BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (20 page)

When he stepped off the escalator of the Federal Triangle Metro this time, he sensed no one watching him. He paused to make sure. And to wonder, once again, who had been waiting to tail him the last time he was here. The guy had been a pro; he kept his distance so that Hunter never got a good look at him.

But who sent him? He thought of the mind map on his desk. Too many possibilities to continue the useless speculation. At least he could relax today; this time they wouldn’t be expecting him.

He headed toward the archway leading out into Woodrow Wilson Plaza—then stopped and hung back inside the arcade to take in the spectacle.

A long, blockish van sat parked on the bricks. It reminded him of Adair’s data van, but this one was bigger and pale green. Full-color outdoor scenes of dark trees, blue waterfalls, sunlit skies, and furry animals decorated its polished length. Above these, large white letters announced the CarboNot company name and logo, as well as its tagline:
For a Clean Green Energy Future.
On its top, the van sported an array of tilted solar panels. From their midst, a small wind turbine rose on a telescoping post, like a sprouting daisy, its three white blades motionless in the still air.

A speakers’ platform, about three feet high, had been erected in front of the van. It bore a standing row of what this town called
dignitaries
, but which reminded him of a police lineup of rich suspects. He spotted Weaver near the middle, flanked on one side by his flunky, Crane, and on the other by Senator Conn. Some of the rest he recognized from photos or TV.

On Conn’s left loomed Damon Sloan, an austere, horse-faced giant. Beside him stood Trammel, who cut a dapper, imposing figure. Attired in a long black overcoat and dashing red neck scarf, he stood unmoving, arms clasped behind his back at parade rest. Dark brows hovered over his deep-set eyes, crowned by a high forehead and a thatch of white hair.

Hanging on his arm—and clearly the target of most of the attention from the crowd and photographers—was his wife, the famous actress Julia Haight. A portrait of long-limbed elegance, she looked half Trammel’s sixty-four years, even though Hunter knew she wasn’t. She was wrapped in a hooded coat made of what he knew had to be
faux
leopard. The furry hood framed her face and revealed a little of her hair, which was of the same auburn color; the coat’s hem ended at mid-thigh, baring legs worthy of a young showgirl. From everything he’d heard or read about the woman, he despised her as much as he did her husband; but he had to admit to himself that she looked smashing.

Before the platform milled several hundred people, at least a score of them familiar faces from the local press. He figured that most were here solely to see Haight. Half a dozen Capitol Police officers stood between her and the crowd, while others roamed the periphery.

Weaver stepped up to the microphone and tapped it. As the crowd noise trailed off, Hunter slipped out into the plaza and moved toward where the media were assembled.

“… And so, Mr. Weaver—on behalf of the entire CarboNot family of employees—I am honored and humbled to accept this
Innovative Green Power Program of the Year Award
from the Environmental Protection Agency. Thank you.”

Hundreds of pairs of gloved hands began muffled clapping. Trammel watched Weaver shake Sloan’s hand once again, then maintain the pose for the cameras, holding the award plaque between them.

“A recognition well-deserved,” Weaver concluded as Sloan stepped back into line with the others on the platform. Weaver half-turned and swept his hand toward the van. “CarboNot’s ‘Sustainability School on Wheels’ has already visited some thirty states to spread the green energy message. It’s exactly the kind of innovative social responsibility that we at EPA hope to encourage throughout the business community.

“We have heard today from a host of distinguished environmental leaders—including our very special guest, Julia Haight …”

Trammel gave his wife’s arm a supportive squeeze as the applause rippled again. She smiled radiantly at him, then at the eager faces raised to hers. Incredible, he thought, how she could stir affection and loyalty in everyone she encountered, even complete strangers.
You chose wisely, Avery.

“After this ceremony,” Weaver continued, “we invite you to stay and take a tour inside the van. There’s hot chocolate waiting, which is just what we need on a day like this. But before we do that, I would like to invite our foremost champion on Capitol Hill to share some brief closing remarks. Ladies and gentlemen … Senator Ashton Conn.”

Conn strode forward, shook Weaver’s hand, and basked visibly in the applause before beginning.

“My friends: We know that for too long we’ve been consuming the earth’s finite resources. We’re eating up our seed corn, leaving less and less for future generations. And the pace of our consumption is increasing recklessly. Logically, this is unsustainable.”

Trammel watched his gestures, listened to his studied phrasing and inflections. He certainly looked and sounded presidential enough …

“And that is why I am here today—to commend CarboNot, a visionary company that is leading the way toward a sustainable energy future. A future not reliant upon nature’s dwindling stock of fossil fuels, but upon renewable energy sources—sources that are constantly replenished, such as sunlight and wind …”

Trammel listened closely, not merely for the words, but for the emotional nuance. He could find no fault with the former: They were pitch-perfect in philosophy and eloquence. As for the latter … Something seemed to be missing, leaving him unmoved. He struggled to find the word to describe what was absent …

“… as we fight to break our foolish dependency on dirty energy sources that only pollute our sky and water. Now is the time for revolutionary thinking. Now is also the time for revolutionary champions of the cause of sustainability, both in Washington and on Wall Street. Some of us in the political world are trying to do our part …”

It hit him:
authenticity …

“… while in the business world, companies like CarboNot are taking the initiative. They are proving that we can break our mindless addiction to fossil fuels. They are proving that we can turn away from the most dangerous energy fad of our time: fracking.”

Trammel scanned the faces in the crowd. They were eating it up. But to him, Conn sounded as if he were going down a checklist of talking points. His words seemed more calculated and self-serving than heartfelt.

Have I misjudged you, Ash?

Conn wrapped up with a brief quotation from his political hero, Al Gore. Once more the audience applauded enthusiastically.

At least you still know how to work a crowd
.

The politician turned to shake hands with the others onstage when a man’s voice rose from the press area.

“Senator, do you and Mr. Sloan have a moment for just a couple of questions?”

Conn looked at Sloan, who shrugged. They both returned to the microphone.

“
Only
a couple. We all need that hot chocolate,” Conn said, arousing laughter.

Trammel’s line of sight to the questioner was blocked by a couple of other reporters. But the unseen man’s voice cut through, deep and clear.

“Mr. Sloan, you and others here have said that wind and solar are more ‘eco-friendly’ than natural gas. But according to my research, it takes eight of CarboNot’s giant wind turbines, covering acres of windy hilltops, to generate the equivalent energy output of a single Pennsylvania shale gas well—which takes up less space than a garage. In addition, your turbines require miles of above-ground transmission lines and pylons to get the electricity into cities, while that gas well sends its energy through buried underground pipes. Finally, those big turbine blades slaughter thousands of eagles and other birds on the EPA’s Endangered Species List. How is any of that more environmentally friendly than natural gas?”

Trammel had felt Julia’s hand tightening on his arm as the man went on. Now, in the dead silence that followed, Sloan stood mute at the microphone. Behind him, Weaver was craning his neck, trying to catch sight of the questioner.

“I … I have no idea where you get such information,” Sloan finally sputtered.

Weaver suddenly seemed agitated. He started to approach the microphone, but Conn stepped in first.

“Your comments are completely out of place at a ceremonial event,” he snapped. “I don’t know which media outlet you represent, but—”

“
The Inquirer.
”

A dark-haired man stepped into view from behind the other reporters. He stood there, hands jammed in the pockets of a knee-length leather coat.

Avery Trammel suddenly knew who he was.

“Oh!” Conn said, involuntarily. “You must be—”

“That’s me,” the man cut in. “And now my question to you, Senator. You preach energy ‘sustainability.’ Geologists have confirmed natural gas reserves that will last us hundreds of years. By contrast, out here under a cloudy sky, with no wind”—he pointed toward the van—“those solar panels and that little windmill are useless. So why do you think the output of CarboNot Industries is more ‘sustainable’ than, say, that of Adair Energy?”

Weaver maneuvered past Conn to the mic. “That’s quite
enough
, Mr. Hunter. I’ll be contacting your editor about this outrageous conduct.”

The man shrugged. “While you’re at it, be sure to provide him answers to the questions I just asked.”

“Stop showboating!” a male reporter called out to Hunter. Others nearby nodded.

Hunter faced them and grinned. “I’m done. Now all you ladies in the secretarial pool can go up there, sit on their laps, and take dictation.”

He turned his back on them and walked away.

That evening they gathered in the paneled den of Sloan’s Georgetown home, seated in a rough semi-circle of leather club chairs. Muted amber light filtered through the bronze-colored silk shade of the overhead lamp and reflected off the casement windows.

Trammel studied his two companions. He wondered which of them would prove to be the more decisive.

“So now we have
two
problems,” Sloan concluded, gesturing with his cigar. “Not only do we have to worry about whatever Silva will tell the Science Advisory Board; we also have to worry about what this Hunter character is going to say about us in print.”

Conn took a slow sip of whiskey before speaking. “Silva is the greater problem.”

“But Hunter is the more immediate one,” Sloan cut in. “He could publish something any day now. And we have no idea how much he already knows.”

Conn nodded slowly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Fair point. Stu, my C.O.S., brought me up to speed about your conversation. I had him put the staff on this. So far, they can’t find out anything about this man’s background.”

“Neither have my people, and that makes no sense,” Trammel said. “Anyone in his profession would have compiled a significant work and personal history. Which causes me to wonder if Mr. Hunter is writing under a pen name.”

“Who knows?” Sloan said, tapping his cigar into the gray marble ashtray balanced on the arm of his chair. “But is that the most important thing right now, Avery?”

“It depends. If he is hiding something, it may prove useful to us to find out exactly what that might be.”

For a time the only sound was the ticking of the silver antique clock on Sloan’s bookcase. Sloan finally broke the silence, voicing the thought that Trammel knew was on all their minds.

“We do agree that we have to do something about this guy. And Adair’s toxicologist. Right?” He looked from Trammel to Conn.

Conn’s mouth was set in a hard line. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Well, Senator, it has,” Trammel said, watching him closely. “As you know, Damon and I already had a preliminary chat about this with your man, Kaplan. He stressed your lifelong reputation for idealism. But now it is time for some hard decisions.”

Conn sighed. “I agree that we must do something. But we will be running a big risk.”

“However, you also realize that the threat to all that we are trying to accomplish will become even greater if Silva issues his report, and Mr. Hunter continues to nose around.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Damon has already said that he would enlist some people to confront Mr. Hunter.”

“But what about you two?” Sloan demanded. “I refuse to go out on a limb by myself.”

“I shall be out there with you, Damon. I have my own plans.” Trammel turned to the politician. “Ash?”

Conn’s gaze was fixed on his nearly empty glass.

“All right,” he said. “Count me in.”

“Did you receive your money?” the man on the phone asked.

Boggs stepped farther away from the gas pump where Rusty was fueling his truck.

“I did,” he replied, his voice low. “Thanks. It’ll keep us up here for at least another month, if need be.”

“Good. It probably will be necessary. We need to keep the pressure on. We are running out of regulatory options … You recall that the last time we spoke, I mentioned that the EPA’s Science Advisory Board is going to review NLA’s toxicology report in a few weeks.”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Rumor has it that Adair’s hired toxicologist—his name is Dr. Adam Silva—could very well refute the NLA study. Apparently, he has figured out that the samples your people planted in the wells could not have come from the drilling site.”

“Damn it, I
warned
you that those samples would never stand up to scientific examination!”

Rusty glanced over at him; Boggs moved farther away.

“I know you did,” the man replied. “I anticipated that the EPA would not look at those samples very closely.”

“But you didn’t anticipate that Adair would insist on a review by the SAB, did you? They’ll take one look at Silva’s data and conclude that the NLA study is a hoax. The EPA will have no scientific grounds to impose the fracking moratorium. There will be nothing to stop it.”

“I realize that now. This whole scheme was a bad idea on my part. I take full responsibility. But we had no better options. Your preference for ‘direct action’ would have backfired, too.”