Critical Reaction (9 page)

Ryan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be staying in Sherman tonight. Emily and I need to talk. You can go—we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

The siblings reluctantly slid from the booth and made their way to the exit, looking lost. Ryan waited until they were gone, then paid the bill and returned to the car. Once there, he started the engine and turned on the radio while he waited for his daughter to emerge.

So maybe he’d gotten hard on the boy. But it was Emily’s fault. She’d made him hammer Kieran about what should have been obvious to any lawyer who’d ever been in a courtroom. His interrogation had made it obvious that the boy’s story about the radiation monitors was flawed. Kieran had no reasonable basis to believe he was exposed to radiation or seriously harmful chemicals. They’d be in enemy territory trying a case against Hanford or its contractors in Sherman. And it was obvious that Kieran probably had another agenda related to his father.

Covington Nuclear’s lawyer would be merciless in pursuing these questions.

And the boy’s explanation that his lawyer withdrew so he
could find a better lawyer sounded as plausible as the breakup excuse that “it’s about me, not you.” This kid’s lawyer withdrew because she finally had the sense to recognize it was a lousy case.

He felt faintly nauseous. Why had he taken this meeting? He should have been honest with Emily before they came all the way to Sherman. He’d only made it worse.

It was fifteen minutes before Emily finally left the restaurant. He caught her mood in her strides as she approached the car. When Emily got angry—very angry—her every movement became fluid and calm, as though her rage was a caged beast she was quietly pondering when to release. And pity the nearest person when she set it free.

Emily stayed quiet for the entire drive to the Winchester Bed and Breakfast. She left the car in complete silence, taking the stairs to the second floor with soundless footfalls, and closing her room door gently behind her before Ryan could suggest they talk.

He stood alone in the hall shaking his head. This wasn’t new. But he hadn’t been close enough to her to witness this phenomena for many years.

But for the final click of her door latch, Emily had faded completely away from her father, melting softly and furiously into the dry desert air.

CHAPTER 7

C
OVINGTON
N
UCLEAR
H
EADQUARTERS

It was nearing seven in the evening, but Adam Worth knew from experience that common notions of time ended at the door to the office of the Vice-President of Environmental Operations. He straightened his bow tie and went in.

And nearly collided with another man coming out. The man looked to be an engineer, with a navy sport coat and an iPad in one hand. Mostly he looked stomped on: head down, shirt partly untucked. The man brushed past Adam and hurried into the hallway without looking up.

Cameron Foote’s secretary nodded curtly as Adam approached her desk guarding the vice-president’s inner office. Despite the late hour, her back was as rigid as an honor guard. They said people and their dogs came to resemble one another through the years. That adage passed through Adam’s mind now regarding the vice-president and his secretary, loyal as a collie to the man.

“Mr. Foote is expecting you,” she said, gesturing toward the interior office door. Adam thanked her and went in.

Foote’s office matched the man: sparely furnished, but every item intentional—from framed pictures of the VP with two senators to the pen set with
Semper Fi
engraved on its base.

“Hello, Adam,” Cameron Foote’s voice boomed before he was past the threshold.

“Hello, sir.”

Even seated, Foote cut an impressive figure: every inch the ex-Marine and Wharton MBA man he was. Tough and straight-backed. Unrelenting eyes. Perhaps he could have completed the image if he’d surrendered to the vanity of shaving his balding head. As lean and disciplined as he already appeared, it was probably unnecessary.

Foote gestured toward the single chair in front of his dark mahogany desk.

“Okay, Adam. Give me the status on Project Wolffia.”

Foote always knifed to the core of things. It was an American attribute perfected in the vice-president, but one that Adam, a naturalized citizen, still found disconcerting.

“The cleanup of the lower levels of LB5 since the explosion is complete, sir. And the new testing equipment is installed.”

“Good. Good. Have you found all the necessary replacement personnel?”

“Almost. We still require a new team leader, but I’m in dialogue with the likely candidate now.”

“Very important. Leadership always is. Then we should have Project Wolffia up and running again shortly.”

It was a question. It was also a command. The image of the wounded engineer retreating from Foote’s office crossed Adam’s mind. He brushed his bow tie, bracing himself.

“Well, you’ll recall, sir,” Adam said, “the legal case brought by the young stabilizing engineer relating to the LB5 explosion?”

“Yes. Kieran Mullaney.”

One vanity to which Foote
had
surrendered was taking every opportunity to display his grasp and memory of details. “Yes, sir. Mr. Mullaney. His case is approaching trial. His lawyer has withdrawn but he’s searching for replacement counsel.”

Foote grunted his acknowledgment. “So what’s the issue?”

“Well, if the matter does proceed to trial, there remain several . . . dangling ends. Specifically, sir, you remember Mr. Patrick Martin—the security guard. The one who submitted a statement that night on the shooting incident? So long as the case is active, there remains the possibility of that evidence . . . coming out.”

Again, the grunt. But the face remained impassive to the obvious point Adam was trying to make.

“In addition, sir, you know that if the case goes to trial, the Department of Energy inspectors’ office might take notice of any new evidence regarding the LB5 explosion that wasn’t in our report.”

Silence.
He’s making me walk all the
way onto the scaffold unassisted
, Adam thought.
Then
he’ll hang me.

“I believe, sir, under the circumstances, that we should consider steps to insure that we retain maximum control over any information about the project coming out in the court action.”

Cameron Foote was not a tall man—perhaps five foot eight. Despite his display of studied calm, Adam knew he was like piano wire underneath—so stretched that Adam once wondered whether the VP had always been this size or simply shrank over time from being so tightly wound.

Now Foote’s face remained a carving of composure and control as the quiet in the room took on the character of nails on a blackboard to Adam. From experience, Adam knew that he liked it that way: the vice-president enjoyed creating an artificial calm before unleashing a storm.

“If you’re waiting for me to say we can delay restart of the project in light of this mall cop’s report and the coming trial,” Foote said at last, straightening his already rigid back, “the answer is no. You’ll just have to keep things well managed.”

“Sir,” Adam protested, “the Wolffia team is nearly assembled and ready to go. I’m just wondering if we should delay the restart for a few months.”

Foote considered Adam for a moment. “Have you read the paper today?”

Adam was caught off guard by the turn of conversation.

“No, sir.”

Foote reached behind him to the credenza and gathered a folded copy of the
Wall Street Journal
. Unfolding it, he spread the sheet on his desk facing Adam.

“Page one, above the fold: Iran continues to operate its centrifuges to develop its nuclear arsenal. Lower corner, right: North Korea tested another weapon. Last week there was a report on the number of warheads China has accumulated.”

The VP’s finger stayed rooted on the paper as he looked Adam in the eye.

“The people I report to—the very few written into the project—will tell you it’s about a potential four hundred billion dollar profit. Let them crunch the numbers. I’m telling you it’s about a tool that this country and the West will need sooner rather than later. Now, you were brought onboard because, in the four years before your tenure, your predecessor couldn’t get the job done. How many people do you have working for you on this project altogether? Including the LB5 personnel, the core science team, the special security team, and those guys out of Los Alamos. How many?”

“Counting the temporary medical personnel, forty-seven, sir.”

“Forty-seven, and more money at your fingertips than God. If those resources are still inadequate, you tell me how. Otherwise, justify my faith in hiring you for this project. Do what you have to and get it done. We’ve already been delayed eight months by that explosion. I want Wolffia operational again at LB5. Immediately.”

The dismissal in Foote’s voice was unmistakable. Adam acknowledged his orders with a final “Yes, sir,” then stood and left the room.

As he passed through the space to the outer door, Adam
wondered if the secretary took pleasure in the parade of the fallen leaving Cameron Foote’s office each day. Did she derive some satisfaction—maybe smile behind their backs—as they dragged themselves back into the halls of the Covington Nuclear headquarters?

He shut the door behind him. The hall was empty this late. Adam turned toward the elevators leading to his own office on the second floor.

That could have gone better. But at least his options were clear: there were none. Not only did he have to get the project back on track, he had to do what was necessary to protect the project from the potential vagaries of this American lawsuit that refused to die.

He arrived at his quiet office in the corner of the empty Personnel Department. Gathering his briefcase, he locked up and headed toward the exit for home.

One thing was quite certain. As busy as the past two years had been since he assumed his false title and rank in the Personnel Office, things were about to become much busier. Several tasks he’d been putting off had suddenly become the highest of priorities.

CHAPTER 8

Emily must’ve gotten it by now, Ryan thought as he woke to sunlight piercing the window blinds of his room at the B&B. She’d been practicing law for two years—three if you counted her clerkship with Judge Freyling. After she got away from Kieran last night and had time to mull it over, she’d have seen the light. It was time to clear the air and head for home. Buoyed, he hustled out of bed, showered quickly, and stepped next door.

Several knocks at Emily’s room went unanswered. He glanced at his watch. It was still early. She was probably still asleep. He’d circle back after breakfast—or catch her when she came down.

The dining room was half full, with a single man shuffling from table to table. Ryan didn’t mind, he was in no hurry today. He took a seat by a window, setting his laptop on the chair beside him.

A copy of the local
Sherman Courier
was folded on the table, and he paged through it as he waited for the attendant to reach him. The Sherman high school summer baseball league was going well. There was a belated memorial service for three Hanford researchers killed in an auto accident on the reservation grounds the previous year. A welcome rain was expected sometime later this coming week.

Still no Emily. The rushed but cheerful attendant approached in an apron.

“Good morning, Mr. Hart,” the man said, smiling.

Ryan nodded absently.

“I checked you in last night. I’m the owner: Pavia Nikovic. We’re serving eggs Benedict this morning with Canadian bacon and toast with some local preserves. Sound alright?”

“Coffee first,” Ryan said. “Black.”

The man nodded understandingly.

Ryan felt his cell phone vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and saw that he had a text from Emily.

“Dad—I’m with Pauline Strand,”
the message read.

Ryan texted back, frustrated at how slow the process always was for him.
“Who’s she?”

The reply was instantaneous:
“Kieran’s last attorney.”

Ryan cursed under his breath. Now he remembered the name.

“We met at a cafe.
It’s not far.”
Another text flashed onto Ryan’s screen.
“I think you should join us.”

Not exactly capitulation. He cursed again, knowing he couldn’t decline.

“Send the address,”
he responded just as Pavia was arriving with the coffee. “I’ll take this to go,” he muttered, grabbing his laptop to leave.

Ryan drove the fifteen blocks from the Winchester Inn to the Daily Grind. A bell rang as he came through the door into the thick smell of roasting coffee beans. Ryan quickly scanned the place.

Pauline Strand was seated inside, across from Emily in a booth by the window. The Sherman lawyer’s bar entry had made her out to be in her late sixties—but with a fashionable dress and light makeup, she could’ve passed for ten years younger.