PROLOGUE
Washington,D.C.
Feburary, 2009
PRESIDENT LIFTS BAN ON OFFSHORE DRILLING
By Washington Post Staff
Washington, D.C. –
In a stunning policy reversal, Interior Secretary
Jackson Delamater today lifted the ban on offshore oil exploration and drilling. After less than one month in office, the President, an ardent opponent of offshore drilling, has apparently changed his mind on the subject.
“The President feels that, despite his own personal reservations about offshore drilling, energy independence is absolutely critical to the security of the United States,” Delamater said in his statement….
The President, a relatively young man, had come literally out of nowhere in the last eight years, rising from an Oklahoma state legislator to a surprise election to the United States Senate and now to the pinnacle of power. He had been a criminal defense lawyer and political activist in Oklahoma City before running for the state legislature.
The President’s rise to national prominence and eventually to the Oval Office had been accomplished with the help of a well-oiled campaign by a variety of liberal-to-moderate organizations and groups whose only aim seemed to be to undo all the policies and practices of the previous Administration. The President’s meteoric rise was all made possible by his
extraordinary public speaking ability.
He could mesmerize a hall full of college students or a convention center full of party delegates. He sometimes exuded a messianic fervor for his core issues and causes. And his causes were an eclectic collection of the old left, progressive and new – some said inspired – goals.
For one, he favored a policy of reaching out to the Islamic world. He seemed to genuinely feel that the United States had become obsessively anti-Muslim in the wake of the September 11 attacks on New York and Washington, D.C.; feeling instead that Islamic fundamentalism was simply an outgrowth of U.S. imperial policy in the Middle east, of U.S. support of Israel and of the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan.
The President’s new-found energy independence stance seemed to many to be in conflict with his level of comfort, support and trust of the Arab world. In the wake of the reversal on off-shore drilling, his background and policies once again would be examined and dissected by the talking
heads on CNN, Fox News and other assorted pundits, paid “experts” of one stripe or another.
A commentator on Fox pointed out that the President’s record fundraising for last year’s campaign included over $50 million in contributions via the Internet – contributions which could not be verified as to source, as Federal law required. The commentator speculated further that a major portion of this funding was thought to be from well-heeled citizens and corporations of Saudi Arabia and other “friendly” Arab states, which is also prohibited by Federal law. MSNBC, predictably, called this just another Fox News hatchet job on the President.
The President’s staff – many quite perplexed at his policy about-face – searched for an appropriate forum at which he could espouse his energy independence policy and explain why, reluctantly, he had concluded that off-shore drilling must be part of such a policy.
The Sierra Club, Greenpeace, Pure Earth International and other activist environmental organizations were strangely quiet. To be sure, each issued a terse news release deploring – in one form or another – the Administration’s action. But that was it. No outraged press conferences, no real follow-up. They referred to “the Administration,” not “the President,” as if it were possible that some idiot who had slipped through the cracks and onto his staff had
perpetrated this dirty deed.
Chapter 1
Off the California Coast
Near Santa Barbara, California
May, 2009
Just after 4:30 p.m., with rain beginning to fall, Captain Mike Ryan, master of the Royal Energy Company’s ocean-going tug, Barona, felt the cable tighten, signaling that his boat had the barge, Wheeler, under tow. The Wheeler was a 60,000-barrel oil barge, and it was fully loaded,
bound for the company’s refinery in Richmond, across the bay from San Francisco. It would, as always, be a long, slow trip.
The Wheeler made this trip every ten days, sometimes bound for Long Beach and sometimes for Richmond. On each trip, she was towed by either the Barona or the sister tug, the Cortina. Each trip began at the Ellwood Marine Terminal, where she was loaded with 60,000 barrels of her black cargo.
The Ellwood Marine Terminal was supplied by undersea lines from, among others, the oil platform, Holly, which floated 211 feet over the floor of the Pacific two miles west of Goleta, a town just north of Santa Barbara. The Holly had been producing this precious cargo every day since it was installed in 1965, except for the days it was closed for routine maintenance or repairs. The Holly, the barge and the tug had been a very nice investment indeed for Royal Energy shareholders.
Soon after leaving the terminal, as the Barona towed the Wheeler at five knots northwest and toward the open sea, the storm intensified, the winds whipping the sea into rough swells and the rain coming down harder. The tug had only a four-man crew, with Ryan serving the combined roles of Captain, helmsman and radioman. He also had a chief engineer, who was primarily responsible for the proper functioning of the engine and the winches, and two jack-of-all-trades deck hands. As he stared through the rain pelting the windshield of the pilot house, Ryan watched the three men scurry around the deck doing the things necessary to prepare for
rough seas. Equipment on the deck was lashed down tighter; everything not needed was stowed.
Ryan liked what he saw, especially the work of his newest deck hand, Floyd Wheeler. He had thought it amusing when the Royal Energy personnel office – what they called Human Resources these days – had sent him a replacement deck hand with the same name as the barge they towed. But the man seemed capable and unafraid of work. Deck hands came and went. They were the lowest-paid seamen and drifted into and out of his life like the flotsam washed ashore by the sea each day.
Ryan lit a cigarette and watched his gauges, making sure his heading was true. A short, stocky man with the weathered face so common to men who lived on the sea, he had made this trip a couple of hundred times in his 15 years with Royal Energy, but he was always careful. He knew
that since 1969, the pressure on oil operations in the Santa Barbara coastal area, from drilling to transportation, was enormous.
On January 29, 1969, for reasons unknown to this day, a Union Oil Company platform in that area had blown. When it was capped, the resulting pressure had resulted in five breaks in an east-west fault on the ocean floor. In the eleven days it had taken to cap the ruptures, 80,000
barrels – some 3,360,000 gallons – of oil had bubbled to the surface. Incoming tides had swept the thick tar ashore along 35 miles of some of the most scenic beaches in the United States and eventually formed an oil slick of 800 square miles. The slick moved with a mind of its own, eventually sliding south to foul the beaches of Anacapa, Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa and the San Miguel Islands.
This incident, Ryan knew, was generally recognized with starting the environmental movement in the United States. The fact that it happened in California gave that start added energy. Ryan loved his job, loved being at sea along this gorgeous coast. He just hated the fact that he had to live in California to experience it.
He was a Memphis native who learned the tug-barge business at an early age on the Mississippi River, and had adapted quickly to pulling his cargo, as he did with the seagoing oil barges, rather than pushing it. On the smooth waters of the Mississippi, tugs almost always pushed the barges rather than towing them. Those were real people, the ones who live and work along the Mississippi, Ryan thought. Californians were just weird. One of his favorite t-shirts, which he loved to wear when shopping in his local Safeway supermarket, had, on both front and back, the legend,
California Is Like A Granola Bar
What’s Not Fruits or Nuts are Flakes
The Barona dived into a deep trough. The seas were getting rougher, even though they were still in relatively protected waters. Suddenly, as she crested a wave, the Barona lurched forward, her speed accelerating. Ryan knew instantly what had happened. He had not touched the throttle. The sudden acceleration could be caused by only one thing.
The thick steel cable attaching the Wheeler to the Barona had broken. Just as Ryan was processing this alarming turn of events, a second jolt to his mental processes occurred. The Barona’s big, reliable Cummins Marine diesel engine coughed twice and died. Ryan grabbed his radio microphone and called his base at the Ellwood Marine Terminal to report that he was
dead in the water and the laden barge was drifting free in the water. He knew that with the wind velocity and current direction, the Wheeler would drift in the direction of the platform, Holly.
Fortunately, the sister tug, the Cortina, had arrived at Ellwood just after he had departed, so Ryan was assured that help was on the way. The base operations officer instructed Ryan to communicate directly with the Cortina on a second radio channel. Ryan switched the channel selector on his radio.
On the Barona’s deck, Floyd Wheeler scrambled as quickly as he could toward a hatch. When he reached the engine room, the chief engineer was frantically trouble-shooting the possible causes of his engine quitting. “This happened to me once on a tug in Puget Sound,” Wheeler shouted to be heard over the wind that whistled through the boat. “It sounded the same. Two coughs and it died. Let’s check the fuel line.”
Sure enough, a thick substance of some unidentified origin was found in the main fuel line. Once it was blown out by a high-pressure air nozzle and reattached, the engine fired right up. Cummins Marine, the chief engineer thought to himself, really did produce the most reliable
product on the market.
Ryan felt a wave of relief when he heard the engine come to life. He became further impressed with his new deck hand once his chief engineer reported the man’s quick thinking. Now it was time to go to work. Ryan called the Cortina on the assigned channel and heard the calm
and reassuring voice of his old friend, Arlen Allen, master of the Cortina. They were running at top speed – about 12 knots – through the heavy swells in the direction of the Holly. Allen’s plan was to get there first and, if necessary, block the path of the Wheeler. Ryan wheeled his boat around and headed off at top speed in the same direction.
Ryan and Allen could see the same thing on their radar screens: the Wheeler was on a collision course with the Holly. And the barge, for an unpowered vessel, seemed to be making alarming speed in the heavy winds and currents. As the two tugs closed on the barge, both men could
now see in the rainy distance that their radars had not deceived them. The Wheeler had a very good chance of striking the Holly.
Ryan was closer – and the Wheeler was, after all, his responsibility – so he took charge. “Let’s circle around her and get between her and the platform,” he told Allen on the radio. Two clicks on the radio told Ryan that Allen had heard and acknowledged his message. The plan, both men
understood without it having to be said, would be to push the Wheeler
away from the platform before attaching a tow line to her.
The tugs made several attempts to circle the barge and get on her south side without risking hitting the Holly themselves. But the winds and the waves conspired to thwart their efforts. By now, both deck hands were in the pilot house with Ryan, awaiting instructions. The chief engineer, as usual, was below tending to his own business.
Ryan and Allen were both getting desperate. Each time they tried to circle and ease up to the barge to start nudging her away from the platform, a wave would rock the barge, heaving her side into the air and making a nudge impossible. Wheeler watched the strain increase on Ryan’s face. “I’m not sure this is going to work,” Ryan muttered at length. “The fucking
sea is just too rough.”
“Why don’t we just head for her stern and ram her off course,” Wheeler suggested quietly. The barge was sliding sideways toward the platform. Ryan considered the suggestion and could think of no better ideas. He told Allen on the radio what he was going to do and asked him
to head west to get between the barge and the platform’s south side while Ryan tried to muscle the barge south of the Holly. Again, he got two clicks in reply. Allen was a man of few words but one of enormous skill with a tugboat.
The Barona struck the Wheeler just right of center on her stern. Ryan felt something give as contact was made, but his mind was on the immediate task at hand. He pushed forward on the throttle and the huge screw of the tugboat dug harder into the water. He could feel the speed
pick up. Never taking his eyes off the rolling stern of the barge, he saw with satisfaction through his peripheral vision the platform, Holly, slide by on his right.
As he put distance between himself and the Holly, Ryan returned his attention to the sensation he’d felt through the wheel as his tug contacted the barge. He directed the two deck hands to the bow to check what they could see, taking care, of course, not to get too near the bow. The sea was still pitching both vessels up and down like corks. He was desperate to maintain the contact he had with the barge lest even a tiny bit of separation causes the vessels to crash into each other. He didn’t even want to think about the result of such a happenstance.
Wheeler raced up the steps to the pilot house to report a tear in the Wheeler’s hull. He estimated it was about four feet long and just above the waterline. Yes, oil was leaking. Barges like the Wheeler, Ryan knew, were simple single-hull vessels, and any breach in the hull could result in a leak. That is but one reason why these barges were towed, not pushed. Still, the fact that the tear was relatively small and that it was above the waterline meant the leak might be small. He reported the discovery to Allen and asked him to approach the barge on its starboard side and try to get a tow line around one of the davits near its starboard bow.
Once the Cortina had accomplished this very tricky task, Ryan would back his tug off the barge’s stern and move up and try to duplicate the feat along the port bow. Then, the two would work together to tow the barge farther away from the Holly.
While he was waiting for Allen to report that he had secured his tow line, Ryan called his operation center and inquired about the availability of an oil tanker that could be dispatched to offload the barge’s oil at sea. He knew the crazies would castrate him and everyone else at Royal Energy over so little as a pint of oil being spilled in the Santa Barbara Channel. Despite the fact, he thought bitterly to himself, that between 100 and 170 barrels of oil per day seep naturally from the seabed in that channel. But still, it is what it is, and he was determined to get this barge as far away from land as he could. The weather was finally cooperating. The wind was dying down, the rain had stopped, and the seas were calming.
Ryan’s radio squawked and he was advised by operations that the non-profit group – supported by all the oil companies operating in the area – Clean Seas was on its way. Clean Seas was an oil spill cooperative, and they would work to minimize the spread and to clean up the oil that had so far escaped. He was also advised that Prime 10, a tanker belonging to the rival Prime Oil company, was at that time 15 miles southwest of their location, in route from Long Beach to Alaska. It was diverting immediately and would rendezvous with the barge.
Ryan was to keep operations posted continuously on his GPS coordinates, which would be much more precise than having the Prime 10 try to track them by radar. Operations would relay the coordinates to Prime 10 until the rendezvous was affected. When it came to incidents that would rile the environmentalists, all oil companies were on the same side. Competition could wait for another day.
Once the Prime 10’s pumps had drained the Wheeler, it sailed off for San Francisco Bay, reporting that it had taken 54,600 barrels aboard. It would offload that amount in Richmond before continuing to Alaska. The Cortina detached from the Wheeler and set sail for the Ellwood Marine Terminal. Meanwhile, the Barona, which had reattached a steel tow cable to the barge’s bow, was to tow the damaged vessel directly to the San Diego shipyard for repairs.
Once the tug docked in San Diego, after having handed off the barge at the repair pier, Ryan and the crew went ashore for a bite to eat before meeting back at the boat for the return trip in four hours. All seamen had their favorite hangouts in major ports like San Diego. The tug would be refueled and resupplied by then.
“Captain Ryan,” Floyd Wheeler said, “I need to change out of these clothes, or I’ll get grease all over the restaurant. I’ll catch up to you in a few minutes.” Ryan assured him he would save him a seat at the table.
While waiting for Wheeler, Ryan pondered the strange events that had started this whole episode. He distrusted coincidences, but of course he could never have known that Floyd Wheeler had attached a small device that used a slow burning but very intense heat to eat through the steel cable that lashed the barge to the tug. Nor could he have known that
Wheeler had also injected the thick substance into the tug’s fuel line and done both in such a way that their effects were timed perfectly. Ryan never saw Floyd Wheeler again.
Clean Seas did a remarkable job, cleaning up the oil that had leaked from the Wheeler before any of it reached land anywhere. Nor were there any reports of birds or other wildlife being affected by it in any way. Still, the environmentalists went ballistic. They needed a cause, especially since “their” President had declared open season on new offshore drilling.
Ryan seethed the next day as he sat in his apartment and read – for perhaps the tenth time – the headline over much of the bottom of the front page of The Los Angeles Times.
60,000 BARREL OIL BARGE RUPTURED
IN SANTA BARBARA CHANNEL
Santa Barbara, CA – The oil barge Wheeler, under tow from Santa Barbara to San Francisco with 60,000 barrels of crude oil aboard, broke its tow line and reportedly was rammed by its own tug, the Barona. The contact crushed and ruptured the hull of the barge, which is believed to have spilled its entire load into the Santa Barbara Channel. The extent of the environmental damage has not been determined, but is expected to rival the 1969 spill in the same area…
“Jesus Christ,” Ryan exploded to himself. “The bastards can’t get anything right.” He stomped out the door to head to the Ellwood Marine Terminal to debrief the entire incident with Arlen Allen and a half-dozen operations and public relations honchos from Royal Energy.
CHAPTER 2
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
February, 2009
The ninth long-range private jet of the day, this one a Gulfstream IV, touched down at Jackson Hole Airport and taxied to the FBO, or fixed base operator, essentially a service station for private aircraft. There, the multi-million-dollar Gulfstreams and Lear’s – and even the odd Cessna 172 – were hangered, serviced and refueled. This FBO, use to handling the aircraft of the rich and famous, also provided complimentary limo service into the town of Jackson for those who wished it. None of the planes, of course, were identified save for their FAA tail numbers. In fact, all nine now at the Jackson Hole Airport were owned by ShareJet, a company which offered a sort of air taxi service for those who did not have the funds or the inclination to either own or use their own jet.
Since the Rockefellers and others of the moneyed gentry had discovered this idyllic setting at the foot of the Grand Teton Mountains, Jackson Hole had been a favorite haunt of the wealthy. They were attracted to hunting, fishing and whitewater rafting in the summer and skiing in the winter. Private jets at the airport were not an uncommon sight. Still, nine of them landing on the same day was a bit unusual, but the always-discrete employees of the FBO took it in stride and accepted the tips as they drove the visitors – precisely two people from each plane – to the lodge in town.
This Gulfstream IV was the last of the nine to arrive but was in plenty of time for a dinner meeting, scheduled to start in one of the suites at 8:00, a meeting that would be attended by nineteen people, seventeen men and two women. Before that, some of the men would stop in the bar for an early cocktail and to check out the selection of ever-present working ladies. The ladies seemed to have built-in early warning devices that told them when corporate planes were inbound.
The dinner had been purely social. The next morning, the nineteen men and women were seated around a large square table in a first-floor conference room. The chief executive officer and one trusted lieutenant from nine of the largest American oil companies and one Saudi, well-known to the Americans.
Now, as they sipped coffee and chatted among themselves in the conference room at 9:00 a.m., they would get down to business, although only one person in the room knew at that time just what that business was. It was a measure of the respect, and perhaps apprehension, the others held for the Saudi that they were here at all, in view of the sketchy information they had been given about the agenda.
Of course, it helped that the Saudi had met privately with each of them during the prior two months, hinting at his plan and encouraging them to attend this important – and secret – meeting. Enlightened self-interest, as always, played a major part in their individual decisions to attend. Also playing a part was the knowledge that most, if not all, of the others would be there, and how would it affect their business if they were the only ones who were invited and chose not to attend.
Akrum al-Kahtani, 55, was one of the hundreds – maybe thousands- of cousins in the Saudi royal family. He had served for many years as his country’s oil minister, before being honored by the king with the rank of Ambassador at Large. It was during his oil ministry that his guests had become acquainted with him. Known to be a shrewd custodian of the one resource that made his country a player on the world stage, he had earned the respect of his guests as a practical businessman and as a man with keen political instincts.
He knew that without its oil, Saudi Arabia, as with much of the Middle East, would be little more than a sunbaked sand dune that was worth nothing to anyone other than the Bedouins who have scraped survival – and nothing more – from the land for centuries. He also knew that because of the complex political and military alliance with the United States, Saudi oil was being pumped from the land at – to him, at least – an increasingly alarming rate, given the current price per barrel.
He knew that without its oil, Saudi Arabia, as with much of the Middle East, would be little more than a sun baked sand dune that was worth nothing to anyone other than the Bedouins who have scraped survival – and nothing more – from the land for centuries. He also knew
that because of the complex political and military alliance with the United States, Saudi oil was being pumped from the land at – to him, at least – an increasingly alarming rate, given the current price per barrel.
Paul Diles was a 68-year-old certified public accountant and was CEO of Largess Petroleum Products (LPP), an $18 billion-per-year, public oil production and petrochemical products concern based in the trendy Houston suburb of The Woodlands. He was joined at this meeting by his Vice President of Development, Dennis Guthier.
Nicholas C. Mansourian, 52, was CEO of Shale Oil and Lubricants Corporation, a $50 billion-per-year Philadelphia-based public company active in oil and gas operations as well as petrochemicals. He’d held that position for six years. Brent Burtman, Shale Oil’s Executive Vice President, sat next to Mansourian.
Daniel Mirza, 61, was CEO of Mossy Oil, Ltd., another Houston-based oil, gas and petrochemical concern, founded in 1895 and now publicly-traded, with $65 billion in annual revenue and 16,000 employees worldwide. His childhood friend, Arthur Pariga, now a vice president, sat at his side.
Kristina Vandam was an enigma. Vandam was the only woman at the top of a major oil company, the Chairman and CEO of Prime Oil, Inc., a Los Angeles-based public company with $100 billion in revenues from oil, natural gas and petrochemicals. Prime Oil’s Vice President of Corporate Communications, Sally Schultz, sat next to her boss, mentor and friend.
Rodney O’Connor for the past 41 years had toiled at publicly traded American Energy in Houston and been the CEO for the past 15 years. He was accompanied this morning by Arnold Thawley, a well-paid “yes man.” Fleming D. Worthy was CEO at $400 billion-per-year Petroleum Exploration and Refining, Ltd., or PERL Oil, as it was known. PERL’s Executive Vice President of Strategic Planning, Russ Vosselman, was with his boss and friend today.
Gord Waters was CEO of the privately-held and Wichita-based Cosmos Oil Products, or COP Oil, as it was known. The company dealt in petroleum, natural gas and chemicals and had annual revenues of $100 billion. He sat next to Allan Eibner, COP Oil’s Senior Vice President of Finance and a personal friend as well as subordinate.
Robert Beck had been CEO of San Francisco-based Royal Energy, Inc., for nine years. During that time, he’d almost doubled Royal’s annual revenues from $120 billion to close to $230 billion. Beck was joined today by Ed Herdt, a longtime friend and confidante.
Akrum al-Kahtani looked around the table and lightly tapped his coffee cup with his spoon to get their attention.
CHAPTER 3
Springfield, Illinois
May 2009
The Honorable Homer G. Deeds was an unremarkable-looking man. At two inches less than six feet tall and 210 pounds, he had the overfed look of many southern Illinois farmers. He also looked like he would have felt more at home in bib overalls than in the three-piece suits which made up almost his entire wardrobe.
But Homer Deeds wore three-piece suits because that was what his constituents expected of a Member of Congress who had recently been elected to his ninth term. With the help of a dutiful and efficient staff, and with the symmetry afforded by his last name, he had long been known in Washington, D.C. and in southern Illinois, as Congressman “Good” Deeds.
“Good” Deeds was appropriate because, as he reminded his audiences whenever he stood behind a lectern with a microphone in front of him, he was a man of the people. A man dedicated to good deeds. A man who did the right thing. And he did. Especially when the good deed involved was something desired by a company or an organization or even a single person who was in a position to contribute to his reelection campaign fund.
More than anything else, Homer Deeds now realized that he could never return to the southern Illinois farm he and his wife owned. It had been in her family for four generations, and it still produced crops with the help of a foreman who was his wife’s cousin. But after tasting the intoxicating power and prestige of Washington, the farm would be a suffocating symbol of failure, for the only way Homer Deeds would be exiled back to the farm was to lose a reelection bid.
Now, he was awaiting the arrival of a woman who had helped avert that disaster the previous November.
Sarah Cotton had burst into his life ten years earlier, when she had first appeared in Washington as an impossibly-young lobbyist, interning for one of the blue-chip K Street firms. She was tall and trim, with jet-black hair set off by deep blue eyes and shapely legs. Within months of her arrival in the capital, her title changed from Intern to Vice President. She picked up clients and contacts – Members of Congress, Senators and key committee staffers in particular – like a bum picks up cans and bottles.
In both her personal and professional lives, Sarah was smart and resourceful. Professionally, she had been called a quick study, and she knew the art of leadership, compromise, teamwork, loyalty, manipulation and perfidy. She seldom used the latter, but when she needed it, it had proven a deadly skill. But she had never allowed herself to become some man’s toy. Oh, she had her affairs. Two of them were rather intense and ended only when she let it be known that she was not prepared for marriage or anything else that might interrupt her career. But a man’s toy? Never!
Now, Congressman Homer Deeds was waiting for Sarah Cotton, who had agreed to meet him in his Springfield “district office.” It was unusual for a lobbyist to come to Springfield to see him. Most simply waited until he got back to Washington. But the two had an unusual relationship. She needed the Congressman’s vote or support on any number of legislative or regulatory matters, and the Congressman needed her because she was smart and connected to financial resources and was a brilliant strategist who helped him in his re-election campaigns. Moreover, Martha Deeds, Homer’s wife of 40-plus years and a no-nonsense farm girl who had been hardened by that upbringing, genuinely liked Sarah.
In fact, of all her attributes and skills, the one for which Sarah was most thankful was her uncanny ability to get along with women as well as men. She well knew that many women with her appearance were immediately disliked by other women, especially married, who saw beauty as a threat. Martha Deeds might have, too, except that Sarah talked with her as well as with her husband when they were together, and Martha knew instinctively that Sarah was “their” friend and was no threat to her.
When Sarah was ushered into the Congressman’s office, she hugged him, as she always did, but only in private. She knew the speed of wagging tongues, as well as the damage they could inflict on a politician.
As usual, she was dressed in what she had come to call her “lobbyist uniform:” straight black dress, a single strand of very white pearls, tan blazer and black pumps. As always, “Good” Deeds marveled at her beauty and briefly thought, as usual, “If I were just 20 years younger…” The thought never lasted long but was impossible for him to completely suppress.
“Thanks for coming to Springfield,” Deeds said after his secretary had poured coffee for both of them. “I take it something couldn’t wait until I got back.”
“Actually, Congressman, it may have waited, but then I’d have missed the chance to have dinner with you and Martha at your favorite restaurant.” Deeds’ broad smile told her that, once again, she had said just the right thing at just the right time.
“Well, it’s always good to see you, whether here or in Washington. But before you start, let me tell you again how much Martha and I appreciate your work in the last campaign.”
In the first week of October the year before, with the election just a month away, Deeds found himself tied in the polls with his opponent, a relative political newcomer who railed against Washington “insiders” such as an eight-term, “entrenched” Congressman named Homer Deeds. Sarah Cotton had met with the challenger, a relatively young married man with a wandering eye.
Sarah had told the challenger that she had several clients who potentially were prepared to back the challenger with a very large independent expenditure campaign that would send Mr. Deeds back to his farm with his tail between his legs. The challenger was panting with excitement. Some of his excitement was over the independent expenditure
The challenger was invited to a preview of the potential campaign.
It was to be set up in a hotel suite in Washington, where he would also be able to meet some of the supporters. Of course, he was able to rearrange his busy schedule, even though it was against the campaign finance laws for a candidate to have any contact with an independent expenditure campaign. That was why they were called “independent.” But only the stupidest and most politically naïve actually believed those campaigns were ever truly independent.
When the challenger arrived at the suite, there were several men in business suits and four very beautiful young “hostesses” to serve them drinks and snacks of the finest variety. He was quite drunk in a little over an hour and forgot completely about the screening, occupied as he was with a stunning green-eyed blond who was seated with him on a sofa and seemed intent on sticking her tongue through his ear and into his brain. And, should he misread her intentions, she was also animatedly rubbing his thigh, her hand distractingly close to his crotch. The young man did not even notice when the television came on with the screening of the “campaign.” Actually, it was a series of hit pieces from other districts and other campaigns around the county, and the other men had, one by one, left the room, but once again, the enthralled man did not notice anything but the hand and the tongue of the green-eyed blond.
At the properly-timed moment, the green-eyed blond whispered to
the challenger that she wanted him right now, and that she had a room on the next floor of the hotel. Without saying anything to anyone else, the two disappeared and rushed to the elevators. Once in the blonde’s room, she suggested that he make himself comfortable while she went to the ladies’ room to freshen up.
He was soon sans clothing and lying proudly atop the bed. Then, the door to a large closet swung open and two completely nude women, one white and one black, jumped on the bed and encircled him, their hands all over him. This was followed very shortly by the reappearance of the green-eyed blonde, now holding an expensive high-definition camera with which she snapped over a dozen photos in quick succession. The fact that a small packet of cocaine, with accompanying implements, was photographed lying on the nightstand next to the bed would be of significant interest to the police, if the man decided that calling the police was desirable in any way.
The challenger withdrew from the race the following day and Homer Deeds was reelected in a landslide. Miracles did happen, the Congressman was convinced, although he never knew the real reason for the man’s withdrawal from the race. He had only mentioned something about “family considerations.” Once again, Sarah Cotton’s skill at the art of perfidy had been proven to be the stuff of miracles. Of course, Deeds would never know whether she was behind this particular miracle, but he had strong suspicions.
When the congressman asked her how he could help, Sarah got to the point of the meeting. “My client, American Pharmaceuticals, has developed a revolutionary new drug, Congressman. It’s called AMHD-1. Their tests show it promotes regeneration of bone tissue in the knees and hip joints. Based on their tests, they feel it will virtually eliminate the need for many of the hip and knee replacement surgeries require today.”
“Fascinating,” Deeds mused. He knew several people who had gone through the surgery and the agonizing rehabilitation required afterward. For some, he knew, the surgery did not go well and they were worse off afterwards than they were before the surgery. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, the Food and Drug Administration has been dragging its feet on approval of expanded trials. As you might imagine, the orthopedic surgeons and their suppliers are not thrilled with the prospect of virtually being put out of business. They’re making unfounded claims and lobbying the FDA hard, claiming AMHD-1 doesn’t work, it causes harmful side-effects, that sort of thing. Nothing less than what we’d expect. But American Pharmaceuticals disagrees, based on its own tests, and all it’s asking for is approval of expanded trials.”
The Congressman’s brow knotted. He was not known as a great admirer of the FDA, which was the main reason Sarah had come to him. “I’d be happy to help any way I can, Sarah. Can you get me whatever documentation you have on the American Pharmaceutical tests and the arguments of the orthopedic surgeons?”
Sarah smiled brightly as she reached into her briefcase and extracted a thick file, which she handed to him. He was not surprised that she had come prepared.
“I’ll confer with a few of my colleagues,” he said. “I know some who believe as I do that the FDA is too prone to pressure from ‘traditional’ medicine. We’ll see what we can do about suggesting to the FDA that expanded trials hold little risk and might make certain senior members of Congress more amenable to FDA budget requests.”
Sarah stood. She had three hours to get to her hotel, shower and rest a bit before meeting Homer and Martha Deeds for dinner at the Congressman’s favorite steakhouse. Again, she hugged him before opening the door and leaving.
In fact, her hotel was a short walk from the office building in which Homer Deeds’ district office was located. She shed clothes while her laptop booted up. She checked her email before showering. One email was from Jared Welch, another Washington lobbyist, albeit with a wholly different type of client than hers. It confirmed their meeting next week at his office.
The dinner went splendidly. Sarah’s prime rib – end cut – was superb and with business over, she was able to relax and enjoy the company of friends. Martha brought her up to date on their grandchildren and the farm. Sarah was always amazed at how current the woman was with the crops that were growing successfully and the ones they had trouble with. Martha gossiped a bit about some of the Congressional wives. There were a few – from California and New York, especially – that she disliked intensely, and she loved to point out any damning story she heard about them or their husbands.
After dinner and almost two bottles of wine, Deeds suggested they skip dessert and head home. The Deeds must leave for Washington the next morning, he said, because he had some important business to take care of regarding the FDA. He winked at Sarah as he said that, and Martha beamed. He had obviously shared at least part of Sarah’s “problem” with her before dinner. The Congressman’s car was parked right in front of the restaurant, and even though it was only a block away, they insisted on dropping Sarah at her hotel.
Sarah’s flight was the next afternoon, so she would have half a day to rest and clean up emails before getting back to her office. She called the bell desk and had them pick up one of her outfits for cleaning. In her work, she must always look fresh and her clothes new. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, it was a real chore to make that happen.
CHAPTER 4
Washington, D.C.
The Next Week
Sarah Cotton bounded up the steps of the Capitol Building as if she owned them. Sometimes, she thought wryly, she did. She and the thousands of other lobbyists who spent so many hours hurrying up and down them.
Members of Congress, of course, were seldom seen on the steps in front of the magnificent building, unless it was to address a gathering of the press or some group of constituents; a high school championship football team, a church choir on a field trip or a bus load of senior citizens. Normally, the members entered and left the building by means of the underground tram which whisked them back and forth to their various office buildings where they and their staffs spent most of their time.
Now Sarah was hurrying to make the 10:00 a.m. subcommittee hearing on the French-developed so-called “day after” pill known as RU486 on behalf of a pharmaceutical client. It was nearing FDA approval, but, because it was a form of birth control not involving abstinence, its approval was mired in political warfare. Sarah, both personally and professionally thought FDA approval should be pro forma, given that the product had been legally and safely on the market in France and several other European countries for over two years.
The hearing did not last long – by the normal standards of Congressional hearings – and went quite predictably, with three fundamentalist clergymen from obscure and indefinable denominations railing against the drug as a product encouraging young women of no moral footing to engage in fornication against God’s laws without any fear of consequences.
One of the blow-dried men of God pointed out that it was appropriate that the French – Godless whoremongers that they are – would have developed such an evil antidote for procreation. Sarah managed, with considerable effort, not to laugh aloud at some of the absurdities these men of the cloth uttered in the Lord’s name. In the end, the hearing adjourned with no vote, some of the members of the committee paralyzed by the fear of political retribution.
Sarah had just enough time to hurry two blocks to the Hyatt Regency to sit in on an open meeting of Citizens for Responsible Growth, or CFRG, which she had heard from several people was an up-and-coming conservation group based in Monterey, California. It was, she had heard, much more centrist and forward-thinking than a group such as Greenpeace, which she thought was more interested in armed revolution and creating a new world order than in protecting the environment. Sarah was, at heart, a conservationist, which she saw as entirely different from what many called an “environmentalist.”
By the time the hour-long presentation ended, Sarah had become even more interested in CFRG. The group’s President, a tall, ruggedly handsome man named Boone Malory, had presented CFRG’s goals in an orderly and businesslike manner, without the strident rhetoric of so many in the environmental movement.
But after the meeting ended, when she had made her way to the front of the room to talk to the man, she learned he had hurried out a side door. Another meeting, she had been told by one of the young helpers from the hotel, who was busy packing away the laptop from which Malory had made his PowerPoint presentation.
Later that day, Sarah was sipping a Campari and soda at Domenico’s on K Street with fellow lobbyist and sometime lover Jared Welch. “I’ve got a good shot at RU486,” she said. “It may even make it through this session, although it didn’t come to a vote today. Those fundamentalist assholes almost made my case for me, their testimony was so preposterous. Even our favorite subcommittee nay-sayer, the Bible-thumper from Mississippi, had a hard time keeping a straight face.” Jared knew who she was talking about.
Sarah filled him in on the highlights, if they could be called that, of the opposing testimony. “Sounds like you wrote their speeches for them,” he said with a wink.
“I wish I could take credit for it, but, honestly, Jared, I don’t think even I could have dreamed up some of the crap they threw around today.”
“If you get RU486 though this Congress, you’ll be able to write your own ticket,” he said. “You’ll become the lobbyist every well-dressed special interest will have to have.” She grimaced.
“Don’t tell me you’re still thinking about getting out of the business,” he said quickly in response to her facial expression.
“I’m just tired of it, Jared. I’m bored. This was fun last year, but now I need a change. I want to do something…meaningful.”
“God, I wish some of those people on the Hill could hear you say that. But I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you marry me? That, my love, would be meaningful.”
Sarah gazed at Jared as she extracted from her purse and lit a Turkish cigarette. It was a habit she allowed herself to indulge in occasionally. “Maybe to you, Jared,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But I’d be bored with you by next year and looking for a new model. And you know as well as I do that it’s true. You’re a sweet guy and a fantastic lover. Really fantastic. But I like you now and then, not every day. I don’t think I could like anyone every day.”
“So what do you mean by something meaningful?” Jared asked, trying and not quite succeeding not to sound as defeated as he felt. “Whatever you decide to do that’s ‘meaningful,’ won’t you just be bored with it in another year, too?”
“Fair question. Maybe. Perhaps even probably. But in the year or whatever before I get bored, maybe I’d have accomplished something I can look back on with pride.” She paused, eyes focused far away. “Anyway, I want to see myself as useful instead of just greedy.”
“Greedy?” Jared almost gasped. “You really see yourself as greedy? I know I’m greedy and I see it in damn near everyone else on the Hill. But you? I see you just doing your job. You aren’t living the dream like the rest of us. You’re better at what you do than most, but you don’t live the high life. Your condominium is simple. You don’t even own a Benz or a BMW like everyone else has to have. The last thing you seem to me is greedy.”
“I guess it’s just the nature of the job. I know I get paid well and I usually manage to convince myself that I believe in the causes I get paid to promote. But then I have to ask myself why I continue to work for some of these slime balls. When I think about that, I think I must take it because I’m greedy.”
Jared sipped his scotch and water. He always felt exhilarated in the company of this beautiful woman. Now he felt almost suffocated. He could not bear the thought of Washington, D.C. without her around, even if he only saw her occasionally, and on her terms. He signaled to the waitress that another round of drinks would be appreciated.
“So back to meaningful. Do you have anything in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I sat in on a meeting at the Hyatt this afternoon. It was a group called Citizens for Responsible Growth. I was really impressed. They have an ambitious agenda and they stressed their style was to approach environmental issues sensibly, working inside the system. None of the radical crap like Greenpeace and the others that do more damage to conservation causes than they could ever do good.”
“Do you really think they’ll get anywhere with that approach?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I think they need a good lobbyist. Someone who knows how this town works and who can get their positions heard. They’re based out in California, and while I like everything I heard today, one thing I didn’t hear was that they had any real presence here.”
“And you’re just the one to give them that,” he said, a statement, not a question. “So what’s stopping you?”
“The lead guy, Malory? I tried to introduce myself after the presentation but he’d already bugged out. I think he’s a Washington outsider and knows it, but doesn’t know how to go about getting on the inside.”
Jared smiled. “Boone Malory.” It was a statement, not a question.
Sarah nodded, her face showing her shock. “You know him?”
“I know him. Known him since college. Really nice guy, but he’s not very outgoing. And he’s scared to death of women, always has been. Didn’t date that much in college when everyone around him was fucking their brains out. But I like the guy. He finally met the right woman, just before we graduated. They had a son. Then I heard the wife and son got killed in some kind of accident three or so years ago. A boating accident, I think it was. We’d stayed in touch before that, but then he became kind of a hermit. I couldn’t even remember the name of his organization until you mentioned it. I just knew it had something to do with the environment. I’m surprised he made a presentation at the meeting today. I’d have thought he’d have left that to others.”
“So you haven’t talked to him for three years.” Sarah muttered.
“No, I haven’t, but in the coincidence of all time, I had a phone message from him at the office this morning. The message said he was in town – just for the day – and that he’d try me again if he had the chance before he left for the airport. He left his number in California. Or maybe it was a cell phone number.”
Sarah brightened immediately. What an incredible coincidence! “Can you call him for me, Jared?”
“I can do that but I hope your interest in him is just as someone to work with. He’s a good-looking guy and I don’t need any more competition for your affections, as shallow as they are.”
“Touché,” she said. “But I’ve never mixed romance with business. You’ll notice you and I have never worked for the same client. That’s not by chance.”
“Okay,” Jared said with a grin that Sarah felt was just a tad forced. “I’ll call him tomorrow. I’m sure I can talk him into meeting with you. But I think you’ll need to draft the agenda carefully. Why he needs you without pointing out that he doesn’t have the skills or knowledge to do his job without a lobbyist, that sort of thing.”
Sarah put her hand over his and gave him the sort of smile that could turn a man into a puppy. “You’re too good to me,” she said as she stood. “And that’s enough business talk. What does the rest of your evening look like?”
Jared bit down hard on the hook she had dangled. More quickly than she thought possible, he paid the bill, hailed a cab and they were on their way to his apartment.
CHAPTER 5
Washington, D.C.
The Next Morning
It had been an engaging and exhausting evening with Sarah. One of the best he could remember, and there had been some memorable ones. Sarah had a healthy sexual appetite and had honed her bedroom skills accordingly.
Jared was in his office, as usual, at 8:00 a.m., but waited until 11:30 to call Boone Malory. It was three hours earlier in Monterey, California. He punched in the number Malory had left on his message the day before.
“Boone Malory,” came the deep voice when the call was answered.
“Jared Welch, Boone. Sorry I missed you yesterday. You’re up early considering that your flight must have got in awful late.”
“It wasn’t all that late, local time” Malory responded in a professorial tone of voice. “I pick up three hours coming this way. I know you never got the hang of time zones and all. Anyway, how are you, Jared?”
“I’m good, Boone. Most of my big issues this session are moving along well. How did your presentation go yesterday? Find any new money? Or new converts to the cause?”
“Hard to tell at this point,” Malory responded. “Nobody dropped a check on me yesterday. Maybe in a day or two the mail will bring us some good news.”
“How’s CFRG doing, Boone?”
“Still a struggle, probably always will be a struggle. But we’re going about things the right way and it will take time. We’ll get there.”
“Well, it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to get there from Monterey. It’s kind of off the beaten path as far as establishing a presence in Washington is concerned.”
“Jared, you know why it was set up here. The west coast is the home base of the environmental movement. And I think it’s important to take on the Sierra Club and the others on their turf.”
“Boone, if you don’t mind me saying so, Greenpeace and the Sierra Club have a bit further reach than California. Greenpeace is worldwide and the Sierra Club is all over D.C. like a bad rash. You can’t compete with them by flying into Washington, giving a one-hour presentation, then hightailing it back to Monterey. You need a real presence here. Real and ongoing.”
“And I’m sure my good friend Jared Welch can tell me how I do that,” Malory said, both wary and with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“As a matter of fact, old buddy, I just happen to have a very good idea of how to do that.”
“And that is…?” Malory was expecting Jared to pitch him as a prospective client.
“A lobbyist friend of mine was at your presentation yesterday and was impressed. That’s a compliment to both you and CFRG. I’ve known her for years and she’s got a great track record and smells bullshit from miles away. Whatever bullshit you were spreading yesterday, she liked the smell of it. She’s been very successful and has made a lot of money. Now she wants to do something for the environment. Something constructive. She saw constructive in your approach and wants to go to work for you.”
“She? Who is she?” Malory’s voice was on the very edge of hostile.
“Be cool and let me explain, Boone. I think you know me well enough to know I wouldn’t waste your time with something that didn’t make sense for you. Her name is Sarah Cotton. As she tells me all the time, she’s a conservationist more than an environmentalist, and she liked your message because of that.”
“Well, it’s pretty simple, Jared. Whoever this Sarah Cotton is, you know I can’t afford her. I can barely afford to pay myself a salary. Our staff is down to me and a secretary. And there’s another thing; if she’s an old Washington hand, how the hell do I know I could control her? That’s an important consideration for me.”
“With her client list and track record, I don’t think the control issue is even something for you to waste time thinking about,” Welch responded. His voice too, was heating up now. “And I don’t think you’d have to gamble a single dollar of CFRG’s money on her. Not only is she a top-notch lobbyist – one of the very best in this town – but she’s a great fundraiser. She’s got what we refer to as an ‘A list’ rolodex. In other words, you hard-headed Irishman, I think she’d raise her own salary, and then some. As in ‘a lot’ some.”
Malory did not respond for a long fifteen seconds. Just before Welch asked whether he was still there, Malory said, “So she’d work off the ‘come’ line?”
“I think she would be willing to do just that,” Welch said. “Assuming she still likes what she sees when she meets with you. She asked me to set up a lunch or dinner for next time you’re in Washington.”
Malory hesitated again. “I don’t know,” he muttered finally.
Welch fairly exploded. “Jesus, Boone. Give me a break. You’re running an organization that wants to reshape the environmental debate in the United States. You and your staff of one – repeat, one – other person are holed up in some strip mall on the coast when all the action is here in
D.C. You’ve got no presence and no voice. And you never will have if you keep going the way you’re going now. What the hell do you have to lose? You can’t take a couple of hours to talk to her?”
“Okay, okay,” Malory said, his voice soothing or resigned. Welch couldn’t tell which. “I have a meeting two weeks from tomorrow with the chief of staff to Congressman Martinez.” Marty Martinez, Welsh knew, was a veteran Democrat from Southern California, fairly conservative, very reasonable and realistic and always interested in finding ways to tone down the rhetoric on any issue. A perfect fit with CFRG on environmental issues.
“Good,” Welch said, “Let’s have lunch on the 16th then. I’ll set it up with Sarah. We can talk about our college days if she scares you.”
“Jared, I’d rather not go the lunch route.” He consulted his calendar. “Can I just borrow one of your conference rooms for fifteen minutes on the 16th around 2:00?”
Welch’s voice came with considerable heat. “Boone, you’re being a real pain in the ass, especially to someone who’s trying to help you. But if that’s your deal, okay. I’ll have Sarah here at 2:00 on the 16th and I’ll have a goddamn conference room for you.”
Malory agreed in a somewhat apologetic tone and after muttering farewells to each other, they hung up.
Sarah picked up her phone on the first ring….