The Green Trap Page 21

  “I’m not an unreasonable man,” Gould said, more gently. “I understand how much an energy policy based on this new discovery will enhance your candidacy. But you’ve got to be reasonable, too.”

  Almost in a whisper, Bardarson asked, “What do you suggest?”

  Gould took a deep breath, mentally choosing his words. “This hydrogen process works in the laboratory, yes. But that’s a long way from being practical, a long way from being available for the average man’s automobile.”

  “True enough,” Bardarson said tightly.

  “Use the discovery as the cornerstone of your proposed energy policy. Talk freely about converting to hydrogen fuels. Bring the ecologists and the greenhouse warming freaks into your tent. Tell the voters that your energy policy will bring back cheap fuel for their cars—eventually.”

  “Eventually.”

  “Yes, eventually,” said Gould. “You can make the voters think that eventually means within a few years, within the span of your first term in the White House.”

  “I see.”

  “But it will actually take longer than that.”

  “Much longer.”

  “That depends on many factors. Global demand for oil. Political relations with the Middle East and Russia. Greenhouse warming. Many factors.”

  “And you’ll decide how quickly we convert to hydrogen.”

  Gould nodded. “That decision should be made by the people who best understand the needs of the global energy and transportation markets.”

  “Meaning you.”

  With a smiling little dip of his chin, Gould agreed, “Meaning me.”

  “You’ll support my election campaign under those terms?”

  “And your reelection campaign, four years later,” said Gould.

  The senator fell silent again, weighing his options.

  Gould enticed, “Ian, the world will move from petroleum to hydrogen fuel sooner or later. It’s inevitable. All we’re talking about is the timing. It’s only a matter of a few years: the span of your first term in office, perhaps. Or the second, certainly.”

  Bardarson knew when he was being lied to, but he reluctantly extended his right hand. Gould grasped it firmly and said, “You won’t regret this. Not once you’re in the White House.”

  Bardarson said, “I suppose not.”

  WASHINGTON, D. C.:

  J. W. MARRIOTT HOTEL

  Cochrane was awakened by someone yelling at him in Spanish. He was lying on the floor beside the bed when the chambermaid let herself into his room, took one look at his prostrate form, and decided he was a drunk or a druggie.

  Stiff and aching, Cochrane tried to pull himself to his feet. He grabbed the bedsheets and struggled up to a kneeling position, then crawled onto the bed, grunting with exertion. He tried to speak to the maid but his throat was too dry to get any words out. She probably doesn’t understand that much English anyway, he thought. Looking thoroughly disgusted, the chambermaid walked out of the room, grumbling in her native tongue.

  Where did they take Elena? His mind raced. What are they doing to her? Christ, I need help. I’ve got to find her, get her back from them. Who—

  Two men in business suits burst into the room.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Cochrane looked at them with bleary eyes. I’m stretched out on the bed fully clothed and they’re asking if I’m all right.

  “I think so,” he said, pushing himself up to a sitting position. His back throbbed sullenly but he was more stiff than injured.

  “The maid…”

  “I know. I must have fallen asleep on the floor last night.”

  “Do you need medical attention?” asked the other one of them.

  “No!”

  “Are you certain, sir? We could have the house doctor look you over.”

  The idea was tempting, but Cochrane slowly shook his head. The effort made his insides lurch. “I’m all right,” he insisted.

  “Are you sure?” the first one demanded.

  “Yeah. I’m okay. I just need some rest.”

  They looked uncertain, but the first one said, “Okay. I’ll put the do-not-disturb sign on your doorknob.”

  “If you need anything,” the second one said, “call the concierge.”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  They left, reluctantly, shutting the door with a soft click. Cochrane heard something, turned his head, and saw that rain was spattering on the window. A gray day out there. Perfect. He sank back onto the bed, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a hundred hours or so.

  But he couldn’t. Too much to do.

  Okay. First step, he told himself: see if you can make it to the bathroom.

  He swung his legs off the bed and climbed stiffly, shakily to his feet. Leaning on the night table, then the wall, and finally the bathroom door, he got to the lavatory.

  No blood in my urine, he saw, peering into the toilet bowl. You’re not that bad off.

  A quick hot shower softened the pain and stiffness in his back. Naked, he padded back to the bed and punched out Dr. Esterbrook’s number.

  “Paul, is everything all right?”

  “Not really,” he said. “I’ve got to have that report. It’s urgent. Something’s come up and that report could save a woman’s life.”

  He heard Esterbrook gasp. “A woman’s life?”

  “I can’t explain now. But please, please, take up the pages we’ve done so far and e-mail them to me. Then erase them from your hard drive.”

  “I can’t erase it. You’re talking about a report commissioned by the National Aca—”

  “I’m talking about my property,” Cochrane snapped. “That data doesn’t belong to the academy or anyone else except me.”

  “But Senator Bardarson expects—”

  “I’ll square it with the senator. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Yes, I’m sure! Positive! Do it now!”

  He could picture the confusion and uncertainty on Esterbrook’s chalk-pale face.

  “If that’s what you really want, Paul.”

  “It’s what I need,” said Cochrane. He hung up so he wouldn’t have to argue further or explain. Then he pecked out Senator Bardarson’s number. After speaking to several office flunkies, he finally got Anderson Love.

  “The senator’s out of town,” Love said.

  “I’ve got to talk to him,” Cochrane insisted. “It’s vital.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’ve got to withdraw the hydrogen information. I can’t give it to you.”

  “You’ve already—”

  “I’ve got to take it back!” Cochrane shouted into the phone.

  “But you’ve already told us about it. We got the National Academy into this, for god’s sake.”

  “Look, Mr. Love,” Cochrane said, trying to be more reasonable, “I can’t go through with it. Do you understand, I can’t!”

  “The senator isn’t going to like this.”

  “That’s why I need to talk to him. To explain what’s happened. I need his help.”

  Love went silent for a few heartbeats. Then, “Okay, I’ll buzz the senator on his cell phone. Where can he reach you?”

  Cochrane gave him his own cell phone number, trying to remember how recently he’d charged its battery.

  “I’ll ask the senator to phone you,” Love said, his voice heavy with doubt and suspicion.

  “Thanks,” Cochrane said.

  He phoned room service for a light breakfast, then dressed as quickly as he could, his back still painfully stiff. Where is Elena? What’s happening to her?

  He tried her cell phone, got an answering machine’s robotic answer. Then he opened his laptop and sent a message to the three friends he’d entrusted with copies of Mike’s work.

  PLEASE ERASE THE FILE I SENT YOU. THIS IS URGENT. ERASE THE FILE AS SOON AS YOU READ THIS. SEND ME A CONFIRMATION THAT YOU’VE ERASED THE FILE. PLEASE DON’T ASK QUESTIONS. JUST
DO IT.

  He hoped that they would do what he asked.

  Elena’s life depends on this, he thought. Then he realized his three friends’ own lives might depend on it.

  With an aching sigh, he looked up their phone numbers, then began to telephone them directly.

  INTERSTATE 95:

  DELAWARE MEMORIAL BRIDGE

  As the limousine drove through the gloomy late afternoon rain, Senator Bardarson was sipping a scotch and soda. The double span of the Delaware Memorial Bridge humped like the spine of an ancient dinosaur, gray and misty in the rain. Far below, the river looked even grayer. The senator’s cell phone abruptly started playing the opening bars of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”

  As he pulled the phone out of his inside pocket and flipped it open, he idly thought that perhaps in a couple of years he could change it to “Hail to the Chief.”

  Anderson Love’s face filled the minuscule screen, looking darker than usual.

  “Andy,” said the senator.

  “Something’s gone wonky with Cochrane. He’s reneging. He wants to withdraw everything he’s given us.”

  Bardarson’s first thought was that Gould had gotten to the scientist. He said guardedly, “I was afraid something like this would happen.”

  “I checked with Quinn’s people,” Love went on. “Cochrane had a visitor at his hotel room last night. And the Sandoval woman didn’t spend the night there with him.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Quinn says she took the Metroliner to New York yesterday. Quinn was kind of sore about it; complaining that she hasn’t got enough people to go chasing up and down the East Coast.”

  “Sandoval took the Metroliner by herself? Alone?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And Cochrane wants to pull the rug out from under us.”

  “I checked with Dr. Esterbrook. He was supposed to deliver the National Academy’s preliminary report in a couple of days.”

  “And?”

  “Cochrane demanded that he erase the report. Said a woman’s life depends on it.”

  “Sandoval, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Bardarson thought about it swiftly as the limousine sped off the bridge and into the state of Delaware. Traffic was sparse for a Friday afternoon, he thought with a corner of his mind.

  Love added, “Cochrane wants to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”

  “It sounds like he’s worried about Ms. Sandoval.”

  “I guess so.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Bardarson said, “All right. Get him on the phone and patch him through to me.”

  “Right.”

  The senator put his phone on the seat beside him and reached for his half-finished drink. Gould’s gotten to Sandoval, one way or another, he thought, and he’s using Sandoval to twist Cochrane. Insurance on our deal, Bardarson said to himself. Gould wants absolute control of the hydrogen thing. He’ll let me use the issue in the election campaign, but only if he has control of it. Smart. Very smart.

  Once I’m elected, though, I can use the Justice Department to pry the hydrogen loose from Gould’s hands. They can use the antitrust laws or something. There’s always a way. It’ll make an enemy of Gould, but once I’m in the White House, who cares?

  It wasn’t until they had crossed the line into Maryland that Bardarson remembered that Gould could be a very formidable adversary in his re-election campaign. Or a very helpful ally, so long as he allowed Gould to play this hydrogen business the way he wanted to.

  Cochrane had spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to reach his three high school buddies by phone. He got answering machines at Don Mattson’s and Sol Roseman’s numbers. The telephone company reported that Vic Cardoza’s number was no longer in service.

  Friday afternoon, he thought. They’re probably out for the evening. Maybe the weekend. He left messages for Mattson and Roseman, then fretted in his hotel room about Cardoza. He hoped his e-mail message got through as he paced the hotel room, not knowing what he could do next.

  The Marriage of Figaro startled him. He rushed to the cell phone, still lying on the night table where he had left it.

  It was Love, he saw. “I can patch you through to the senator,” said the aide.

  “I appreciate it,” Cochrane replied.

  The phone gave off a series of clicks and beeps. Love’s image disappeared, replaced by the senator’s long, lank-jawed face.

  “Dr. Cochrane.” The senator smiled professionally.

  “I have to withdraw my brother’s data,” Cochrane said, with no preliminaries. “I’m sorry, but it’s important. Vital.”

  “So Andy tells me. What’s happened?”

  “They’ve got Elena. Ms. Sandoval. Gould’s thugs have her and they won’t let her go until I turn everything over to them.”

  Bardarson’s face got even longer, frowning. “Are you certain about this?”

  “Yes! It’s a matter of life and death!”

  The senator’s hand seemed to waver; his image jumped out of the phone’s tiny screen. It looked to Cochrane as if he were sitting in a car of some kind.

  “Sorry,” Bardarson said as his face reappeared. “Pothole.”

  “I’ve got to give the data to Gould’s people,” Cochrane insisted.

  “Of course. Of course. We can’t do anything else, can we?”

  Cochrane sank onto the edge of the bed. He had expected opposition from Bardarson, or at least a request to allow him to help find Elena.

  “I’ve asked Dr. Esterbrook to destroy the report we were writing,” he told the senator.

  “Yes, Andy Love’s already spoken with Esterbrook. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “Well, it’s your decision. Do you want me to notify the FBI? If this is a kidnapping, they should be involved.”

  “No,” Cochrane replied automatically. Then he added, “It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “Are you certain Gould’s people have done this?”

  “Yes. Certain.”

  “I could talk with the man. Possibly he doesn’t even know about it. You know how your staff people sometimes do things on their own.”

  “Sure, talk with him. All I want is to assure him that I won’t give my brother’s data to anybody but him. I want Elena returned to me safely.”

  “I can understand that,” said the senator. “You give the information to Gould’s people. I’ll talk with Lionel himself and see if we can straighten this out.”

  “Thanks,” Cochrane breathed.

  The connection clicked off. Cochrane held the phone in his hand, staring at it as if it could tell him what he wanted, needed to know.

  That was too easy, he thought. Bardarson just let me walk away with the key that could open the door to the White House for him. Too damned easy.

  Unless, he realized, the senator’s already in bed with Gould.

  As his limousine splashed through the darkening rainy evening toward Washington, Senator Bardarson leaned back in the black leather rear seat, clicked his cell phone shut, and tucked it back into his pocket.

  The poor fool, he thought. Cochrane’s in this way over his head. He doesn’t have a clue. Poor naive fool.

  The senator reached for his unfinished scotch and soda. After one sip, though, he thought: Or maybe he’s not such a fool after all. Maybe he’s negotiating with one of the other energy giants. Maybe he’s realized that he could get a fortune for the information he has.

  Bardarson sipped again and shook his head wearily. A man could get himself killed playing that game.

  MANHATTAN:

  GOULD TRUST HEADQUARTERS

  I want this business finished, once and for all,” said Elena Sandoval.

  “So do I,” said Lionel Gould. “So do I, most emphatically.”

  Gould looked her over appreciatively. A beautiful woman, he thought. Very attractive light blue silk blouse with a darker knee-length skirt. Sensible attire, yet on her
it looks enticing. Which is good. He especially enjoyed the way her skirt fit snugly on her hips. But she’s more than beautiful. She’s intelligent. And determined. Which could be either good or bad, depending on how she’s handled.

  He rose from his high-backed swivel chair and came around the dark mahogany desk toward her. Sandoval stood her ground, although she gave away her nervousness by clasping her hands together.

  “Come,” Gould said, gesturing toward the delicate inlaid table by the windows and the pair of upholstered chairs on either side of it. “We might as well be comfortable while we discuss the situation.”

  Staying an arm’s length away from him, Sandoval went to the table and sat. Through the window she could see Central Park, a misty island of green in the rain, surrounded by the cold gray towers of the city.

  “I agreed to come here voluntarily,” she said as Gould eased his bulk into the other chair. It creaked slightly as he made himself comfortable. As usual, Gould was in his shirtsleeves, his vest unbuttoned, his tie pulled down from his open collar. The room felt frigid to Sandoval, yet still Gould was perspiring freely.

  “It’s all very simple,” he said, leaning slightly toward Sandoval. “I must have Dr. Cochrane’s data in my hands. There must be no other copies anywhere.”

  “Paul can do that,” she said.

  “I’m sure he already is. My man Kensington told me that Cochrane agreed to cooperate fully.”

  “Good.”

  “He believes that you are in some degree of danger,” said Gould, with a slight smirk.

  “Am I?”

  “Not in the slightest! Of course not.” Gould hesitated a heartbeat, then added, “As long as Cochrane cooperates.”

  “I don’t want him hurt,” she said.

  “An admirable sentiment. Apparently he feels the same about you.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “He would.”

  Gould spread his arms. “So there we are. I get the hydrogen process and no one gets hurt. A happy conclusion to our business.”

  Sandoval looked doubtful. “Senator Bardarson’s brought the National Academy into this. Paul might not be able to stop them from issuing a report.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told.” With a shrug and a sly grin, Gould said, “I’ll deal with Bardarson. I don’t hold you or Cochrane responsible for what the National Academy of Sciences does.”