Whitewash (9 page)

EchoEnergy

Sabrina was beginning to wonder why William Sidel had insisted she lead this tour. So far he interrupted her every step of the way. It surprised her. Sidel had the reputation of being a charmer. Of course, everything she knew about the man came from articles and news clips instead of firsthand. A
Time
magazine article called him a “wizard,” a modern-day Rumpelstiltskin who had found a way to magically spin garbage into oil. His magic would most likely continue if EchoEnergy was awarded a $140-million government contract to supply the entire U.S. military. That feat alone, the article had contended, would be a major coup considering the contract had never gone to a domestic company, but rather the same Middle Eastern oil company. Sabrina knew that obtaining that single contract could mean the difference between EchoEnergy becoming a serious supplier of alternative oil or simply remaining an interesting novelty.

Meeting him in person today, for all his supposed charm and wizardry, Sabrina didn’t think him charming or magical. Instead, William Sidel resembled the ex-linebacker that he had been in college. Still a large man, Sabrina noticed his middle overlapped his belt just enough to betray his lack of an exercise regimen. However, he did still possess a boyish face along with the mannerisms to match. In fact, he reminded Sabrina of a middle-aged frat boy who didn’t trust that his deep voice and physical presence would demand enough attention, so he compensated with outbursts, offhand observations or awkward jokes. At first it had been extraneous information he interjected between Sabrina’s pauses as if he was uncomfortable with only the hum and rattle of the pipes overhead. She wondered if perhaps he was simply as nervous as she was.

Sabrina started to explain to the group of fifteen, several potential investors and one senator that, “Thermal conversion speeds up the same process of pressurization and extreme heat that the earth has been doing naturally to turn carbon-based objects into oil. We take that same—”

“You know, that reminds me of my third-grade teacher,” Sidel suddenly interrupted. “I could never get that earth science crap.” He laughed. He was the only one who did. Sabrina and the others stared at him and yet he continued. “You know what she’d do if we forgot our homework? She’d make us stand facing the blackboard with our noses pressed into a chalked circle. And let me tell you, this schnoz took up quite a bit of the blackboard.”

This time several in the group laughed. And that’s when Sabrina saw Sidel relax; his hands came out of his trouser pockets and he shifted his weight, no longer looking like he was ready for the next tackle. Sidel was that guy who demanded constant attention but did so in such a manner that no one really minded, or rather, no one really minded for the first few times as long as the humor was self-deprecating and not aimed at anyone else. Sabrina was used to dealing with men like Sidel, but in the past they were usually her students, not her boss. One thing she knew for certain was that guys like Sidel quickly became more annoying than entertaining.

“But it must take a tremendous amount of fuel to run this place,” Glenn Owens, an investor, said.

“In our case, it takes plenty of guts,” Sidel joked.

Owens didn’t laugh. “Seriously, is the output worth the input?” he asked, this time directing his question to Sabrina and purposely turning away from Sidel.

Owens had been introduced as a billionaire from Omaha who had made a good deal of his fortune investing decades ago alongside billionaire Warren Buffet. The tall, silver-haired gentleman had dressed casually—a blue Ralph Lauren polo and khakis—as if the tour had been a last-minute side stop on his way to play golf. However, there was nothing casual about his manner and when it looked as if Sidel would answer the question again, Owens put up a hand to silence him.

“We’re 85 percent energy sufficient,” Sabrina answered after an uncomfortable pause. “That means for every 100 BTUs in feedstock, we use only 15 BTUs to run the process. The oil can be used immediately to fuel electrical-powered generators. Most of it goes a step further and we distill it into vehicle-grade diesel and gasoline.”

“And what about waste removal?” Owens wasn’t satisfied.

“Nothing hazardous comes from feedstock, which is the only carbon-based garbage we process. Also with feedstock everything is used in some capacity,” Sabrina explained. The efficiency of EchoEnergy was one of the selling points that had lured her to the position. “What’s not separated off as oil is shunted and sold to be used in high-concentrate fertilizer. The depolymerization takes apart materials at the molecular level…” Sabrina stopped. She was losing them with her jargon. She smiled and tried again, “Anything dangerous is destroyed by the high temperatures so the runoff is flushed then brought back to room temperature. It’s clean enough by EPA standards to be used again in the next cycle or released into the river.”

“If I might just add to what Dr. Galloway said.” Sidel stepped forward, serious now. “Our runoff is so clean the plant isn’t even required to register as a waste-management industry by the EPA.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Owens insisted.

“That’s why I wanted you to take a look for yourself, Glenn,” Senator Allen said as he patted Owens on the back. “It’s the wave of the future.” The senator addressed the group of men on the tour. “This plant, and hopefully others like it, will be our freedom from foreign oil companies. Think about it—” and now he had managed to move into the center of the group “—oil from refuse, from slaughterhouse garbage. Never again will we be held captive by Middle Eastern oil sheikhs. No more guises of war over oil. It truly is quite remarkable.”

Sabrina watched from the sidelines, waiting patiently for some sign that the political speech was finished. She realized now this was probably why Jason Brill, Senator Allen’s chief of staff, had argued earlier when Sidel announced at the beginning of their tour that no media would be included. Still, Sabrina couldn’t help thinking Mr. Brill was probably relieved. Despite the senator’s eloquent voice and refined posture the yellow hard hat and plastic goggles didn’t quite flatter his slight frame, making him look a bit like a caricature, a bulbous yellow bobble-head with alien-like goggle eyes.

Senator Allen gestured toward Sidel, reaching up to put a congratulatory hand on the big man’s shoulder and bringing him back into the fold. “And this man is the genius behind it all.”

That’s when Sabrina noticed it as she was standing back and waiting.

The sounds from above weren’t the familiar hum and swish of wet feedstock, sloshing and being flushed. Instead, there was a high-pitched ping and rattle like pebbles traveling within the pipes. She stepped away from the men and listened, trying not to look up and stare. A glance told her the valve to Reactor #5 was open.

Impossible.
And yet, the sound confirmed it.

There was solid matter, unrefined bits and pieces traveling into the reactor, a reactor that wasn’t used for anything other than releasing clear, liquid runoff.

She looked over at William Sidel, who was now smiling and joking again. She could hear him inviting the group to take a detour and “get a good look at the magic feedstock.” He reminded Sabrina of a chef eager to share his secret ingredient. He turned her way and for a second she thought he had noticed her looking up at the valve. Should she give him a wave, distract him and pull him aside?

The men were all laughing again. No, it was definitely not the time to mention what might be a dangerous mistake. Besides, how did she know for certain? Perhaps Lansik had made the change recently. There was probably a logical explanation. She’d need to check it out before she went off sounding like Chicken Little, and the odd but seemingly appropriate analogy made her grimace as she followed Sidel with the rest of the group.

Jason Brill couldn’t believe how bad it smelled. And he wasn’t even thinking about the rotting chicken guts. It was the stink inside the limousine that challenged his gag reflex and brought him close to upchucking his own lunch.

Jesus! The entire limousine smelled like vomit despite having all the windows rolled down. Yet he tried not to look away from the senator, tried not to look repulsed.

Marek handed Senator Allen another wet towel. “I not get stench out for weeks,” the limo driver said, shaking his head and not bothering to hide his disgust. Then he climbed into the front seat totally unaware of the senator looking up and staring at the back of the driver’s head like that was exactly where he’d like to shoot a poisoned dart.

Jason refrained from helping, other than offering to hold a discarded towel or two. Unlike Marek, he knew when to sit back and shut up. He knew that the navy suit was probably toast. Instead of focusing on the smell, he concentrated on what had happened. Jason couldn’t help thinking that asshole Sidel knew exactly what he was doing when he took them all up the catwalk that overlooked the holding tank with his “magic feedstock.”

Whatever his intention, it didn’t matter. What Jason would never forget was that Sidel had laughed like some fucking frat boy when Senator Allen started puking over the railing, yelling not to worry, they could break that down, too, with the rest of the “magic” garbage. Jason used to teach guys bigger than Sidel a lesson with an elbow to the kidneys and a fist to the throat. It seemed cleaner and more fair than the way the senator insisted things be done. And all Jason could think at the time was, “Thank God there weren’t any media around.”

Sidel had gone too far. After everything the senator had done for him the man should be licking the vomit off Senator Allen’s Italian-leather shoes, not pointing and laughing. Jason had never understood the connection between the two men. He knew they had both attended Florida State University at the same time, but he couldn’t imagine them being friends even as young men. They seemed too different. Sidel had been a linebacker for the Seminoles while Senator Allen headed the debate club. And yet there appeared to be a strong allegiance, at least on the senator’s part.

Allegiance, unrelenting loyalty, Jason certainly understood. The whole concept was one he had had to learn the hard way. He came from people who trusted no one, who knew how to steal and cheat and lie so well they didn’t realize there were boundaries. Jason supposed it wasn’t much different than politicians. No wonder he had been attracted to D.C. when he was old enough to buy a motorcycle—a sleek, powerful Yamaha—and drive as far away as possible. He got a job as a courier and muscled his cycle around the capital, squeezing in and out of traffic, pushing the limits, breaking a few rules. But then he banged up himself and his bike when he darted in front of a black SUV.

Jason still delivered the bloodstained package despite three broken ribs and a badly bruised knee. The SUV owner, some hotshot foreign diplomat, threatened to have Jason’s license pulled. Didn’t matter, the bike was busted up worse than Jason. He figured he was out of business.

Three days later he got a message from the courier service that the recipient of his last delivery wanted to meet him. Immediately Jason thought he was fucked, another asshole upset about the blood, or maybe there had been something important inside that got crushed. He never imagined that the recipient had heard the rumors about Jason’s heroic delivery and actually wanted to offer him a job. Senator John Quincy Allen told Jason he reminded the senator of himself when he was a young man. Evidently it was something good because less than two years later Jason Brill became the youngest chief of staff to a U.S. senator on the Hill. No one had ever shown such trust in Jason before.

Now Jason couldn’t help wondering what William Sidel had done to garner such trust. Everything he had read about the man painted him as a simpleminded, down-home good ole boy who happened to be a bit of an entrepreneurial whiz. Sidel had no particular talent. Instead, he possessed something much better—the gift of bullshit, the ability to ignite and excite others about his schemes using only words and promises, getting them to follow, to believe, to create, to rally and even to invest. Only, thermal conversion wasn’t a scheme at all. It was brilliant, but it also wasn’t Sidel’s idea. He had bought the patent, hired one of the founding scientists, then added to and improvised the process enough to claim it as his own.

Sidel’s witty repartee made him the life of the party and his annoying banter made him everyone’s buddy only by default because no one wanted to end up as the butt of his one-sided jokes. The man could pull a zinger even on the best of the best. Jason remembered when a cocky reporter from
E: the Environmental Magazine
tried to attack Sidel by calling him a snake-oil salesman, Sidel quipped, “It’s not snake oil, it’s real oil. You’d know that if you were smart enough to read your own magazine.”

And the thing is, Sidel was right. It was the real deal. It was an ingenious process. Jason was proud the senator was a part of it. But he didn’t trust Sidel and he wasn’t sure why Senator Allen did.

“How do you put up with that guy?” Jason couldn’t help it. He had to ask.

“Who? Sidel?”

“Of course, Sidel.”

Senator Allen finished wiping his silk tie, balled up the last towel and tossed it on the floor across from them. “He gets things done, my boy. He gets things done.” And then he turned to watch the miles of pine trees pass by outside the limousine window as if that was all the explanation that was needed.