real for people. Like telling farmers global warming is contributing to desertification, which means lower crop yields. They’ll get that.”
I spend another thirty minutes breaking down things most of the interns in my companies could easily explain to these politicians. Their ivory towers have chimney stacks, carelessly puffing poison into the environment. I hope I’m not wasting my time “educating” them, but they haven’t delivered in the past at the rate and level I had hoped.
“If we don’t address these issues,” I say, “the socioeconomic implications are even greater than the ones we’ve already discussed. Shifting ecosystems and natural disasters will cause poverty, hunger, homelessness, and disease, and will disproportionately affect those countries already most vulnerable. Quite frankly, in some instances I believe we’re already too late, and have to begin thinking of how we’ll survive, not reverse the consequences of what we’ve done.”
They ask more follow-up questions, and look for ways to skirt the truth, but I don’t give them outs, and counter every shortcut they want to take with hard facts.
“Let’s go,” I mutter to my assistant Jin Lei once the final question has been answered. “Quickest way out of here with as little press as possible.”
“As little” proves relative since a small cadre of reporters gather at the side exit we find.
“Maxim,” one reporter shouts, his iPhone shoved in my face. “Are you glad to be back in America?”
“I’m in America all the time,” I reply neutrally, eyeing the strip of sidewalk between the door and the SUV waiting at the curb. “I just don’t announce my comings and goings, but yeah. Of course, it’s always good to be home.”
“This is your fifth time testifying before Congress,” another yells. “And you serve with the president’s special counsel on climate change. Any chance we might see you venturing into politics?”
“Uh, no.” I laugh and start inching toward the car. “I’ll leave that to my brother.”
“Lots of rumblings about a presidential run for him,” the reporter says. “You’ve been very clear that you’re an Independent, not affiliated with either party. If your brother runs, can we expect you to support him?”
“I may be a little biased, but this country would be lucky to have my brother as president.” I take Jin Lei’s elbow and press forward. “I don’t pretend to know what he’ll do, but he’ll have my full support no matter what.”
I nod to the car and reheat the smile I’ve been using all day with the stalwarts in Congress. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
I allow their persistent questions to harmlessly bounce off my back while we stride to the car.
“Why are they always so interested here?” I ask Jin Lei, dropping my head back against the seat. “I walk outside in London, Paris, Milan—not a peep.”
“For one,” Jin Lei says, “they don’t see you as much. Two and three would be your brother and father. One is a soon-to-be presidential forerunner and the other owns one of the largest oil companies in the world. Americans don’t have royalty, so they’re interested in anything that comes close. Apparently, the Cades come close.”
I miss anonymity. Those days when the only people who really took notice of my existence were the students in my class when I was a TA getting my doctorate. My Kingsman days were simple, sweet. Though too few, my fondest memories from that season of my life are in Amsterdam.
“Is the new office set up?” I glance at the passing scene of downtown DC.
“Yes, sir.”
“Apartment upstairs?” It’s temporary, but I need my workspace within striking distance of where I sleep, considering how little I sleep.
“Yes, sir. Both are ready.”
“Good.” I rub my hands over my face. “Hell, I’m exhausted.”
“This was your last commitment for the day,” she says, her dark eyes concerned. “You hit the ground running.”
“I’m used to it. I’ll be fine.”
The hotel’s penthouse is marble floors, a wall of windows, and the height of modern minimalism. The elaborate arrangement of orchids on the foyer table is the only thing alive in the place. Everything else feels lifeless, impersonal and outrageously luxurious.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
In the office, a plasma wall displays multiple screens—CNN, CNBC, Market Watch, and news from international markets. I widen the feed so the entire wall displays the show I recorded.
“It was that political show Beltway you wanted the recording of, right?” Jin Lei asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I say distractedly, watching the show’s title package. “I’m expecting my brother. Tell them downstairs the senator and his detail can come up as soon as they arrive.”
The