Ill Wind (7 page)

Before long, he glanced at the clock at the back of the
press room
. He had been talking for ten minutes. Good enough.
Short and sweet.
The reporters would remember the “zingers” more than the message; he’d have to personally thank that cute new
speech writer
who’d come up with the lines on the jet up from Acapulco.

Excusing himself, Mayeaux smiled one last time at the brunette,
then
answered a final question over his shoulder as he was led into the anteroom. Weathersee, a stable but
joy-killing
anchor through Mayeaux’s entire career, bent closer and spoke quietly. “Emma Branson is waiting upstairs in a private suite.”

“You make a good den mother, Franklin,” he said.

The Chief of Staff ignored the comment. “She needs to speak with you.”

Mayeaux glanced around and saw no one dangerous in view; the media was gone and with no one listening, let his annoyance show. “That old bitch? I can’t afford to be seen with her, especially now. Oilstar connections are going to be extremely bad for my reputation right now.”

“I thought you were planning to work for her,” Weathersee said calmly.

“That’s
after
I retire, and you know it, Franklin!”

“She came in through the back entrance. No one saw her. She says it’s urgent,” Weathersee said. “She’s in a hurry and is calling in a few favors.”

Mayeaux allowed himself to be guided toward the elevators. “Yeah, yeah.” He knew who had spearheaded the donations that bankrolled his campaign. Even though other big oil companies had stayed away from direct contributions, Emma Branson and Oilstar had played too important a role to ignore.

They emerged from the elevator. Weathersee waited outside the penthouse door as Mayeaux entered, somehow managing to stand without fidgeting for impossibly long periods.

Mayeaux smiled broadly at Branson as he padded across the beige-carpeted floor to kiss the lizard-faced woman on both cheeks. He thought he might get frostbite on his lips—God, he knew she had once been married, but Mayeaux couldn’t imagine anyone willingly fucking the old hag.

 
He flashed her his warmest grin. “This is like old home week,
cher
, defending the environment, running into old friends.” He stroked his hand up and down her arm. She looked so much like a mummy. “How’ve you been? Damn tragic about that tanker!”

Emma Branson smiled, but her eyes looked as hard as a diamond-tipped oildrill. She wore a necklace of small pearls over a throat that was wattled like an iguana’s. A television set in the back of the suite recapped Mayeaux’s live interview; she did not seem pleased about it. Branson picked up a decanter of scotch and poured two fingers’ worth into a pair of glasses; she thrust one at him.

“This is no time for bullshit—my corporate board is waiting for me. This spill will hurt the economy a great deal more than it will hurt the environment, Jeffrey. We’ll get this mess cleaned up well enough in a few months, but the oil business will be paying forever. We’re going to be in court over this one for the next half century.”

Branson placed her glass on the counter without sipping from it. Mayeaux didn’t say a word; whatever the old iron maiden wanted from him, it wouldn’t involve small talk. Branson came straight to the point. “I’d hoped to speak with you before the press conference. You sounded rather enthusiastic about this new tax of yours—how hard are you going to push it?”

Mayeaux took a measured sip of scotch. It had a smokey, peat-like flavor, and very pure. It had to be
a single
malt—everything about Emma Branson was first class. He paused long enough to make her think his answer wasn’t spring-loaded.

“It’s scary, Emma. This spill provides the catalyst for the new tax, and there’s nothing I, or the back-room boys, can do to prevent it. There’s too much momentum behind the bill. Every TV in the country is flooded with
Zoroaster
images, and people are demanding a scapegoat—they want to string somebody up by the balls, and they don’t care
who
. The tax will be a way to ensure ‘it doesn’t happen again.’ You know, like ‘the war to end all wars.’ Propaganda bullshit, but there you have it.”

“Do you really think you could use that money to buy more efficient equipment or make better tankers? Do you think even triple hulls would be safer? Smaller tankers means more tankers, more traffic means more accidents. Simple statistics. You don’t gain anything.” Branson shook her head.

Mayeaux swirled his drink and took a final sip. He might as well have been wrestling with an alligator. Emma Branson was personally responsible for bringing in over five million in contributions, and even at that, he had been lucky to get re-elected this time. If every other state besides Louisiana hadn’t had term limitations, Mayeaux would never have gained enough seniority to be elected Speaker this year. Pure unadulterated serendipity, a fait accompli before the new selection rules could grind their way through the system. With his track record he would never rise higher—but with Branson’s backing, he’d make a fine lobbyist for the oil industry. Damn fine, with his connections.

He sighed and placed his drink on the counter next to Branson’s still-untouched glass.
A shame to waste good scotch.
He looked her in the eye.

“Emma, as always you have a point. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in politicking that I forget my roots, not to mention my friends. Tell you what—when I get back to Washington, I’ll bury this legislation in subcommittee. I’ll throw my staff into patching together a compromise solution.” He reached out and squeezed her hands.

Branson pulled her hands away, but she did not argue with him. As he reached the door, Branson’s raspy voice said, “I’ll be paying close attention to the Congressional Record, Jeffrey. Just remember those future plans of yours. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” She paused,
then
smiled. “Or
I’ll
be the one to string you up by the balls.”

Mayeaux forced a chuckle, keeping a grin plastered to his face. “I’m heading back to D.C. right now to work on it.”

Outside the door, Weathersee steered him to the elevator. “The V.P.’s plane is due in another hour. Did you want to join the welcoming party?”

Mayeaux’s grin melted as soon as he was away from the penthouse door. “Hell, no! I’ve already upstaged the bastard. I don’t want to be seen fawning over him. It’s bad enough I promised Emma Branson I’d look for an alternative to the energy tax bill.” He raced through the options—there had to be a way to not piss off the oil industry.

Weathersee raised an eyebrow, then looked at his watch as they waited for the elevator. “I didn’t think you’d want to stay. I’ve booked you back on a direct flight that leaves in less than an hour—” He fell silent as the elevator door opened, glancing around; when no one came out, they stepped in. “Unless you have other plans? I did keep your suite at the hotel.”

Mayeaux sighed and smiled. “Offer that brunette KSFO reporter an exclusive deep-background interview with me tonight. Order room service. Champagne. I’ll leave tomorrow morning. And call my wife—tell her I’ve been held over.”

“Should I start the staff researching gas tax alternatives?”

Mayeaux shook his head, waving dismissively. “And have Huey Long roll over in his grave? There’s no way to stop it, no matter what I promised Branson. I’ll throw it back into negotiations and let it build up its own momentum—as long as I don’t go on record for
it, that
should keep Branson happy. I’ll call for a voice vote so she can’t pin me on anything.”

The elevator bumped to a stop. When the door opened, a crowd surged toward him. Speaker of the House Jeffrey Mayeaux put on his smile and started shaking hands, offering reassurance. He spotted two sweet young things straining to get a glimpse of him.

He hated the work itself, but God
,
he loved being a congressman
.

Chapter 7

“But are we following our contingency plan?” Emma Branson said, glaring at her deputies in what had to be the most claustrophobic meeting room on the entire Oilstar site. “Can we at least say that much? We have to find some kind of positive spin for Oilstar.”

“Uh, we rescued the crew of the tanker—how about that?”

“What kind of positive spin is that?” Branson snorted. “We rescue a captain who blames the whole mess on some mysterious crewman who’s disappeared? The public wants to see every member of the
Zoroaster
crew shot.”

Charlene Epstein, a deputy with severe gray-blond hair, slapped a stack of thick books that no one had ever bothered to read before. “We think we adhered to all the legal requirements, but the plan is eight volumes long. Six thousand pages of convoluted sentences and flow charts that nobody ever thought about needing to follow!”

Branson shook her head, disgusted instead
of
surprised. The arguments had continued all morning. Arriving from her brief meeting with Mayeaux after his grandstanding news conference, now she was ready for some shouting. She counted off names on her fingers. “The Petroleum Industry Response Organization signed off on it, the Departments of Transportation, Interior, Energy, the EPA, the Coast Guard Pacific Area Strike Team, the American Petroleum Institute. Didn’t anybody
read
the damned plan?”

“Everybody’s passing the buck, Ms. Branson,” Henry Cochran said. “No one ever really believed a million-barrel spill would happen.”

“Lucky us, to witness it in our lifetimes!” Charlene snapped. All of Branson’s deputies began arguing at once.

She tolerated only a moment of the chaotic shouting, enough to let them blow off some steam,
then
she slammed her hand down like a schoolteacher. The deputies shut up.

“So,” Branson said, her voice rattling, “we wrote all this documentation to cover ourselves, but nobody even knows what we agreed to. We’ve got an army of demonstrators outside the gate. People are making death threats on me, and not one of you has a clue about what Oilstar is supposed to be doing.”

“It’s not that simple —” Cochran interrupted. Sweat covered his
bald head
and florid face, making his fashion-frame glasses slide down his nose.

“Cut the bullshit, please,” Branson said quietly. “What about the lightering operations? How much did we pull off before
Zoroaster
went under?”

Walter Pelcik squinted at his figures, running pudgy fingers through his beard. “75,000 barrels. That’s a damned good amount, I might add.” He grabbed another piece of paper. “The skimmers are recovering some of what’s floating on the surface, but for all intents and purposes we’ve got an inexhaustible supply down there inside the hulk, and it’s going to keep leaking for years.”

Charlene Epstein shuddered. “We already have a spill that’s four to five times greater than the
maximum
estimates of the
Valdez
—and it’s not way up in Nowheresville, Alaska. It’s in downtown San Francisco.”

Cochran shook his head,
then
yanked off his glasses. “They are going to string us up. We might as well all change our names and move to Argentina.”

“Enough of that, Mr. Cochran,” Branson said. “Oilstar will accept responsibility for this spill, and we will make our absolute best effort to clean it up. Is that clear? Have we requested all available skimmers worldwide? Do we need more booms? What else can we do to mitigate this disaster?”

Walter Pelcik folded his hands over his paunch. “We’ve ordered everything. The other oil companies are pitching in, mostly for the PR value.”

Charlene slid one of the heavy books off a stack. “What other options do we have? They won’t let us do controlled burning. The Bay Area Air Quality Management people would rather smell stinking petroleum fumes for a decade than have a few days of black smoke.”

Branson tried to recall everything she knew about
their own
preparations. “How about dispersants? We’ve got a whole stockpile—why don’t we use them?”

“No chance!” said Pelcik. “The environmentalists are singing the same song on that one, and you know how powerful those groups are when they actually
agree
on something!”

Cochran leaned over the conference table. “Dispersants break the oil up and suspend it in the water. Right now the crude is floating on top. Dispersants would mix it with the water, make it look great from above—but the suspended oil would still be killing fish and damaging the food chain.”

Branson sighed in exasperation. For the first time in her life, she felt like giving up. “You mean we’ve got nothing else? What do you suggest we do, roll over and die? I won’t believe there are no alternatives.”

“Well there is Argentina,” Cochran said, smiling weakly.

At the doorway, a tall young man cleared his throat. “Excuse me?” He wore a tie and expensive clothes. Beside him stood an older man in jeans and a flannel shirt. “I’m Mitchell Stone and this is Dr. Kramer. We have a meeting with Ms. Branson?” He looked at his watch and smiled before any of the startled deputies could answer. “Looks like our timing is pretty good, because we’re going to offer you something that might solve this crisis.”

For a strange instant, Branson recalled the story of Faust; she wondered if Stone would offer her a magical solution to the
Zoroaster
spill . . . for the mere price of her soul.