“Felix, please. This is my first time here.”
“And you’re with whom?” Peltier let her gaze wander to the other people.
“The G8 media committee invited us.”
Her eyes locked back on me. “Us?”
I lifted my drink in Carmen’s direction.
Peltier raised herself on tiptoes to better see. “The brunette with the ponytail?”
“I’ll make an introduction if you’d like.”
Krandall slipped an arm around Peltier’s waist. She whispered into his ear. His cheeks flushed. They traded small nods. Krandall dug into a pocket of his coat and brought out a business card. “My cell number’s on there. Tell your friend not to be shy.”
Carmen, shy? I put the card in my coat pocket. If their plans involved a tryst with Carmen, then they better get ready for Olympic-level sexual gymnastics.
“What are you doing for the media committee?” Peltier sipped from her glass.
“We’re consultants. The committee wants us to suggest new ideas for creative and collateral. Improve the messaging.” My bullshit could only go so far. Better that I change the subject. “Why all the security here? Are you guys that worried about terrorists?”
Krandall waved me closer and we almost touched noses. His breath carried the odor of garlic from the grilled shrimp. I stifled a gag and tried to step back but he grasped my shoulder. “Terrorists? Of course not. It’s to keep the protesters out. They’re very creative about sneaking in. The pesky, tree-hugging hippie bastards. Those Luddites see a conspiracy under every rock.”
“And why hold the conference here?” I thought about the antennas, the military helicopter, and the protective perimeter behind the hotel.
“You mean, why the Grand Atlantic? Take a look.” Krandall swept his hand over the room. “This place is the Taj Mahal of resorts. Are you paying for any of this? If not, then don’t complain.”
“And what is it that you do?”
“I work for Rizè-Blu.”
Peltier leaned toward us. “The hooters division.” She chuckled and her breasts jiggled invitingly.
Krandall gave a playful elbow to her ribs. “I’m a development director in their Eden Water-Green Planet Initiative; it’s a partnership between Rizè-Blu and Cress Tech.”
Interesting. “What’s the connection between a pharmaceutical giant and the biggest engineering company in the world?”
“Here’s the corporate answer.” Krandall closed his eyes and said, as if reciting from a script tattooed across the inside of his eyelids: “The Eden Water-Green Planet Initiative blends the synergy of two major global stakeholders: the engineering resources of Cress Tech International and the consumer branding and marketing expertise of Rizè-Blu.” Krandall opened his eyes. “The short answer? Moola.”
He pointed toward the atrium. “Let me show you.”
Chapter
30
We zigzagged through the drooling crowd and made our way to the atrium. Booths lined the edges of the central pathway. The riot of conversation seemed twice as loud as it bounced against the ceiling and the overhanging ledges of the mezzanine. Kiosks towered between the booths and displayed large posters emblazoned with earnest, feel-good messages. END WORLD HUNGER, sponsored by Cargill. STOP WAR, by General Dynamics (ha!). CURE DISEASE, from our friends at Rizè-Blu Pharmaceutique (that is when they were not populating the world with larger breasts).
We stopped by the Rizè-Blu booth. A monitor announced a new breakthrough in the treatment of erectile dysfunction, Rizè-Blu’s new wonder boner pilclass="underline" Tigernene.
Young women costumed like vintage cigarette girls in satin vests and tap pants offered samples from trays. The packets included: NuGrumatex, a translucent amber pill; Olympicin, a tablet with a golden metallic sheen; Luvitmor, a pink tablet with a tiny button that looked like a nipple; and Tigernene, a round pill in macho yellow with black stripes.
Krandall snatched a packet of Tigernene. “This will put titanium in your pencil.”
“You’ve used it?”
“Am using it.”
“And the effects?”
Peltier perched her chin on Krandall’s shoulder. “Like a stallion. Bigger and better.”
Krandall mimicked a whinny and used a leg to act out a horse hoofing the ground.
I clasped their heads and mussed their hair. “Maybe you two need to get a private stable. And soon.”
Peltier withdrew her head and frowned. She patted her hair back into place.
Krandall gave a small, embarrassed cough. “Sorry, TMI.” Too much information. “Let’s go meet my boss.”
Krandall took Peltier’s hand and used his other arm to part through a wall of people. He pointed to a portly man standing in front of the Eden Water booth. “I work for him.”
The man was Daniel Gruber, the former senior advisor to the last president. Gruber held court to a small group that gathered before him, and he spoke using a brisk, rehearsed cadence.
This was the first time I’d seen Gruber in person. His head was shaped like an eggplant that had stayed in the refrigerator for too long, sagging and bottom-heavy while the top sprouted thin white wisps. Small, intense eyes shone from under his thick brow, and his gaze bore through his spectacles as if he was looking into the future for his next moves.
Gruber clicked a tiny remote in his hand. The flat monitor screen resting on the table behind him showed a graph superimposed over a couple of African children. “Once Eden Water is established in central Africa, we can expect these levels of return from your investments.”
Another click and the screen showed the line of a graph climbing to the upper right corner of the screen.
“Phase two of the Eden Water project migrates the initiative to Latin America. Here our projected returns are double those from Africa.”
Another click and the screen showed the graph superimposed over a man in a primitive skiff pulling a net from the water.
Gruber’s eyes focused on his audience and his attention was now firmly in the present. “Phase three implements Eden Water here at home. The challenge…” Gruber paused to let his gaze seize the attention of the people circled before him, “…will be to educate legislators that municipal control of fresh water makes as little sense as the government managing any other commodity.”
An older woman asked, “What about access to safe drinking water as a right?”
Gruber’s answer continued the practiced rhythm. “We live in a global economy. Rather than let arbitrary notions of rights dictate what is available to the consumer, we need to allow the mechanisms of a free market to meet the demand.”
I stood beside Krandall and couldn’t help but ask: “What about the right to justice? Is that also for sale?”
When he worked in the White House, Gruber had been twice indicted for perjury, and wealthy friends of the president had helped him beat both raps.
The others listening to Gruber turned their heads and glared over their shoulders. Krandall jerked on my sleeve. Did I know who I was talking to?
Gruber dismissed me with a fleeting, annoyed look. He clicked his remote again. The graph was superimposed over a girl and a boy prancing through a lawn sprinkler.
“We’ll increment the adoption of the Eden Water initiative. You can see here that at milestone one, the first year return with 10 percent marginalization of the existing market-”
The woman who had spoken before asked, “Marginalization?”
Gruber smirked. “Control.” The smirk gave way to a serious expression. “That 10 percent will deliver a return of 1.1 billion dollars-”
A man in the group interrupted: “You talk about investors. What’s Rizè-Blu’s stake?”