BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (17 page)

“Lockwood just called me,” Sloan had said. “A reporter is poking around. He sounds like trouble.”

“I am not able to talk freely right now. I shall be airborne and alone in thirty minutes. Call me back on my sat phone.”

“All right. And I think the senator will want to be in on the call, too,” Sloan replied.

“Set it up, then.”

He was the sole passenger in his Gulfstream G-200 for this short flight from IAD to JFK. The occasion would be a board meeting of one of the many nonprofits he supported—a quick turnaround flight that would have him back in D.C. this same evening. He needed to go over his talking points. But he had trouble putting his mind to it.

He did not like the news about the reporter.

For privacy, he chose to sit in the rear, in the lone seat farthest from the cockpit. He sank his head and neck back into the soft suede and tried to relax. He raised the glass of Ardbeg Uigedail single malt that they had waiting for him in the galley; studied its color; savored the lingering taste of the previous sip. The aircraft’s vibration caused the lone ice cube to rattle against the crystal.

His phone rested on the polished mahogany side table; the plane’s Iridium satellite phone system allowed him to use it while airborne. Transmissions were encrypted and highly secure. But not completely secure. He knew the capabilities and inclinations of various governments, including the American one. These days, no electronic communications were completely secure.

When the call came through, he let it ring three times before picking up.

“Yes?” He spoke softly and rotated his swivel seat to face away from the cockpit.

“It’s me again.” Sloan. “We’re conferencing with the other party’s representative. He is the gentleman that you met at my office.”

“How do you do, sir,” Stuart Kaplan’s voice cut in. “I hope you don’t mind if I stand in for my boss.”

“No. I quite understand.” Trammel knew that Conn had to be hyper-cautious. “I assume that you have been granted the authority to speak on his behalf.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now, if you would please tell me what happened.”

Speaking elliptically and not mentioning any names, Sloan described the meeting between Lockwood and the reporter, and conveyed Lockwood’s alarm over how much the man already knew.

“And I should mention that he has scheduled an appointment this afternoon with the administrator of … of the agency central to our concerns,” Sloan concluded. “That individual has been alerted, of course.”

Trammel knew who that was. “I see. What can you tell me about this reporter?”

“We’re trying to learn more about his background,” Kaplan said. “In our preliminary search online, we found very little information that goes back more than a couple of years. But I can tell you that he’s the guy who’s been at the center of the recent vigilante controversy.”

Trammel paused in the middle of another sip and put down his glass carefully.

“That one. I remember reading about him. From what I gathered, he is a real troublemaker.”

“Which is not good for us,” Sloan said.

“No. Not good at all.”

Kaplan cut to the chase. “Is there something we can do about him?”

Trammel noticed that he said “can” and not “should.” It was clear that the “should” already, tacitly, had been settled.

“What does your boss think?” Trammel asked.

“He’s worried.”

He has every reason to be
. “That is not quite what I was referring to. I meant: What does he think … tactically?”

“He tasked the staff to begin by finding out everything we can about this guy.”

“A prudent first step. Know thine enemy. But after that, then what?”

“If it should become necessary,” Sloan said, lowering his voice, “I might ask some of my contacts to … meet him. Perhaps dissuade him from pursuing this inquiry.”

Several seconds passed, during which Trammel recalled what he had read about the reporter.

“That may indeed become necessary.”

The tingling sensation on his scalp started immediately when he got off the rising escalator.

The familiar feeling that he was being watched.

The escalator at the Federal Triangle Metro entrance fed Hunter out into a vaulted arcade area beneath the Ariel Rios Building, the home of the Environmental Protection Agency. Overhead, pendant lanterns, the kind found in churches, hung by chains from the ceiling. A series of archways opened to the west onto the pedestrian mall known as Woodrow Wilson Plaza, while those to the east revealed a bit of the Old Post Office Building across 12th Street.

People bustled by him, passing through the arches or to and from the building’s entrances. He paused to make a show of turning around, getting his bearings, looking at his watch, stalling to spot anyone with eyes on him. Anyone hanging about, inexplicably idle in the cold air. But he saw no one like that.

He made his way toward the entrance into the building’s south wing. Probably just a touch of paranoia, he thought, because of the incident at the cabin.

The guards and body scanners he faced today had forced him to leave his weapons home. He relaxed only when he entered the building. After passing through the security checkpoint, he moved into a circular lobby. The floor and walls were executed in brown and beige marble that reminded him of the entrance to Wonk’s building. But this one was far more spectacular. Burnished bronze gleamed everywhere: from the frames surrounding an interior entranceway and the building directory; from the chandelier and the clock suspended above the entrance to the stairwell; from the golden surface of the imposing elevator door.

Hunter showed his ID to the guard behind the marble security station and waited to be announced.

“Mind if I take a look at those stairs?” Hunter asked him.

“Go right ahead. Your escort will be down shortly.”

Rising through the seven floors of the building, the marble spiral staircase was another spectacle. Its bannister gleamed with more bronze. A chrome-and-brass globe chandelier hung by a chain from the top of the stairwell; along its length, starburst fixtures of exposed bulbs illuminated each floor.

“This
is
the EPA’s headquarters, right?” he said to the guard.

The guy got it and chuckled. “Sir, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

The elevator door opened and a young man with black spiked hair emerged. He introduced himself as Jared Bale, an aide to Deputy Administrator Chip Crane.

“Mr. Crane and Mr. Weaver will both meet with you, but they’re in a meeting that’s running late. They asked me to bring you up and make you comfortable.”

“No rush. I was just admiring your lobby.”

“Well, since we have a few minutes, maybe I can show you a few things. I often give tours to their guests.”

Bale explained that the structure had been built during the Great Depression as the New Post Office Building. For the next fifteen minutes Hunter got a look at some of its majestic corridors, rooms, and murals. Most impressive was an enormous two-story room stretching the length of a corridor on the third floor. Originally called the Postmaster General’s Reception Room, it boasted a stunning green marble floor, paneled walls and doors surrounded by ornate columns, pilasters, pediments, cornices, and friezes, plus an elaborately carved ceiling—all in rich butternut wood. The expanse was lit by huge chandeliers made of glass tubing and polished chrome, decorated with gold eagles.

“Jared, did you know that when the EPA started out during the Nixon years, Spiro Agnew sequestered it in run-down offices above a dumpy strip mall near the Southwest Waterfront?”

“Really? Wow. That’s hard to believe.”

He gestured at the chandeliers. “So is this. These rooms are worthy of a European palace.”

“Well, that’s no surprise,” Bale said proudly. “Its architects were inspired by the Place Vendôme in Paris.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, their meeting should be breaking up now. I’ll take you over to the office.”

“Sorry you had to wait,” Jonathan Weaver said, shaking his hand. Though in his early fifties, he retained youthful good looks, enhanced by sweeping waves of dark hair that he kept fashionably long and casually combed. The touch of gray at his temples matched the color of his eyes; but the touch of a nervous smile on his lips never reached those eyes. “And this is Chip Crane, our deputy administrator.”

Crane looked wary during the handshake. He didn’t speak. And didn’t smile.

When he’d told Lockwood about this meeting, it had been a test to find out if they were all working in collusion.

Now I know. Lockwood tipped them off.

And no one from the Agency’s media relations staff was present. Clearly, this pair wanted no witnesses to anything that was said.

“No trouble at all,” he said, keeping his manner amiable. “Mr. Bale gave me an informative tour. The architectural detail here is magnificent.” He let his gaze drift like that of a typical tourist, taking in the rich dark paneling, the gleaming parquet floor, the antique mahogany sideboard, the marble fireplace, the glittering chandelier. “He informed me that this building was modeled after the Place Vendôme in Paris. If I remember my European history, that was designed as a monument to the armies of Louis XIV. He called it the
Place des Conquêtes.”
He looked from one man to the other. “The Place of Conquests. It must be inspiring for you to work here.”

Weaver lost even his forced smile. Crane’s eyes narrowed further.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” he added quickly. “I just wanted your input on a few questions.”

“Why don’t we sit here,” Weaver said, gesturing to a nearby conference table.

They took chairs near one end. Hunter sat facing them, dumping his overcoat onto the seat next to him. He took out his small notepad and a pen.

“I suppose you know why I’m here,” he said, watching closely.

It startled both of them.

“Why … no,” Weaver began, looking even more uncomfortable. “How could we? Your secretary didn’t say, when she called to make the appointment.”

“Suppose you tell us.” Crane’s voice and manner both were gruff.

“Of course. I just figured that since the hydraulic fracturing controversy was on everyone’s mind these days, you’d guess it had to be about that.”

“Well, what about it?” Crane leaned back and crossed his beefy arms over his broad chest.

Hunter flipped open his notepad. Pretended to consult a page. Looked up at them.

“I have been told that Adair Energy has hired an expert toxicologist who is challenging the NLA report.”

Weaver nodded. “We received word of that from our Science Advisory Board.”

“I understand that the toxicologist Dan Adair hired is prepared to demonstrate that the toxic samples NLA acquired and studied actually were concocted by someone and planted in the local water wells.”

“That seems to be the claim. Whether he can demonstrate that remains to be seen.”

Hunter put down the pad. “But, for the sake of argument, let’s say that he
can.
I assume that would eliminate the rationale for your proposed national moratorium on hydraulic fracturing.”

“It would be only one factor that we would have to consider,” Weaver said. “There are others.”

“Really. Such as?”

Crane broke in. “The agency is obligated to weigh all potential risks and hazards to human health and the environment. Just because one study fails to demonstrate that fracking is dangerous, doesn’t mean it is safe.”

“Do you have any hard evidence, from any other study, that it’s unsafe either to human health or to the environment?”

“No,” Weaver said. “Nothing yet. But that’s not the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“It’s not our policy to prove that something is
unsafe.
Rather, it’s up to those who invent or use a product, chemical, or technology to prove that it is
safe.
”

“Are you saying that you
presume
an action or product to be harmful, unless it is somehow proved otherwise? That, in effect, it is guilty until proved innocent?”

Crane glowered, shifting in his chair. “We’re saying that we’d rather be safe than sorry. Look: In the past, we acted to ban products or prevent activities only on the basis of hard evidence of danger. But today, in a lot of areas, the risks of doing nothing preventive are too great. Now, we’re forced to act on theory alone. On prediction alone. We’ve made clear to our Science Advisory Board that they should stop insisting on certainty and precision in ambiguous situations. This is known as ‘the precautionary principle.’ Uncertainty alone is enough to compel the agency to take preventive measures.”

“We compare it to buying insurance,” Weaver added. “Insurance in the face of uncertainty.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Hunter said, also leaning forward. “You admit that you have no evidence, just a theory
—
really, just
speculation—
that hydraulic fracturing may be harmful. But you insist that Adair and his toxicologist are somehow supposed to
refute
a mere speculation for which you’ve offered no evidence. In other words, you’re demanding a logical impossibility: that they ‘prove a negative.’”

“Now, wait a minute.” Weaver’s cheeks had turned pink. “Would you rather risk the lives and health of millions over a technology whose potential risks are filled with uncertainty?”

“I am only trying to understand your position, so that I can report it accurately. Let me summarize what you seem to be saying. First you label your lack of evidence as ‘uncertainty.’ Then you ban things, based on that very lack of evidence. So the agency’s position seems to be: ‘Precisely because we have no case, you’d better do what we say.’”

“That’s insulting,” Crane said, his voice rising. “And you also sound like an advocate. I thought you were supposed to be an objective journalist. You’re supposed to be neutral.”

Hunter sat back and folded his own arms across his chest. “An objective journalist is not supposed to be neutral about facts or logic. And speaking of lack of objectivity, it sounds as if you’ve already made up your minds to ban fracking, even in the absence of facts or logic.”