by David Klass
He gently stroked the side of her cheek and whispered in her ear, “Yes, I’ll do it.”
THIRTY-NINE
The president led a short man with a pencil mustache out of the Oval Office. He spoke in short, simple, optimistic sentences. “We’re gonna get this done. And fast. I’m bringing in a great team. A kick-ass team, Mr. President.”
“That’s what we need. Spare no expense.”
“I know the FBI tried to silo this and keep things from the press. I think we can use the press.”
“Harris, that’s exactly what they’re there for.”
“But I may have to skirt a rule or two, or step on some toes, sir.”
“Stomp away. Results are what I care about right now. I want this guy nailed.”
“Understood, Mr. President. Thank you for your trust. I won’t disappoint you.”
They shook hands, and Harris Carnes headed out while the president returned to the Oval Office and clicked on a sports channel to watch a basketball game. It wasn’t on yet, and they were showing curling, of all things. He grimaced and clicked the TV off, and for a moment he simply didn’t know what to do. He glanced down at some reports on his desk. He hated reading, but he picked up a report and flipped through a few pages, and then buzzed his secretary and said, “Send Harburg in.”
The scholarly aide entered his office seconds later and saw him holding the report. “Mr. President, thank you for reading—”
“I just met with Harris Carnes,” the president said. “I want him to have everything he needs.”
“Yes, sir. Jim Brennan has been trying to contact you to see if—”
“Send him a fruit basket,” the president said. “Have you met Carnes?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“I like him. He’s a street fighter. That’s what we need to catch Green Man.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president nodded down at the report. “Now, what’s this about India?”
“Well, Mr. President, as you know, they’ve been experiencing a heat wave—”
“It’s a hot country. Hot curry. Hot climate. I’m not much of a fan.”
“Yes, sir. But it’s been going on for five months, and temperatures reached a hundred and forty degrees last week.”
“Jesus Christ. Can people live in that kind of heat?”
“Not easily, sir. Among the worst stories were thirty children who died in a train compartment.”
“Terrible. Draft a letter of condolence to the prime minister. I’ll sign it. But how does this affect us?”
“Well, Mr. President, it seems like maybe the monsoon rains won’t come to cool things off this year. If that happens, the long-term effect on the crops necessary to feed billions of people will be devastating. I spent two years in India, and there’s never been heat like this before. And it’s gone on so long—” He broke off, terrified.
The president was staring at him, sympathetic but slightly exasperated. “I don’t know why smart people have such a hard time with this. That’s the thing about a onetime weather event. It hasn’t happened before. Like Noah’s flood.”
“Yes, sir.” The young aide hesitated and then said softly, “That’s a good example, sir, of what is seen as an apocalyptic event that destroyed all life on earth.”
“It didn’t destroy all life on earth,” the president said. “We’re here.”
“I meant symbolically, sir. I don’t think we should take that biblical story literally, but it speaks to the importance of—”
“Listen, we’re monitoring the situation in India, and we’ll take care of it, and everything will be fine. What you need to do is leave the worrying to me. The monsoon rains have always come, and they’ll come this year. Right?”
“I hope so.”
“Of course they will. Try not to look so worried. Do something fun this weekend. Do you like football? I’ll get you tickets. And take this report back. I’ve read it.”
“Thank you for your consideration, sir.”
“Shut the door on your way out.”
The aide left, and the president was alone. He walked to the window and looked out at the immaculate grounds. A sprinkler was pumping. For a moment he thought of 140-degree heat and thirty kids slowly dying in a metal train car. He was not a stupid man, and on some deep level he knew that the earth was warming in a way that would soon be unstoppable. But the thing was . . .
The president stepped closer to the window and turned slightly so he could see the lush White House lawn and his own reflection in the polished glass window. The thing was that he was going to die. All men died, and somehow—and it was almost inconceivable to him—he was also going to die. Given his age, it would happen in the next twenty years. And when he died, he would cease to exist. He would be gone. And when that happened, nothing really mattered, the world would be gone, because he wouldn’t be here.
FORTY
Ellen was marking papers and Julie was doing her calculus homework when the buzzer sounded. They glanced at each other to see who was busier, and Julie finally gave up, put down her calculator, and walked to the intercom. “Yes?”
“This is Agent Tom Smith of the FBI,” a voice said. “Is Ellen Douglas there?”
Julie looked at her mom, who stood up from her stack of papers and walked quickly to the intercom. “This is Ellen.”
“Dr. Douglas, I’m downstairs.”
“I figured that out.”
“I was wondering if I could speak with you in person.”
“About what?” Ellen asked.
“I would prefer to talk about it privately, in your apartment.”
“About what?” Ellen repeated.
“A case I’m working on that I can’t discuss in public.”
Julie looked worried. Ellen gave her a reassuring smile and then said into the intercom, “Well, it appears you already know my apartment number?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you. See you in a minute.”
Ellen pressed the button to buzz open the downstairs door and turned to her daughter. “It’ll be okay, sweetheart.”
“Mom, it’s the FBI.”
“I’ve talked to them before about different things. Trust me. This is nothing.”
“Bullshit it’s nothing.”
“They probably just want a reference on someone they’re thinking of hiring.”
“Sure, and that’s why they’re dropping by our apartment so late without calling first.”
“Maybe it would be better if you left us alone to talk.”
“No way.”
“Really, sweetheart.”
“Really, no,” Julie said back to her, softly but firmly, refusing to leave. She folded her arms, and mother and daughter stared at each other in silence.
“Okay, I admit it may not be nothing,” Ellen finally said. “But I promise you I can take care of this. I’ve talked to my share of law enforcement people over the years. It’ll be easier if I do it alone.”
“Why is that?”
“Trust me.”
“Maybe it’s about me. I’ve been going to all those climate rallies. People get excited and say things they probably shouldn’t say in public. Maybe I can help. Or is there something you don’t want me to hear?”
“This isn’t about you,” Ellen said.
“How do you know?”
“And there’s nothing I don’t want you to hear. But I need to do this alone.”
There was a knock at the front door.
“Julie, I’m asking you not to make this more difficult than it already is. Please, sweetheart.” Ellen waited and then repeated, this time with a clear note of desperation, “Please, dear,” and she went to open the door.
Julie, left alone in the living room, hesitated. Then she switched on her cell phone and slipped it into a decorative Berber pottery bowl on a shelf an
d left the room.
Ellen opened the door and saw a tall, gangly young man in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt and a very short haircut standing a little nervously. “Hi,” he said, “I’m Agent Tom Smith. I’m sorry for dropping by so late—”
“And for not calling first.”
“Yes, but it’s urgent. Can you give me fifteen minutes?”
Ellen led him into the living room and was pleased to see that Julie had vanished. She gestured him toward the sofa, and the FBI agent sat down. Ellen sat opposite him on an armchair and studied him. “Is ‘Tom Smith’ your real name?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Dr. Douglas.”
“You can call me Ellen. How old are you?”
“Twenty-six, ma’am. I mean, Ellen.”
“Can I please see some credentials?”
He fumbled with his wallet and showed her a badge. She studied it and handed it back. “What’s your rank and specific job title?”
“I’m a field agent. Right now I’m working for a major taskforce. The one pursuing Green Man. I’m a special assistant to the commander.”
She didn’t flinch at the mention of Green Man. “And your commander’s name?”
“Jim Brennan. But the reason I came tonight is—”
“Don’t you think I listen to the news?” Ellen asked, cutting him off. “That investigation has been shut down and moved to another agency. Your commander is out of the picture. Which presumably means that you are, too.”
Tom looked back at her and nodded. “Unfortunately, you’re right about Commander Brennan. But I still work for the FBI, and I’m still very much on this case. If you don’t want to talk to me, I can go to the people who are now running this investigation and you can talk to them. I guarantee you’re much better off with me, but that’s your choice.”
Ellen sensed that he was telling the truth. He was shy, and he seemed honest, and he was also young and clearly nervous. She felt that she could manage him, and she didn’t want to dig in and seem defensive and make this bigger than it already was. “Let’s get this over with,” she said. “What do you want?”
“You hold a chemical engineering degree from Berkeley, and you’re a professor at Columbia and the director of the Green Center, an environmental nonprofit. Do I have that right?”
“Yes, that’s all correct,” Ellen said. “I assume you don’t want to question me about Columbia, so you’re here to talk to me about the Green Center?”
“No, actually I’m not. I’d like to ask you some questions about the time when you were a student at Berkeley.”
Ellen tried to hide her dismay with a soft chuckle. “That was decades ago.”
“You arrived in California when you were eighteen. You were a chemistry major. A straight-A student. You graduated from Berkeley summa cum laude.”
“I assume the FBI doesn’t have any problems with my high college grades?” Ellen asked.
“No, Dr. Douglas. I mean, Ellen. But I also graduated summa, so I know what that takes. You must be very good at chemistry.”
“Look, you can call me whatever you want. But you said fifteen minutes. We’re already down to ten. Why don’t you get to the point.”
“Sure,” Tom said. “Shortly after you arrived at Berkeley, you became active in several radical environmental groups.”
“It wasn’t illegal to join them.”
“And through one of those groups you met a man who was slightly older and had just graduated from MIT and moved out west. You became friends.”
Ellen looked back at him.
“You were his girlfriend for almost five years. Can you tell me his name?”
“You must know it,” Ellen said. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Tell it to me anyway. His full name, please.”
Ellen hesitated a long beat and then spoke his name out loud to a stranger for the first time in nearly twenty years: “His name was Paul William Sayers, but he disliked the William and never used it.”
* * *
■ ■ ■
In her bedroom, at her desk, Julie had accessed her cell phone through an app and was listening to the conversation. Within seconds she had pulled up information on Paul Sayers, including his obituary photo in the San Francisco Chronicle. She gasped as she recognized the man she had spoken with in Riverside Park, who had quoted Green Man’s manifesto to her. She felt light-headed and gripped the edge of the desk. When she zoned back in, the FBI agent was asking fast questions, and her mom was giving short answers.
“Did you and Paul Sayers belong to the same radical environmental groups?”
“Some of them.”
“Did you go to meetings and rallies and speeches together?”
“We did everything together.”
“So when those groups staged protests or activist missions, you went to those together?”
“You’ll have to be specific.”
“Tree spiking in Northern California?”
“Paul and I never spiked trees.”
“He was wanted by the FBI for setting fire to the Gunderson Logging Company’s plant in Humboldt County. Were you part of that?”
“No. And I know nothing about it.”
“But Paul led and financed that attack?”
“The FBI said he did.”
“I thought you two did everything together?”
“Mr. Smith, you have less than five minutes left. I’m doing my best to answer your questions. Don’t play games with me and ask me about things you already know.”
“What I already know is that the FBI never caught your boyfriend because he died in another attack four months later that I assume you also weren’t part of?”
“Correct. And this is getting rather painful for me, so . . .”
“It must have been painful for him, too. His group blew up a gas facility, there was a large explosion, and his badly burned body was found in the wreckage. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“If it was so badly burned, how was his body identified?”
“You’ll have to consult the legal records of that case. My memory is that the coroner identified it.”
“A coroner who a year later left his job and spent his last five years in Europe, living rather well.”
“I know nothing about that. Paul died. We buried him.”
“You delivered the eulogy at his funeral.”
“I did.”
“It was published in a local paper. I was able to find a copy of it. It was moving. Your last line was that while Paul was dead, his spirit would live on forever.”
Julie heard her mother sob, and she stood up and took a step toward her bedroom door. Then she stopped herself. She was confused and not thinking clearly, but she knew she had to do something beyond just comforting her mother.
* * *
■ ■ ■
In the living room, the young FBI agent looked genuinely concerned. “Ellen, I’m sorry if my questions upset you. Can I get you a tissue?”
“Just get out.”
“I will very soon, and I promise I won’t come back. We’re almost done. I know this could sound contemptuous and scornful, but it’s not—it’s actually just completely practical. I need to ask you if you were just taking poetic license with that eulogy or if you think Paul’s spirit really lived on forever?”
Ellen looked back at him and realized that he was much smarter than he appeared and that he used his youth and nervousness to mask his cleverness. “What do you want from me? Why don’t you just say it?”
“Did Paul Sayers really die in that explosion?”
“Yes, my boyfriend died. We buried him.”
“You’re aware that you can get into serious trouble if you lie to the FBI?”
“I’m aware that you asked me for fifteen minutes and you’ve gone ove
r—in a lot of ways.”
“Paul Sayers’s mother—Willa Sayers—is still alive, living in the same house in Cape May, New Jersey, where Paul grew up. Have you spoken with her?”
“Not in twenty years.”
“So you don’t know if she also believes her son is dead?”
“I have no idea what she believes. She did come to the funeral.”
“I’ll be talking to her soon, and it’ll be interesting to compare her memories to yours. It must have been a very sad day for both of you.”
Ellen stood and took a step toward the front door. “I’m tired, and your questions have brought back painful memories. I’d like you to go now.”
“I’m genuinely sorry,” Tom said, also standing up. “By the way, I’ve seen your website for the Green Center. It’s inspiring. You do great work.”
“Thank you. The door is this way, just in case you don’t remember.”
He nodded and then said softly, looking directly into her eyes, “So you don’t think Paul Sayers is still alive and that he’s Green Man?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? He’s got the perfect background.”
“Except that he’s dead.”
“Yes, except that he’s dead. But if he was Green Man, and blowing things up, he might need a very smart chemist to help him from time to time.”
“Paul is long dead. Green Man uses violence, which I abhor. He kills children. I would never help him. Since you’ve been reading our website, you presumably know we’ve taken the position that he must stop. That what he’s doing is morally wrong and indefensible.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Tom told her. “And I know that you strongly advocated for that position. It’s very principled of you. Good night, Ellen. Thank you for your time and help. I’ll let myself out.” He walked to the door and pulled it closed behind him.
Ellen followed him and drew the chain, and just as she drew it, she heard the back service door of the apartment also close. She ran quickly down the hallway and saw that Julie was gone from her room and that her computer was on. The app was still connected, and it took Ellen all of five seconds to realize that Julie had listened to her conversation with the FBI agent.
