The Green Trap (24 page)

Since then, Hunter had served as the senator's strong right arm. Bardarson did not always follow his fellow down-Mainer's advice, but he always depended on Hunter when he had an important decision to make.

“Is this for real?” Hunter asked. He was seated in one of the burgundy leather-covered armchairs in front of the senator's dark cherrywood desk, swirling a glass of single-malt scotch on the rocks in his right hand.

“Seems that way,” replied Anderson Love, sitting beside him in the other armchair. He, too, held a glass in his hand: Dr Pepper. “The people I've talked to at the National Academy are pretty excited about it.”

Senator Bardarson asked, “How soon will the academy's report be ready?”

Love's dark face opened into a smile. “They wanted three months. I told them we needed a preliminary assessment by the end of the week.”

“And Cochrane is cooperating with them?”

“Dr. Cochrane is happy as a pig in shit. He's working with National Academy scientists. He thinks it's an honor.”

Bardarson grinned back at his aide. To Hunter he said, “Andy thinks I could ride this hobbyhorse to the nomination next year.”

Hunter was silent for several heartbeats, then he replied slowly, “Energy is going to be a major issue next year. Already is today.”

“Is it enough to get me the nomination?” Bardarson asked.

“Couldn't hurt.”

With a mock frown, Senator Bardarson said, “Avery, don't go into your Delphic Oracle mode. I need concrete answers.”

“Wellll,” Hunter replied, stretching out the syllable, “everybody wants an answer to the energy problem. Voters aren't happy paying more than seven dollars a gallon for gasoline. If you can show that you have the answer—and nobody else does—then you'd be in first place by the time the national convention starts.”

Bardarson reached for the untouched glass of cream soda on his desk.

“Of course,” Hunter went on in his measured drawl, “the oil companies and the auto companies aren't going to like it. They don't want a solution
to high energy prices. Right now they're happy as clams at high tide, no matter how many ads they take out on television to tell the people how hard they're workin' on solving the energy problem.”

The senator sipped at his soda. “There's a lot of money we won't get.”

“Ay-yup. They'll support the opposition, whoever it shapes up to be.”

“Are you sure of that?” Love asked.

Hunter gave him a pitying look. “If you were head of a big oil corporation or an auto company, which would you prefer: rakin' in obscene profits from high fuel prices or sinking billions into retooling for some new technology that might not even work?”

“The car companies are hurting from high gasoline prices,” Love argued. “Their sales are down across the board.”

“Maybe so,” countered Hunter. “But they'll shit bricks before they retool their whole industry to convert to hydrogen fuel.”

“But it won't be that major a retooling,” Love insisted. “It won't be like they have to redesign their engines from scratch. Most car engines could be converted to hydrogen pretty easily. At your local garage or gas station.”

“Really?” Hunter seemed surprised.

“Really,” said Love.

“Well, even so, you've still got the oil companies. And they're multinational. This has implications for our foreign policy: Israel and the whole Middle East.”

“Let 'em all sink into the sea,” Love grumbled.

“Wait a minute,” Senator Bardarson said. “How would the Jewish vote go for this?”

Love replied sourly, “The damned Jews don't have enough votes to matter one way or the other.”

“Don't kid yourself,” Hunter objected. “The Jewish vote can swing New York.”

“And they control a lot of the news media,” Love admitted.

“And Hollywood.”

Hunter laughed. “You two sound like a pair of anti-Zionists.”

“Well, it's true, isn't it?” Bardarson said.

“The Jewish vote didn't elect Kerry,” said Hunter. “Or Gore. Or anybody else. They're an important bloc to consider and you don't want to get them actively against you, but the Jews can't elect a president. Not by themselves.”

Bardarson considered that for a moment. Then, “So how will they react to my hydrogen program?”

“They'll like it. Love it, in fact. Anything that reduces the influence the Arabs have over us, they'll be in favor of.”

Looking nettled, Love asked, “And how much do we lose by alienating the Arabs and the rest of OPEC?”

“I'd worry more about the automobile industry,” Hunter replied. “Lots of electoral votes in Michigan and the rest of the Rust Belt.”

“Wait a minute,” Bardarson said. “That Cochrane fellow said that Gould Energy is already involved in this.”

“He said they're trying to grab control of the research breakthrough,” Love added.

“That means that Lionel Gould is involved.”

“Lionel Gould?” Hunter's brows shot up.

“He's been a big supporter of mine,” Bardarson said. “He handed us a ton of soft money last time around.”

Hunter scratched at his soft, round jaw. “I think you'd better have a quiet little chat with Lionel Gould. See where he stands on this.”

Senator Bardarson nodded. In his mind he recalled the three laws of politics enunciated decades earlier by Senator Everett Dirksen:

1. Get elected.

2. Get reelected.

3. Don't get mad, get even.

Bardarson did not want Lionel Gould to get mad at him. On the other hand, he deeply wanted to be elected the next president of the United States.

F
or the first time since he'd learned of his brother's murder Paul Cochrane felt relaxed. He was sitting on a concrete bench outside the headquarters building of the National Academy of Sciences, beneath a cloud-flecked sky of flawless blue, feeling the warmth of the springtime sunshine soaking into him. On the bench beside him sat Owen Esterbrook, a microbiologist from nearby Georgetown University.

Both men were in their shirtsleeves, munching on burgers from a fast-food joint a few blocks up Fifth Street. Cochrane squinted through the early afternoon brightness at the slightly larger-than-life statue of Albert Einstein across the lawn from where they were sitting. Like them, Einstein was seated casually on a park bench, dressed in rumpled sweater and slacks, a benign smile on his saintly face.

“I wonder what he'd think about this,” Cochrane said between bites on his burger.

Esterbrook was a much older man, bald except for a fringe of white hair ringing his pate, lean and long-legged.

“Who?” he asked.

Cochrane pointed with his chin. “Old Uncle Albert.”

Esterbrook laughed. “When I was a kid there was a comic strip with an alligator that they called Uncle Albert.”

“I meant Einstein.”

“Yes, I know. The Pope of Physics, that's what Wigner or one of those guys called him when he decided to come to America.”

“I guess this microbiology business would be out of his field,” Cochrane said.

With a slight shrug Esterbrook replied, “I don't think he considered anything outside his field. He was interested in the whole universe, remember.”

Cochrane shrugged back at him. “I suppose so.”

“It's going well, though,” Esterbrook said. “Your brother's results seem quite solid. His engineered cyanobacteria produced hydrogen like good little troopers.”

Esterbrook had been asked by the National Academy to examine Michael Cochrane's research results and try to validate them.

“I think we can tell Love that your brother hit the nail on the head,” Esterbrook said.

“How soon?”

“Another week, I should think. The results look good, and thoroughly reproducible. We'll start writing the preliminary report in a couple of days.”

Cochrane nodded happily. It was all coming together. Under Senator Bardarson's protective wing, they'd eventually be able to tell Gould and his goons to go to hell.

Cochrane spent the afternoon in Esterbrook's laboratory on the Georgetown campus, surprised at how small and almost shabby the lab looked. Then he remembered the old dictum: a neat, well-scrubbed laboratory is the sign that no creative work is being done. When you've got wires festooned from the ceiling and a crazy maze of glassware tangled over the benches and cables snaking across the floor, then you're getting some real work accomplished.

He was back at the Marriott in time to walk with Sandoval down to Water Street and a dinner of blue crab at Phillips Seafood, outside on the patio in the long, lingering sunset by the bank of the gently flowing Potomac.
Couples were working paddleboats along the river while the glowing twilight silhouetted the dome of the Jefferson Memorial, across the Tidal Basin.

They strolled leisurely back to the hotel, Cochrane talking about how well the work with Esterbrook was going, Sandoval silent for the most part, just drawing him out, encouraging him to tell her every detail.

Back in their room, Cochrane suddenly asked, “So what did you do all day?”

She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “Oh, this and that. I had a long chat with Fiona, told her it's probably going to take longer than we thought to pay her back.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess it will.”

“It's all right. She doesn't mind. She knows we're good for it.”

“I ought to be getting a paycheck from the university,” he said.

“You're not having it sent here!”

“No, no,” Cochrane reassured her. “To Senator Bardarson's office. Andy Love will let me know when it arrives.”

Sandoval nodded guardedly.

“Still worried about Kensington?”

“Aren't you?”

“Not anymore. Gould can't take on the senator.”

“Paul, Gould
owns
senators.”

Cochrane had no reply for that. He thought about the tough-looking little redhead, Quinn. Haven't seen any signs of her people around, he thought. But in another week or so we won't need any protection. Esterbrook'll hand in his report to the senator and the whole process will be out in the open where Gould can't grab it for himself. Then it's over. Finished.

Except, he remembered, you still don't know who murdered Mike.

They watched television for a desultory hour, then got ready for bed. When Cochrane finished brushing his teeth and came out of the bathroom, he saw that Sandoval was wearing a shapeless white T-shirt that fell just past her hips. Usually they both slept in the nude.

He flopped on the bed and when she crawled in beside him and clicked off the lamp on the night table, he started to run a hand up her thigh.

“I've got my period, Paul. Sorry.”

He felt surprised. “Oh! Okay.”

She snuggled close to him and whispered mischievously, “I don't have lockjaw, though.”

He grinned in the darkness. “No, it's okay.”

“You sure?”

He slid an arm around her shoulders and felt her head nestle in the hollow of his shoulder. Cochrane sighed contentedly.

“You're happy?” she asked.

“Yeah. I really am.”

“That's good. I am, too.”

“We're not going to get rich, you know. We're not going to get that ten mil from Gould.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Paul. I'm completely sure.”

He fell silent, staring into the darkness, feeling her warmth beside him, feeling protective and safe at the same time.

“Fiona told me about your father,” he said, in a whisper.

“I know. And the rest of it, too, didn't she?”

“She did.”

“I was pretty wild there for a time,” Sandoval admitted. “I still was, I guess. Until I met you.”

It's too good to be true, Cochrane told himself. But then he remembered something from a science history class, something that Michael Faraday had said:
Nothing is too wonderful to be true.

“Elena?”

“Hmm,” she murmured.

“I love you, Elena. I really do.”

“I know, Paul. And I'm glad, 'cause I love you, too, darling. Madly.”

Until he spoke the words, Cochrane hadn't realized it was true. I love her, he said to himself. I really do love her. For the first time since Jennifer died he felt that there was something to live for. No, he corrected himself: some
one
to live for. He was overjoyed at her response to him, even though there was still a tendril of doubt in his mind. The hell with it, he told himself. We love each other. She's willing to throw away ten million dollars because of me. If that isn't love, then what the hell is?

He turned and kissed her gently.

“Good night,” he whispered. And fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

J
ason Tulius clipped the visitor's badge to the lapel of his jacket and nodded idly as the receptionist gave him directions to the offices of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. He had been there more than once in the past few years; he knew the way through the maze of corridors and offices that honeycombed the UN Secretariat Building.

He felt tense, on edge, as he entered the elevator and punched the button. The buzz of conversations in many languages was nothing more than a background hum in Tulius's ears as the elevator filled up. Shamil isn't going to like the news I'm bringing, he thought. Finally the doors slid shut and the elevator rose from the lobby level. Tulius felt crowded, almost trapped. Too many bodies pressing too close together. Most of the men in the elevator wore Western business suits, despite their national origin or skin color. The women were more individualistic and colorful, although even they were clad mainly in Western dress.