The People's House

by David Pepper

  Unlike his predecessors, Kazarov did not walk away. Instead, Siberneft quietly experimented with an old drilling technique called hydraulic fracturing, or “fracking.” Fracking involves drilling accompanied by the forceful injection of huge volumes of water, laced with a cocktail of chemicals and other materials such as sand, to blast apart the shale and capture the oil and gas trapped within.

  Energy companies had conducted “vertical fracking” for decades, but the technique only generated marginal economic benefits when a shale formation lay miles deep, as it did in western Siberia. The fact that the shale formation was never vertically thicker than about 100 feet only compounded the problem. The economics of drilling deep vertical well after deep well for a mere 100 feet of shale per well simply didn’t add up. Too many wells, too deep, too expensive, too little return on an enormous investment.

  To make sense (and money), the massive Siberian shale formation required a new approach—the ability to drill through the acres of rock horizontally. Kazarov’s engineers went to work developing the tools and techniques to do so. After several years, they succeeded, reaching the point that a single vertical well could generate numerous miles-long horizontal drilling wells in multiple directions.

  Once perfected, the new process produced immediate results. The company kept the breakthrough to itself and rapidly acquired as much land as possible in western Siberia.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. Far below barren wells, we are producing millions of cubic feet of gas per day,” Yuri, Siberneft’s chief of operations and today’s driver, explained to his boss. “And with the new pipeline, we are now able to ship it both west and east.”

  “That is progress. From a dead land, we have built an empire.”

  Two hours after leaving the airport, they reached the smoothest section of road of the entire trip. The two miles of new asphalt brought them to an immaculate, off-white three-story building. But as they pulled up, the striking edifice was not what caught Kazarov’s eye. Behind the building, as far as he could see in any direction, hundreds of silver wells jutted out from the frozen tundra.

  Kazarov leaped out of the van, faced the wells, and turned his head slightly, right ear forward. His good ear. Above the howl of the wind, a low humming sounded.

  “The sweet sound of gas being pumped out of the ground.”

  After twenty seconds, Kazarov walked briskly into the building. Yuri jogged to catch up to him, then escorted him up one flight of stairs into a conference room. Six men quickly grabbed their seats, and Kazarov sat down at the head of the table. Only Yuri remained standing

  “Good afternoon, tovarischi. Congratulations on your success. Yuri, tell me about our Western plan.”

  The day’s visit was not simply a sightseeing tour. It also presented a big decision.

  “Sir, the exciting news is that we have located an area in America with similar advantages to what we see here.”

  Yuri looked down at a bearded, dark-skinned man seated to his right.

  “Davai.”

  Clearly nervous, the man fumbled around as he unrolled a large, rough map of the eastern United States across the marble table. In addition to the outlines of the states themselves, a shaded area spanned much of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio and West Virginia.

  Yuri leaned over the table, removed a pen from his pocket, and pointed to the boundary where Ohio and Pennsylvania come together. “This is the old American Midwest. American geologists have long known that vast amounts of natural gas, oil, and other chemicals are trapped in a shale formation a mile below this area. It is called the Marcellus formation.”

  “Mar-sall-oos?” Proud of his English, Kazarov was a stickler for getting his pronunciation right.

  “Mar-sell-us.”

  “Mar-sell-us. Thank you. Please proceed.”

  “But like here, the depth of the formation, combined with its average thickness between 50 and 150 feet, made it economically impossible to drill there. The Americans long ago abandoned it.”

  “But our technology will work there, correct?”

  “We have concluded that it will.”

  “Good. How significant is the potential of this area?”

  “Enormous. It spans more than 100,000 square miles, with hundreds of trillions of cubic feet of natural gas packed within the Marcellus shale.”

  Kazarov smiled broadly.

  “And unlike here, Marcellus’ location is strategically perfect.”

  Yuri nodded, pointing his pen to New York.

  “That is the key. It is only hundreds of miles from New England and New York, and not much further from Chicago. About half of the U.S. population resides within 600 miles of the site.”

  Kazarov nodded his head slowly, taking in the good news.

  “And close to major seaports as well.”

  “Yes. New York. New Jersey. Baltimore. But the region also sits right on the Ohio River, which flows into the Mississippi and then to New Orleans.”

  He traced his pen along the boundaries of Ohio and Kentucky as he spoke.

  “How will our work be greeted?” Recent forays into Europe had met fierce resistance, costing him millions in bribes to move things forward.

  “These are traditional mining communities that have struggled in recent decades. They will appreciate a new economic vision, especially when we adopt our generous approach.”

  Kazarov stood up, looking again at the map. He eyed eastern Ohio and Pennsylvania. Glanced east to the coast. West toward Chicago. Didn’t say a word. Neither did the others, who only stared at their boss.

  Then he cast a mischievous grin, pointing his pen at a spot back in Pennsylvania close to Lake Erie.

  “What is there?” Yuri asked.

  “Somewhere near there is a small city named Titusville. It is where Americans first discovered oil.”

  He paused, then pointed a long finger at the top-right corner of Ohio.

  “And this is where Mr. Rockefeller built his oil empire. Now, when no one is looking, we will unleash an energy boom back where it all began.”

  Chapter 13

  YOUNGSTOWN—CINCINNATI: 118 days after the election

  “Tucker didn’t even break a sweat,” the veteran political reporter of the Toledo Blade told me. “He never does.”

  A surprising assessment, since Democrat Dwight Tucker’s Eleventh District actually leans Republican. Encompassing a portion of Toledo and Lucas County, the Eleventh reaches west and south to encompass rural, conservative counties all the way to the Indiana border. Despite the strong Democratic leanings in Toledo and its suburbs, President Johnson won it both times.

  Tucker did almost nothing in Congress, but he was a local legend for one reason: His office provided the most responsive constituent services of anyone on the Hill.

  The Tucker philosophy was simple: take all calls for service and get them done immediately. Social Security, healthcare, veterans’ services, a Pell Grant, a Naval Academy recommendation, a streetlight—no service was too small. And once completed, Tucker himself penned a handwritten note memorializing every act of service.

  The congressman firmly believed that in his toss-up district and amid the chaos of national politics, constituent service was the best way to stay in office. Despite a few scares in wave years, his approach had never failed.

  He had long fascinated me, but what now piqued my interest was that Tucker’s Eleventh District was a clear Abacus target. All four Northwest Ohio counties where Abacus had placed its machines were in the district.

  According to the Blade accounts and the result, Tucker’s election could not have differed more from Kelly’s loss. The Republicans had recruited an opponent who initially looked to be tough and talented. Key Republican leaders had visited often, with the minority whip himself stopping through three times. But thanks to Tucker’s popularity and his oppone
nts’ mild tax dodge scandal, the challenger faded quickly. By the fall, little drama remained in the contest, and Tucker waltzed to a fourteen-point win.

  On the other hand, Hamilton County, home to Ohio’s First District, offered unexpected drama last November.

  Sitting on Ohio’s southwest corner, on the border of both Indiana and Kentucky, Hamilton County comprised its own congressional district. President Johnson won the county in her re-election bid, but not by a lot. More notably, as I witnessed from that bar stool in St. Clairsville, Congresswoman Ella Smathers lost.

  Smathers was supposed to win. A seven-term congress- woman who had served a decade on Cincinnati’s City Council before rising to Congress, she championed populist economics that appealed to the urban electorate of Cincinnati, while her pro-life stance earned her support in the heavily Catholic suburbs of Hamilton County.

  The demographics of the district meant she had never won by a large margin. Still, last November, all expected victory once again. Instead, Pete Warner, a little-known Colerain Township trustee, toppled her 52 to 48 percent.

  The loss was a blow rivaling Kelly’s upset. And the district had also used Abacus machines. The county’s decision to select Abacus despite its higher cost stuck out from the others, so I made the five-hour drive to the Queen City to interview the man who had made it happen.

  Compared with Monroe County, the Hamilton County Board of Elections felt like a Fortune 500 headquarters, elevator and all. A woman greeted me as I entered the third-floor lobby.

  “How may I help you, sir?”

  She spoke with a slight Southern twang. Same state, different accent. She was far more serious than Struthers had been.

  “I’d like to talk to Dan Snyder.”

  Her mouth opened slightly, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, she called her supervisor.

  “What do you need help on?” the grim-faced supervisor asked after emerging from an office in the back.

  “I’m interested in talking to Mr. Snyder about the county’s decision to switch voting machines a couple years ago.”

  “You’ll have to talk to our interim elections administrator,” she responded. “Saddest thing. Dan was killed in a terrible car accident several years ago.”

  Chapter 14

  LONDON: Three years before the election

  “What is the problem, gentlemen?”

  Kazarov puffed his third cigarette of the morning.

  Andersson sat across from him. A monitor on the wall displayed a third man, the newest member of the team—an American. Both of their faces froze from the tone of the question. An awkward silence followed.

  “Gentlemen?”

  Finally, Andersson weighed in.

  “We still cannot get the gas out of the region. The bottleneck is extreme.”

  “We have discussed this. We will build the pipelines. Simple.”

  “It is not that simple, Mr. Kazarov.”

  Until several months ago, Kazarov’s American rollout had proceeded smoothly.

  As he always did, Kazarov started quietly. Doing so kept down the price of almost anything he would need to purchase while also keeping his competition in the dark. He filed the paperwork establishing Marcellus Enterprises as a new private Ohio corporation, and worked hard to conceal his role.

  He then recruited home-grown employees to populate the company’s top echelons and plucked Jim Mason from a dead-end career at Shell Oil. Mason did not have all the skills necessary to lead the new operation, but Kazarov didn’t need him to. All Kazarov needed was a résumé sufficient to give a credible face to the operation. Mason looked the part.

  As expected, initial tests found robust gas reserves throughout the region and confirmed that their Siberian fracking technology could draw it out of the ground. Marcellus signed leases everywhere they could. Soon, the company controlled millions of acres on both sides of the Ohio River.

  When the wells began to flow, Kazarov watched gleefully as this sleepy slice of Appalachia exploded in gas, oil, and money. Farmers who had toiled on their land for years with little to show for it emerged as millionaires almost overnight. Vendors and contractors put more people to work. And as they started to spend more money, the secondary benefits of the boom put dollars in the pockets of retailers and restaurants, motels and malls. The region saw its first positive economic momentum since the height of the coal industry. And unlike his competitors, Kazarov shared the growth broadly, intentionally maximizing the number of people on the ground who felt a stake in his success.

  With all the new economic activity, government tax revenues soared. And those dollars were immediately needed. An entire region that had not upgraded its infrastructure since the 1950s was overwhelmed. To meet the needs of the new industry, counties found themselves under the gun to construct new roads, new housing, and new sewer and water systems. Local and state officials did all they could to alleviate the glut, eager to keep the good times going by giving out contracts with their newly-found resources.

  But the most pressing need was the one those local governments couldn’t address: Marcellus needed a way to move enormous volumes of natural gas out of the region to big population centers and global markets.

  “Why is there a problem with the pipelines? It is a simple plan. Nothing as complicated as Siberia, or even Ukraine.”

  Four months before, Kazarov had signed off on his engineers’ recommendation to build three pipelines out of the region—to New York, to Maryland, and to New Orleans.

  “The design and construction of the pipelines are not an issue. You are right. That part is simple.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “America has a vast array of regulations at all levels of government. Our lawyers warn that the approvals required for these pipelines will take years if we follow the standard procedures.”

  “We do not have years to waste,” Kazarov responded.

  “We do not,” Andersson affirmed. “To avoid delay, we must take the plan to the highest levels of American government for one single approval. A national approval that circumvents the others. It is the only way it can happen.”

  “Then that is what we will do.”

  Chapter 15

  CINCINNATI: 118 days after the election

  “Can you walk me through the thought process of switching to Abacus machines?”

  After filling me in on Dan Snyder’s death, the interim administrator gave me fifteen minutes to ask my questions.

  “I really can’t. That was Dan’s recommendation, and the board went along with it.”

  “Despite the higher price?”

  “Yep. Dan pitched a fit about the quality of Diebold’s work, and that settled it. No one wanted to be embarrassed during a national election, and he really put them in a corner. They sucked it up and paid more for the new system.”

  “What was wrong with the Diebold machines?”

  “Again, that was Dan’s thing. I can let you look at his files if you want. They’re all public record.”

  Perfect. My pestering paid off. I set up shop in a small conference room and looked through the boxes of materials that covered the switch and the years prior to it.

  Snyder’s hair-on-fire warnings about the problems with Diebold left me with two questions: What went wrong? And for how long?

  The answers? Nothing and never.

  Despite Snyder’s dire memos, there was no documented pattern of problems with the county’s Diebold technology.

  Several years of after-election reports described no serious issues with the Diebold machines. A power outage had caused delays in one primary. Poorly trained poll workers once tossed ballots incorrectly. There were disputes over provisional ballots and other issues. But there was no flaw with the machines or the way they counted votes.

  Correspondence with Diebold covered many items but never in
dicated that the county, or Snyder in particular, had complained about technical issues. And clearly valuing the account, Diebold proactively sought feedback time and again. Nothing negative emerged.

  One Snyder memorandum to Diebold said it all: “Problems have been minimal, and whenever we have needed your help, your team has been incredibly responsive.”

  After scouring for hours, I reached the only plausible conclusion—Snyder had fabricated the Diebold problems. Having uncovered graft and rigged public bids over the years, I’d seen this before. Snyder provided a perfect case study of the anonymous official positioned to switch out an incumbent vendor. No doubt a well-timed and generous kickback had driven his single-minded effort to replace Diebold with Abacus.

  Before leaving, I dug up what I could on Snyder’s death. A single car wreck on I-74, heading to Indianapolis. Similar to Kelly’s. I was done being surprised. The obituary summed up Snyder’s uneventful tenure as a party activist and suburban council member followed by his six-year tenure at the board of elections.

  The story was short, buried at the bottom of the obituary page. Amazing. If a Cincinnati Red died in an accident, it’d be on the front page of the paper. But the man who runs Cincinnati’s elections barely merits a mention.

  * * *

  On the long drive home, I checked in with Andres, my editor. For the first time, I filled her in on what I was pursuing. Partly to get her perspective, partly to keep her off my back.

  “Glad you’re working on something, Jack. But that’s a wild theory. Are you sure about it?”

  “No, that’s the problem. It all could add up to absolutely nothing. A small-county chair with a kooky conspiracy theory. A couple car accidents.”

  “Right,” she said. “And a struggling company trying to regain lost business wherever it could, even paying people off. That happens. It doesn’t mean anyone was stealing elections.”

  “But here’s what worries me: If this is something, if the dots do connect, they only would do so on a grand scale.”