Power Surge Page 8

  “Seems to cover all the bases,” volunteered one of the older men.

  O’Donnell asked, “That bit about producing methanol fuel from carbon dioxide emissions, is that for real?”

  “It is,” Jake assured him solemnly. He had asked Bob Rogers, from the university back in Montana, to take a quick trip to San Diego. Rogers was a physicist and happily at home with new technology.

  “Looks good to me,” Rogers had told Jake once he returned from San Diego. “I think the kid really has something.”

  Now one of Tomlinson’s staff economists was asking, “But can you scale up this methanol system to industrial proportions?”

  “Yes,” said Jake firmly. “No problem.”

  O’Donnell said, “I’m not sure you can support all those technologies and still keep the plan revenue neutral.”

  Jake replied, “You can if you count the savings in health care costs and the job creation that the plan will generate. And this methanol conversion will save all the money we would otherwise have to invest in burying carbon dioxide emissions.”

  “Do any of you see any fatal flaws in the plan?” Tomlinson asked.

  They glanced around at each other. A few of them looked in Jake’s direction.

  “That business at the end, about tidal energy,” said one of the older men. “That seems kind of iffy, don’t you think?”

  With a sardonic smile, Tomlinson replied, “Not to Senator Santino.”

  “Oh!” Nods of understanding ran up and down the conference table.

  O’Donnell suggested, “Maybe you ought to put it up closer to the beginning, then.”

  “Good point,” said the senator.

  The staff made a few more desultory remarks before Tomlinson pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Thanks, all of you. Jake, it’s a good, solid plan. I’ll take it to Santino as soon as I can get an appointment to see him.”

  That ended the meeting. Everyone got up and filed out of the conference room, leaving Jake and the senator at the table.

  Scowling as he disconnected his notebook from the projector, Jake said, “It went over like a lead balloon.”

  But Senator Tomlinson smiled at him. “It’s just fine, Jake. Don’t expect them to appreciate it the way you and I do. They’re not technical experts.”

  “I guess.”

  More seriously, Tomlinson said, “Now we’ve got to get Santino to approve it.”

  Jake nodded, knowing that they had an uphill battle ahead of them.

  * * *

  That evening, in his apartment, Jake sat down on his sagging sofa, opened his laptop, and called Steve Brogan on Skype. He probably won’t want to talk to me, Jake thought. I’m the one who got him exiled to Ohio.

  But on the laptop’s screen Brogan looked unusually cheerful, relaxed, wearing a splashy colored T-shirt instead of his usual dark business suit.

  “How do you like Dayton?”

  Brogan actually smiled. “You know, it’s not half bad. I drove down to Cincinnati a couple of times to see the Reds play. Never had the time for a baseball game when I was in Washington.”

  “Have you found a house yet?”

  Gesturing, Brogan said, “That’s where I am now. Nice little place. And prices here are half what they were in DC.”

  “And your new job?”

  Some of his old cynicism returning, Brogan said, “Just busywork. A trained chimpanzee could do it.”

  “No strain, then.”

  “I never realized what a rat race I was in back in DC,” Brogan went on. “Here, there’s no pressure. I just show up and go through the motions, and everybody’s happy.”

  “That’s good,” said Jake. “I guess.”

  “I’m just putting in the next three years and then retiring from the government’s service. One more faceless bureaucrat heading for Florida.” He seemed almost happy about the prospect.

  “My tax dollars at work,” Jake quipped.

  “Damned right.” Brogan’s expression grew more serious. “So what’s with you? How’s the Little Saint treating you?”

  “Tomlinson’s got an appointment to show him the energy plan.”

  “Lotsa luck.”

  “We even stuck in some cockamamie idea about generating electricity from ocean tides. That ought to make Santino happy.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  With a shrug, Brogan answered, “He’s going to bury your plan. He’ll smile at your boss and tell him he’s going to set up hearings and bring in the nation’s top experts, but all he’ll really be doing is stalling for time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time for your boss to get it through his head that your plan is never going to see the light of day.”

  “But why?” Jake asked. “Wouldn’t it look good for him to bring it out? He’s the chairman of the energy committee, for god’s sake.”

  Brogan shook his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “Why do we have a Department of Energy?”

  “To solve our energy problems.”

  “Have our energy problems been solved?”

  “Not yet. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  Like a patient teacher dealing with a backward student, Brogan explained, “If we solved our energy problems, what would the Department of Energy do?”

  Jake blinked at the screen.

  “Listen to me. You’re too young to remember the space race, back in the sixties.”

  “I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “Neither was I. But you ought to understand what’s what. The White House created NASA and told those space geeks to get us to the Moon before the Russians got there.”

  “Which NASA did.”

  “Yeah. They solved the problem they were created to solve. So what happened? Their budget got slashed, they had to lay off a ton of people, and they’ve never gone farther than Earth orbit again.”

  “Not with people,” Jake objected. “But—”

  “The space geeks made a fundamental error. They solved the problem that the White House handed them. And they’ve been on the back burner ever since. They’re not going anywhere.”

  The image of Isaiah Knowles’s earnest, pleading face flashed into Jake’s mind.

  Brogan went on, “If the Energy Department really solved the nation’s energy problems, it’d get downsized and forgotten, just like NASA. But that won’t happen anytime soon.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. The Energy Department is responsible for making hydrogen bombs, pal. As long as they have a nuclear section they’ll be in business. But not to solve energy problems.”

  Frowning at the image on his laptop screen, Jake said, “So you’re telling me that Santino doesn’t want a plan that can put our energy programs on a sound, sustainable basis.”

  “It’s not that simple, but yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “And we’re all going through a pointless exercise.”

  “It’s not pointless, pal. But the point isn’t solving energy problems. The point is maintaining Santino’s power. Maintaining it, or making it bigger.”

  “So he’s going to bury my plan.”

  “Very nicely. Very politely. He’ll bury it under hearings and studies and reports from every which kind of expert. Including me. But it’ll never see the light of day.”

  Jake sank back on the sofa. “So this has all been an exercise in futility.”

  “Yeah.” Brogan’s brows knit slightly. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  With an almost evil grin, Brogan said, “Unless you and your senator resort to an old, time-honored Washington maneuver.”

  “What maneuver?”

  “You leak your plan to the news media.”

  Leaking

  “Leak the plan?” Senator Tomlinson looked surprised.

  Feeling slightly uneasy about the idea, Jake still nodded and replied, “We leak
the plan to the news media, and the publicity will force Santino to act on it, one way or the other.”

  Tomlinson leaned back in his desk chair, his handsome face turning thoughtful. Beyond him, Jake saw through the office window that a few of the trees lining the avenue outside were starting to change color. It was a bright blue morning in late September.

  Tomlinson sat in silence for several moments, mulling over Jake’s suggestion. Jake found himself counting the seconds: one, one thousand; two, one thousand; three …

  Between nine and ten Tomlinson stirred. Peering at his wristwatch, the senator said, “Jake, I’ve got to get over to the Capitol for a meeting of the agriculture committee. You handle this problem the way you think best.”

  Senator Tomlinson got to his feet and so did Jake.

  “I’ll probably be tied up all day on this or that,” Tomlinson said. “I won’t have time to talk to you about this matter.”

  Jake nodded, understanding. So I’m supposed to do the leaking, while you keep your skirts clean. If the thing blows up on us, I fall on my sword and you can claim you didn’t know a thing about it.

  Beaming one of his kilowatt smiles at Jake, Tomlinson said, “Amy and I would like to have you over for dinner again sometime soon.”

  “Sure,” said Jake. “My social calendar is pretty free.”

  “Good.”

  Jake went with the senator as far as the corridor that led to his own office, where Kevin O’Donnell was waiting impatiently for him. Tomlinson waved a cheerful farewell and headed out of the office suite with his staff chief, leaving Jake standing there feeling like a man who’d just been sent on a suicide mission.

  What the hell, he thought. I can always go back to the university.

  Instead, he went back to his own office and slouched onto his desk chair. How the hell do I go about leaking the plan to the news media? Without dirtying Frank’s linen?

  Well, he said to himself, the senator has a media relations staff. That’s the place to start, I guess.

  He picked up the phone and asked for the head of the PR staff, Earl Reynolds.

  “Reynolds here.”

  “Jake Ross. I need your advice about something,” Jake said into the phone. “Something important.”

  “Sure,” Reynolds replied in a strong baritone. “Come on down to my orifice.”

  Jake winced at the intended pun. But he got up and walked to Reynolds’s office.

  Reynolds looked like a former college jock: broad shoulders, ruggedly handsome face, thick mop of dark hair carefully coiffed. He wore an expensive-looking navy blue blazer over a crisp light blue shirt and a perfectly knotted necktie of red and blue stripes. University of Pennsylvania, Jake guessed.

  Standing behind his desk, Reynolds stuck out a meaty hand and grasped Jake’s firmly.

  “Dr. Ross,” he said warmly.

  “Jake.”

  With a handsome smile, Reynolds said, “Okay, Jake. And I’m Earl. Not a duke, just an earl.”

  Jake forced a smile.

  Reynolds gestured graciously to the burgundy red leather chair in front of his desk.

  “Make yourself comfortable. What can I do you for?”

  “It’s kind of delicate,” Jake began.

  “I can be the soul of discretion,” said Reynolds, “when I have to be.”

  “You know about the energy plan I’ve drawn up for the senator?”

  “I’ve heard about it,” said Reynolds, his face going serious. “I couldn’t get to your meeting yesterday, schedule conflict.”

  Jake nodded, thinking that Reynolds didn’t regard the plan as important enough to take up his time.

  Feeling uneasy, Jake said, “The senator’s going to present the plan to Senator Santino.”

  “Chairman of the energy committee. Makes sense.”

  “And Santino’s going to bury it.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s a possibility. A strong possibility.”

  His forehead furrowing slightly, Reynolds said, “I suppose that it is a possibility.”

  “We need to get the plan out before the public,” Jake said.

  “Ah. You want me to set up a news conference. No sweat. The senator comes across beautifully on TV.”

  “No, no, no,” Jake objected. “Not a news conference. The senator can’t be seen talking about the plan in public. Santino wouldn’t like it.”

  “Oh-ho,” Reynolds said, his face lighting up with understanding. “You want to leak the plan to the news media.”

  “Without involving the senator in any way.”

  “A leak.” Reynolds pursed his lips in thought.

  “I haven’t got the faintest idea of how to go about it,” Jake admitted.

  “Pretty delicate. A leak needs a leaker. And a leakee.”

  Wondering if the PR director were trying to make a pun in a ridiculous Chinese accent, Jake repeated, “The senator can’t be any part of this. We’ve got to keep him out of it.”

  “Yes, sure.” Jabbing a forefinger at Jake, Reynolds said, “You’re going to be the leaker, but we’ve got to put a layer of protection between you and the person who actually leaks the story to the media.”

  “The leakee,” Jake said.

  With a lopsided grin, Reynolds said, “You catch on pretty quick, Jake.”

  “How do we go about doing this?”

  “Let me think about it. Nobody in this office should be involved in the leak, as far as the public is concerned.”

  “Can you do that?”

  As if he hadn’t heard Jake, Reynolds mused, “Santino’s a powerhouse, you know. Going up against the Little Saint won’t be easy.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Give me a little time to work this out, Jake.”

  “How much time?”

  Reynolds brought out his lopsided smile again. “The impossible, we do right away. The miraculous takes a few days.”

  Tidal Basin

  Three mornings later Reynolds appeared at the door of Jake’s office.

  “Nice day for a picnic,” he said, his bulky form filling the doorway.

  Glancing out his window at the blue, cloud-flecked sky, Jake answered, “I guess.”

  “Why don’t you go out to the Tidal Basin and rent a paddleboat.” It wasn’t a question.

  “The Tidal Basin?”

  “I can arrange for a nice young lady to meet you there. Take a boat ride around the Basin. You can talk without anybody listening in.”

  “Who’s the nice young lady?”

  “An old acquaintance of mine. She used to work for the Reuters news service downtown. Until the Little Saint got her canned.”

  “Santino got her fired?”

  Waggling a hand, Reynolds replied, “Not directly. He’s too smart for that. He never leaves fingerprints. But, yeah. She did a story about Santino holding up some environmental legislation in his committee, and a week later she’s out on the street without a job.”

  “So she doesn’t like Santino.”

  “Would you?”

  “So what’s her name? How do I recognize her?”

  “Can’t miss her,” Reynolds said, with a leering grin. “Her name is Tamiko Umetzu. Japanese American, from Fresno, California. Kinda small, slim. Pretty cute.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” Jake complained.

  “What do you need, a photograph? How many Nips do you think’ll be at the Tidal Basin precisely at high noon?”

  Jake imagined a busload of Japanese tourists disgorging, but he said, “Do you have her cell phone number?”

  “No. But she has yours. Have fun!” And Reynolds left Jake sitting at his desk.

  It was ten forty-five. The Tidal Basin, Jake thought. At high noon.

  * * *

  Jake took a taxi to the paddleboat dock. Looking around the sparse crowd, he didn’t see any Japanese American woman. I should have asked Reynolds how old she is, he realized.

  He turned around slowly. In the distance he saw the
towering obelisk of the Washington Monument and, behind a screen of trees, the square marble roof of the Lincoln Memorial. Across the basin stood the Jefferson Memorial, gleaming in the sunshine like an ancient Greek temple. But no Japanese American woman.

  Feeling almost foolish, he went to the booth and rented a paddleboat. Then he lingered on the dock, waiting. The kid working on the dock asked him which boat he wanted, and Jake replied he was waiting for someone. The youngster shrugged and moved away to help an elderly couple.

  It felt warm in the sunshine, despite the breeze coming across the water. Jake took off his jacket and draped it over his arm.

  This is like an old-time spy movie, he thought. Waiting for your secret contact to show up.

  Yeah, he said to himself. A bad movie.

  Then he saw a tall, well-dressed Asian-looking woman striding along the dock toward him. Jake started to say hello to her, but she walked right past him and embraced a guy in a Navy officer’s uniform. They climbed into one of the paddleboats together.

  This is a fiasco, Jake complained to himself.

  His cell phone buzzed. Jake fumbled it out of his jacket pocket, nearly dropped it, but at last flipped it open.

  “Dr. Ross?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m standing next to the ticket booth. Can you see me?”

  “I’m down here on the dock,” he said, waving toward the slim figure of a woman up on the concrete wall, beside the ticket booth, with a phone to her ear.

  The figure began to walk onto the dock. “I see you. I’ll be right there.”

  Tamiko Umetzu was young, in her early thirties at most, Jake guessed. Small, no taller than his shoulder, even in the heels she was wearing. Slim figure. As she approached Jake along the dock, he saw that she was quite pretty: high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes of deep brown, dark hair falling fashionably to her shoulders. She wore a short-skirted sleeveless frock patterned in various shades of brown.

  When she got close enough to extend her hand to him, she said, “Dr. Ross.”

  “Jake.”

  She smiled and her face lit up. “I’m Tami.”

  “Good to meet you.”