The Murderer

by Paul Smith

  "Por supuesto, no," said Hector. "That is why we are here."

  "I don't remember you from the previous conference. Were you there?"

  "No," said Hector. "We only until now join the conference. Sonora is—"

  "País pequeño," said Pablo.

  "Yes, small country," said Hector. "We are concerned about climate and pollution. Maybe we can help."

  "That's good," said James. "That's good. We all care about our world." He paused while Hector translated for his companions.

  "You're in Central America, right?"

  "Yes," said Hector, "South of Mexico."

  "Tropical. That's good. But did you know that our world is in an Ice Age?"

  Hector shook his head and squinted with a look of uncertainty.

  James took a deep breath and said, "Earth."

  "Mundo," replied Hector."

  James nodded. "Ice." He took his glass of ice water, pulled out a cube that had only partially melted.

  "Hielo," said José.

  "Age, time, era, epoch," said James.

  "Edad de Hielo," said Hector and nodded, "Ice Age?"

  "That's now," said James and pointed downward.

  "Ahora?" asked Pablo shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Yes," said James. "You know those little white things at the poles? Glaciers?"

  Hector squinted and nodded slowly. He took a sip of his coffee and nibbled on his pastry. "So, we are in Ice Age. Bien. Okay."

  James turned his chair to face them more squarely. "Yes, yes. We're in an Ice Age and some of our fellow delegates want to cool down the planet. Even bloody NASA talks about it as if Earth has a fever. No fever. Thaw! We need to melt the ice and end the Ice Age. Global warming is good."

  Hector shook his head again. "Good? How can you say that? Good? Raise the oceans? No more Sonora!"

  "I understand that," said James hastily. "I'm sorry. Of course, we need to do something to protect Sonora and other low countries. But if the Holocene ends and we're still in the current Ice Age, we all suffer. Canada gone—buried under permanent ice. Half of the United States gone. More ice. Rain gone. No more rain, or very little. Ninguna lluvia?" James tried his best at Spanish.

  "Lluvia? Ninguna?"

  "For ninety thousand years," said James. "Most plants and animals on land will die. Muerto!"

  Hector looked down at the floor and whispered, "Sonora."

  "We have to do something to protect your country," said James. "Perhaps we can build dikes, or by the compassion of other nations, make some accommodations for countries, like mine, that will be wiped out by sixty meters of new sea water."

  "Madre de Dios!"

  "The Holocene—the current interglacial—is about six hundred years overdue to end. That's based on the average length of the interglacials of the current Ice Age. Our geologically brief warm period could end later today, for all we know. No one knows for certain, but the United Nations is telling us to fear warmth and embrace cooling. That's like a hungry man fearing food."

  Nodding his head, Hector chuckled cautiously, "Un hombre quién tiene hambre! Miedo. Comida!"

  "Our fellow delegates are going in the wrong direction—toward cold in an Ice Age. That's nuts!"

  Hector explained as best he could to José and Pablo. James looked back to Moira and gently squeezed her shoulder. She pursed her lips and attempted to smile.

  Chapter 3—Into the Lion's Den

  Monday morning, at the end of November, the air was brisk. For someone who grew up in the tropics, the air had an unfamiliar bite.

  A light dusting of snow covered the city. James left Moira at their hotel room. She continued to nap after their early breakfast. The taxi driver told him that the snow would likely be gone by midday. Paris rarely had snow for very long.

  Caledonia had only one delegate attending the conference. James had used some of his savings to pay for Moira's plane ticket. He had moved his stay to a cheaper hotel in order to accommodate her. He had withdrawn the rest of his savings to give her spending money while he worked at the conference. She secretly had vowed not to spend any.

  The first day of conference should have been a joyous occasion. The world was gathering to address what was described as the most serious problem humanity had ever faced. Similar words had been used to describe the proliferation of nuclear armaments. Somehow, the United Nations co-opting the wording seemed like plagiarism. But James also knew their use of those words to be false. Earth was experiencing a little bit of a "spring thaw" and these Chicken Littles were wringing their hands and threatening those who didn't see things their way.

  James suddenly felt all alone. Even as he waited in line to get his name badge as a delegate, he felt like an enemy agent in hostile territory. In the distance, he saw the Sonoran delegates, but they were busy talking with the Guatemalans as they entered the main conference hall.

  Who here would listen to him? Who here is not so corrupted by the money or the sense of prestige that they would entertain a different point of view? He had heard of former delegates being forcibly removed for harboring alternative views, but that was before he knew better—people like Lord Christopher Monckton. He had paid them little attention. He realized that he had judged them as crackpots, because the established order had declared them to be crackpots. Now, he was a crackpot, or soon would have the distinction placed upon him. The realization made him feel even more alone.

  Someone had lots of money. Someone was financing this climate change effort and James stood little chance of meeting that moneyed movement head on.

  As he put on his name badge, he considered his possible strategies for the thousandth time. Be loudly disruptive and they will throw me out immediately, he thought to himself. I have to stay as far away from that as possible. Ask probing questions and find out our common ground—that's the safe way to disrupt. Plant the seeds of doubt. Give them facts that call into question the entire climate change scare. But that would have to wait. The opening session was about to begin. Speakers from all over the world would be giving this group their pep talk. Between that and the election of conference officers and adoption of rules and agenda, that would be the time to mingle. Start small. Start with delegates who were not as enthusiastic during the last conference.

  When the opening session was over, James didn't have to wait to find someone. A delegate from a small African country approached him. He introduced himself as Zola Muamba. "Please," he said, "call me Zola. May I call you James?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  Zola was dressed in a loose-fitting, full-length robe of many bright colors. His hair was graying around the temples. He wore a short, cylindrical hat with similar colors. "Caledonia, that's French, is it not?"

  "No. I get that a lot. You're thinking of New Caledonia. We were founded by Scots from Scotland. But we're also in the South Pacific."

  "Ah, I see." Zola nodded silently for several seconds. "What do you think of the conference?"

  "Important," said James, cautiously. He felt the urge to give Zola everything he had, but did not want to scare him off. "But what do you think of the concern about climate change?"

  "I am wondering, now, for many years, if it is being blown way out of proportion. This notion of pollution is important, but taxing carbon is killing the African dream."

  "Yes, I understand," said James. Suddenly, he felt a thrill run up his spine. He may well have found Zola's button—his "hot" item for taking charge of the conversation. "What if I told you that the African dream need not die? What if I told you that Africa following its dream would actually help the planet?"

  "Most unusual attitude," said Zola. He tugged at his colorful, African robe to loosen it. He shook both arms outward and to the side as if preparing to conduct a symphony. "Please, tell me more."

  "First of all," said James, and smiled. He now felt more relaxed than he had for several weeks. "Did you know that carbon dioxide is not a pollutant? It's actually a colorless, odorless gas of life. Just because indust
ry produces lots of it, doesn't mean it's bad. Let's get that notion out of the way, first. Carbon dioxide is plant food. All life on this planet would die without it. In fact, over the last five hundred million years, carbon dioxide levels have been ten to fifteen times higher than they are today."

  Zola's eyes went wide, his head thrust backward. Then he leaned forward, head tilted toward the young man.

  "This is when life thrived on land. There was so much carbon dioxide in the air, plants sucked it all up. They took so much out of the air, that's why we have fossil fuels today. Over the last five hundred million years, most of that time CO2 levels were at least one thousand parts per million, compared to today's four hundred."

  "Very, very good, my young man," said Zola, and smiled again. "I am so glad I spoke with you. Do you have corroboration of these facts?"

  "It's in the scientific literature. One website you can go to is global warmth dot org. It gives a less technical view of the same information. But the one point that changed my mind is the fact that we are living in an ongoing Ice Age."

  "But did not that end twelve thousand years ago?"

  "Afraid not." James shook his head and pursed his lips. He paused for a moment and gazed intently into Zola's dark brown eyes. "That was the end of the last glacial period of the current Ice Age. The fact that we have permanent glaciers at the poles is what defines our Ice Age. It's divided between glacial periods and interglacials like our current Holocene. Glacials normally last about ninety thousand years, but interglacials only last about eleven thousand. Ours has already gone to eleven thousand six hundred years."

  Zola shook his head and blinked several times. "If what you're telling me is true, then we are in danger of another glacial period. We're overdue for one!"

  "Yes." James nodded. "That kind of changes the fear of global warming, doesn't it?"

  For several long moments, Zola stared at the floor between them. Several times, he shook his head then nodded. James noticed that several others had taken an interest in their conversation. A small group had moved close enough to hear their discussion.

  "My young man, this is incredible. Certainly, I need to verify the data, but if what you've told me is true, this could mean that Africa must follow its dream in order to warm up the world. To end the Ice Age. Anyone with even a rudimentary education should recognize that cold climate will make rain scarce. This will make food scarce. Millions will die of starvation, if the Holocene were to end."

  "I'm afraid that idea that carbon is driving climate may also be false."

  Again, Zola looked stunned. He stood more erect, his eyes wider and his mouth open in awe. "But we've been shown graphs—"

  "Projections. Computer models. But any programmer can get a graph to do just about anything they want it to do. Real data. That's where you have to look. Empirical evidence. Sometimes carbon dioxide goes up and temperature goes up, too. But from 1940 to 1970, when carbon dioxide was skyrocketing for the first time in millions of years, temperature was going down. Some of that extra carbon dioxide may actually be coming from the ocean and the warming after the Little Ice Age—before industrialization."

  "So, we're setting policy without having all the facts?"

  "I'm afraid so," said James. "I wish it were different. I love the fact that we're all getting together to do something for our planet. But the precautionary principle only works if we're headed in the right direction. Cooling the planet in an Ice Age sounds dangerous. Doesn't it?"

  James saw that some of the nearby listeners were shaking their heads. He wasn't sure if it was from disagreement, confusion or disgust. And if it was disgust, was it aimed at him, or at the conference.

  Behind James, and unnoticed by Zola, a man raised his wrist to his mouth and he spoke quietly. Conference security had become aware of James.

  "We still have about thirty minutes," said Zola, "and I am parched."

  "Refreshments," said James, and motioned for the conference hall exit.

  Outside, they found vendors for refreshments of all types non-alcoholic. As they stood in line, James continued their conversation. "Something has long bothered me about the UN's and media's handling of this topic. First, the notion of climate change being a modern problem is deceitful and confusing. Climate change has occurred for over four billion years, ever since Earth had an atmosphere. Climate change includes warming, cooling, rapid, slow, steep and shallow changes. Most of those changes are boring and uninteresting. To call today's so-called catastrophe 'climate change' is misleading and corrupt."

  "Yes, yes," said Zola. "And now, I wonder why we are here."

  "Perhaps to refocus the dialog where it needs to go—concern against global cooling and the need to end the Ice Age or to prepare for the coming glacial period."

  "Very good," said Zola. "I like the way you think." He noticed that he was next to be served and moved up to the counter to place his order.

  A moment later, another refreshment worker opened up the adjacent station and she called out to James in a sexy, French accent, "Sir, I can help you here."

  At the counter, James ordered a popular, bottled fruit drink. The refreshment worker ducked behind the counter and remained out of sight for nearly a minute. James was becoming annoyed by the delay. He waved to Zola, then turned back when he heard the worker, "Sorry about the wait, sir. Here you are."

  "Why the delay?" asked James.

  "I'm sorry sir. The strawberry apple was only recently added to the cooler and was still warm. I hope you don't mind that I took a moment to chill it down a bit."

  "No. Thanks for taking the extra effort. That's nice of you."

  He paid for the drink, opened the bottle and took a sip. Only tangentially did his mind catch the fact that the anti-tamper plastic shield had already been removed. Normally, he would have had to pocket or to discard the plastic. None was there. Another part of his mind was thankful that the kind worker had removed it for him.

  He met up with Zola and they resumed their conversation.

  "I read that some scientists have discovered a far stronger correlation between average global temperature and an effect other than carbon dioxide. In fact, the sun—not the light itself, but the solar wind, plays a far more important role. When solar wind goes down, more cosmic rays can reach the Earth. Cosmic rays are instrumental in initiating cloud condensation and formation. More clouds means less light reaching the surface and cooler temperatures. More work needs to be done on their hypothesis, but the fit is far better than that of CO2."

  "Who were these scientists?"

  "One was named Svensmark. His work has been ridiculed, but I've never read any criticism of that work based on facts or empirical data. All the criticism seemed makeshift at best." James took another sip of his drink and suddenly felt dizzy.

  "The use of terms like 'scientific consensus' and 'science is settled,' used by politicians and the media, make me think someone is orchestrating this. They seem to want to silence dissenting voices."

  Zola shook his head and stepped back a few inches. "I will not tolerate any talk of conspiracy theories. It's hard enough maintaining credibility without bringing up that kind of rubbish."

  "What's rubbish? That conspiracies exist?" James frowned, his eyes tightened. "I'm talking conspiracy facts, not theories. Conspiracies happen to be dirt common. In fact, there is a book out called Dirt Ordinary, that provides hundreds of facts that prove there are at least 489 new conspiracies starting every second, somewhere in the world. Are not psychopaths attracted to seats of power? And are you telling me that they are less selfish than petty criminals in lusting for more money and power? No, no. Dismissing conspiracies because it is socially popular to do so is the real rubbish. If we cannot look at facts, because of a preconceived bias, then we have little hope in finding a real solution."

  Zola nodded and bowed slightly. "Perhaps you're right, my good man. And on that note, I must return to my seat. I have a few things to prepare before the next session begins."

&n
bsp; James shook his head almost imperceptibly and tensed. "Yes, of course, Zola. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me."

  While Zola made his way back to his seat, James looked after him, wondering if he had done the right thing. Did I go too far defending the idea that conspiracies are real? What if he thinks I'm a kook? Did I just mess up my first possible win at the conference?

  He swooned and felt the blood drain from his head. He reached out for a nearby desk to steady himself. Is everyone watching me? Do they all think I'm a buffoon? Suddenly, all James wanted to do is to shrink back to his seat and to become invisible.

  After the session resumed, conference elections seemed a blur to him. Voting seemed meaningless. He knew too little about the people he voted for. Perhaps it didn't matter who was conference president or who held the conference officer positions. The adoption of the rules of procedure and agenda also seemed meaningless. The earlier feelings of being alone came back to him and sat on him like some massive sumo wrestler, crushing the life out of him.

  Several times, he felt himself taking deep breaths, concentrating on the tickle of his nose hairs as the air coursed inward, sensing the pleasant pressure as oxygen filled his lungs. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. Just before afternoon break, he stared at the delegate from Zaire daring him to stare back. "I'll catch you looking at me," he whispered.

  Then, he noticed the bottle of juice sitting on the desk in front of him. He had only consumed a third of it, but now became critically aware of the change in his own behavior. Had someone poisoned him? Was someone trying to discredit him?

  That was impossible. The bottle had been—

  Wait a minute, he thought. No anti-tampering plastic. And the long minute the vendor took to get the bottle for me. In his mind's eye, he saw the safety plastic on the floor, behind the vendor's station, and a smaller bottle of some drug emptied into his drink while he waited.

  Maybe Moira was right. If the psychopaths behind this climate scam have spent billions of euros on it, what's a little poison or drug to discredit one delegate who has gone rogue? Expendable? Yes, I am! Their evil plans will go on long after I'm dead, if I've been poisoned—or after I discredit myself by going psychotic.