“Thank you once again, Roland,” Jean-Batiste Reno said, “both for the extraordinary financial support and for taking the time to speak with us today.” A clutch of supporters stood nearby. Roland noted that many were female, and some were not unattractive.
“You are all fighting the good fight,” he replied.
“But it gets tougher all the time,” the nonprofit’s director lamented. “Just a few years ago climate change was on everyone’s mind. Money poured into our coffers, and we could organize rallies of a thousand or more on short notice. We had just a few hundred here today, and many of them are paid staffers.”
“When the real estate bubble burst both here in Europe and in America it gave people the excuse to forget problems other than their own immediate situation,” d’Avejan said, as he’d opined many times.
“My grandmother used to say that the lighter the purse becomes, the tighter are its strings.”
“Wise woman,” Roland conceded. “It does not help that current model predictions and the reality of global temperatures are continuing to diverge. We are well into our second decade with no appreciable increase in surface temperatures.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” the environmental crusader replied. “Every few months a new paper comes out to explain away the issue. What does bother me is the way some in the media are reporting that the pause was unexpected, and questioning our excuses for it because for years we said the science was settled.”
“That was a mistake from the beginning.” D’Avejan frowned. “The physics of how carbon dioxide traps heat is well established. The claimed science behind all future scenarios relies on a lot of assumptions that are essentially unverifiable. But it is too late to point out that distinction without hurting our cause.”
Reno nodded. “I agree. In the beginning things became so alarming so quickly, and now we have little choice but to keep going in that direction. If we attempt to walk back some of our earlier claims we will lose credibility and our planet will surely be doomed.”
“That’s why you have me.” The industrialist had to smile. “I will make sure Earth is here for our children and theirs too, my friend.”
Enthusiastic applause broke out among the small group, and d’Avejan ended the conversation, and any opportunity to chat up some of the prettier hangers-on. A few journalists asked him some questions as he made his way from the university auditorium, but he politely declined comment, saying he was late for a meeting. Outside, tables had been set up on the Parisian sidewalk for passersby to take leaflets and study posters on the dangers of fossil fuels in general and hydraulic fracturing in particular.
D’Avejan didn’t think any of the young protesters knew fracking had been around for a generation, and had been proven safe time after time. He was again grateful that the youth took so much on faith and never investigated a subject on their own. Often attributed to either Lenin or Stalin, the term “useful idiots” came to mind. A bit harsh, he thought, but not too far off the mark.
The so-called fracking revolution in America had vastly increased the United States’ supplies of natural gas. If allowed to happen in Europe, Roland thought, it would devastate his company’s financial position in renewable energy. This wasn’t about lowering carbon footprints by using gas as a bridge fuel or staving off climate change. It was simple capitalistic necessity. If Europe allowed fracking, energy prices would plummet, and every wind farm and solar array under development would be abandoned, leaving the bulk of Eurodyne in ruin. D’Avejan would do anything to prevent men like Ralph Pickford from scavenging the bones of the company he’d built, and that included financing rabble like the Earth Action League, or being party to violent operations in the States. It was what had to be done.
When the dust settled he’d make sure to plant some extra trees someplace.
In keeping with his well-tended eco-image, his car was a new Tesla S sedan. His chauffer had been waiting just down the block and was up to the curb even before d’Avejan could hail him. A small crowd of EAL staffers was congregated nearby, and d’Avejan choked when hit by a waft of patchouli oil and cannabis smoke. He opened the rear car door for himself rather than wait for the driver.
“Sorry I wasn’t quicker, sir,” the man apologized.
“Not your fault,” d’Avejan said as the car silently pulled away, watched by a few of the tech-savvy eco-warriors who recognized the sleek car for what it was. “I had to get away from the stench. My father used to complain about how hippies smelled in the sixties. I don’t think their aroma has much changed.”
“Non, monsieur. Or their politics. It’s the women, you know.”
“The women?” Roland asked, intrigued.
“Oui, monsieur. At least that’s what my father told me. He said back then the women saw makeup and hair care as signs of male oppression, so they stopped all that and went au naturel. When the odor got too bad they doused themselves in funky oils, not perfume, mind you, but some gunk called—”
“Patchouli. I just got a noseful.”
“That’s the stuff. Well, since this was how the women were protesting, the guys back then had to go along with it if they wanted to sleep with any of them. The guys stopped shaving and let their hair grow, and before you knew it a whole generation of nonconformists looked exactly alike. And still do to this day.”
“So it’s all about having sex?”
“Isn’t it always, sir?”
D’Avejan smirked. Michel had driven him to his various mistresses over the years and waited in the car while he was in their arms. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Heading home, monsieur?”
Roland was checking for messages on his two phones. There were several missed calls on his personal phone, most of which he could ignore. The smartphone he treated as disposable showed a missed text. It simply said “Call me.” And had come through when he was donating the money to the EAL. “Not just yet,” he said and slid the phone into his pocket. “I need to get back to the office for a minute.”
“Mais bien sûr, monsieur.”
Thirty minutes later, d’Avejan was in his electronically swept office. He poured himself a drink and watched the lights coming on all over his magical city. He dialed out on a new phone to replace the one he’d just fed through the shredder. From up here the traffic-choked streets were transformed into somnolent rivers of light, while the Eiffel Tower shone like a beacon pointing to the heavens.
“Niklaas?” he said when the phone was answered but no one spoke.
“Ja, sorry. I was taking a sip of water.”
“How did it go?”
“As we suspected,” the mercenary replied.
D’Avejan cursed, but mostly at himself for getting his hopes up. “The American had already come and gone?”
“No. The Pakistani team made contact. They reached the coordinates Mike Dillman provided almost a century ago, but there was nothing there. The Afghan guide was questioned about any kind of mining done in the area. He told them there was an old stone quarry several miles from where they were searching but then mentioned something interesting, a mountain that his grandparents said used to attract lightning. I’ll give it to my old friend Parvez to pick up on a possible connection. He and his team headed for this mountain and when they arrived, the American was already there with a group of hired guns out of Kabul. Not sure which company yet, but Parvez thinks one of them was a black man named Sykes who was Delta but now works for Gen-D Systems.”