BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

  No one would mistake Gavin Lockwood for anything other than a slick denizen of Capitol Hill. His impeccably tailored charcoal designer suit, expensive red repp tie, and silky manner, just faintly condescending, presented the perfect portrait of the Beltway patrician.

  The man slouching beside him was a visual cliché, too, but of the asocial think-tank researcher. Dr. Lars Sunstrom wore round wire-rim glasses, a baggy navy sweater over wrinkled brown cords, and scuffed, thick-soled black shoes. Almost completely bald, his scalp’s gray-brown fringe merged into matching beard stubble. Despite the dressed-down appearance, with his arms folded, chin lifted, and eyes half-shut, he managed to project an aura of bored arrogance. Lockwood touted Sunstrom as a national authority on radiation and toxic chemicals. He also was the lead scientific author of the NLA’s report, On Shaky Grounds: Fracking’s Risks to Our Children’s Health.

  The other participant—a pretty, blue-eyed blonde lawyer, introduced as Wendy Hathaway—wore a cool blue suit and hot red lipstick. She appeared to be in her late twenties, barely out of law school. She also looked eager and guileless. Lockwood explained, to everyone’s amusement, that her main contribution to the report had been to transform Sunstrom’s excruciatingly arcane technical language “into something that human beings would want to read.”

  “Obviously she succeeded,” Dylan said, looking at her. Her face went slightly pink, and dimples showed as she lit up a dazzling smile. “I downloaded the report from your website and read it. I can see why it has caused such a nationwide commotion. It certainly presents a disturbing picture of hydraulic fracturing.”

  Sunstrom tried not to look smug, and failed. Lockwood leaned forward; he clearly anticipated another media score for the organization.

  Hunter reached down into the battered old briefcase he’d brought with him, retrieving a couple of file folders. “Here it is. I scribbled some notes in the margins.” He offered them a sheepish look. “I hope you’ll be kind enough to clarify a few things for a non-scientist. And if Dr. Sunstrom starts to go over my head, perhaps Miss Hathaway will be kind enough to translate for me.”

  They laughed. Good. All nice and relaxed, now.

  “But before I get into those specifics, let me begin with this.” Hunter slipped the executive summary of Adam Silva’s report from a file folder and slid it across the table to Lockwood. “I wondered if you all might share with me your opinion of this document.”

  Still smiling, Lockwood held it so that the others could lean in and read it, too.

  Hunter settled back in his chair. Crossed his legs and folded his hands. Watched their expressions as they began to read.

  Sunstrom was the first to react, apparently at the sight of Silva’s name atop the document. His sleepy eyes widened comically, and he leaned in closer, his eyes scanning down the page. Lockwood’s placid features changed more slowly. First, the ever-present hint of his smile evaporated; then his lips tightened; then he shot a look at Hunter and blinked; then his eyes dashed back to the page. Wendy Hathaway’s faintly puzzled look morphed into utter bewilderment.

  Sunstrom remained hunched as his dark eyes found Hunter’s. “Just what the hell is this?” he snapped.

  Lockwood’s own expression had lost its warmth, too; but as a Hill veteran, he was practiced enough to maintain his composure.

  “Easy, Lars,” he said, laying a neatly manicured hand on Sunstrom’s wrist. “Mr. Hunter, you have caught us at a bit of a loss. None of us has seen this before. May I ask how you obtained it?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Why, certainly. From its author.”

  He shut up and counted the seconds to see who would respond next, and how.

  “I don’t understand.” Wendy was blinking rapidly, as if that might clear her brain of its confusion.

  “I do,” Sunstrom stated loudly. “This is an ambush interview.”

  Hunter shook his head. “Not at all. I heard that Dr. Silva was going to challenge your report at an EPA hearing. So, after I spoke with him, I thought I would share it—with his permission, of course—and then invite you to respond.”

  “But … he’s claiming that the water samples we tested were planted by somebody,” Wendy said, astonished. “And what’s all this about an EPA hearing?”

  “Gee. You don’t know?” Hunter asked.

  “No! What hearing?” Her glance flitted from Lockwood to Sunstrom.

  Lockwood placed his other steadying hand on her wrist. “It’s all right, Wendy. We thought Adair might withdraw his challenge to our report; so we didn’t want to alarm you needlessly until we were sure there would actually be a hearing. But it’s scheduled for the 27th.”

  Hunter saw shock, incredulity, and anxiety in the girl’s expression. He felt sorry for her. Just another naïve idealist, head crammed with years of propaganda and pseudo-science, heart inflated with the thrill of doing important things with Washington big shots to save the planet.

  Big shots, he thought, studying the men. He’d encountered plenty of their type in Princeton’s Woodrow Wilson School: brimming with sanctimonious intellectual arrogance, lusting to manage and manipulate others—including kids like Wendy. He wanted to lean across the table and slap their faces. Instead, he put on his most cheerful grin.

  “So, would you care to respond for the piece I’m preparing about this controversy?”

  “It’s garbage!” Sunstrom shouted, raising his back and chin. “Those samples were not faked. I’m a scientific expert in this field, and believe me, I would know.”

  “Actually”—Hunter kept his tone even and his grin in place—“I’ve read some challenges of your credentials to do this particular research, Dr. Sunstrom. Your field of expertise is physics—not radiation or chemistry, isn’t that correct?”

  “That’s not—”

  “And I gather that a decade ago, while you were an independent consultant to other groups, at least two scientific bodies publicly criticized a couple of previous laboratory studies you did—for, quote, ‘cherry-picking data and the absence of proper procedural controls.’”

  Sunstrom was about to explode, so Lockwood intervened. “It’s not fair to expect Dr. Sunstrom to defend himself like this, unprepared. What I can assure you is that the methodology he used to produce On Shaky Grounds passed a stringent peer-review process.”

  Hunter was ready for that. “Was it submitted to an independent scientific journal before you released it to the media?”

  “Well, no. What we did was submit it to a committee of scientific experts in the related disciplines. And they—”

  “Weren’t those ‘experts’ all hand-picked from among your organization’s own scientific advisers?”

  “Are you saying they weren’t objective?” Sunstrom demanded.

  “You sent your report only to NLA’s official list of scientific sympathizers. To people already predisposed to agree with your point of view, and who have a vested interest in promoting NLA. Do you call that ‘objective’?”

  It shut up Sunstrom, but now Lockwood looked angry.

  “Mr. Hunter, you asked for our response. But this”—he shook Silva’s document—“just makes a bunch of wild, unsupported claims. By contrast, Dr. Sunstrom’s study offers plenty of facts and data. So, until this Silva fellow, whoever he is, does the same, then I think we are justified in dismissing his contentions as a pack of arbitrary assertions by a hired gun for the fracking industry.”

  “Actually, I agree with you,” Hunter said. “As you see, that’s just the executive summary to his forthcoming report. He told me he’s still in the process of writing the actual report itself. If he doesn’t offer any proof of these claims, then of course you are in the clear.” Hunter paused. Spread his hands. “On the other hand, if he does …”

  He let the sentence fragment hang in the silence.

  “That will be for the EPA to decide,” Lockwood said, his voice chilly.

  “Which reminds me,” Hunter said, looking at his watch, “I have an appointment scheduled wit
h Jonathan Weaver, the EPA administrator, at two this afternoon. I thought he might wish to see Dr. Silva’s executive summary, too. So, if you don’t mind …” He extended his open palm toward Lockwood.

  “I’m done here!” Sunstrom launched himself from his chair and stormed out of the room, his heavy shoes drumming across the tiles.

  Lockwood pushed the document back across the table to Hunter. “I believe all of us are done here,” he said, rising. He stared at Hunter, unblinking. “I do hope that you will exercise prudence and caution in reporting on this controversy, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Prudence? Always.” Hunter rose, again grinning. “As for caution …” He stared back, also refusing to blink. “Why, Mr. Lockwood. What could I possibly have to fear?”

  Lockwood blinked first.

  “I’ll let Wendy show you out.” He nodded and left.

  Hunter turned to the girl. She looked stricken.

  She walked beside him toward the elevator bay, not saying a word.

  “Wendy,” he began, keeping his voice down. “I want you to know that I’ll keep your name out of the paper. This isn’t about you. It’s about them.”

  She wouldn’t look at him.

  “I know you think that by working here, you’re doing the right thing,” he continued. “It’s always hard to challenge your basic assumptions. But facts—no matter how uncomfortable—are never your enemy.” He considered, then added: “I’ve learned, the hard way, that it’s always best to face reality without lies and deception.”

  They reached the elevators. A moment passed; she seemed to want to say something. But she couldn’t find the words—or perhaps the courage to utter them.

  He watched her walk away.

  Avery Trammel felt the beginning of a headache coming on. Its cause was the brief phone chat he’d had moments ago, as his limo arrived at Dulles International.

  “Lockwood just called me,” Sloan had said. “A reporter is poking around. He sounds like trouble.”

  “I am not able to talk freely right now. I shall be airborne and alone in thirty minutes. Call me back on my sat phone.”

  “All right. And I think the senator will want to be in on the call, too,” Sloan replied.

  “Set it up, then.”

  He was the sole passenger in his Gulfstream G-200 for this short flight from IAD to JFK. The occasion would be a board meeting of one of the many nonprofits he supported—a quick turnaround flight that would have him back in D.C. this same evening. He needed to go over his talking points. But he had trouble putting his mind to it.

  He did not like the news about the reporter.

  For privacy, he chose to sit in the rear, in the lone seat farthest from the cockpit. He sank his head and neck back into the soft suede and tried to relax. He raised the glass of Ardbeg Uigedail single malt that they had waiting for him in the galley; studied its color; savored the lingering taste of the previous sip. The aircraft’s vibration caused the lone ice cube to rattle against the crystal.

  His phone rested on the polished mahogany side table; the plane’s Iridium satellite phone system allowed him to use it while airborne. Transmissions were encrypted and highly secure. But not completely secure. He knew the capabilities and inclinations of various governments, including the American one. These days, no electronic communications were completely secure.

  When the call came through, he let it ring three times before picking up.

  “Yes?” He spoke softly and rotated his swivel seat to face away from the cockpit.

  “It’s me again.” Sloan. “We’re conferencing with the other party’s representative. He is the gentleman that you met at my office.”

  “How do you do, sir,” Stuart Kaplan’s voice cut in. “I hope you don’t mind if I stand in for my boss.”

  “No. I quite understand.” Trammel knew that Conn had to be hyper-cautious. “I assume that you have been granted the authority to speak on his behalf.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now, if you would please tell me what happened.”

  Speaking elliptically and not mentioning any names, Sloan described the meeting between Lockwood and the reporter, and conveyed Lockwood’s alarm over how much the man already knew.

  “And I should mention that he has scheduled an appointment this afternoon with the administrator of … of the agency central to our concerns,” Sloan concluded. “That individual has been alerted, of course.”

  Trammel knew who that was. “I see. What can you tell me about this reporter?”

  “We’re trying to learn more about his background,” Kaplan said. “In our preliminary search online, we found very little information that goes back more than a couple of years. But I can tell you that he’s the guy who’s been at the center of the recent vigilante controversy.”

  Trammel paused in the middle of another sip and put down his glass carefully.

  “That one. I remember reading about him. From what I gathered, he is a real troublemaker.”

  “Which is not good for us,” Sloan said.

  “No. Not good at all.”

  Kaplan cut to the chase. “Is there something we can do about him?”

  Trammel noticed that he said “can” and not “should.” It was clear that the “should” already, tacitly, had been settled.

  “What does your boss think?” Trammel asked.

  “He’s worried.”

  He has every reason to be. “That is not quite what I was referring to. I meant: What does he think … tactically?”

  “He tasked the staff to begin by finding out everything we can about this guy.”

  “A prudent first step. Know thine enemy. But after that, then what?”

  “If it should become necessary,” Sloan said, lowering his voice, “I might ask some of my contacts to … meet him. Perhaps dissuade him from pursuing this inquiry.”

  Several seconds passed, during which Trammel recalled what he had read about the reporter.

  “That may indeed become necessary.”

  FIFTEEN

  The tingling sensation on his scalp started immediately when he got off the rising escalator.

  The familiar feeling that he was being watched.

  The escalator at the Federal Triangle Metro entrance fed Hunter out into a vaulted arcade area beneath the Ariel Rios Building, the home of the Environmental Protection Agency. Overhead, pendant lanterns, the kind found in churches, hung by chains from the ceiling. A series of archways opened to the west onto the pedestrian mall known as Woodrow Wilson Plaza, while those to the east revealed a bit of the Old Post Office Building across 12th Street.

  People bustled by him, passing through the arches or to and from the building’s entrances. He paused to make a show of turning around, getting his bearings, looking at his watch, stalling to spot anyone with eyes on him. Anyone hanging about, inexplicably idle in the cold air. But he saw no one like that.

  He made his way toward the entrance into the building’s south wing. Probably just a touch of paranoia, he thought, because of the incident at the cabin.

  The guards and body scanners he faced today had forced him to leave his weapons home. He relaxed only when he entered the building. After passing through the security checkpoint, he moved into a circular lobby. The floor and walls were executed in brown and beige marble that reminded him of the entrance to Wonk’s building. But this one was far more spectacular. Burnished bronze gleamed everywhere: from the frames surrounding an interior entranceway and the building directory; from the chandelier and the clock suspended above the entrance to the stairwell; from the golden surface of the imposing elevator door.

  Hunter showed his ID to the guard behind the marble security station and waited to be announced.

  “Mind if I take a look at those stairs?” Hunter asked him.

  “Go right ahead. Your escort will be down shortly.”

  Rising through the seven floors of the building, the marble spiral staircase was another spectacle. Its bannister gleamed with more
bronze. A chrome-and-brass globe chandelier hung by a chain from the top of the stairwell; along its length, starburst fixtures of exposed bulbs illuminated each floor.

  “This is the EPA’s headquarters, right?” he said to the guard.

  The guy got it and chuckled. “Sir, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  The elevator door opened and a young man with black spiked hair emerged. He introduced himself as Jared Bale, an aide to Deputy Administrator Chip Crane.

  “Mr. Crane and Mr. Weaver will both meet with you, but they’re in a meeting that’s running late. They asked me to bring you up and make you comfortable.”

  “No rush. I was just admiring your lobby.”

  “Well, since we have a few minutes, maybe I can show you a few things. I often give tours to their guests.”

  Bale explained that the structure had been built during the Great Depression as the New Post Office Building. For the next fifteen minutes Hunter got a look at some of its majestic corridors, rooms, and murals. Most impressive was an enormous two-story room stretching the length of a corridor on the third floor. Originally called the Postmaster General’s Reception Room, it boasted a stunning green marble floor, paneled walls and doors surrounded by ornate columns, pilasters, pediments, cornices, and friezes, plus an elaborately carved ceiling—all in rich butternut wood. The expanse was lit by huge chandeliers made of glass tubing and polished chrome, decorated with gold eagles.

  “Jared, did you know that when the EPA started out during the Nixon years, Spiro Agnew sequestered it in run-down offices above a dumpy strip mall near the Southwest Waterfront?”

  “Really? Wow. That’s hard to believe.”

  He gestured at the chandeliers. “So is this. These rooms are worthy of a European palace.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Bale said proudly. “Its architects were inspired by the Place Vendôme in Paris.” He glanced at his watch. “Okay, their meeting should be breaking up now. I’ll take you over to the office.”

  “Sorry you had to wait,” Jonathan Weaver said, shaking his hand. Though in his early fifties, he retained youthful good looks, enhanced by sweeping waves of dark hair that he kept fashionably long and casually combed. The touch of gray at his temples matched the color of his eyes; but the touch of a nervous smile on his lips never reached those eyes. “And this is Chip Crane, our deputy administrator.”