The Trojan Sea (2 page)

Dallas, Texas

Ann Silton and Clarissa Jones sat in a corner of the large two-room suite in the Regency Hotel as the convention’s executive committee gathered for a late-afternoon meeting. Neither woman wanted to be at this particular meeting, and both had their arms and legs tightly crossed, sending an unmistakable signal. But they had no choice. Front Uni, the latest and largest coalition of environmentalist groups, was on a roll, growing daily in power and influence. The unbelievable success of the convention was a tribute to John Frobisher, the brains and organizing force behind Front Uni.

“I told John,” Ann said, “that we have no business talking to
her
just because
she
happens to be available.” Ann shot a hard look across the room and speared John Frobisher, hoping he would get the message. Clarissa, the younger of the two, followed Ann’s lead and tried to emulate her stare. But Clarissa only managed to look doe-eyed, sweet, and naïve, a reflection of her true nature.

“Why did we even hold the convention here?” Clarissa asked.

“Because John got an excellent deal and the hotel offered us the conference rooms free of charge. It was too good to turn down.”

Clarissa gave a pretty shake of her long blond hair. “Well,” she conceded, “the rooms are very nice. And I love the big bathroom with all the towels and free toiletries.”

“It’s too nice for what we’re paying,” Ann muttered, going even deeper into her mental defensive crouch. Another thought came to her. “I wonder if
she
had anything to do with all this?” They fell silent when the subject of their conversation walked in.

Although Ann and Clarissa had seen Lee Justine Ellis on TV, they were not prepared for the sheer physical presence of the woman. L.J., as she liked to be called, simply devoured a room by the force of pure charisma. For Ann it hurt even more. She and L.J. were both thirty-eight years old, but L.J. looked ten years younger. L.J. was tall, with a mass of naturally curly, dark-blond hair pulled into a loose bundle at the base of her neck. She was wearing a man’s white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, loose-fitting jeans that hinted at her trim figure, and cowboy boots that made her long legs seem even longer.

At first glance her shirt and jeans looked as if they came off the rack at some bargain-basement sale. In reality the custom-tailored shirt cost three hundred dollars and the jeans over six hundred dollars. A connoisseur of Western wear would have recognized her cowboy boots immediately and guessed their value at over fifteen hundred dollars. He would have been half right. Lee Justine Ellis was a masterpiece of the kind of casual, down-home understatement that only the very wealthy can afford and the very beautiful carry off. And with her blue eyes, high cheekbones, and perfect mouth, she was drop-dead gorgeous.

“She’s not wearing a bra,” Clarissa whispered. “Look at John. He’s all but stepping on his tongue.”

“It’s not his tongue he’s stepping on,” Ann said, feeling squat and dowdy.

John Frobisher introduced L.J. to the five other members of Front Uni’s executive committee. “I think you all know who Miss Ellis is.” The environmentalists nodded in unison. L.J. was the president and chairman of the board of RayTex Oil, a small but feisty oil company she had inherited upon the death of her father. Many environmentalists shared the belief—it was part of Ann and Clarissa’s private mantra—that any oil company was inherently evil and had to be destroyed to save the world. For the two women, Lee Justine Ellis was a beautiful incarnation of Lucifer himself.

L.J. gave Frobisher a warm look, studying his features. His shaggy, prematurely gray hair and pudgy body reminded her of the teddy bear she’d loved as a child. Like most women, she had an irresistible urge to cuddle him. But there was more to it. Like a good general, L.J. had scrutinized the opposition and dissected the environmentalist movement. John Frobisher was a political operative and on the upper end of the environmentalist food chain. He was a savvy lobbyist and wore a suit and tie. He also understood the process of change and believed in engaging the enemy in a constructive dialogue, which was why he had invited L.J. in the first place. Of the four groups that made up Front Uni, he represented the one faction L.J. feared. But at the same time she respected him for what he was. And there was that teddy bear image that touched a childhood memory.

Ann and Clarissa were from Greenpeace, the revenue-generating machine and propagandists of the movement. But Greenpeace was running out of steam and hadn’t had a win since the “Save the Whales” campaign. They desperately needed an issue that looked good on a bumper sticker and would rally the faithful—and shake loose their checkbooks.

Of the three other men, two were scientists. They did the real work of the movement and dealt in the truth, which would never translate to a bumper sticker. Because they were complex, rational, and legitimate thinkers, they were never mentioned by the media. The last man was from Earth First. He was a true believer and an ecoterrorist not above spiking trees in old-growth forests or sabotaging oil refineries.

“I hope you’re enjoying Dallas,” L.J. said. She pulled up a chair and sat down next to the two women. The four men hurried to join her, forming a tight but casual circle in one corner of the room. L.J. crossed her legs and leaned forward. She clasped her hands and gave a little smile that was both timorous and half apologetic. “It is nice of you to take the time to see me.” Her voice had a soft, barely discernible Texas accent. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Miss Ellis,” Ann said. She paused to take a deep breath.

“Please, I do prefer L.J.”

Ann frowned. “Drop the phony act and cut to the chase.” L.J. gave Ann a knowing look, taking her measure. Like John Frobisher, Ann Silton was a person L.J. could respect, and under the right circumstances might even like. But they were adversaries about to engage in mortal combat. L.J. gave a little nod, accepting the challenge. Ann had no idea what she had started. “I’m not the enemy,” L.J. said. “In fact, we share many points of common interest.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Ann shot back.

“Please,” Frobisher said. “At least we can listen to what L.J. has to say.” Ann gave a tiny snort and fell silent.

Again the little nod from L.J. “I feel like Marc Antony at Caesar’s funeral.” She paused for effect. The allusion to the famous speech from Shakespeare’s play was not lost on the environmentalists. Like Antony, L.J. was facing a very hostile audience, many of whom would be glad to see her quick demise, preferably in a public and humiliating manner. She started to speak, her words matter-of-fact, her tone friendly. “Oil is the world’s biggest business because it’s the linchpin of our civilization. Petroleum pervades our life, and we are, whether we like it or not, a hydrocarbon society. Oil is so critical that in the twentieth century it meant money, power, and mastery.”

“Honey,” Ann said, her voice dripping with sweetness, “this is the twenty-first century. Things change.”

L.J. gave her a smile and the little nod. “Have they? Petroleum has changed every aspect of our civilization, and I don’t see us getting along without it.”

“And I don’t see how we can live with it,” Ann said, her voice calm and reasoned. “Oil is the great polluter. It’s killing the environment.”

“I agree,” L.J. said. The silence in the room was absolute, surprise on every face. “Unfortunately I don’t see Hydrocarbon Man giving up his cars and suburban way of life.”

L.J.’s ready agreement startled Ann. “You got the ‘man’ part right.”

“There’s no need for us to fight,” L.J. said.

Frobisher sensed that it was time to intervene. “There are two issues on which there is no compromise.”

L.J. turned to look at him, her blue eyes full of understanding. “Oil spills and air pollution.”

“Correct,” he said. “And I repeat, there is no compromise.”

“In both of these areas we have many points of common agreement where we can work together to make things better.”

“Why?” Ann asked, genuinely interested but still doubtful.

“It’s complicated,” L.J. replied, “and I can’t explain it in ten seconds. But in a nutshell, it’s in my economic self-interest to do so.”

“You’ll have to do better than that.” This from the ecoterrorist. “A lot better.” His face was granite hard, a perfect reflection of his voice.

L.J. pulled off the gloves. “The environmentalist movement is laboring under the illusion that environmental improvement is basically ‘free,’ a matter of regulation, and there is no price tag, no bill to be paid. That’s totally wrong.” The two scientists nodded in agreement. “Oil is so integral to our economy,” L.J. continued, “that any change will involve money, massive amounts of it. Also, I know change is coming, and I want to be part of it.”

The ecoterrorist was the type of alpha male Ann Silton detested, and she liked the way L.J. stood up to him. Ann repeated her question, the hostility in her voice gone. “You still haven’t answered why.”

“Because,” L.J. answered, “I’m going to make money when the bill is paid. Lots of it. But there’s another reason, and whether you believe it or not, I am an environmentalist and I care.”

Ann wanted to believe her, but there was still so much between them. “You are one conflicted woman if you believe all that.”

L.J.’s laugh filled the room with music. “My father claimed I’m part Southern belle and part feminist. How much more conflicted can you get than that?”

“Maybe,” Frobisher allowed, “there are areas where we
can
work together.”

L.J. gave him a look that made his knees go weak. “Oh, I hope so. Now, where do we begin?”

At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, Lloyd Marsten, the CEO of RayTex Oil, entered the company’s executive offices on the top floor of the Fountain Plaza Building. As always, he moved with a measured, purposeful dignity, and nothing betrayed his impatience. His secretary, Mrs. Shugy Jenkins, sprang from her seat and held open the door to the CEO’s corner office. “Good morning, Mr. Marsten. Tea?” She was a prim, childless, birdlike woman in her mid-forties, a Southern Baptist whose faith was the only thing that flourished on her parent’s hardscrabble farm in west Texas.

“That would be nice, thank you.” Marsten’s British accent matched his outward appearance. He was tall, gray-headed, slightly stooped, and impeccably attired in a Savile Row suit, not the regulation Brooks Brothers ensemble worn by his fellow CEOs. The suit helped highlight the differences between him and his American contemporaries. He was the epitome of the European oil man—suave, cultured, intelligent, technically competent, and aristocratic. But underneath the smooth and urbane exterior lurked a shark, a very hungry predator. “Is Miss Ellis in yet?”

Shugy worked hard not to frown at the mention of L.J. “Not yet.” She couldn’t help herself. “Her chauffeur dropped her off at the Dallas Regency yesterday afternoon for the meeting with the environmentalists. He never picked her up.”

“Ah,” Marsten said, not missing a beat. “Perhaps she was offered another way home.”

If she went home,
Shugy thought, hurrying to get Marsten’s tea. She worshipped the very ground Marsten walked on and considered L. J. Ellis a Jezebel.

Marsten settled into his chair and gazed out the window. It was an unbelievably clear day for September, and Fort Worth’s skyline etched the far horizon. But he didn’t really see it as his stomach churned with anxiety. The door opened, and Shugy wheeled in a tea cart. L.J. was right behind her, still wearing the same clothes as the day before. The secretary poured two cups of tea and stirred in the right amount of milk and sugar for Marsten. “Thank you, Shugy,” Marsten said, sending her on her way.

L.J. sipped her tea and waited for the door to close. “Is Shugy her real name?”

“I believe it is,” Marsten replied. “A diminutive derived from the word ‘sugar.’”

“She reminds me of my old spinster aunt. The poor thing believed if you enjoyed something, it was sinful. But she did like her soap operas.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve often wondered what you Texas ladies enjoyed.”

“I enjoyed last night,” she replied.

“Were there, ah, developments?”

“No, I did not sleep with John Frobisher. But he thinks we might.” She considered the possibility, recalling the teddy-bear image and the urge to cuddle him.

“‘A promise made is a debt unpaid,’” Marsten quoted.

“‘And the trail has its own stern code,’” L.J. added. She laughed, and as always, he was enchanted. It helped calm his growing apprehension. “‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ When did you start reading Robert Service?”

“I am trying to understand you colonials.” Again he arched an eyebrow, still waiting for a full report on the night’s activities. If it were germane to RayTex Oil, she would tell him.

“I had to tame the two women on the executive committee. The older one, Ann Silton, has a brain and isn’t afraid to use it.”

“Which you like in a woman,” Marsten added.

“We do have a lot in common,” L.J. said. “She’s aggressive and wants to make a difference. The younger one, Clarissa Jones, is in need of an ego. We sat up most of the night talking about women’s issues. It turned into a girl’s slumber party.” She thought for a moment, a sadness in her eyes. “Have ARA check them out.” ARA, or Action Research Associates, was the firm of private investigators RayTex Oil used. Like the CIA, ARA had global reach; however, there was one big difference. ARA was very good at what they did.

Again the expressive eyebrow from Marsten.

“No, I did not sleep with either of them.”

“A promise made…”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” L.J. said.

“Do they know we’re picking up the tab at the Regency?”

“No. But it would have been cheap at ten times the price.”

“Your search for allies is admirable,” Marsten said. “I just hope it isn’t misguided.”

“Change is coming, Lloyd. We can’t stop it. But we can delay. For that we need friends at court.”