WATER WORKS: 23) EMIL RUBITSKI REDUX

Sunday Funnies: A Novel of Intrigue, Lunacy & H2O

30.

Pikestaff invites me to Langley for lunch.

I counter-suggest the Tastee Diner in Bethesda.

We compromise with Kazan, a Turkish restaurant in McLean.

A Lincoln Town Car alongside a chase car with two security goons and four antennas tip me off that Pikestaff has already arrived.

Inside, Pikestaff sips mineral water.

I sit down, smiling.

"So," says Pikestaff. "Were the Brits helpful?"

I nod. "They had the missing piece to our puzzle."

"And that would be?"

A waiter appears. Beefeater martini, three olives; I wait for him to beat it.

"It's the Chinese," I whisper.

"What's the Chinese?"

"They're behind the Scrogg twins. Specifically, a princeling named Yao Li, who just happens to be the loathsome son of Yao Lo."

Pikestaff whistles softly.

"Here’s the question," I say. "Is this water thing a Chinese Intelligence operation? Or did Yao Li dream it up himself to make money? He supposedly studied business at Harvard."

Pikestaff absorbs this. "I'll run it past the Far East chief."

"There's another dimension to this, Pikestaff."

Pikestaff gives me a pained look. He’s already on 225 milligrams of Zantac daily. He wanted to be director all his life. But what he needs is a beach house in Rehoboth. "What new dimension?"

"Yao Li is using Scrogg Island as a drop-zone for the illegal shipment of weapons into the United States. Again, is this Yao Li personally—or Chinese Intelligence?"

Pikestaff closes his eyes, belches quietly.

"Oh, there's more," I add. "Perfidious briefed our government about this arms smuggling ring six months ago. They're puzzled nobody's done anything about it."

"Who?" snaps Pikestaff. "Who did they brief?"

"London embassy's legal attaché. The Bureau."

Pikestaff shakes his head. He did not like this, not one little bit. "Don't be flying off anywhere.”

"Are you asking me to surrender my passport?"

31.

I am happy to wallow in the Bog for a while; give my body a chance to catch up with my soul—or vice-versa.

First, I latte'd. Then I latte'd again.

Then I phoned Emil Rubitski.

I still had the Aral Sea to save for Morton Levi at four grand a day. If there was a way, or a person, who could save the Aral Sea, Rubitski would know how or whom.

"Emil, it's too late for lunch," I said. "What say we rendezvous for a cocktail?"

Rubitski is silent. He lived for his routine. A cocktail rendezvous was not part of it. "Where?" he gasps.

"The bar of your choice."

More silence.

"Okay," I say. "In that case, my choice. The Cosmos Club."

"You're a member of the Cosmos Club?" Emil’s astonishment rips through my eardrum and scrapes my brain.

"I was practically born there. Is 5:33 okay?"

"I leave here at 5:30.”

"Fine. Make it 5:48."

38.

I stool myself at the bar inside the Cosmos Club and order a martini.

The barkeep shakes, pours and slides a notecard and pencil my way.

I write Pikestaff's name and number.

Rubitski soon appears, disoriented from being outside his normal routine.

"Name your potion, Emil."

"Dewar's and soda." Rubitski looks around in wonderment.

"There are only two clubs worth shit in Washington," I tell him. "The Metropolitan and Cosmos. Money goes to the Metropolitan, brains go to Cosmos. Either way, members have to be permanent Bog dwellers. Elected folk come and go in this town and never get a peek inside either one of them. As it should be."

Rubitski gulps his libation.

"Here's today's problem, Emil. The Aral Sea."

"The Aral Sea is dead," pronounces Rubitski.

"How can we bring it back to life?"

"We can't," says Emil. "Dead is dead."

"C'mon, Emil. Nothing's impossible." I invoke Morton Levi's motto.

"You haven't see the Aral Sea," says Rubitski.

"I'm thinking of going there to take a look," I say.

"You're wasting your time."

"Someone's paying my time."

"They're wasting their money."

"Supposing my sponsor wanted to try, just for the fun of it?"

"Central Asia is many things," replies Rubitski. "Fun is not one of them."

"Come on, Emil, play along. I might be able to hire you as a consultant."

"I'm not going anywhere. Certainly not Central Asia."

"Don't worry, Emil. This club is the furthest I'm taking you out of your groove. Who should I see about the Aral Sea?"

"See the Uzbeks," snaps Rubitski. "They're the ones who totally fucked it up. No, that's not fair. It was the Soviets who fucked it up. They extracted every ounce of natural resource they could get their hands on. Exports for hard currency, the environment be damned. It was their irrigation policies that led to the Aral's demise. The Uzbeks understand their problem. They act like they're interested in doing something about it. But have they stopped growing cotton? Of course they have not. They'll never stop growing cotton until cotton refuses to grow. And it will refuse to grow, very soon. In any event, it's too late. Even if they stopped growing cotton from midnight tonight, the damage is done. The only way to bring the Aral Sea back to life would be to pipe water from Siberia."

"Pipe water from Siberia?"

"A 1600-mile pipeline," says Rubitski. "A new supply of water."

"Is that feasible?"

"Feasible? Yes. Practical? No. Economically viable? No. Expensive? Very."

"It takes money to make money," I say.

"It also takes money to lose money.”

"Good one, Emil. And people say you're not funny."

"You want funny?" says Rubitski. "I'll tell you funny. You're talking about a lost cause 7,500 miles away when our own river needs help."

"The Potomac?"

"Of course, the Potomac." Rubitski nods knowingly. "Poultry waste."

"Poultry waste?"

"There are 870 poultry farms in Maryland. Do you have any idea how much waste that equates to?"

"Not really."

"I do. Annually, 155,000 tons."

"You're telling me the Potomac is a river of chicken shit?"

Rubitski nods.

"I shouldn't be surprised," I say. "It explains why Washington is a chicken shit town. New subject: Chinese princelings."

"Ah," says Emil. "China's new elite. Some communist families are more equal than others."

"What's the deal with them?"

"The deal? The princelings are born into a very good deal, indeed. They're the grandchildren of the heroes of Mao's so-called glorious revolution. The deal, as you call it, is this: they should naturally reign over the oppressive system that their ancestors fought so hard to create. Ironic, isn't it? Even though they're communists, they're genetically prone to dynasty." Rubitski shakes his head. "All this talk about cloning. The Chinese have been cloning themselves for centuries."

"Does your Center have an expert on China?"

"We have a senior fellow for each region of the world," says Rubitski. "Joy Baumgartner. She’s our China specialist. Joy has made princelings something of a passion. No, an obsession."

"Will she talk to me?"

"Are you kidding?" Rubitski shoots me a look of incredulity mixed with horror. "Once you get Joy talking about China, try shutting her up.” He pauses. “Tread carefully with her. Joy is volatile as all hell."