by Karen Black
“Look, Leonard,” I finally broke in, “We’re not going to sit here and analyze TINMAN’s entire portfolio. As you tycoons say, let’s get to the bottom line.”
Leonard sighed as though he were bowing to the inevitable. “Susitna.”
I whistled through my teeth. Susitna! At last we’d gotten to Alaska, which up to this point had figured only as the end point on the airline ticket Charley sent me. Susitna was a monster hydroelectric project in Alaska people had been fighting over for twenty years. I thought it was dead. “Don’t tell me that battle has been won?” I asked.
“Not entirely, but it’s looking good. There’s a renewed interest because of the price of oil and other alternatives. FERC–the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission–has published a new licensing schedule and we have a guy up there working with AEA to keep the inside track if it is approved. It will be a several billion…that’s with a B…dollar project…a monster dam, over 700 feet high and will produce a reservoir about forty-two miles long and a mile wide. We’re still fighting the challenges to the Environmental Impact Statement. The environmentalists are waging a wicked fight. We have people, including Ingram, lobbying Congress to authorize some financing, and we’re working with AEA, DOE and DOD who have miraculously found some money in their budgets.”
“So, it’s all over but the shouting?”
“No, the way it works these days, the shouting comes first. I’d like to say the shouting was dying down, but there are still some diehards out there who are hot about it and they appear to be well-financed and somewhat rabid.”
“A couple of questions, Leonard. First, who is AEA? And second, I can see where the Department of Energy is involved, but where does the Department of Defense come in?”
“AEA is Alaska Energy Authority. They’re the state agency we work with. We’ve developed a good relationship with them, and think we have the inside track if it gets approved. Defense is a little more complicated. By law, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers is involved if by some stretch of the imagination you can call a river a navigable stream, which, of course, the Corps will do if it can float a canoe. But the Susitna is a 300-mile long river and clearly navigable, so in this case it’s totally legit. But there are also some important strategic defense reasons for having a big power source in Alaska that is not dependent on oil or coal. Nuclear power is out. The folks that hate Susitna loathe nuclear. So, a major hydroelectric plant is in.”
“Where does TINMAN fit in?”
“We have contracts for the detailed site investigations, design of excavations and primary structures. Charley had over-all management of site exploration and evaluation. He had proposed a big part of it be built underground, so there is a lot of test drilling.
So that explains the box of drill cores in Charley’s apartment.
The AEA really liked his proposal, which is another reason we think we’ll get the ultimate contract when…rather…if it’s finally approved. We’re ready to move in drill rigs at a moment’s notice.”
Leonard pushed the button again for Sandra. She came in shaking her head almost imperceptibly. “Get the Susitna PR stuff for Dr. McGregor.” She was back in a trice with an inch-thick glossy brochure. Fold-out and pop-up graphics in 3-D Technicolor visualized a gigantic dam in a deep canyon with a dramatic backdrop of Alaskan mountain scenery. Inset photos of black bears, great bald eagles, white Dahl mountain sheep, crystal lakes, jumping salmon, loons, and dew drops bejeweling exquisite alpine wildflowers bespoke the wonders of the wilderness.
Only the dam, which in itself had a claim to scenic grandeur, was an intrusion in the natural scene. All the rest was underground, shown in graphic cutouts as an amazing complex of intake and outlet tunnels, penstocks, valve chambers, control works and a huge rock cavern housing a row of massive turbines. Operating personnel, dwarfed by the magnitude of it all, dressed in gleaming white lab coats and bearing clipboards, sat before computer screens and control consoles or inspected giant machines in spotless chambers deep within the mountain. Above, oblivious to the beehive beneath, a party of ruddy, vigorous looking boy scouts stood on a ridge in an unspoiled alpine meadow with a commanding view of the site, gazing in rapture upon this melding of man and nature.
I riffled through the portfolio quickly and handed it back to Leonard. “Keep it,” he said.
“Thanks, Leonard, but my coffee table will only hold so much.”
“Well, throw it away as you please, I have a storage problem with these things too, but they do help explain to people who have no technical background.” I pictured trying to describe and explain it all to Corky and quickly retrieved the brochure from his desk.
“So,” Leonard said, glancing again at his watch, “to use the language of diplomacy, we seem to have an area of agreement. Charley was killed on his way to meet you in Denver. We don’t know why he wanted to meet you, or what he wanted to talk about, but the Susitna Project is our hunch. As for the murder, I think we both regard the presumed actual assassin, this LeeRoy somebody, as a tool, a remote-controlled weapon, activated by money. The real murderer and the real motive remain unknown. I take it you feel it is likewise with the ‘mad bomber,’ as you put it, in Saint Paul.
“Leonard,” I said, not wishing to pursue his last point in any further detail. “Up to this point we have pretty well followed the advice you gave me several years ago about not asking a witness a question unless you already know the answer, and we have pretty well tidied up and confirmed what we were already thinking, which you have neatly summarized. Let’s ask some hard questions where we don’t know the answers. At least I don’t.”
Leonard raised his eyebrows. “For instance?”
“For instance, why Susitna? All big projects, as you have just been pointing out, have disputes, conflicts, clashes of personality, winners and losers, and involve big money. What’s special about Susitna?”
“Well, the hostility and controversy over environmental issues have been especially long and bitter. And it’s clearly not over; there are a lot of people who are still mad out there and they’re well-organized and well-financed. It’s become a cause cèlébre.”
“If this all relates to Susitna, I might understand how the focus could be on Charley. He was probably the face of TINMAN on the project. But why me? I didn’t even know about Susitna before today. Of course I’ve met with Charley several times over the past ten years since he originally called me in to consult on that project in the Andes. He’s thankfully called me frequently to consult on some other projects. But until that call Friday, I hadn’t had much communication with him, except an occasional ‘Hi, how are you,’ phone call for more than a year. So, assuming, as I do, that the bombing at my house and Charley’s murder are related, then I’d have to conclude his phone was bugged. Otherwise, there’s just no connection to me. And even though he mentioned Alaska in the phone call, it wasn’t specifically about the dam up there. In fact, I got the distinct impression it was something else. So, let me ask you another question. What about internal conflicts within the project, or any bitter in-house disputes or power struggles centering on Charley?”
“This is a very large, complex project with many difficult problems and alternative solutions,” Leonard answered stiffly. “Naturally there are disagreements and arguments within the organization. But these are technical problems and this is a highly professional technical organization. It is our business to find rational solutions for these problems and resolve them. This is what we do, and we do it well.”
Sure, Leonard, I thought. I was going to ask him about possible conflicts between Charley and the other organizations involved, Apple, DOE, DOD, subcontractors, but I decided it would be another question for which I already knew Leonard’s answer.
“Just one more question then, Leonard. Are we wasting our time?” From his wounded expression, I was afraid I stung him a little more than I had intended, and I hastened to add, “Because I could let you off the hook and get together with Hennie.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” he answered hurriedly. “You’re having lunch with the partners.” It was indeed close to noon, and though I protested this singular honor, Leonard immediately hustled me to the executive washroom and up richly carpeted stairs to the twentieth floor and the partners’ dining room. I concluded that my visit was being taken seriously.
*
“One of Fritz’s exquisitely dry martinis will be good for us,” Leonard offered, as a tall, elegantly-liveried, white-haired waiter approached.
“Stress the ‘one’ and I’ll go for it,” I said, as we sank into overstuffed leather chairs in the foyer to the partners’ dining room. It seemed we were perhaps ten minutes early. Fritz reappeared quickly, having no doubt anticipated such an order, and Leonard raised his glass to me. “Greg,” he said, “We’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve come to think of you as a personal friend, even though it started as a professional relationship through Charley. I’d like to drink to the continuation of our friendship.”
We clinked glasses and sipped. “I can only echo those sentiments,” I replied, acknowledging to myself that I really did like Leonard, despite the multiple ambivalences in our present situation and the strange events at the Cliffe Motel.
At exactly twelve o’clock the Iceman came. Oscar Helmut Mann strode in like a mechanically-driven, obsessively-tidy scarecrow and I scrambled to my feet. He bowed fractionally, gave my hand one quick shake, said, “Doctor Gregory, you are vell, ya?” to me, “Nein” to Fritz’s martini, and withdrew within himself.
Admiral Ingram and Colonel Tinsdale soon followed. Harry Ingram shook my hand warmly. “It’s our pleasure to have you aboard, Greg, in spite of the regrettable circumstances.” He was a small, chunky, meticulously-tailored, dapper man with a smooth round face and a slight puffiness around almost colorless gray eyes, giving them an unusual, lynx-like cast.
Terry Tinsdale, a moose of a man, gravelly voice, a waistline losing the battle of the bulge, and gingery hair fighting a seesaw battle between graying and thinning. He clapped me on the shoulder and bellowed, “It’s a damned bloody outrage is what it is, boy, but we’re damn glad you can be here.”
We took our places at the table, the Admiral at one end, the Colonel at the other. Fritz deftly poured a superior white wine, and we occupied ourselves with oysters Rockefeller. As soon as the red wine was poured and we were well settled into an entree of medallions de veau, the admiral quietly began.
“This tragedy has been hard to take, especially for you, Greg, because, in a way, if you’ll allow me to say so, you were Charley’s protégée.” I nodded assent. “Will you join us as one of the pallbearers?”
“I’d be honored.”
“Sandra is handling arrangements. She’ll get in touch with you,” Leonard added.
“But, Greg,” the admiral continued, leaning toward me, his pale, smooth face hardening into marble. “This affair is not going to end when Charley is laid to rest on Saturday. This is a democratic society. People have a right to express their views and protest in numerous legitimate ways. But when they resort to murder to thwart the lawful activities of democratically established public institutions and free enterprises, they have gone too far. This is terrorism, and it’s even more shocking and obscene in America than it is in a lot of rotten places in the world that we look down on.
“A lot of those people over there are under communist repression and have legitimate grievances with no democratic outlets of expression. Our people have had every opportunity over many years to oppose and protest the Susitna project by every means, fair or foul. Don’t think a lot of it hasn’t been foul. They refuse to accept the due process of law, and now with murder, they have overstepped the bounds. It’s going to backfire. People are fed up with terrorism. We’re going to pin this murder on that gang of kooks up there and destroy them in a tide of public revulsion. Then we can look each other in the eye and say that Charley did not die in vain.”
It was vaguely upsetting. Not that he had been particularly vehement. He spoke in a soft drawl, almost a flat monotone. It was the intensity behind it, like latent venom. A brief, unpleasant question popped into my mind. Could someone at TINMAN have killed Charley to use his murder as an excuse to eliminate the Ecofreaks or some of the other activist environmental groups? Is that what Ingram was hinting? Actually “pin this murder on that gang” was more than a hint; it sounded very much like a threat.
Terry Tinsdale broke the silence. “By George, Harry, Hear! Hear!”
Leonard murmured something unintelligible, and to my surprise the Iceman in his rumbling-Germanic voice spoke up. “Vas iss dis gang? Does it haf a name?”
“There’s a zoo full of them,” the admiral said, almost jovially, his tension and frustration seemingly released. “Sierra Club, Audubon Society, Clear Air Clean Water, Northern Light, Friends of the Earth, Earth Protectors, Greenpeace. I could go on. I’m not saying there aren’t a lot of good, sincere people in those groups, and that they fight for good causes. I support a bunch of them with hard money. But there is a lunatic fringe. Weathermen are still hiding in the woodwork. There’s even a rock group called the Ecofreaks, four black giraffes and a blonde. Their manager, one of the opposition leaders, has expressed some pretty militant views. Don’t worry, we’re tracking all of them. We’ve got a book on them.”
The conversation became general, mainly elaborating on the frustrations of dealing with misguided environmentalists, armchair theoreticians, bird-watchers and bleeding hearts, who lacked the technical and scientific expertise to really understand the trade-offs that had to be made between environmental preservation and the development of the resources needed to meet societal needs and maintain a healthy level of economic growth.
“Y’know,” Terry Tinsdale said, “they form these tight little networks of kindred souls and you can’t tell ‘em anything. They only believe the half-baked misinformation they pass around to each other. I was up on the Hill the other day at the Natural Resources and Environment Committee hearings. The testimony on some environmental horror story got so wild it even boggled the committee, and one of the congressmen asks their ‘expert’ witness if he has any good engineering data to support his testimony. ‘No,’ says the witness, looking down his nose, ‘engineers are part of the problem.’”
Terry’s story evoked a short round of bitter chuckles, and then Harry Ingram’s soft, insistent drawl edged in. “We can sit here and laugh, even when we stop to think of the enormous costs in time and talent expended by society in dealing with that kind of foolish, misguided obstructionism. We can choose to look at it as just a kind of social viscosity that has to be factored into the cost of doing business.”
“You can bet your sweet ass,” Terry broke in, “your coefficient of social viscosity is a damn sight less in Russia and Japan for that kind of crap.”
Harry turned his strange, cold eyes on him. “No doubt. My point is that we can live with a certain amount of viscosity. It just slows us down. But when there’s a screw loose in the machinery of society, it can tear up the whole system. Gentlemen, we are dealing with loose screws, and we’re going to get ‘em out if we have to break this job down part by part.”
The dialogue had mainly shuttled between the Admiral and the Colonel. Leonard’s eyes had shifted pensively from one to the other as they spoke, but he had offered little and had been called away from the table once. The Iceman had solemnly contemplated his plate while the admiral developed his social metaphor. He stood up abruptly. “Gentlemen,” he said with absolute solemnity, “I go to tighten screws.” I nodded at him, but he only bowed almost imperceptibly, turned his back and strode out.
Effectively it brought the luncheon to a close. Terry Tinsdale threw his arm across my shoulders as we walked out. “Well, boy, you’ve got TINMAN on your side, and I hope you can sleep a lot better for it tonight. You’re not out there on your own against a bunch of crazies. There are going to be some hides nailed on the barn door before we close this case.” I
t was one more metaphor than I needed, and I was glad it was over.
Leonard seemed positively morose as we made our way across the tastefully modulated “interior landscape” of the executive suite toward his private office. “Oh, Sandra,” he said as we passed her desk. “Greg is going to be a pallbearer. Will you make arrangements with him?” Once in his office, he turned to me. “Greg, Hennie is out of pocket again.”
“What does that mean?” I asked bleakly, as if I didn’t know, and in some subconscious way had been expecting.
“We can’t find him. Sandra, would you tell Dr. Gregory what you’ve been doing about Mr. Hennigan?” It was as though Leonard felt he had lost all credibility with me, and he was partially right.
“I called to alert Mr. Hennigan as soon as you arrived, but Mary Lou said he hadn’t come in yet. It was already eleven o’clock, so we started trying to locate him. We’ve called everywhere. I’m at my wits end.”
“Home?”
“First thing. No answer. So I had a messenger go to his house and check it out. His car is gone and the house is locked tight.”
I turned on Leonard. “What did you and that ape do with him Wednesday?”
Leonard flinched ever so slightly. “Took him home. Had a boy pick up his car for him and leave it in the driveway. I called him later in the evening and, after ringing forever, he came on, very groggy, but said he would be all right and would make it in the next morning.”
“I thought Hennie was married.”
