"Oh?"
"His resume says he spent a number of years in government. Department of the Interior, Intergovernmental Negotiating Committee, and so on."
"Yes?"
"The Department of the Interior has no record of his working there."
Evans shrugged. "It was more than ten years ago. Government records being what they are..."
"Possibly," Drake said. "But there is more. Professor Kenner comes back to MIT, works there for eight years, very successfully. Consultant to the EPA, consultant to Department of Defense, God knows what else--and then he suddenly goes on extended leave, and no one seems to know what happened to him since. He just fell off the radar."
"I don't know," Evans said. "His card says he is Director of Risk Analysis."
"But he's on leave. I don't know what the hell he is doing these days. I don't know who supports him. I take it you've met him?"
"Briefly."
"And now he and George are great pals?"
"I don't know, Nick. I haven't seen or spoken to George in more than a week."
"He's off with Kenner."
"I don't know that."
"But you know that he and Kenner went to Vancouver."
"Actually, I didn't know."
"Let me lay it out for you plainly," Drake said. "I have it on good authority that John Kenner has unsavory connections. The Center for Risk Analysis is wholly funded by industry groups. I needn't say more. In addition, Mr. Kenner spent a number of years advising the Pentagon and in fact was so involved with them that he even underwent some sort of training for a period of time."
"You mean military training?"
"Yes. Fort Bragg and Harvey Point, in North Carolina," Drake said. "There is no question the man has military connections as well as industry connections. And I am told he is hostile toward mainstream environmental organizations. I hate to think of a man like that working on poor George."
"I wouldn't worry about George. He can see through propaganda."
"I hope so. But frankly I do not share your confidence. This military man shows up, and the next thing we know, George is trying to audit us. I mean, my God, why would he want to do that? Doesn't George realize what a waste of resources that involves? Time, money, everything? It would be atremendous drag on my time."
"I wasn't aware an audit was going forward."
"It's being discussed. Of course, we have nothing to hide, and we can be audited at any time. I have always said so. But this is an especially busy time, with the Vanutu lawsuit starting up, and the conference on Abrupt Climate Change to be planned for. All that's in the next few weeks. I wish I could speak to George."
Evans shrugged. "Call his cell."
"I have. Have you?"
"Yes."
"He call you back?"
"No," Evans said.
Drake shook his head. "That man," he said, "is my Concerned Citizen of the Year, and I can't even get him on the phone."
BEVERLY HILLS
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13
8:07 A. M.
Morton sat at a sidewalk table outside a cafe on Beverly Drive at eight in the morning, waiting for Sarah to show up. His assistant was ordinarily punctual, and her apartment was not far away. Unless she had taken up with that actor again. Young people had so much time to waste on bad relationships.
He sipped his coffee, glancing at theWall Street Journal without much interest. He had even less interest after an unusual couple sat down at the next table.
The woman was petite and strikingly beautiful, with dark hair and an exotic look. She might have been Moroccan; it was hard to judge from her accent. Her clothing was chic and out of place in casual Los Angeles--tight-fitting skirt, spike heels, Chanel jacket.
The man who accompanied her could not have been more different. He was a red-faced, beefy American, with slightly piggish features, wearing a sweater, baggy khakis, and running shoes. He was as big as a football player. He slumped at the table and said, "I'll have a latte, sweetheart. Nonfat. Grande."
She said, "I thought you would get one for me, like a gentleman."
"I'm not a gentleman," he said. "And you're no fucking lady. Not after you didn't come home last night. So we can forget about ladies and gentlemen, okay?"
She pouted. "Cheri,do not make a scene."
"Hey. I asked you to get a fucking latte. Who's making a scene?"
"Butcheri --"
"You going to get it, or not?" He glared at her. "I've really had it with you, Marisa, you know that?"
"You don't own me," she said. "I do as I please."
"You've made that obvious."
During this conversation, Morton's paper had been slowly drifting downward. Now he folded it flat, set it on his knee, and pretended to read. But in fact he could not take his eyes off this woman. She was extremely beautiful, he decided, although not very young. She was probably thirty-five. Her maturity somehow made her more overtly sexual. He was captivated.
She said to the football player, "William, you are tiresome."
"You want me to leave?"
"Perhaps it is best."
"Oh, fuck you," he said, and slapped her.