The Carbon Trap (The Carbon Series Book 1)

by Randy Dutton

  Swanson waved him off.

  I’m tired of philosophizing, Swanson thought and yawned again. He glanced around the still-open privacy shield, back at his staff. They’re drinking, talking, and a few are playing cards. They earned it. By tomorrow, they’ll be back at it, fighting like warriors with superior weapons and conquering more territory.

  Chapter 8

  June 16, 1100 hours

  Malé, Malé Island, Maldives

  The Maldives is an island nation. Most of its 1,500 islands are small atolls covered with coconut palms and uninhabited. Larger islands are home to small villages and about 40 have been turned into resorts. One island is unique – the crowded island of Malé, for which the capital is named. It’s the only real place westerners and Maldivians are likely to interact. As an island, Malé is an aberration because it’s crowded with buildings with very little foliage or vacant land. Shaped like an egg with three square kilometers of land, it is crisscrossed with mostly small streets at varying angles, and a ring road running just inside the edge. Just outside the ring are many harbors contained within the concrete breakwaters.

  Today, like most days, the bright sunlight and midday heat accentuated the stench of fish guts and stagnant inner harbor water. The chatter of the local dialect filled the air at this busy working harbor. East of the pier, fishermen sold their catch from several metal-sheathed sheds. The last shed was used mostly by fruit and vegetable venders. To the west was the inner harbor, with its many fishing boats tied up along the dock. Dark-skinned Maldivian fishermen, in colorful short sleeved shirts, carried fish from their boats, across the dock to the shelters. They grasped their catch by their tails, two per hand. They were oblivious to just another approaching boat.

  The waves lapped against the concrete landing, rocking a 20-meter yacht tender motoring to its edge. With a spring in her step, a woman stepped onto the outer breakwater. Quickly, the boat backed away, leaving a shallow wake. Turning, then surging forward, it returned to the Spider, just five kilometers away.

  With the confidence of a world traveler, the woman, her long, jet-black hair pulled back, casually walked the length of the pier. At 5’7” with bronze skin and noble bearing, she was conservatively dressed in a loose-fitting, light blue, long-sleeved tunic and tan slacks. Canvas walking shoes ensured her feet were well concealed in deference to Muslim sensitivities. She carried a full leather satchel.

  Anna had traveled extensively in Muslim countries, and the Maldives presented few exceptions to the rules. One must be conservative in all things. Sharia Law was practiced here but with a little more tolerance than in many Middle Eastern countries. Today, and in this place, she was Maria, a diplomatic assistant from Spain.

  The fishermen gave her scant notice, despite the absence of other women along the dock. Confidently, she walked down the pier and into the city, crossed the ring road and proceeded along the sidewalk. Beyond the large, tortoise shell sunglasses, she observed her surroundings. The buildings here were older, two- to four-storied shops, and almost all constructed of concrete and painted in a riot of bright hues.

  She strode past the bright yellow buildings of the fish market and turned left onto a smaller connecting road. She kept to herself, and the glasses prevented eye contact with other pedestrians.

  Men everywhere, she thought. Hardly a woman in sight, not selling in the shops, not even doing the shopping. How depressing life would be, living in a culture where women accepted being hidden from view. And where are the children?

  After another couple blocks along narrow roads, she spied her destination. In front were two long, blue single-story buildings, a fountain in the center of an access road island, and a passageway between them. This signified the beginning of the Palace grounds. She passed through the opening and proceeded diagonally through the park toward the walled Palace entrance.

  Presenting the guard a business card, she was let in immediately. Nothing was checked.

  An official, alerted by the guard, strode down the stairs and beckoned her into a small meeting room on the first floor. He was carrying a large briefcase.

  “Hello Maria, it is good to see you again!”

  “Buenos Dias to you, señor Hassan.” She easily slipped into the Spanish identity she had cultivated years ago.

  “I’m sorry not to have seen you at yesterday’s ceremony,” he said sincerely.

  “It is my regret as well,” she lied, preferring to keep her real identity and employer a secret. She reached into her Cordoban leather bag and pulled out a large envelope filled with 25 bundles of local currency.

  “As you requested for your services, the balance of one hundred thousand dollars in Maldivian Rufiyaa (Rf).” With her right hand she passed the envelope.

  With a grin, he immediately opened his briefcase and laid the payment inside.

  “Your services over the past 12 years in persuading the UN and various countries have been most helpful. I particularly enjoyed the 2009 underwater cabinet meeting imagery.”

  “Thank you, Maria.” His smile broadened.

  “It was a stroke of genius to tie in the plight of your nation with global warming’s rising oceans, and to do it with humor. It captured the hearts of millions. The declaration your cabinet calling for concerted global action on climate change, ahead of the UN climate conference in Copenhagen, convinced many people of influence.”

  “Why senorita, wasn’t it your idea to incorporate theatrics into the issue?”

  “Anyone can brainstorm an idea. You filled in the details and got the publicity…and your ability to change the data on the water levels gauges over the years went unnoticed by the scientists. You were most clever. As you know, the UN IPCC forecasts how high the oceans might rise by 2100. Invalidating the ‘New Perspectives for the Future of the Maldives Report’ from Stanford University, which showed the ocean level actually fell, ensured other studies would raise the average.”

  “I am sorry the Stanford scientists discovered the quarrying of coral for building materials was the real reason our coastlines appeared to have risen.”

  “We’ve been successful in marginalizing most of those researchers and their data. With 140 million people in the world living less than a meter above sea level, our people will make sure your country gets more than their share of money taken from the polluters.”

  Hassan grinned. “Sallem Allah, Maria. On behalf of all Maldivians, though even our President doesn’t know what we did, we thank you and your people. It is critical for my poor nation to get the investments we need…. You western nations are so rich. If changing the data helps my people, the environmental justice it provides will be worth any risk.”

  She stood and bowed slightly. “Hassan, we may be in need of your services again. Please be mindful of our agreement to be discreet. The appearance of sudden wealth would not be understood.”

  He suddenly seemed slightly agitated with the warning.

  She looked into his eyes and asked, “Is there something I need to know?”

  His head vigorously. “No, no. All is right with the world.”

  “Then, adios, I’ll stay in touch.”

  “Allaah ma’aaki, Maria,” Hassan replied. He escorted her to the guard post and turned away, carrying the filled briefcase back upstairs.

  Maria exited past the guard. Content the meeting had gone as planned, she walked eastward to a large commercial building next to the Palace grounds.

  I’ve got time to kill.

  She strolled into the small open-air STO café within the building’s center courtyard and was seated at a table. She was alone. Glanced up at the brown overhead cloth that hovered over the tables, she smiled.

  Reminds me of being under a parachute. I do love that adrenalin rush...and the operational flexibility it provides is pretty good too.

  Here, shielded from the sea breeze, a large fan rustled the still air and moved the tablecloths. The white picket fence bordering the seating area was incongruent. She placed her empty satchel on
the chair beside her and picked up the menu.

  Moments later, her eyes flashed at the sound of an approaching Texas drawl. She dared not turn towards the voice. Texans mean oil, oil means the enemy.

  “This is as good as any I reckon,” Tom said to Art as they neared the café.

  “Eating under a blanket reminds me of camping in the field on an engineering project,” Art retorted.

  The two middle aged men sat down at the table to her right. She subtly turned away.

  “Tom, what looks good to you?”

  “The main fish they have is tuna, so...tuna. I’d rather have catfish but we’re probably 3,000 kilometers away from the closest cat pond.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Art pointed out the tuna meal to the café waiter, gestured ‘two’ with his fingers while saying “two of these please, and two Cokes.”

  The waiter nodded then turned to her.

  She stayed tense and silent, trying not to draw the attention of the Americans, while straining to hear their words.

  The waiter asked for her order.

  She stayed mute preferring to just point to an item and a bottle of water. The waiter didn’t understand the silence, but understood the order, and went back to the kitchen.

  “I tell you,” Tom said. “I’m flummoxed with what’s going on. We can’t get any answers from local officials on what happened to the data. My son, Pete, earned his doctorate from MIT and he swears the data’s genuine. Of course, the study was done before he attended, but he got together with his doctoral advisor, and reviewed the report earlier this year. It was legit. There’s no reason it, and some of the other reports that concluded minimal or no ocean rising, should have been tossed. And because the lower estimates were discounted, the published forecasts predicting far higher ocean rising will prevail.”

  “How many scientists are reviewing the data?”

  “Pete said there were 18 from 10 countries going through the myriad reports, but something happened to 6 of them.”

  “How so?”

  “Two suddenly backed out, a couple disappeared, two died in accidents,” Tom exclaimed.

  Maria winced at the mention of the scientists she helped remove from the decision-making process.

  “Is that so unusual? I mean, it’s an unusually high number, but the odds make it possible,” Art asked.

  “But all 6 were skeptical of man having a significant influence on climate; the other 12 are all much more ideological in support of it. Now recompute the odds of all 6 skeptics out and all 12 believers in and it’s astronomical,” Tom said in a frustrated voice.

  The waiter brought the men their meals, then placed her meal in front of her and returned to the kitchen.

  “Let’s see just how odd it is.” Tom pulled out his pen and did some calculations on his paper napkin.

  Typical of an engineer, she thought while eating her meal.

  “538,077 to 1!” Tom exclaimed. “And that doesn’t include what Pete told me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That one of the 18 died on stage just a week ago. He said the professor was about to recant his support for global warming induced sea-level rising, but his report couldn’t be found.”

  “So now we know it’s not a coincidence.” Art looked at his fish, and then around the café. “Excuse me ma’am,” he said abruptly, suddenly turning towards the woman with long black hair.

  She was slightly startled.

  “Could I bother you for the bottle of Tabasco on your table?”

  Silently she handed him the bottle.

  Art smiled, looked into her blue eyes and was somewhat puzzled. “You speak English?”

  She thought, Trapped! She responded in a strong Spanish accent, “Si. It is true, I do,”

  “My name’s Art Middleton, and this here is Tom Heyward, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I know damn well who you two are! “My name is…Maria,” she responded pleasantly, wanting to escape.

  “May I ask whether you’re a tourist or you attended the UN Conference?” Art inquired.

  “You are rather forward, are you not?” she responded trying to decide on what to do. I’m glad to have had the foresight to get your fingerprints from glassware. I positively identified you with the Spider’s resources. Do I cause a scene and walk out, or ignore you...or maybe I’ll just play along. You’re southerners – polite but persistent. She responded, “I work for someone who attended.”

  “So you didn’t actually witness the final ruling?” Art asked.

  “I am not high enough to have participated. The issue is of great global importance. The UN is saving the world, is it not?”

  “It is not!” Tom protested, and Art gently shook his head.

  “Why do you say that?” she decided to lead them on. She pushed her small round bistro table closer to theirs so that she didn’t have to keep turning her head when talking or eating.

  “Because mankind’s too insignificant to make much difference to climate,” Art said, cutting into his fish.

  Tom added, “The science is being twisted and cherry-picked to justify a radical change in human behavior.”

  “And what do you do, that you know of such matters?” she asked.

  “Tom is CEO of a major oil company, and I represent a mining cooperative.” Art said proudly.

  She was used to such arguments and brusquely interrupted him, “So you pollute the water and air, dig holes in our earth, destroy our mountains, and for this you are proud? Ave Maria!” she crossed herself. “You two are why the oceans are rising.”

  Somewhat taken aback, Tom asserted himself. “Without oil, you wouldn’t be here. This country would have a fraction of the population, they’d live half as long, there would be no refrigeration, few medicines, little international trade, and very limited transportation.”

  This guy’s good, passionate about it too. Maria took a bite of her lunch.

  “The oceans aren’t rising as the UN claims,” Art cut in. “Pardon my friend’s passionate rebuttal. He’s a little irritated about yesterday’s meeting, and the stonewalling we get from government officials.”

  “What is ‘stonewalling’?” she pretended a foreigner’s ignorance, and continued eating.

  “Stonewalling is when someone puts up a barrier to prevent another from getting to something, in this case...the truth,” Art said, picking at his fish.

  “And what is the truth you seek?” she asked, curious as to how far they may have penetrated her data manipulation.

  “The truth is that sea levels aren’t rising in the Maldives, and their government seems intent in maintaining the ruse that it is,” Art answered.

  “How do you know?” she asked, though she knew probably better than they did.

  “Back in 2001, Stanford University released a study rebuking that sea levels were rising. It showed that over the past 5,000 years, the sea level had been higher than current levels four different times. It has been as high as 60 centimeters higher than today,” Tom chimed in.

  “But is that not because coral grows? Does not the corral try to keep up with rising oceans?” she asked, testing their resolve to continue.

  “Radiocarbon dating proved the top layer of coral is of much greater age. Besides, a shipping channel used for hundreds of years through one of the atolls now is too shallow,” Tom said.

  “But I have heard that the tide gauges prove without doubt the water is rising.”

  “Tide gauge records do not provide simple and straight-forward measures of regional sea level,” Art said.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Because they often are dominated by the effects of local compaction and local loading subsidence. Besides, satellite altimetry does not record any significant rise in global sea level in the last decades.... But for those who trust only water gauges, the records were re-examined and revealed a total absence of any rising trend. Something else they discovered…” Art said.

  She leaned in a little. “What
is that?”

  “That there was a recent sea level fall of between 20 to 30 centimeters in the last 30 years,” he finished.

  “So if that is true, why is not the media covering it?” she asked.

  “Because the accurate data was challenged by the Maldivian government and the press was steered away from the real issues and is only promoting the fiction,” Tom said heatedly.

  She pulled back from the intensity of his response. She knew it was risky to try to skew the global discussion but she hadn’t thought that industry would be the ones to discover some leads. The media she thought she could control.

  “It’s as if the media is getting vectored by another power,” Art inserted.

  “You use some words I do not fully understand,” she pretended. “But let me ask you this. Some islanders have said their shorelines are sinking. You cannot argue with them, can you? They live here. They would know if the ocean was coming closer.”

  Art responded, “Many islands are affected by erosion. Erosion may be caused by sea level rise, sea level lowering, a change in wind direction and a change in wind intensity…. As a result, a changing shoreline is not a measure of sea level rise as environmentalists often claim. The level of re-deposition of the sand and shingle, set in motion by erosion, is a much better indication of actual sea level changes.”

  Tom added, “Humans cause erosion as well. Islanders interfere with coastal dynamics and sediment supply.”

  “In what way?”

  “They constructed causeways between some islands, they dredged harbors and sea defenses, and they dug up coral for concrete and road surfacing. This all affects currents, wave action, and erosion. Just look at all the concrete buildings in Malé; the coral is an obvious component.”

  Her thought ran fast. They know their science, and this endangers my plans. I need to decide on a future course of action with these industrialists. A slight grin emerged on her otherwise stoic face. “You bring up some interesting issues. Perhaps you have a business card?”

  Surprised by her sudden congeniality, Art handed her his card. “Why certainly, here you go.” Tom reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, too, and handed it to her. She handled them on their edges when she looked at them.