Whitewash (7 page)

EchoEnergy

Sabrina kept thinking there had to be some mistake. She was the last person on their team whom Dwight Lansik would choose to lead in his absence. Not for lack of ability or experience, but simply because she had been the last hire. She knew the man had a rather strong opinion about seniority, with disloyalty being the only thing that could uproot it. Taking that into consideration, O’Hearn would be the next in line, and then Anna. When Sabrina told the others about being assigned as tour guide, she could see the question in their eyes, too. Though she couldn’t imagine any of them would really want the assignment. If it was up to her, she’d gladly pass.

Anna was the only one who dared to ask out loud, “Mr. Sidel requested
you
to give the tour?” She raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows to emphasize that she was not pleased. She was always doing that, using facial expressions to say what she really thought.

Pasha had commented once that he saw a physical resemblance between Sabrina and Anna, but Sabrina failed—or perhaps refused—to see anything the two might have in common. Sabrina knew the woman was several years her junior and yet Anna Copello had a way of making her feel like she was one of Anna’s problem students. Sabrina, according to Anna, was constantly using glass vials that Anna had set aside for herself, or documenting results using a substandard method. For some reason Sabrina had rubbed Anna the wrong way from the second she arrived at EchoEnergy. O’Hearn had once joked that with Sabrina’s arrival, Anna was no longer the only beauty in their group of mad scientists. And Sabrina couldn’t help wondering if that was true. Anna certainly treated Sabrina as if she was the spoilsport.

“His secretary said my name was on the list,” Sabrina offered, trying to defend herself when it looked like Anna was waiting for an explanation.

“The list?” At this, Anna turned to O’Hearn, crossing her arms over her chest. “There’s a list?”

O’Hearn simply shrugged and swung his chair back to face the computer screen like it didn’t matter to him one way or another. Pasha had already wandered off to complete his work. Anna looked around at both men, then threw her hands in the air as if the situation was hopeless. Without even a glance at Sabrina, she stomped off.

Sabrina slipped back into Lansik’s office. While on the phone she had seen a file folder labeled Tour Briefing. It was right there on his desk when she replaced the phone, straddling his in-box pile, tempting her, daring her. It wasn’t like Sabrina to touch anyone else’s belongings, let alone take them, but she found herself thinking that if Lansik had gotten her into his mess, he certainly couldn’t complain about her taking a peek and utilizing the same information he had planned on using.

She slid the bulging file folder that included a spiral six-by-nine-inch notebook inside her briefcase. She’d return it later, after the tour. Then she escaped her colleagues to find refuge at a small bistro table in the EchoCafé, the same table in the corner by the window where she sat every day for lunch.

Same table, same time, same lunch. Her brother used to call her a slave to her routine, claiming it was too rigid for her to ever really enjoy life. This from a guy who couldn’t hold a job or maintain a relationship for more than six months. She might be boring, she argued, but she had a career she loved, money in the bank and a roof over her head. More than Eric could say for himself. Though how would she know? She hadn’t seen him in over two years.

Over her usual egg salad on wheat she glimpsed one or two of Lansik’s notes, his chicken-scratch handwriting almost impossible to decipher. She hadn’t taken more than two bites of the sandwich. She knew she was eating only to settle her nerves, and she wasn’t sure why she was nervous.

She had done formal presentations all the time when she worked at the university, some of them—not many—impromptu. And she knew the thermal-conversion process backward and forward. It had fascinated her enough that she insisted on knowing every aspect. She could do this tour. So what was bothering her? How unexpected and sudden it was or the fact that Lansik had chosen her above the others?

Sabrina had met the CEO of EchoEnergy, William Sidel, only once. Well, she hadn’t actually met him. O’Hearn had pointed him out to her at one of their employee-appreciation events. Sidel had been patting a lot of backs and making everyone laugh, but he never seemed to make his way over to the group of scientists. O’Hearn claimed it wasn’t personal, but simply that he avoided them so he didn’t have to pretend to know what they were talking about. According to O’Hearn, William Sidel was an incredible entrepreneur when it came to getting investors and lobbying the government, but the man had no idea of, or interest in, the day-to-day process.

Sabrina stopped at the lab to stow her briefcase, almost making her late. Now, as she hurried to Reactor #1 to meet the man who had recently made the covers of
Forbes, Time
and
Discover
magazines, Sabrina wondered if she should have also stopped at a restroom. At least to check for food in her teeth, wash her hands, maybe give her hair a swipe. Instead, she pushed a strand behind her ear.

She was nonchalant about her appearance—too nonchalant her mother had always complained. She glanced down at herself: the lab coat was bright white and pressed, even if the pockets sagged a little from her constantly putting her hands in them. Her black trousers were part of her standard wardrobe. There were six other pairs, exactly the same, back in her bedroom closet. Years ago Sabrina resigned herself to the fact that she had no fashion sense. Her artistic and sometimes flamboyant mother had confirmed it, going a step further and declaring Sabrina “fashion retarded.” To which Sabrina usually responded, in her own defense, that if Albert Einstein could wear the same outfit every single day, then so could she.

Even her jewelry she kept to a minimum—classic but simple: an eighteen-karat gold rope chain that had belonged to her mother and a Movado watch her father had given her when she made tenure. As she approached Reactor #1 Sabrina decided that had she known about the tour this morning she still wouldn’t have changed a single thing about her appearance or herself.

She’d do just fine and she stuffed her hands, sweaty palms and all, into her lab-coat pockets.

EchoEnergy

Sabrina kept thinking there had to be some mistake. She was the last person on their team whom Dwight Lansik would choose to lead in his absence. Not for lack of ability or experience, but simply because she had been the last hire. She knew the man had a rather strong opinion about seniority, with disloyalty being the only thing that could uproot it. Taking that into consideration, O’Hearn would be the next in line, and then Anna. When Sabrina told the others about being assigned as tour guide, she could see the question in their eyes, too. Though she couldn’t imagine any of them would really want the assignment. If it was up to her, she’d gladly pass.

Anna was the only one who dared to ask out loud, “Mr. Sidel requested
you
to give the tour?” She raised one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows to emphasize that she was not pleased. She was always doing that, using facial expressions to say what she really thought.

Pasha had commented once that he saw a physical resemblance between Sabrina and Anna, but Sabrina failed—or perhaps refused—to see anything the two might have in common. Sabrina knew the woman was several years her junior and yet Anna Copello had a way of making her feel like she was one of Anna’s problem students. Sabrina, according to Anna, was constantly using glass vials that Anna had set aside for herself, or documenting results using a substandard method. For some reason Sabrina had rubbed Anna the wrong way from the second she arrived at EchoEnergy. O’Hearn had once joked that with Sabrina’s arrival, Anna was no longer the only beauty in their group of mad scientists. And Sabrina couldn’t help wondering if that was true. Anna certainly treated Sabrina as if she was the spoilsport.

“His secretary said my name was on the list,” Sabrina offered, trying to defend herself when it looked like Anna was waiting for an explanation.

“The list?” At this, Anna turned to O’Hearn, crossing her arms over her chest. “There’s a list?”

O’Hearn simply shrugged and swung his chair back to face the computer screen like it didn’t matter to him one way or another. Pasha had already wandered off to complete his work. Anna looked around at both men, then threw her hands in the air as if the situation was hopeless. Without even a glance at Sabrina, she stomped off.

Sabrina slipped back into Lansik’s office. While on the phone she had seen a file folder labeled Tour Briefing. It was right there on his desk when she replaced the phone, straddling his in-box pile, tempting her, daring her. It wasn’t like Sabrina to touch anyone else’s belongings, let alone take them, but she found herself thinking that if Lansik had gotten her into his mess, he certainly couldn’t complain about her taking a peek and utilizing the same information he had planned on using.

She slid the bulging file folder that included a spiral six-by-nine-inch notebook inside her briefcase. She’d return it later, after the tour. Then she escaped her colleagues to find refuge at a small bistro table in the EchoCafé, the same table in the corner by the window where she sat every day for lunch.

Same table, same time, same lunch. Her brother used to call her a slave to her routine, claiming it was too rigid for her to ever really enjoy life. This from a guy who couldn’t hold a job or maintain a relationship for more than six months. She might be boring, she argued, but she had a career she loved, money in the bank and a roof over her head. More than Eric could say for himself. Though how would she know? She hadn’t seen him in over two years.

Over her usual egg salad on wheat she glimpsed one or two of Lansik’s notes, his chicken-scratch handwriting almost impossible to decipher. She hadn’t taken more than two bites of the sandwich. She knew she was eating only to settle her nerves, and she wasn’t sure why she was nervous.

She had done formal presentations all the time when she worked at the university, some of them—not many—impromptu. And she knew the thermal-conversion process backward and forward. It had fascinated her enough that she insisted on knowing every aspect. She could do this tour. So what was bothering her? How unexpected and sudden it was or the fact that Lansik had chosen her above the others?

Sabrina had met the CEO of EchoEnergy, William Sidel, only once. Well, she hadn’t actually met him. O’Hearn had pointed him out to her at one of their employee-appreciation events. Sidel had been patting a lot of backs and making everyone laugh, but he never seemed to make his way over to the group of scientists. O’Hearn claimed it wasn’t personal, but simply that he avoided them so he didn’t have to pretend to know what they were talking about. According to O’Hearn, William Sidel was an incredible entrepreneur when it came to getting investors and lobbying the government, but the man had no idea of, or interest in, the day-to-day process.

Sabrina stopped at the lab to stow her briefcase, almost making her late. Now, as she hurried to Reactor #1 to meet the man who had recently made the covers of
Forbes, Time
and
Discover
magazines, Sabrina wondered if she should have also stopped at a restroom. At least to check for food in her teeth, wash her hands, maybe give her hair a swipe. Instead, she pushed a strand behind her ear.

She was nonchalant about her appearance—too nonchalant her mother had always complained. She glanced down at herself: the lab coat was bright white and pressed, even if the pockets sagged a little from her constantly putting her hands in them. Her black trousers were part of her standard wardrobe. There were six other pairs, exactly the same, back in her bedroom closet. Years ago Sabrina resigned herself to the fact that she had no fashion sense. Her artistic and sometimes flamboyant mother had confirmed it, going a step further and declaring Sabrina “fashion retarded.” To which Sabrina usually responded, in her own defense, that if Albert Einstein could wear the same outfit every single day, then so could she.

Even her jewelry she kept to a minimum—classic but simple: an eighteen-karat gold rope chain that had belonged to her mother and a Movado watch her father had given her when she made tenure. As she approached Reactor #1 Sabrina decided that had she known about the tour this morning she still wouldn’t have changed a single thing about her appearance or herself.

She’d do just fine and she stuffed her hands, sweaty palms and all, into her lab-coat pockets.

Washington, D.C.

Natalie Richards shook her head while she watched the small TV in her office.

“Do you believe this guy?” She pointed at the TV screen, only glancing at the man sitting in her guest chair. Ordinarily she’d be equally frustrated with his sitting back, all relaxed with his legs crossed as though he really were a guest. She kept her eyes on the TV. Her hands rested on her ample hips when she really wanted to strangle something…or someone.

She had already flipped through the channels. Senator John Quincy Allen was live on every blasted cable channel. And unless a terrorist attack or natural disaster happened in the next few hours he would, undoubtedly, lead all three of the evening broadcast-news channels.

She kept the sound turned down, not out of courtesy to the man who occupied her guest chair, but because she was expecting the phone to ring. Her boss would be furious and it wouldn’t take long. News traveled fast in this town. At least Natalie wouldn’t need to be the messenger of this bad news.

“So what’s he up to?” Now she came around behind her small, ornate desk and looked Colin Jernigan in the eyes—tired eyes. He probably hadn’t gotten any sleep the last few days. She swore every time she saw him these days those brilliant blue eyes seemed to get dimmer and dimmer and his close-cropped hair more and more peppered with gray. If she remembered correctly he wasn’t even forty yet. Poor bastard, not that it hurt his looks any. He was still fit, trim and handsome, and most annoying to her was that he was as calm as ever. Nothing seemed to faze him. No doubt just one of the reasons he was the best in the business. Or at least he used to be. Forget about the physical wear and tear. That meant nothing. Natalie Richards prided herself on being able to look someone in the eye and see what was bullshit and what was passion. But in this case what she didn’t like was what she didn’t see at all, what she hadn’t seen in quite some time—a missing spark behind his eyes.

“Anything?” she asked when he still didn’t respond. “I’ve got to have some line of bullshit, some credible bullshit or my ass is gonna get one helluva kickin’.”

“I have no idea why Senator Allen does the things he does.” Then he gave her a rare smile. “I’m surprised you don’t know. I thought you were the most powerful woman in this town.”

“I will have you know I
am
the most powerful
black
woman in this town,” she said, besting his attempt at humor. “And that’s about as good as saying I’m the most beautiful woman in the dugout. Not like there’re dozens of us coming up to bat.”

She leaned against the desk and crossed her arms, getting serious again. “Listen, if the senior senator from the great state of Florida screws up the energy summit I will personally kick your ass.”

“My ass? Not his?”

“I can’t control his. I can control yours.”

She didn’t expect him to flinch even if she hoped he would. She reminded herself that she wouldn’t trust him if he did flinch easily. What a wicked circle politics had become.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

“Come on in!” Natalie yelled.

Her assistant opened the door. “Excuse me, Ms. Richards.” Then she stood back to let in a young man dressed in black jeans, leather boots and leather jacket, a laminated ID badge swinging from a cord around his neck. His tangle of hair was matted down from the helmet he now carried tucked under one arm. Had it not been for the leather messenger pouch he handed across the desk, Natalie would never have allowed him in her office dressed this way. As soon as she took it, he turned and was gone without a word. Her assistant smiled, nodded and closed the door gently behind her.

“You’re back to using messengers?”

“We never stopped. Let all those other idiots use e-mail and then be shocked when someone accesses all their precious messages they thought they deleted. This—” she opened the pouch and pulled out the single envelope fastened with a wax seal “—can’t be traced. And even if someone hijacked it and opened it, they’d never know what it meant.”

“Seems a bit archaic in this vast technological world, doesn’t it?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not like your methods aren’t a bit archaic?” She grabbed the TV remote from the corner of her desk and shot it at the TV screen, clicking it off. “So tell me, what went wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not acceptable,” she said, shaking her head slowly. She had learned long ago that her gestures garnered more authority than her words ever would.

“Forgive the pun, but maybe Dr. Lansik simply chickened out.”

She stared at him, raising her eyebrow and giving him a frown that indicated she wasn’t in the mood for puns or sarcasm or any more of his usual dry humor.

“You’d have me believe this is all some coincidence? The senator’s tour not even twenty-four hours after a botched meeting? A coincidence,” she repeated, enunciating the word syllable by syllable.

“I don’t believe in coincidences.” He said it with no apology, but he shifted in his chair slightly, just enough for her to recognize she had him on the edge. She had him exactly where she wanted him.

“It’s getting too late to wait around for another opportunity like this. You hear what I’m saying?” But she didn’t expect him to respond. “You know we have to have this all taken care of before the energy summit?”

“Dr. Lansik decides not to talk, then disappears. I can’t get blood from a turnip,” he said, but at least he wasn’t smiling.

“What about one of the other scientists?”

“It doesn’t look hopeful. This close to the summit? I wouldn’t count on it.”

Natalie Richards tapped the envelope she had pulled out of the leather pouch and without opening it, she handed it to him.

“Then we need to move on to plan B.” She hoped he had come up with something—anything else. She didn’t like plan B. “Your next assignment,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest. “William Sidel can get oil from chicken guts. I’d rather you bring me back blood from that turnip.”