supposed to be a private investigator.
* * *
Finding who Jacobi was turned out to be far easier than Jake had feared. A bit of surfing through the Internet and Umberto Jacobi’s name popped up on the Rhode Island Better Business Bureau’s Web site. The man ran the biggest coal distribution firm in New England, a business that his great-grandfather had started during the depth of the Great Depression, selling five-pound bags of coal to his neighbors for a dollar a bag.