CHAPTER 38: Complications, Complications

Ginnie Anderson added a log to the fire. She’d spent several hours editing Steven Armstrong’s testimony for a Congressional hearing on climate change and forest health. She stretched out her back, sighed, and rubbed a knot on the nape of her neck. She ran her fingers through her hair, closed her eyes.

Ah, that heat feels great, she thought as Chrissie Hynde’s voice sang Bob Dylan’s “Every Grain of Sand”.

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need / When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed / There's a dying voice within me reaching out somewhere / Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake / Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break / In the fury of the moment I can see the master's hand / In every leaf that trembles, and in every grain of sand

Outside Ginnie’s living room window, Seamus Boyle watched. He was tired and unkempt. He’d had a busy couple of days taking care of business; had driven from Santa Barbara to Seattle, straight through without sleeping. He’d parked two blocks from the garage in Seattle and jogged over, studied the broken window, the baseball lying on the cement floor. Kids, he’d thought.

He’d loaded the guns, drones, dragon eggs, everything into the back of the Suburban and drove six hours to an isolated peak. He parked and removed the license plates, placed them in his backpack for later disposal. He moved the paperwork from the glove box and set it on fire, then steered the Suburban over the edge and watched it careen off the cliff. He listened as it bounced off the rocky mountainside, breaking branches, falling, tumbling a thousand feet. When the Suburban finally hit the bottom, the dragon’s eggs ignited. He didn’t stay to watch it burn.

It took Boyle an hour to walk down the mountain to the main road, another hour to hitch a ride into the nearest town. At a restaurant, in exchange for $50, he got a ride into Seattle in the back of a pick-up truck.

He walked to the rental car and drove to the outskirts of Seattle, he paid cash for a cheap hotel. He slept.

The next day, he drove to Silvercreek, timing his arrival for after dark.

And now Seamus Boyle was looking through the window at Ginnie standing next to her fireplace. She had beautiful strawberry blonde hair and skin the color of honey. Her breasts pushed against her bulky sweater as she stretched and arched her back, then swayed to the music.

He got excited watching her, even in his fear. He pushed down hard on the bulge in his jeans.

Ginnie’s house was set back from the road and separated from the other houses by stands of large trees. On a quiet night, sound might carry and he didn’t want to take that risk. He sat down in the dirt next to the living room window, thought about a naked Ginnie and waited for the rain.

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Jackson helped Grace out of the cab in front of the office building in Geneva. It rose majestically before them, a solid statement of wealth and power. If Marguerite Boucher chose this building to intimidate, thought Grace, she succeeded.

“We’ll be great,” said Jackson, trying to calm his own nervousness.

Grace looked up at him. He was handsome in his gray wool suit. He looked like all the other businessmen passing them on the street, except he stood taller, with broad shoulders not usually found on those who make their living shuffling paper and closing deals in boardrooms. His hands, however, gave him away. Working hands are completely out of place in a suit.

Grace’s heart beat faster. She felt frightened and excited at the same time.

A doorman held the glass door open to a security screening area. Once cleared, a second set of doors opened to an expansive lobby with white and gray marble floors.

Columns directed their eyes upward to a ceiling frescoed with scenes of industry. A guard stood by the door; two more in the back corners of the lobby.

The hall was bare except for one piece of furniture, a gracefully carved desk set square in the center. A stunningly beautiful Asian woman sat primly at the desk behind a tiny laptop. She looked up and smiled, a perfect smile.

Ah, the American couple, she thought. “May I help you?” she asked pleasantly with a hint of a French accent.

“Grace Newman and Jackson Armstrong for Marguerite Boucher,” said Grace.

She smiled. “Oui, bien sûr, she said. Bienvenue à Genève. Follow the guard, s'il vous plaît,” she said, gesturing to her right.

A guard stepped forward and waited for them to follow. He led them up four steps to a wrought iron elevator cage. No one spoke as they took the elevator to the top floor.

The guard, his face stoic, directed them to the elevator and escorted them to the third floor to an outer office where a trim woman in her 30s welcomed them with, “Madame Newman, Monsieur Armstrong, bienvenue à Genève. Madame Boucher will be with you shortly. I am Chantal. May I offer you something? Tea? Coffee?” They declined. “Please take a seat,” she said, gesturing to a corner fitted with fine furniture.

Grace and Jackson sat on deep purple velour chairs facing floor to ceiling windows framing a stunning view of the lake and Geneva. The room was quiet except for Chantal’s efficient fingering on her computer. The phone was strangely silent.

Grace had called Ian and he told them Marguerite Boucher was Frédéric Trinité’s first cousin. “Cold, calculating,” he said. “Works in mergers and acquisitions with Trinité’s daughter Constance.” He texted her bio and photos of Marguerite and Grace recognized her as the woman in the bottle green dress she’d seen talking with Trinité on the balcony. “You’re getting close, circling him,” said Ian. “Trinité might even be in the building during your meeting.”

Grace felt a shiver of intimidation and fought a panicked urge to run. She focused on a lovely selection of old books on a shelf, a sketch for Goya’s The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters.

Owls, a lynx, bats, flying monsters. Beautiful and chillingly appropriate, thought Grace. It was slightly askew. Something about that imperfection was comforting, relaxed her.

Grace had shared Ian and the General’s research with Jackson and that horror story was running through his head. He studied Grace’s profile. She felt his gaze and turned to him, gave him a small smile.

A door opened. “Entrez, s'il vous plaît,” said a young man. Grace and Jackson entered the room and the young man left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Marguerite Boucher and Frédéric Trinité stood in front of a large and ornately carved mahogany desk, an arched window with tremendous views, behind them.

The family resemblance of the two cousins was striking—both were dark haired with brown eyes. Trinité was in his late forties; Boucher was a few years younger.

His elegant suit fit him perfectly, his tie was tastefully chosen. He looked tanned and healthy, alert and intelligent. Formidable, thought Jackson.

She was impeccably dressed in a tailored fine wool skirt suit in charcoal gray, pinched in at the waist. Marguerite Boucher’s hair was pulled back, all the better to display her gold olive leaf earrings which matched her bracelet. Paloma Picasso, thought Grace. They cost more than my car.

“Ms Newman, Mr. Armstrong, bienvenue à Genève. Hugh suggested I help you with your questions,” she said. “I am Marguerite Boucher and this is my colleague Frédéric Trinité. Enchantée,” she said, adding, “We are fans of your work, Ms Newman.”

“And I understand you own some excellent land stocked with magnificent evergreens, Mr. Jackson,” said Trinité.

The pair smiled warmly, stepped forward and shook their hands, exchanged cards which listed them as Founding Patrons of the Montreux Environmental Writers Consortium.

She offered them seats at a table circled with four silk brocade chairs. Grace, Jackson and Marguerite sat. Trinité remained standing. He cocked his head to one side and said nothing; then he settled into the dark leather chair behind his desk, his fingertips slightly touching, his eyebrows slightly raised.

Oh, my God, thought Grace and her heart skipped a beat. This is his office.

This should be interesting, thought Trinité.

“The questions you sent Hugh were very detailed,” said Marguerite, “illustrated an impressive understanding of forestry.”

“Globally,” added Trinité with a smile.

“We thought perhaps you’re writing a book? That will take time. Might you consider working with Hugh at the UNEC’s journalism program in conjunction with the Montreux Environmental Writers Consortium? The Consortium can provide access, resources, grants, many benefits.”

Jackson swallowed hard and thought, So that is how it’s done.

Grace smiled and said, “Thank you. I’d welcome details on your proposal.”

Silence. They waited. Grace studied a white orchid on a burl wood credenza next to the massive window. Beside it was an Asian bowl which she assumed was priceless. The wall behind was painted an amazing blue.

“Mr. Armstrong,” said Trinité. “We have mutual interests in forestry. Perhaps we could retire to the bar for a drink? Let the ladies talk?” He did not wait for an answer, simply stood and walked to a door, opened it. Jackson looked at Grace. She nodded and he followed Trinité into the next room.

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“Very fine whiskey, this,” said Jackson.

“Merci,” said Trinité. “My family owns the distillery. Took 70 years. You must appreciate that, Mr. Armstrong—I hear you harvest your trees on 70-year cycles.”

Jackson nodded and they discussed forestry in the most general of terms. Jackson thought, under different circumstances, they might have been friends. Trinité had similar thoughts, but they disagreed on palm oil production. “I see it as a travesty,” said Jackson.

“We saw it as extremely lucrative,” said Trinité, taking a breath. “Divested two decades ago.” The future’s in lab-produced industrial fats, he thought.

“Now that I’ve met the man behind the campaigns,” said Jackson, “it’s a shame we’re crossing swords.”

“Crossing swords? Campaigns?” asked Trinité. “Are we at war?”

“Appears so,” replied Jackson, “You’re orchestrating a campaign to benefit your business interests while destroying my town.”

“Destroying your town?” he asked. “How?”

“You’re employing illegal tactics in pursuit of profit.”

Trinité gave a wry smile. “Am I Dr. No? Am I planning to take over the world?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you?” Jackson leaned back. “Seamus Boyle and his various aliases, your various subsidiaries, arson.”

“Arson? If you have a decent fire break around your town, it’s doubtful an arsonist could destroy it, d’accord? But if a contractor with one of our many subsidiaries is breaking the law, that would disturb me greatly.” He sipped his whiskey. “Of course, fire can be a gift from the gods.”

“A gift?” asked Jackson.

Trinité chose each word. “When times are difficult,” he said slowly, “fire creates enormous opportunity to build anew. Plus forest fires create work which eases the distress caused by the inevitable demise of your timber town, correct? Oui, charité des dieux.”

Jackson was silent. Charity of the gods? Who does this man think he is? he thought. One of the gods? A king? Is this the king’s forest? Are we his serfs? Is he throwing the peasants a bone occasionally to ease our miserable lives?

Jackson leaned forward. “Seamus Boyle. Robert Patton. Mark Reading,” he said flatly and quietly. “Drones, dragon eggs, a Dragunov SVD. I could detail more of your illegal activities, your depravities…,”—Jackson noticed a slight tremor in Trinité’s right hand—“…but I think I’ve said enough.”

Trinité’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you expect to accomplish with such accusations?” he asked. There was an almost imperceptible pause. “Blackmail?” He stood. “I could have you arrested,” he said very quietly, “for making threats in my own building.”

“Statements of fact,” said Jackson. 

“Mixed with a promise,” said Grace, standing at the door, Marguerite behind her.

“Accusations. Theories,” said Trinité. “It is always a mistake to take bad luck and business downturns personally, Armstrong,” he said, looking down on Jackson as one would a minor nuisance.

Jackson stood. “You didn’t get the message,” he said. “This is beyond business. This is personal. You’ve been fucking with our lives. Your methods worked because we didn’t know the enemy. Now we do. We know all about your global investments. We know all about you, your family, Jessica...”

A vein in the side of Trinité’s neck throbbed.

“You’ve been cheating at monopoly for far too long,” said Jackson. “We will fight back.” He almost whispered, “What will we choose? The courts? Congressional hearings? Something far, far worse? Whatever we choose, we will make your tidy, elegant, sanitized life a very public muddy misery.”

“You like being invisible,” said Grace, stepping forward. “Although you seek fortune, fame is abhorrent to you. In addition to the nightmare Jackson can deliver, I promise to make you infamous. Your name will be synonymous with greed and exploitation. You will be the subject of gossip and ridicule. You will be viewed…”—she paused—“…as vulgar.”

Marguerite’ gasped, her face ashen and Grace could see the word offended Trinité deeply.

Grace added, “An unrelenting stream of pushy reporters will hound you and your family, and every day will be a very public living hell. I can deliver that.”

Trinité stood. Jackson took a step forward. Trinité took two back. Both men’s anger flared as they faced off. “Back off,” said Jackson. He looked at Grace and they turned, walked through Trinité office to the outer room and down the stairs.

Chantal stood and said, with a little wave, “I hope you have a very nice visit, au revoir!”

In the bar, Marguerite took a swig from Trinité’s whiskey glass.

Trinité said nothing, walked to his office and stared out his window at his very fine view.

Well, well, he thought. Complications. Complications.