"Not me," Sarah said.
"It's an underground extremist group. Supposedly made up of ex-Greenpeace and Earth First! types who thought those organizations had gone soft. ELF engages in violence on behalf of environmental causes. They've burned hotels in Colorado, houses on Long Island, spiked trees in Michigan, torched cars in California."
Evans nodded. "I read about them.... The FBI and other law enforcement agencies can't infiltrate them because the organization consists of separate cells that never communicate with one another."
"Yes," Kenner said. "Supposedly. But cell phone conversations have been recorded. We've known for some time that the group was going global, planning a series of major events around the world, starting a few days from now."
"What kind of events?"
Kenner shook his head. "That, we don't know. But we have reason to think they'll be big--and destructive."
Sarah said, "What does this have to do with George Morton?"
"Funding," Kenner said. "If ELF is preparing actions around the world, they need a lot of money. The question is, where are they getting it?"
"Are you saying George has funded an extremist group?"
"Not intentionally. ELF is a criminal organization, but even so, radical groups like PETA fund them. Frankly, it's a disgrace. But the question became whether better-known environmental groups were funding them, too."
"Better-known groups? Like who?"
"Any of them," Kenner said.
"Wait a minute," Sarah said. "Are you suggesting that the Audubon Society and the Sierra Club fund terrorist groups?"
"No," Kenner said. "But I'm telling you that nobody knows exactly what any of these groups do with their money. Because government oversight of foundations and charities is extraordinarily lax. They don't get audited. The books don't get inspected. Environmental groups in the US generate half a billion dollars a year. What they do with it is unsupervised."
Evans frowned. "And George knew this?"
"When I met him," Kenner said, "he was already worrying about NERF. What it was doing with its money. It dispenses forty-four million dollars a year."
Evans said, "You're not going to tell me that NERF--"
"Not directly," Kenner said. "But NERF spends nearly sixty percent of its money on fund-raising. It can't admit that, of course. It'd look bad. It gets around the numbers by contracting nearly all of its work to outside direct-mail advertisers and telephone solicitation groups. These groups have misleading names, like the International Wildlife Preservation Fund--that's an Omaha-based direct-mail organization, that in turn outsources the work to Costa Rica."
"You're kidding," Evans said.
"No. I am not. And last year the IWPF spent six hundred fifty thousand dollars to gather information on environmental issues, including three hundred thousand dollars to something called the Rainforest Action and Support Coalition, RASC. Which turns out to be a drop box in Elmira, New York. And an equal sum to Seismic Services in Calgary, another drop box."
"You mean..."
"A drop box. A dead end. That was the true basis of the disagreement between Morton and Drake. Morton felt that Drake wasn't minding the store. That's why he wanted an external audit of the organization, and when Drake refused, Morton got really worried. Morton is on the NERF board; he has liability. So he hired a team of private investigators to investigate NERF."
"He did?" Evans said.
Kenner nodded. "Two weeks ago."
Evans turned to Sarah. "Did you know this?"
She looked away, then back. "He told me I couldn't tell anyone."
"George did?"
"I did," Kenner said.
"So you were behind this?"
"No, I merely consulted with George. It was his ball game. But the point is, once you outsource the money, you no longer control how it is spent. Or, you have deniability about how it is spent."
"Jesus," Evans said. "All this time, I just thought George was worried about the Vanutu lawsuit."
"No," Kenner said. "The lawsuit is probably hopeless. It is very unlikely it will ever go to trial."
"But Balder said when he gets good sea-level data--"
"Balder already has the good data. He has had it for months."
"What?"
"The data show no rise in South Pacific sea levels for the last thirty years."
"What?"
Kenner turned to Sarah. "Is he always like this?"
The flight attendant set out placemats, napkins, and silverware. "I've got fusilli pasta with chicken, asparagus, and sun-dried tomatoes," she said, "and a mixed green salad to follow. Would anyone like wine?"
"White wine," Evans said.
"I have Puligny-Montrachet. I'm not sure of the year, I think it's '98. Mr. Morton usually kept '98 on board."