“I see it,” Arlie said, and steered that way, bringing the object alongside. Chet leaned over and snagged it.
It wasn’t a life jacket, Arlie saw, but a diamond-shaped rubber float. Attached to it was a two-foot painter line, and attached to that was a black metal box, roughly four inches wide, eight long, and about as thick as a good-sized paperback book.
“What is it?” Chet asked.
Arlie wasn’t sure, but he’d seen enough movies and television shows to have a hunch. “Black box,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
“Flight data recorder.”
“Whoa… You mean like from a plane?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.”
The facility’s security was decent enough, Cassiano knew, but three things were working in his favor: One, he’d been working for Petrobras for eleven years, long before the discovery of Tupi. Two, the industry was unique above all others, so hired security personnel could competently check only so much of the facility’s inner workings. The rest had to be done by workers who knew what they were looking at and how things worked, and so while such double-duty provided a good paycheck and ensured the smooth running of the facility, it also gave Cassiano unfettered access to high-security areas. And three, the demo-graphics of Brazil itself.
Of Brazil’s estimated population of 170 million, less than one percent is Muslim, and of that number only one percent are made up of Brazilian-born Islamic converts. The rising tide of Islamic radicals so feared in other Western hemisphere countries was in Brazil a virtual nonissue. No one cared what mosque you went to or whether you hated the war in Iraq; those subjects rarely came up and certainly had no bearing on your job fitness, whether it be at a restaurant or at Petrobras.
Cassiano kept his thoughts to himself, prayed in private, was never late for work, and rarely took sick days. Muslim or not, he was the ideal worker, for both Petrobras and for his new employer, which certainly paid much better.
The details they’d asked him to provide made their intentions fairly transparent, and while Cassiano didn’t particularly like the idea of playing the role of industrial spy, he took comfort in their assurances that the only damage his actions and information would cause would be monetary. Besides, he told himself, with the extent of the Santos Basin find growing by leaps and bounds, the government of Brazil, which was a majority share-holder in Petrobras, would have money to burn for decades to come.
There was no reason he shouldn’t share in that boon, was there?
25
CARPENTER IS INBOUND,” the radio chirped next to where Andrea was sitting.
“Want me to get him, boss?” she asked.
“No, I’ll get it.” Ryan got up from his computer and walked to the front door. “He’ll be staying for dinner, by the way.”
“Sure, boss.”
Arnie van Damm had never been one to stand on ceremony. He’d rented a car at BWI Airport and driven himself down. Still wore those L.L.Bean shirts and khaki pants, too, Jack saw, as he got out of his Hertz Chevy.
“Hey, Jack,” the former Chief of Staff called in greeting.
“Arnie, it’s been a while. How was the flight?”
“Slept for most of it.” They headed inside. “How’s the book coming?”
“It’s kinda hard on the ego to write about yourself, but I’m trying to tell the truth.”
“Whoa, boy, that ought to confuse the reviewers at the Times.”
“Well, hell, they never did like me much. I wouldn’t expect them to change now.”
“Hell, Jack, you just fought off an attempt on your life-”
“Bullshit, Arnie.”
“Perception, my friend. The public hears about that kind of thing, all they absorb is that somebody tried to kill you and paid the price.”
“So what, omnipotence by proxy?”
“You got it.”
By this time they were in the kitchen and Jack was pouring the coffee. It’d be an hour before Cathy got home, and Jack still had time for a little unauthorized afternoon caffeine. “So give me the gossip. I heard the Supreme Court’s giving Kealty fits.”
“You mean not being able to make appointments? Yeah, he’s going quietly nuts about it. During the campaign he promised a seat to Professor Mayflower at Harvard Law.”
“That guy? Christ, he wants to rewrite the Gospel of Saint Matthew.”
“God didn’t go to Harvard. Otherwise He would have been better informed,” van Damm offered.
Ryan chuckled at this. “So: Why this visit?”
“I think you know, Jack. Moreover, I think you’ve been thinking about it yourself. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Another thing I always loved about you, Jack: You never could tell a lie worth a damn.”
Ryan grumbled.
“Being a bad liar ain’t a bad thing,” Arnie said. “Kealty is already heading off the rails, Jack. Just my opinion, but-”
“He’s a crook. Everybody knows that, but the papers won’t say it.”
“He’s a crook, but he’s their crook. They think they can control him. They understand him and how he thinks.”
“Who says he thinks at all? He doesn’t think. He has a vision of the way he wants the world to be. He’s willing to do anything to make the world conform with that idea-if you can call it an idea.”
“What about your ideas, Jack?”
“It’s called principle; there’s a difference. You sell the principle as best you can and hope the public understands. Anything more than that and you’re a used-car salesman.”
“A famous politician once said that politics is the art of the possible.”
“But if you limit yourself to what’s possible-to what’s already been done-how the hell does progress happen? Kealty wants to bring back the thirties, with FDR and all that goes with that.”
“Thought much about this, Jack?” Arnie said with a hint of a smile.
“You know I have. The Founding Fathers would turn over in their crypts over what that bonehead is doing.”
“So replace him.”
“And go through all that again-to what end?”
“Edmund Burke, remember? ‘All that is required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“I should have seen that coming,” Jack responded. “I served my time. I fought two wars. I set up my own line of succession. I did everything a man is supposed to do.”
“And you did it well,” the former Chief of Staff admitted. “Jack, here’s the bottom line: The country needs you.”
“No, Arnie. The country doesn’t need me. We still have a good Congress.”
“Yeah, they’re fine, but they haven’t generated a real leader yet. Owens, from Oklahoma, he has possibilities, but he has a way to go yet. Not seasoned enough, too small-town and too idealistic. He’s not ready for major league ball yet.”
“You could say the same thing about me,” Ryan pointed out.
“True, but you listen, and mostly you know what you don’t know.”
“Arnie, I like the life I have now. I have work to keep me busy, but I don’t have to run my ass off. I don’t have to watch every single word I say for fear of offending people who don’t like me anyway. I can walk around the house without my shoes on, and without wearing a tie.”
“You’re bored.”
“I’ve earned the right to be bored.” Ryan paused, took a sip of coffee, then tried to change the subject: “What’s Pat Martin doing now?”
“He doesn’t want to be AG again,” van Damm responded. “He’s teaching law at Notre Dame. He does seminars for newly frocked judges, too.”
“Why not Harvard or Yale?” Ryan wondered.
“Harvard wouldn’t have him. They’d like the idea of a former Attorney General there, of course, but not yours. Pat wouldn’t go there anyway. He’s a football fan, big-time. Harvard plays football, but not like the Dame.”