Power Surge

by Ben Bova

  “Nobody wants your damnable energy policy!” Santino snapped.

  “You mean the fossil fuel lobby doesn’t want it.”

  “And the farm lobby,” Santino said. “America is doing fine on energy. We’ll keep on doing fine.”

  “For how long? Five years? Ten? While we keep on damaging the global climate and sucking every drop of oil and gas out of the ground? What happens then?”

  “We have enough coal for another century or more.”

  “It’s time we start to move to a sustainable energy policy that doesn’t ruin the environment, that builds new industries, that creates new jobs.”

  “Pipe dreams! You’re talking nonsense.”

  “No, I’m talking about a future where America leads the world in energy technology and our economy is stronger than ever.”

  “Spare me the platitudes. I’ve heard them all before.”

  “It’s going to happen,” Jake said. “We’re going to move to an energy policy that’s more than just the fossil fuel industries.”

  “Over my ruined career! My ruined life!”

  “Nothing needs to be ruined,” Jake said, as reasonably as he could manage.

  “You and your pretty-boy senator,” Santino went on, almost snarling now. “You want to change everything, climb over my dead body.”

  “No, that’s not what we want.”

  Santino started to reply, but caught himself and said nothing. He took a deep breath, visibly struggling to suppress his burning anger.

  Almost as calmly as when he first came into the office, Santino asked Jake, “So what do you propose?”

  “I want the energy plan approved by the committee and then the full Senate.”

  “And what else?”

  “That’s all. That’s what I came to Washington for. That’s what I’ve been trying to accomplish for Senator Tomlinson.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Santino almost smiled. “That’s all for now. But what about tomorrow? What about the next time you want something from me? You’ll hold this threat over my head again, won’t you?”

  “No, we won’t,” Jake said. “I promise you. And Senator Tomlinson will give you his word, too, I’m sure.”

  “Will he?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Santino seemed to think it over for a few moments, then he said, “I suppose I’ll have to take your word at face value. I have no choice, do I?”

  “You can count on our word,” Jake said.

  “Yes, I’m sure I can. But Bert, he’s another issue altogether. He’s very loyal to me, you know. And he can get, well … emotional.”

  The Tunnels

  Jake led Tami out of the Majority Leader’s office and down into the tunnels that connected the Capitol to the various congressional office buildings.

  Although the corridors were brightly lit even after midnight, Jake couldn’t avoid the feeling that they were fleeing down some dank, dark passageway in an ancient castle, trying to escape a lumbering monster that was pursuing them. Hardly anyone else was in the tunnels, but Jake stared at each passerby as if he might be a murdering thug.

  “What he said about Jacobi,” Tami said, puffing a little as she scampered to keep up with Jake’s longer strides, “you don’t think the man would try anything violent, do you?”

  “I do,” Jake snapped, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was following them.

  “You do?”

  “Who do you think got me mugged?”

  “Oh!”

  He took a wrong turn, got slightly lost, and had to retrace their steps. Finally he found the passageway that led to the Hart S.O.B. Instead of going to the underground garage, though, he pulled Tami to the elevator bank.

  “Aren’t we going home?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  They went up to the second floor and to Senator Tomlinson’s suite of offices. Jake fumbled with the electronic key, but the front door popped open at last.

  “What are you going to do?” Tami asked.

  “Call Frank,” he said as he headed for his own office.

  “At this time of night?”

  “I told O’Donnell about all this, but Kevin’s a DC guy. If he thinks it smarter to keep quiet about it, he’ll keep quiet. He’ll check all the angles and then let Santino’s people know that they can count on him to keep everything hushed up.”

  Tami plopped down onto one of the chairs in front of Jake’s desk. “But you told Santino that you’d keep quiet about it.”

  Tapping on his computer keyboard to pull up his telephone file, Jake nodded and said, “Santino doesn’t believe me. Even if he does, he wants to make sure we don’t talk.”

  “Make sure?”

  “As in murder. Jacobi’s already on his way here.”

  “You really think we’re in that kind of danger?”

  “I really do.”

  Senator Tomlinson’s private, emergency phone number came up on the screen. Jake clicked on the digital recorder as the phone put through his call.

  His desktop screen showed a smiling portrait of Tomlinson while the senator’s voice said, “Hello. This is Senator Franklin Tom—”

  The screen suddenly showed Tomlinson, in his shirtsleeves, collar unbuttoned. He appeared to be in his bedroom.

  “Jake, what’s wrong?”

  “Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Frank.”

  “We were just having a nightcap. What’s wrong?”

  “Santino’s after us.”

  “What?”

  Jake bawled out the whole story; Santino, Jacobi, the not-so-veiled threat. “I want Tami to be safe,” he said. “None of this is her fault, but I’ve got her into this without realizing how much danger I’ve put her in.”

  Tomlinson glanced away. He must be looking at Amy, Jake thought.

  “All right. The two of you come over here and stay a few days until we can get this straightened out.”

  Jake felt a surge of gratitude rush through him. “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Tonight,” Tomlinson said, firmly. “We’ll wait up for you.”

  Nodding, Jake said, “We’ll go home and pack a couple of bags. We’ll be at your place in about an hour. Okay?”

  “Fine,” said Tomlinson.

  Before the senator could hang up, Jake added, “I’ve been recording our call. All the info we have on Santino and Jacobi. It’s on the recorder in my desk.”

  “Good thinking,” said Tomlinson. “See the two of you in an hour or so.”

  Jake killed the phone connection and looked up at Tami. “We’ve got a hideout,” he said, with a weak grin.

  Getting up from her chair, Tami said, “Well, let’s get to it.”

  They went down to the garage. Jake felt a little spooky, as if Jacobi or one of his hoods would pop up from behind a parked car, but they made it to his Mustang without a problem.

  When they arrived at 49th Street Northwest, though, their house was in flames.

  “Oh my god!” Tami said.

  Fire engines blocked the street, and firefighters were pouring water onto the blazing roof. Jake saw his landlord and the man’s wife standing in bathrobes by a Fire Department sedan, amid the hoses snaking across the street.

  Without a word, Jake made a U-turn and sped off for Tomlinson’s house.

  Aftermath

  They stayed the night with the Tomlinsons. Once Jake told them about the fire, the senator grimly called the DC police.

  “Your landlord and his wife are all right,” Tomlinson said, looking up from the phone. “Looks like the house is pretty badly damaged, though.”

  “We had just moved back in after the burglary,” Tami murmured. “Just yesterday.”

  Jake simmered with anger. “Find Jacobi. He did this. If not him personally, he got somebody to torch our apartment.”

  The senator’s wife looked unconvinced. “Why would he do that? What would he gain?”

  “It’s a wa
rning,” Jake said. “He’s coming after us.”

  Tomlinson, still in his shirtsleeves, went to the phone again. “I’m going to get some protection for you.”

  Trying to smile, Amy said, “I’m going to get us drinks. What would you like?”

  * * *

  The next day was a numbing succession of meetings with the police, the insurance people, and the private detective agency that Tomlinson had contacted.

  Sitting in the insurance company’s bright, spacious office, Jake listened to the claims adjuster tell them, “Apparently the painters who redid your living room left some cans of paint in your utility room. That’s where the fire started.”

  “The painters were there months ago, after Hurricane Carlos,” Jake objected. “And they didn’t leave any cans of paint in the utility room.”

  The claims adjuster, a slim, dapper man in a smart tweed jacket, shook his head. “The cans were there.”

  “Whoever set the fire must have brought them in.”

  The adjuster’s brows rose. “You think this was deliberate arson?”

  Jake asked, “Were there any signs of a forced entrance?”

  “The front door of your apartment wasn’t forced. The door to the utility room was too charred for us to tell.”

  “It was arson,” Jake said flatly.

  Obviously uncertain, the adjuster said, “Well, we’ll certainly have to look into that angle.”

  * * *

  The private investigator’s office was much smaller than the insurance adjuster’s. The head of the firm looked serious and fatherly: bald, heavyset, with piercing blue eyes.

  “Senator Tomlinson has requested twenty-four seven protection for the two of you.”

  Jake nodded numbly. It was all starting to seem like a bad dream, an endless nightmare. Tami looked equally frozen, exhausted by the events that were overwhelming them.

  “You won’t have to look around for our team,” the investigator assured them. “They’ll be near enough to protect you.”

  “For how long?” Jake asked bleakly.

  The older man smiled. “For as long as it takes, son.”

  Jake forced a smile, thinking, He means, for as long as Frank foots the bill.

  The man pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out two small plastic buttons encased in plastic baggies.

  “Carry these with you wherever you go,” he said, handing them to Jake and Tami. “Miniaturized radio beacons. They’ll allow my people to track you minute by minute.”

  * * *

  Once they’d left the investigator’s office, Tami and Jake passed a restaurant on the corner of the street. The day had turned chilly; flat gray clouds were covering the sky, matching Jake’s mood almost perfectly.

  “Lunch?” Tami asked. “I’m starving.”

  “Oh,” Jake said, surprised that she could think of food. “Sure.”

  The restaurant had some tables on the sidewalk, but Jake thought they’d be more comfortable indoors.

  “Outside,” Tami urged. “We won’t have too many days left when we can eat out on the sidewalk.”

  Jake wanted to argue, but decided not to. She’s right, he thought. We may not have too many days left, period.

  Once they sat at one of the tables, Jake called his landlord’s cell phone number. Before he could ask how the man and his wife were, the landlord said curtly, “I suppose you know that you’ve broken your lease.”

  And he hung up.

  With a sigh that was almost a snort, Jake started to tuck the phone back inside his jacket, then thought better of it.

  “Who’re you calling?” Tami asked.

  “Jacobi.”

  Her mouth formed a tiny little “Oh.”

  Jacobi answered on the second ring. “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you.”

  Jake said, “We still have to talk.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You burned us out but you didn’t kill us.”

  “Hey, I didn’t do anything. You had a fire, that’s tough luck. But don’t hang it on me.”

  “And pigs can fly.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “When can we talk? Face-to-face.”

  “I’m still in Providence.”

  “How soon can you get down here?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because if you don’t, the whole world’s going to find out that Mario Santino is your father.”

  Silence, for several heartbeats. Then Jacobi said, “You don’t learn real quick, do you?”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  Grudgingly, Jacobi said, “I’ll fly down this afternoon. I’ll phone you when I get there.”

  “Good,” said Jake.

  Tami was staring at him from across the table. “Is he coming here?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “And you really think he’s responsible for the fire?”

  “Who else?”

  A young, pink-faced waiter took their lunch orders and went back inside the restaurant. Jake thought the kid was smart; stay indoors where it’s warm as long as you can.

  Focusing on Tami, he asked, “Do you have a recording device? Something small enough to keep in a pocket?”

  She shook her head. “I did. But it was in the apartment.”

  “Yeah. I should have realized that. Well, after lunch we’ll go buy one.”

  “And some clothes,” Tami said.

  “And an overcoat,” Jake added.

  Jacobi

  After lunch, Jake and Tami returned to the Tomlinson residence. The senator was at his office, but his wife played hostess to them.

  “It’s an awkward time of day,” Amy said as she led them to the library. “Too late for lunch, too early for cocktails.”

  “I ought to be at the office, too,” Jake said.

  Amy shook her head. “Frank said you should chill out here. He’s got an appointment to talk with Santino this afternoon.”

  “I should be there,” Jake said.

  “Frank wants you to wait here,” said Amy, gesturing to the sofa. “He said he’ll call you after he’s talked with Santino.”

  Jake plopped down onto the sofa. Tami sat beside him. “I’m still officially on vacation,” she told Amy. “Until next week.”

  “By then, all this should be settled,” Amy said.

  “I hope so.”

  The three of them sat there in the library making small talk while Jake waited with increasing impatience for Jacobi to phone. He said he was taking an afternoon flight, Jake thought. How many flights are there from Providence to Reagan National? Maybe he’s coming on a private jet.

  Amy and Tami were chatting quite naturally about clothes and all the other things that had been lost in the fire.

  “I can go shopping with you, if you like,” Amy volunteered.

  “That would be fun,” said Tami.

  Why isn’t Jacobi calling? Jake asked himself. What’s he doing, walking here from Rhode Island?

  “The weather’s getting cold, isn’t it?” Amy said. “I’d like to get Frank to go back home for some skiing as soon as the snow gets deep enough.”

  “Where do you go?” Tami asked.

  Jake’s cell phone buzzed. He yanked it from his pocket so swiftly he thought he might have torn his trousers.

  “I just landed,” Jacobi’s voice said, in a low growl. “I’ll take the Metro to the Capitol stop. You can meet me there.”

  Jake said, “Right. Capitol stop.” He turned the phone off and got to his feet.

  Tami stood up beside him.

  “You stay here with Amy,” Jake told her. “I’ll see Jacobi by myself.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” Jake said. “I want you safe here.”

  * * *

  By the time Jake drove his Mustang to the Hart building garage and then made his way along the chilly streets to the Metro station two blocks south of the Capitol building, the sun was setting. The going-home rush
was in full swing: streets clogged with cars, buses, taxis inching along; sidewalks crowded with people. The Metro station was jammed wall-to-wall with office workers eager to get home.

  Searching through the crowd, waiting on the station platform for Jacobi’s short, stocky form, Jake wondered if he’d find the man. On the other hand, he thought, crowds are good. Too many witnesses for him to try any rough stuff.

  He tried to see if the private investigators who were supposed to be protecting him were in the crowd. How would I know who they are? Jake asked himself. The head of the PI firm told us not to worry, they’d be nearby even if we couldn’t see—

  “Hello, kid.”

  Jake nearly jumped out of his skin. Jacobi was standing beside him, wearing a black leather coat, his balding head hatless.

  “I … I was looking for you,” Jake stammered.

  “Well, here I am.”

  Jake started to push through the crowd, heading toward an exit. “We have to talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “My office is only a few blocks from here.”

  “Nah, not your office.”

  “Then where?”

  “Why not right here?”

  His lopsided face grinning, Jacobi grasped Jake’s arm hard enough to be painful.

  As Jacobi led him through the crowd on the station platform, Jake’s mind was spinning. At least he’s not going to try to shove me under a train. But where’s he going? Can the PIs track me underground? Will the beacon’s signal get through all the concrete around us? Where the hell are they, anyway?

  Jake saw that Jacobi was dragging him toward the men’s toilet. He wants to have a private conversation in the men’s room?

  But then Jacobi went to the separate room reserved for handicapped persons. He pushed the door open and dragged Jake inside. Then, turning, he locked the door.

  “There’s never nobody in these crip rooms,” he said. “Now we can talk without anybody interruptin’ us.”

  As surreptitiously as he could, Jake slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and turned on the digital recorder he and Tami had bought a few hours earlier.

  “All right,” Jake said, “I met with Senator Santino and worked everything out. He’s satisfied that neither Senator Tomlinson nor I will tell anybody about him being your actual father.”