The Green Progression

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  “I’d like you to meet Jack McDarvid,” began Heidlinger, “and Jonathon Black.”

  “Pierre Devenant. I am pleased to meet you.”

  “Jack McDarvid.”

  “Jonnie Black.”

  McDarvid offered his card, ignoring the senior partner’s frown. Jonnie offered his card as well. Devenant did not return the favor. McDarvid sat down across the circular blond-oak pedestal table from Devenant’s chair.

  “I am the Washington representative of JAFFE International,” began Devenant. “That is the parent company of JAFFE USA.” His voice bore but the slightest tinge of an accent, and not one that McDarvid would have pegged as French. “As I have told the late Mr. Partello, and now Mr. Heidlinger, we have always regarded United States environmental laws as a cost of doing business.” He paused, then added, “In the United States. We see a new problem, and that is the example of these laws in other countries.”

  McDarvid frowned. Foreign environmental laws were beyond his expertise.

  “The problem is not what you might call … shall we say … reasonable environmental protection. Politically, it becomes … difficult…”

  “If those capitalistic, anarchistic Americans have adopted a set of health and safety standards, they cannot be that hard to meet?” asked Jonnie.

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you have a particular standard in mind?” inquired McDarvid.

  “We have already discussed two standards with Mr. Partello, and, more recently, with Mr. Heidlinger. I believe you prepared”—he lifted two sheets of paper from the table—“this work plan.” Devenant smiled. “Mr. Partello had praised your … creativity. I would agree. If you are successful, then we will see about a more long-term arrangement.”

  “What sort of profile?” asked Jonnie.

  “Profile?”

  “The extent to which you wish to be identified,” inserted Heidlinger.

  “Very little. Our relationship would not be a secret. But…” Devenant shrugged, using his hands as well as his shoulders.

  “The lower the profile, the better?” asked McDarvid.

  “I would say so. Excessive secrecy is just as bad, I … we … have found. So do not go to great lengths…”

  McDarvid nodded. “We’ll need to work on both issues simultaneously. I’d also like to know if you have low-level-exposure data on chlorohydrobenzilate.”

  “Low-level-exposure data?”

  “The data in the docket is all on animal exposures at high levels, extrapolated to derive a probable human risk for low-level chronic exposure. We can search for lower exposure studies, but it would save time…”

  “And money, doubtless, if we have such. Our science chief should know.” Devenant jotted something on a thin notebook that fit within his left palm.

  “You realize that we have more to work with on the metals?” McDarvid pursued. “We may need a facility visit for that.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand. But both are important. Even some delay … for the pesticide…”

  Heidlinger’s lips were pursed tightly.

  “We understand,” McDarvid affirmed. “I wanted to make sure you knew about the relative difficulties.”

  Devenant smiled, and his eyes seemed to twinkle. “The metals—they may not be so easy, either.”

  “Somehow, we never get the easy ones,” McDarvid parried.

  “That is so, we have heard. So…” Devenant shrugged again.

  McDarvid didn’t like the Gallic shrug. All big outfits were the same. Rape ’em and leave ’em.

  Heidlinger stood. “Thanks for dropping in, Jack, Jonnie.”

  Devenant stood as well. “A pleasure to meet you both. We look forward to working with you.” Suddenly, cards were in his hand. “If you need anything, please call me. Do not hesitate.”

  A look of quick confusion flitted across Heidlinger’s florid face, a look that disappeared behind the professional exterior.

  “I hope we don’t have to, Monsieur Devenant,” responded McDarvid, “but in this business, anything is possible.”

  “Thank you.” Jonnie nodded as he took the card.

  McDarvid held the door for Jonnie, looking back at Devenant and Heidlinger. Both consultants continued onward to McDarvid’s office.

  Jonnie closed the door. “Did that strike you as a little strange?”

  McDarvid nodded. “More than a little strange. Heidlinger wasn’t expecting Devenant to give us his card. He cut Heidlinger right out, except as our boss.”

  “He’s not French.”

  “Canadian, you think?”

  Jonnie shook his head. “He’s not Quebecois. He could be anything. JAFFE was a multinational conglomerate before this country’s biggies ever realized there were customers in the rest of the world.” He settled into McDarvid’s single client chair.

  McDarvid dropped into his desk chair, looked at Jonnie, then at the pictures on his credenza. For some reason, he thought about the man in the gray suit.

  “What is it?”

  McDarvid’s eyes flicked to the photos again. Should he mention the man in gray? “Just … thinking.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Standard drill—two at once. Since chlorohydrobenzilate is a pesticide, we can at least use risk-balancing. A policy paper—just a couple pages—outlining what it’s good for. I’ll do the first draft on that. You need to start on a benefits quantification.”

  “Value of crops saved, international citrus trade—that sort of thing?”

  McDarvid nodded.

  “After that?”

  “By then, if he doesn’t call, I’ll call Devenant about the low-level studies. If they show what I think, we can do another paper demonstrating that the Pesticides Programs Office screwed up the risk assessment.”

  “Did they?”

  “They always do. Usually, nobody calls them on it.”

  “So why are we?”

  “We’re getting paid to.”

  Jonnie stood up. “Are we on the right side on this one?”

  McDarvid shook his head. “The Pesticides Office probably did screw up the risk assessment on this one.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yeah. I know. I just won’t know whether we get to wear gray hats on this one or black hats. Not until after I finish reading through the rest of the docket and all the reports. Then we still have to finish our own policy papers.”

  “I don’t like being a black hat.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “And papers won’t solve. Devenant’s problems.”

  “Don’t quote Larry at me. I know that, but I need paper to press flesh, to create doubt and confusion. We also have to do the same thing on the metals. There’s something there.” McDarvid turned in the chair. “Cadmium and gallium especially.”

  “They’ll use gallium arsenide for the next generation of computer chips,” reminded Jonnie, “but why that would affect a French multinational, unless they’re moving more into computers, isn’t clear. Offhand, the metals rules seem more likely to affect U.S. companies and the Japanese.”

  “Let’s not get this any more complicated.” McDarvid shook his head. “I may have to talk to Devenant or their scientists, after I go back over that contractor report. That’s why I mentioned the need for a plant visit.”

  Jonnie eased himself out of the client chair that was never used for clients. “I’ll start on the quant stuff.”

  McDarvid nodded. As Jonnie left, his eyes drifted to the window, taking in the near-noon congestion on Nineteenth Street. Should he have told Jonnie about the business at Woodies?

  He turned the chair toward the telephone, picking up the two message slips on the spindle—Ned Llewellyn at Treasury and Fredricka Salonge in the pesticides registration office.

  First, he needed to call Angela Siskin. Maybe she would give him some more background information on cadmium, or at least let him have some of the background documents. He could get a messenger over to DEP within the
hour.

  If she were in the office. If she returned his call before he had to go pick up the car from the third attempt to fix the creaky door. If …

  McDarvid reached for the telephone.

  17

  JONNIE HELD THE RECEIVER in his right hand and listened to the ringing.

  “Hello.”

  “Veronica? It’s Jonnie.” He glanced out into the darkness, through the sliding glass door and over the railing at the lights of the Lincoln Memorial.

  “Jonnie?”

  Jonnie frowned. Had he made that insignificant an impression? “Jonnie Black. At the Ecology Now! reception?”

  “Oh … Jonnie! I thought you were someone else.”

  Someone else? “How have you been?” he asked, ensuring his voice sounded cheerful and unworried.

  “Not bad. Yourself?” Veronica sounded professional.

  “Fine personally.” But I’d be better if you sounded more interested.

  “That implies you’re less than satisfied with all that fancy consulting.”

  “Work? Yeah. You’re right. SSDD.”

  “SSDD—is that another government acronym or just consulting jargon?”

  “Same shit, different day.” When there was no response, he added, “Listen, since you’re fairly new to the area, I was wondering if you would like to go sight-seeing this weekend? I know all kinds of interesting places.”

  “Besides your balcony?”

  “Yes. Besides my balcony.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked the cool voice.

  “It all depends. We can do the standard touristy-type things, the museums and Mount Vernon, or I can take you on Jonnie’s patented tour.”

  “I think I’ve seen enough of Washington—either museums or patented tours. It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

  Jonnie frowned. “Well, if you’re tired, how about a picnic on Saturday? Ever been to Roosevelt Island?”

  “No … except looking at it from the bridge. What about the weather? It is October, you know.”

  “It doesn’t get that cold here. If it rains, we’ll work out something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at eleven. On one condition, of course.”

  “Oh?”

  “You tell me where you live.”

  “Out in Maryland—way out. You know where the Merriweather Post Pavilion is? I live behind it.”

  “Pretty well. At least, you get to listen to a lot of music. You’re right off Broken Land Parkway?”

  “Oh, you do know the area. Do you know anyone else up here?”

  “No, no … I’ve just been to a lot of concerts. Now,” he added quickly, “what do I do after I get on Broken Land? I do turn there, don’t I?”

  “You make a left. Then take the next left. The street curves to the right. My building is the second driveway on the right. The number is 112.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you then.”

  “Saturday at eleven, then.” There was a pause. “Since you’re providing the transportation and scenery, I’ll bring the food.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  Jonnie looked at the receiver. Strange—very strange. Almost as if she were treating a picnic date as an appointment. Just like too many other Washington women. She hadn’t lived in Washington long enough to claim that prerogative.

  18

  McDARVID SCANNED THE POLITE PHRASES OF THE MEMO for the critical points.

  From: WLH

  To: J. McDarvid & J. Black

  As a result of the partners’ meeting yesterday … your special expertise … and the interest of JAFFE International …

  … continue on current accounts until resolved …

  … trial period for the next 4–6 months to determine the probable future needs of your services …

  … responsible to me … work product copies to Norm Casteel …

  “In short,” muttered McDarvid, “within six months, you and Jonnie will be on your own unless you bring in all sorts of hours that the attorneys can bill at their usual three-to-one exorbitant markup.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he glanced from the picture of Allyson to the framed certificate certifying that he had indeed been Director of the Office of Policy Analysis at the United States Environmental Protection Agency. Now the old EPA was the new DEP, and nothing had changed except the name.

  He frowned as he recalled Pierre Devenant, apparently as little thrilled with Heidlinger as he and Jonnie were. The whole JAFFE approach bothered him. The metals issue still seemed somehow linked to Larry’s death. But he had nothing but a gut feeling.

  So far, all the research and all his conversations showed the same pattern. Everyone seemed willing to talk, and no one knew anything. Yes, there was a metals initiative, but it was barely under way, and any details were premature. Yes, feel free to keep in touch. Yes, everyone would be interested in any analytical or policy documents McDarvid could provide.

  Since the data package from the chief of research for JAFFE USA hadn’t arrived, he couldn’t finish the first paper.

  He looked at the computer, then at the half-open file drawer in his desk. Besides solving JAFFE’s problems, he and Jonnie still had a few other projects on the other issues—like the question of statistical testing methods for groundwater, ambient exposure levels for benzene, and whether use of a toxic waste as an on-site fuel qualified for a waiver of the disposal permitting requirements under the recycling exemption of RCRA. There was no end to the fascinating and thrilling projects.

  He glanced at the desk clock—part of the pen set he had received at his EPA going-away party. Still enough time for a long afternoon before he headed home to the kids. Another late Thursday—had it only been two weeks since they had done the work plan for JAFFE?

  Which attorney had picked up the fuel waiver for Moreland Reclamation and Recovery? He fumbled for the other memo—the one from George Ames. Carole Sturteval had the waiver, which made sense. Carole had come from the DEP Office of General Counsel, lured in earlier in the year by Larry.

  McDarvid laid out the waiver folder. Then he dug out the benzene file. Nothing he could do with that until the latest data sets arrived from the consulting engineers. He hoped the data would show that the indoor air levels of benzene were so much higher that further hazardous air-pollutant requirements were meaningless. What sense did it make to regulate outdoor air pollutants to levels safe for asthmatic chipmunks living right on the smokestack when people filled their homes with far higher levels voluntarily? But people never thought about the residues from gas stoves or self-cleaning ovens, from their dry cleaning, household cleaners, and polishes, let alone the gasoline stored in so many suburban garages.

  Not that the Clean Air Act hazardous air-pollutant requirements had ever made sense. Even the ultra-greenies at Environment understood that. And they had avoided dealing with such absurdities—until the environmentalists had gotten the Supreme Court decision on vinyl chloride.

  Now the Chairman of the House Public Works Committee was pushing his good buddy Norm Dennis—Chairman of the Energy and Commerce Subcommittee on Health—to hold oversight hearings to pressure DEP to act. Sloan’s control of the water grants, his knowledge about every member, and his PAC money sources just about ensured that Dennis would hold those oversight hearings. Hell, Sloan’s personal staff had done all the drafting for the present statute and handed it to Dennis on the proverbial silver platter—held, of course, in the velvet-covered fist of Sam “the Hammer” Sloan. Those amendments already required DEP to issue more stringent standards—standards that even some of the old-line bureaucrats were balking at because they were unworkable.

  McDarvid looked at the half-drafted status report on the computer screen. He snorted. “Where do you start, McDarvid?”

  Finally, he reached for the fuel waiver folder. He still had to pay his share of the mortgage.

  19

  “W
HO ARE YOU SEEING TODAY?” asked the guard in the pale blue blazer.

  “George Rendhaas,” McDarvid said. “Congressional. That’s 260-5200,” he added as the guard picked up the telephone.

  “A Mr. McDarvid to see George Rendhaas. A badge number, please … 358240. Thank you.” She handed McDarvid his pass.

  “Thank you.” McDarvid nodded and stepped past the guard desk and to the elevators. Two maintenance men poked at the nearest one. Nothing changed. The elevators hadn’t worked when he had worked at EPA, and they still didn’t.

  As the right elevator door opened, a courier in a black Lycra cycling outfit and a worn camouflage jacket stepped out, mumbling into a hand-held telephone, “… leaving DEP, Fourth and M, for Dupont Circle…”

  McDarvid stepped into the empty elevator and tapped the “8” button, approving of the refurbished interiors, the light wooden paneling and new carpeting. At the fourth floor, two women and a man joined him.

  “Jack! How are you? Still in the consulting business?” asked the man.

  McDarvid racked his mind for the other’s name. “Just fine … it’s the same old thing. Not much different than here, same type of crisis—” He recalled the name—Sam, Sam Jensen, Office of General Counsel, Pesticides Section. “Still worrying about pesticides, Sam?”

  “No. I’m going to be the associate general counsel for drinking water.”

  “When does that start?”

  “Next Tuesday.”

  The elevator lurched to a halt one floor up.

  “I’ve got to run, Jack, but stop by.”

  “I will,” promised McDarvid.

  The taller woman—the one with the short blond hair, the hawkish nose, and the rumpled tan wool dress—refused to look at the consultant. The black woman in the neatly tailored blue suit and cream blouse smiled softly.

  McDarvid returned the smile before he got off the elevator on the eighth floor and walked to the south end and the reception area for Congressional Affairs. George’s modular cubicle adjoined the Assistant Director’s.