in the highly secure hearing room. Laptops sat open before all three men. Crossett snapped his screen shut before resuming his testimony:
“When we talk about the bombing in the Maldives, what’s most important, from our standpoint, is that it’s a stark example of the impact of climate change on national security. Yes, it was a tragic terrorist attack; but it was also the most powerful warning yet that even a stable Muslim nation can experience brutal national security effects from global warming.” In a softer voice that caused several senators to lean forward, Crossett added, “And don’t forget that the Maldives isn’t far from Diego Garcia.” The United States’ closest naval base to Afghanistan.
“These Maldivians, they aren’t screaming about global warming,” insisted the rotund, bespectacled chair of the committee. “It’s a simple power struggle. They want what they don’t have.”
Crossett rubbed his chin. “Mr. Chairman, there’s a power struggle because the country is in a growing state of panic over the ocean rising all around them—much faster than the U.N. said. We’re hearing from our agents in situ that Muslims are loudly blaming our ‘decadent’ lifestyle for the impending loss of their country. They’re building on stilts, senators. Stilts.” The CIA chief eyed them all. “They’re raising seawalls, and now they’re announcing plans to barge dirt from one island to another to try to save themselves. Climate change is not theory to them. It is day-to-day reality throughout the archipelago. We’ve got to get our heads straight on this: Climate change is an increasingly serious national security issue for all nations. We will not be spared.”
“The Muslims sell most of the oil.” With a histrionic flourish, the committee chair whipped off his tortoiseshell glasses. “They’re the ones emptying our pockets. It’s the height of hypocrisy for them to blame us for whatever lifestyle we choose to have. I’m not going to apologize to those buggers for anything.”
“The leaders of the oil-rich nations are draining our treasury, that’s true,” the director rubbed his chin for the second time in a minute, “but let’s acknowledge what we also all know to be true: The people of the Mideast petro states view their leaders as corrupt despots—and for good reason. The ferment in Islamic nations is as much about corruption, and the poverty it produces, as it is about radical reinterpretations of the Koran. Those factors are all linked. I’m sure I don’t need to add that the Maldives doesn’t produce a single drop of petroleum.”
“No, just panicky reactions from your analysts.” The octogenarian chair sat back, twirled his glasses, and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a grin. “So you’re saying that you want to take analysts away from hunting for Al Qaeda and put them on The March of the Penguins?” His barely suppressed smile exploded into laughter. Most of the committee joined in. Freshman Senator Jess Becker of Vermont waited for the mood to settle before glancing at the CIA chief.
“The Agency’s assessment is backed up by military intelligence.” The Senate’s youngest and newest member turned to his colleagues. “They’re reporting that Al Qaeda operatives in the Maldives are doing everything they can to drum up resentment by claiming that the U.S. is trying to drive them into the sea. This is no laughing matter.”
The CIA director offered the brush-cut Becker the slightest nod. The chair responded by saying, “Calm down, ’cause we got bigger fish to fry with the Pakis and Afghans.”
* * *
Senator Gayle Higgens had perfected the Texas swagger, no easy task for a gimp-kneed, sixty-six-year-old woman who carried more extra poundage than the purveyors of red ink in congressional budget committees. She used a tightly wrapped pink umbrella with a titanium tip as a walking stick, and carried herself with such aplomb that constituents had been known to burst into applause when she paraded past. Might have been the hat, too: big, broad-brimmed, and every bit as colorful as its wearer.
She entered United States Energy Institute headquarters on K Street, a thoroughfare long home to lobbyists, think tanks, and advocacy groups of all stripes. None had a more prestigious address—or reigned as powerfully—as USEI with its oil- and coal-money muscle. Higgens swept into the lobby like she owned the place, pointed her umbrella walking stick at a spry woman with an armful of reports and said, “Round ’em up, Edie, we’ve got to powwow in teepee number one. Giddyap.”
Higgens had become a parody of herself, but she didn’t give a damn what the Washington mandarins thought. Part of