Dr. Petrovian had warned him not to let his mind spin wildly like this. He tried to catch himself as he exited the elevator and stepped into the over-air-conditioned lobby. But how could you trust a justice system in which pampered superstars like O.J. Simpson got away with murder and poor people were shot for driving with a broken brake light-a story he’d just seen reported on CNN?
The male clerk behind the desk dressed in civvies examined his ID again, then asked him to sign a ledger and follow him down a gray hallway lined with photos of former secretaries of the Treasury.
Where the hell am I?
No signs on the walls or plaques beside the doors.
The clerk punched a code into a keypad at the end of the hall, pushed open a wooden door, and stepped aside. Crocker’s eyes darted, registering as much as he could see in the dark room in two or three seconds-a dozen men and women seated around a rectangular table, all relatively young, all in civilian clothes, facing the wall to Crocker’s right where something was projected onto a screen.
Another symptom of PTSD was hyperawareness. His mind raced as he blinked twice and tried to focus on the image-a blowup of something that resembled a president’s face. Benjamin Franklin.
I’m in the wrong place.
He was about to excuse himself and leave when a voice from the other side of the table interrupted him. “Crocker, glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
The woman had said it like she was singing, which stood out in this bland, cold place. As he pulled back a chair and sat, he traveled back into his memory bank, to a town in the Caribbean. Palm trees, colonial buildings golden in the sun.
Jeri Blackwell?
Seconds later, he located her wide dark face near the head of the table on the opposite side. One of the first African American women to join the Secret Service. She and Crocker had accompanied President and Mrs. Clinton on a trip to Ghana, Uganda, Rwanda, South Africa, Botswana, and Senegal in ’98, when elements of ST-6 provided backup and support. Previous to that they had met in Cartagena, Colombia, while President Clinton was attending a regional drug summit.
“Hi, Jeri,” he said. “Long time.”
“Sure has been, honey. Good to see you again. Pour yourself a cup of coffee. We’re looking at those bills you brought back from Russia.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the pieces snapped into place. The captured money, the fact that the Secret Service was the government agency that investigated financial crimes, including the counterfeiting of U.S. currency, and his presence.
“Something I can help you with?” Crocker asked. “They were part of a stash we found on a Russian official in the Ukraine.”
“I stand corrected. Watch.”
She gestured to the projected image on the screen to his right: a blowup of a hundred-dollar bill. A thin young guy in a tight gray suit and gelled hair directed a laser marker at the collar of Franklin’s jacket. In a slightly nasal voice he said, “The overall quality is exceptional in terms of paper, ink, watermark, et cetera. But if you look closely along the left lapel you might be able to make out a slight anomaly.”
Crocker’s mind drifted back to the house in Chincoteague-the view of the ocean, the long walks he and Holly had taken along the beach, making love in front of the living room fireplace, the sweet delicate scent of her body.
The young man continued, “Missing is the microprinting near the collar. It’s a small detail, but highly significant. All the new Treasury bills have it. These don’t. Here’s a genuine Franklin for comparison.”
The room went dark for an instant and a new slide appeared on the screen. The young man said, “If you look closely, you can make out the words ‘United States of America’ along the lapel.”
He missed her at least forty times a day, which Dr. Petrovian said was natural. In time she would fade from his memory. He wasn’t sure he wanted that to happen.
Jeri caught his eye and smiled at him. He glanced back at the screen and tried to focus. Benjamin Franklin stared at him from the hundred-dollar bill with a weary, slightly disapproving expression.
Outside in the hallway, she told him that she would be continuing the probe into the counterfeit hundreds in Las Vegas. “Okay if I ask your CO for permission for you to join me?” she asked.
“Okay. Sure,” Crocker answered. “What’s up?”
She put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Surveillance. You’ll be there to back me up in case you’re needed. Chances are nothing’s going to happen. You can sit by the pool for a couple days, sip margaritas, and relax.”
“Thanks, Jeri. I think I’d like that.”
“You look like you can use some personal time.”
Chapter Three
I wouldn’t know how to handle serenity if somebody handed it to me on a plate.
– Dusty Springfield
James Ryan Dawkins wasn’t as alert to danger or as physically fit as Crocker. At forty-seven, he had a soft belly and a round face, thinning hair, and owlish eyes. A naturally shy man, he had a yen for performance from his days as an amateur opera singer, which he satisfied by speaking in public-a skill he had perfected through many hours of practice. He now stood at a lectern in the ballroom of the Swissotel Metropole in Geneva, Switzerland, and began his address about the restoration of the ozone layer, which he kicked off with a humorous remark.
Holding up a can of aerosol Velveeta, he said, “I want to begin by taking a poll. How many of you think cheese in a spray can is more important than the continuance of life on earth?”
A half-dozen people in the audience of three hundred raised their hands. Many more chuckled and laughed.
Dawkins, showing his satisfaction with the response with a shy grin, signaled the technician to dim the lights and project the first slide-a shot from a NASA satellite of the earth’s ozone layer in 1979. It showed a small patch of dark blue over the South Pole.
Dawkins explained in a deep resonant voice that this was the first time scientists had noticed a significant hole in the ozone layer. In subsequent pictures taken at five-year intervals the dark blue grew dramatically larger, until 2006, when it practically covered the entire continent and extended to the tip of Tierra del Fuego.
That was the bad news, Dawkins explained. The thin shield of ozone helped deflect harmful UV rays-the cause of skin cancer, cataracts, and immune system deficiencies in humans. The good news was that the disruption of the ozone layer had slowed since 2006, due primarily to the worldwide ban on chlorofluorocarbons and bromofluorocarbons. But there was still a lot of work to do.
The speech he was about to deliver, he said, proposed a relatively easy and inexpensive way to restore the ozone layer by injecting oxygen under high pressure into the stratosphere.
Members of the International Society for Ecological Economics (ISEE) and their guests listened for the next thirty-five minutes as Dawkins, using slides showing chemical formulas and wavelength equations, explained the science behind his thesis. He ended with a quotation from former U.S. Secretary of Energy John S. Herrington: “There are no dreams too large, no innovation unimaginable and no frontiers beyond our reach.”
As the assemblage applauded, Dawkins exclaimed into the mike, “I really believe that! All of us should.”
It was the perfect coda to a succinct and thought-provoking presentation.
Afterward dozens of audience members came forward to thank him and ask questions. Standing at the back of the group was an older man with a beautiful head of white hair, wearing an immaculate gray suit, and an attractive blonde in dark blue and white. They waited patiently for well-wishers to disperse, then stepped forward.