The Green Trap Read online

  Skeptics have questioned whether it takes more fossil fuel to produce biodiesel—to fertilize crops, transport them and process them for their oil—than the resulting biodiesel replaces. But Jim Duffield, an agricultural economist with the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), says the “few lone voices” who still make the point have not kept up with improvements in agriculture and biodiesel knowledge. Indeed, a study by the U.S. Departments of Agriculture and Energy in 1998 and another in 2002 for the French government show that soybeans and canola oil yield three to four times more energy than is needed to make the fuel. (Similar skepticism has dogged ethanol, a corn-based fuel mixed with gasoline to create gasohol. But USDA and other studies show that today’s ethanol provides up to 30 percent more energy than it takes to make it.)

  Another benefit of burning biodiesel is cleaner air. Compared with fossil fuels, it emits less carbon monoxide and other hydrocarbons, as well as sulfur compounds related to acid rain. Pure biodiesel also substantially reduces overall emission of carbon dioxide, a major contributor to climate change, because the plants from which the oil was extracted absorbed atmospheric carbon dioxide while they were growing. A bus running on pure biodiesel would emit 32 percent less particulate matter, which has been implicated in the dramatic increase in asthma cases in cities. The only air pollution downside of pure biodiesel, according to the 1998 U.S. study, is a slight increase of smog-inducing nitrogen oxides.

  The inspiration for the do-it-yourself biodiesel movement came from Joshua Tickell, 29, of Baton Rouge. While studying in Germany in 1996, he was astonished to see a farmer using canola oil to run his tractor. Back in the States, Tickell used his last student loan check to help buy a 1986 diesel Winnebago. He painted sunflowers on his “Veggie Van” and, for two years beginning in 1997, toured the country, towing a simple reactor that turned restaurant oil into biodiesel. In 2000, he coauthored what would become the biodiesel bible, From the Fryer to the Fuel Tank. “My goal is very simply to make OPEC obsolete,” he says.

  Vegetable power also appeals to 50-year-old Marty Borruso, a chemist and partner in Environmental Alternatives in New York City, who insists he’s no “environmental crazy.” He produces biodiesel for a generator that makes electricity and hot water for an 87-family apartment house. He also sells the fuel to a tow truck fleet and anyone who comes to a pump he operates next to his production facility in Staten Island. In a 7,000-gallon reactor, Borruso processes out-of-date virgin vegetable oils, which he buys at a steep discount, and free grease from a fried chicken emporium. But he spurns grease from a seafood restaurant. “It smells like calamari,” he says. “I love calamari, but I don’t know if I want to drive it.”

  On average, fast-food restaurants in any major U.S. city generate about 22 pounds of waste grease each year per city resident, according to a 1998 study by the National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL). The National Biodiesel Board, a trade group in Jefferson City, Missouri, estimates that more than 2.5 billion pounds of waste cooking grease are available annually—enough to make 100 million gallons of biodiesel.

  Of course, America’s appetite for petroleum is huge: 2004 consumption was nearly 315 billion gallons, including 139 billion in gasoline and 41 billion in diesel. Robert McCormack, a fuels engineer at NREL, says that biodiesel could displace 5 percent of the petrodiesel used in the United States within ten years. To replace more will require growing vegetable crops specifically for fuel—and America’s soybean farmers are standing by. Some proponents envision growing aquatic algae—richer in oil than any other plant—in pools next to electric power stations. In an ecological two-for-one, the smokestack carbon dioxide would feed the algae, which would churn out biodiesel.

  Grassroots fans aren’t waiting. Kantor, who paid $1,400 to outfit her VW diesel with a second fuel tank, says she gets nearly 200 miles per petrodiesel gallon. “This is not about money,” says Kantor, who speaks at schools about protecting the environment. “I’m doing this to set an example.”

  —Frances Cerra Whittelsey

  SMITHSONIAN

  September 2005

  WASHINGTON, D.C.:

  OLD EBBITT GRILL

  Anderson Love looked suspicious. No, Cochrane thought, the man looks absolutely belligerent.

  Cochrane and Sandoval were sitting side by side in a booth in the rear of the jam-packed Ebbitt Grill. Only a few blocks from the White House and executive office buildings, the restaurant was a popular lunch place for many of Washington’s politicians, bureaucrats, and—inevitably—tourists.

  Cochrane’s heart had sunk when he and Sandoval had wormed their way through the entryway; the area was thick with people waiting for tables.

  “We’ll never find him in this crowd,” he had said into her ear, almost shouting to be heard over the noise of the impatient crowd. “We don’t even know what he looks like.”

  Sandoval had grasped his wrist and marched past the people waiting in line, straight up to the harried young woman behind the reception post. The hostess was trying to placate a red-faced customer and talk on the phone at the same time.

  “Anderson Love’s table, please,” Sandoval had yelled at her, louder than Cochrane had ever heard her speak before.

  The woman’s eyes had widened with recognition. Then she waved over to a slick-looking older man in a checkered sports jacket and jabbed a black-lacquered finger at the reservation book before her. The man smiled toothily at Sandoval and led them through the pressing crowd, past the brass and marble bar, and all the way to the plush velvet-lined booths at the rear of the restaurant, where a short, broad-shouldered, shaved-bald black man in a light gray three-piece suit sat scowling at his wristwatch.

  Anderson Love half rose from the booth’s bench as Cochrane extended his hand.

  “Paul Cochrane,” he said. “Sorry we’re late.”

  It had been Sandoval’s idea to arrive fifteen minutes late; she wanted to be certain that Senator Bardarson’s aide would be there when they arrived.

  Love’s grip was firm, muscular. Cochrane introduced Sandoval to the unsmiling black man. As she slid into the booth, Cochrane noticed there was a scar across Love’s left eyebrow. Something hit him damned hard, Cochrane said to himself. Something, or somebody.

  Love already had a cup of soup in front of him. “I don’t have much time,” he said. His voice was a surprisingly sweet tenor.

  “We appreciate your meeting us like this,” said Sandoval.

  “The senator said I should listen to what you have to say. But let me tell you right out, I’ve heard a lot of wacky stories about energy systems: everything from perpetual motion machines to a pill that turns water into gasoline.”

  “I suppose you get a lot of nuts coming at you,” Cochrane said. He knew that Love was Senator Bardarson’s aide for science and technology; the man had a BS in physics from Alabama, which made him the science expert for the senator’s staff.

  “So what’s this all about?” Love asked, staring hard at Cochrane.

  “My brother has figured out how to produce hydrogen from water inexpensively, using a bioengineered variation of cyanobacteria to split water molecules through enhanced photosynthesis.” Cochrane had rehearsed that line since he and Sandoval had left Boston, knowing that once he started talking with politicians and bureaucrats he’d have to get the essence of Mike’s work into a single sentence.

  Love didn’t blink an eye. “Produce hydrogen,” he said flatly.

  “Economically, efficiently,” Cochrane said. “Cheaply enough to make it possible to use hydrogen to replace gasoline, diesel fuel, even heating oil.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that.”

  Cochrane’s temper swooped. But before he could reply, Sandoval said, “At least two men have been murdered over this. We’re at risk ourselves.”

  Love studied her with his disbelieving red-rimmed eyes. “Conspiracy theory?”

  Sandoval smiled. “I wish it was that simple.”

  Cochrane thought, No wonder he’s got
a scar. He felt like punching the guy’s disbelieving face.

  As if she knew precisely what was going through Cochrane’s mind, Sandoval placed a placating hand on his thigh as she said, “We have the scientific evidence with us, if you’d like to review it.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” Love said reluctantly.

  “Only in our presence,” Cochrane said. “I’m not letting the discs out of my hands.”

  Love glared at him for a moment, then seemed to relent. “I suppose that’s not unreasonable.”

  “How much biochemistry do you know?” Cochrane asked.

  “Not a helluva lot.”

  “Me neither. My brother was a microbiologist. He—”

  “Was?”

  “He’s one of the men who’s been murdered.”

  Love leaned back slightly, as if trying to incorporate this new bit of information into his evaluation of the situation.

  “How much biochemistry do you know?” he asked Cochrane.

  “Not much. My degrees are in physics and thermodynamics.”

  “But you’re with the Steward Observatory now.”

  Impressed that Love had looked up his credentials, Cochrane said, “We’ll need somebody who can verify my brother’s work.”

  Turning to Sandoval, Love asked, “You’re not a biochemist, either?”

  “No,” she said, with a slight shake of her head.

  “All right,” Love said. “Give me a day or so to find a tame biochemist. I’ll call you when I’ve got somebody rounded up.”

  “I’d rather that we called you,” Sandoval said.

  He looked at her suspiciously.

  “Some conspiracy theories are actually true,” she said, smiling.

  Love smiled back, guardedly. “Even paranoids have enemies,” he muttered. He reached into his vest pocket and handed her his card. Then he slid out of the booth. “I’ve got to get back to the office. Have a good lunch.”

  “He didn’t even offer to pay for his damned soup,” Cochrane groused.

  “Rank has its privileges,” said Sandoval, picking up the menu that lay on the table. “Let’s order something. I’m starving!”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.:

  DIRKSEN

  SENATE OFFICE BUILDING

  Ichabod Crane, Cochrane thought. Senator Ian Bardarson looked like Ichabod Crane: tall and rawboned, prominent nose, knobby big-knuckled hands, long lantern jaw. But his light hazel eyes were bright with interest as Anderson Love introduced Cochrane and Sandoval to the senator. Interest and something else, Cochrane thought. Ambition.

  Love’s attitude had changed since their meeting the day before at Old Ebbitt Grill. He’s had a chance to talk to some experts about Mike’s work, Cochrane said to himself. He’s become enough of a believer to get us in to see the senator on a Saturday morning.

  Senator Bardarson’s office was on the top floor of the Dirksen Building; through the windows Cochrane could see the wedding-cake dome of the Capitol. Just like in the movies, he thought. The senator’s inner office was richly paneled in dark wood, with ceiling-high bookshelves lining two walls. Handsome leather-bound volumes filled the shelves; they looked to Cochrane as if they’d never been opened. The senator came out from behind his broad desk to shake hands with Sandoval and Cochrane, then, with a hand behind Cochrane’s shoulder, showed them to plush armchairs covered in deep burgundy leather grouped around a delicate round sherry table in the corner by the windows.

  Taking the third armchair in the grouping, Senator Bardarson smiled handsomely and asked what they would like to drink. Cochrane simply shook his head while Sandoval said, “Some ice water, please.”

  The senator nodded to Love, who went to a minifridge built into the base of one of the bookcases. “A lovely young woman like you should drink champagne,” Bardarson said, smiling handsomely.

  “It’s a bit early in the morning,” Sandoval replied demurely.

  “Of course. Of course.” Turning to Cochrane, the senator said, “Mr. Love is quite impressed with what you told him, Dr. Cochrane.” As Love placed two tall glasses of ice water on the delicate round table, he added, “And Andy doesn’t impress easily.”

  Pulling up one of the plush wheeled chairs from the conference table in the office’s far corner, Love said pleasantly, “This could be the real thing, Senator. What they’ve got here could be a real breakthrough.”

  The senator nodded. “So it’s possible to produce hydrogen fuel cheaply enough to undercut the price of gasoline, is it?”

  Cochrane said, “Yes, sir. And what’s more, you won’t have to build a whole infrastructure of pipelines and storage facilities.”

  “How come?”

  “You don’t distribute the hydrogen; you distribute the bacteria that produce the hydrogen. Put a membrane containing the bugs into your car and then fill your fuel tank with water. The bugs split the water molecules. You pump the hydrogen to your engine and vent the oxygen out the exhaust pipe.”

  Love butted in. “Or you burn the hydrogen with the oxygen itself and get a more efficient use of the system.”

  Cochrane felt surprised. “Where’d you come up with that?”

  “My connection at the National Academy suggested it. Instead of burning the hydrogen in air, which is only twenty percent oxygen, you burn it in the pure oxygen the bugs have split out of the water molecules. Higher-temperature combustion, more power to the engine.”

  “And more efficient,” Cochrane agreed.

  “Sounds fine,” said Senator Bardarson.

  “Senator,” Love said, his dark face growing very serious, “this could be the key to an energy policy that really works. We could replace gasoline and the other petroleum-based fuels. This could be huge.”

  “If it’s true,” the senator cautioned.

  “It’s true,” Cochrane said flatly.

  “We have a problem, though,” said Sandoval.

  Senator Bardarson turned to her.

  “A problem?” he asked.

  “The Gould Energy Corporation is after this breakthrough,” Sandoval said, a barely noticeable quaver in her low voice.

  “Oh? What rights to this do they have?”

  “None,” Cochrane snapped. “But they’ve murdered two men so far to get my brother’s work in their hands.”

  “Murdered? Do you have any proof of this?”

  “One of them was my brother.”

  The senator glanced at Love, who shrugged in a fleeting it’s the first I’ve heard of this gesture.

  “Do you have any proof?” Bardarson asked again.

  Cochrane shook his head.

  Sandoval said, “We are personally in danger.”

  “I know Lionel Gould,” the senator mused, almost to himself. “He can be very… single-minded.”

  “There’s something more,” Love said, almost reluctantly.

  “What now?”

  “Dr. Cochrane—Michael Cochrane—was an employee of the Calvin Research Center when he made this discovery. They will probably claim proprietary rights to his work.”

  “Mike worked on his own,” Cochrane said. “The people at Calvin Research didn’t even know what he was doing. They still don’t.”

  “Still, it could get into legal complications,” Love insisted.

  The senator waved a careless hand in the air. “That’s what lawyers are for. We can straighten out the legal questions, one way or another. The important thing is that this breakthrough could revolutionize our energy picture.”

  “That’s for sure,” said Love.

  “So”—Bardarson glanced at his wristwatch—”what can I do to help you?”

  “We need protection,” said Sandoval.

  “Do you really believe that Lionel Gould would send thugs after you?”

  “He already has,” Cochrane said.

  “And he won’t give up easily,” Sandoval added. “We are in serious personal danger.”

  The senator glanced at Love, then turned his eyes back to Sandoval. “I supp
ose I could get you some protection. Secret Service, maybe. Or a private security outfit.”

  “Temporarily,” said Love.

  “Long enough,” Senator Bardarson said. “As long as necessary. That’s a promise.”

  Sandoval reached a hand out to him. “Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much.”

  Bardarson engulfed her hand in one big, bony paw and patted it with the other. “It will be all right, I assure you.”

  Cochrane felt annoyed. He asked, “So where do we go from here?”

  With another fleeting look at Love, the senator said, “I’m going to ask the National Academy of Sciences for a full study of your brother’s work, Dr. Cochrane.”

  “We’ll expect you to cooperate with them,” said Love.

  “That could take months.”

  “Yes, I understand. But in the meantime I’m going to bring up this matter with the full Senate Energy Committee. We’ve got to start the wheels rolling on this right away.”

  Then he turned to Sandoval, “And I’ll have my people contact the Secret Service right away to arrange protection for you.”

  With that, he pulled himself out of the armchair like a carpenter’s ruler unfolding, all lanky legs and arms. Cochrane got to his feet and extended his hand.

  “Thank you, Senator.”

  “Just doing my job, Dr. Cochrane,” the senator said, taking his hand in a firm, well-practiced grip.

  He turned to Sandoval and took her hand again. “Don’t you worry about a thing, young lady. I’ll see to it that you’re completely protected.”

  Cochrane thought he sounded like an insurance salesman.

  Once Sandoval and Cochrane left his office, Senator Bardarson returned to his desk.

  “This is really going to work?” he asked Love.

  The aide nodded his shaved head vigorously. “From the little they told me, it sounds like the real thing. My pigeon over at NSF said it sounded good to him.”