Best Laid Plans

THE BEST LAID PLANS
One.

The first entry in Leslie Stewart's diary read:
Dear Diary: This morning I met the man I am going to
marry.
It was a simple, optimistic statement, with not the
slightest portent
of the dramatic chain of events that was about to occur.
It was one of those rare, serendipitous days when nothing
could go
wrong, when nothing would dare go wrong. Leslie Stewart
had no
interest in astrology, but that morning, as she was
leafing through the
Lexington Herald-Leader, a horoscope in an astrology
column by Zoltaire
caught her eye. It read:

FOR LEO (JULY 23RD TO AUGUST 22ND). THE NEW
MOON ILLUMINATES YOUR LOVE LIFE. YOU ARE IN YOUR LUNAR
CYCLE HIGH
NOW,
AND MUST PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO AN EXCITING NEW EVENT IN
YOUR LIFE.
YOUR COMPATIBLE SIGN IS ViRGO. TODAY WILL BE A RED-LETTER
DAY. BE
PREPARED TO ENJOY IT.
Be prepared to enjoy what? Leslie thought wryly. Today
was going to
be like every other day. Astrology was nonsense, mind
candy for
fools.
Leslie Stewart was a public relations and advertising
executive at the
Lexington, Kentucky, firm of Bailey & Tomkins. She had
three meetings
scheduled for that afternoon, the first with the Kentucky
Fertilizer
Company, whose executives were excited about the new
campaign she was
working up for them. They especially liked its beginning:
"If you want
to smell the roses...." The second meeting was with the
Breeders Stud
Farm, and the third with the Lexington Coal Company.
Red-letter day?
In her late twenties, with a slim, provocative figure,
Leslie Stewart
had an exciting, exotic look; gray, sloe eyes, high
cheekbones, and
soft, honey-colored hair, which she wore long and
elegantly simple. A
friend of Leslie's had once told her,
"If you're beautiful and have a brain and a vagina, you
can own the
world." Leslie Stewart was beautiful and had an IQ of
170, and nature
had taken care of the rest. But she found her looks a
disadvantage.
Men were constantly pro positioning her or proposing, but
few of them
bothered to try really to get to know her. Aside from the
two
secretaries who worked at Bailey & Tomkins, Leslie was the
only woman
there. There were fifteen male employees. It had taken
Leslie less
than a week to learn that she was more intelligent than
any of them. It
was a discovery she decided to keep to herself. In the
beginning, both
partners, Jim Bailey, an overweight, soft-spoken man in
his forties,
and Al Tomkins, anorexic and hyper, ten years younger than
Bailey,
individually tried to talk Leslie into going to bed with
them. She had
stopped them very simply. "Ask me once more, and I'll
quit." That had
put an end to that. Leslie was too valuable an employee
to lose. Her
first week on the job, during a coffee break, Leslie had
told her
fellow employees a joke. "Three men came across a female
genie who
promised to grant each one a wish. The first man said, "I
wish I were
twenty-five percent smarter." The genie blinked, and the
man said,
"Hey, I feel smarter already." "The second man said, "I
wish I were
fifty percent smarter." The genie blinked, and the man
exclaimed,
"That's wonderful! I think I know things now that I
didn't know
before."
"The third man said, "I'd like to be one hundred percent
smarter."
"So the genie blinked, and the man changed into a woman."
Leslie looked expectantly at the men at the table. They
were all
staring at her, unamused.
Point taken.
The red-letter day that the astrologer had promised began
at eleven
o'clock that morning. Jim Bailey walked into Leslie's
tiny, cramped
office. "We have a new client," he announced. "I want
you to take
charge." She was already handling more accounts than
anyone else at
the firm, but she knew better than to protest. "Fine,"
she said.
"What is it?" "It's not a what, it's a who. You've heard
of Oliver
Russell, of course?" Everyone had heard of Oliver
Russell. A local
attorney and candidate for governor, he had his face on
billboards all
over Kentucky. With his brilliant legal record, he was
considered, at
thirty-five, the most eligible bachelor in the state. He
was on all
the talk shows on the major television stations in
Lexington WDKY,
WTVQ, WKYT and on the popular local radio stations, WKQQ
and WLRO.
Strikingly handsome, with black,
unruly hair, dark eyes, an athletic build, and a warm
smile, he had the
reputation of having slept with most of the ladies in
Lexington.
"Yes, I've heard of him. What are we going to do for
him?"
"We're going to try to help turn him into the governor of
Kentucky.
He's on his way here now."
Oliver Russell arrived a few minutes later. He was even
more
attractive in person than in his photographs. When he was
introduced
to Leslie, he smiled warmly. "I've heard a lot about you.
I'm so glad
you're going to handle my campaign." He was not at all
what Leslie had
expected. There was a completely disarming sincerity
about the man.
For a moment, Leslie was at a loss for words. "I thank
you. Please
sit down." Oliver Russell took a seat. "Let's start at
the
beginning," Leslie suggested. "Why are you running for
governor?"
"It's very simple. Kentucky's a wonderful state. We know
it is,
because we live here, and we're able to enjoy its magic
but much of the
country thinks of us as a bunch of hillbillies. I want to
change that
image. Kentucky has more to offer than a dozen other
states combined.
The history of this country began here. We have one of
the oldest
capitol buildings in America. Kentucky gave this country
two
presidents. It's the land of
Daniel Boone and Kit Carson and Judge Roy Bean. We have
the most
beautiful scenery in the world exciting caves, rivers,
bluegrass fields
everything. I want to open all that up to the rest of the
world."
He spoke with a deep conviction, and Leslie found herself
strongly
drawn to him. She thought of the astrology column. "The
new moon
illuminates your love life. Today will be a red-letter
day. Be
prepared to enjoy it."
Oliver Russell was saying, "The campaign won't work unless
you believe
in this as strongly as I do."
"I do," Leslie said quickly. Too quickly? "I'm really
looking forward
to this." She hesitated a moment. "May I ask you a
question?"
"Certainly."
"What's your birth sign?"
"Virgo."
After Oliver Russell left, Leslie went into Jim Bailey's
office. "I
like him," she said. "He's sincere. He really cares. I
think he'd
make a fine governor." Jim looked at her thoughtfully.
"It's not
going to be easy." She looked at him, puzzled. "Oh?
Why?" Bailey
shrugged. "I'm not sure. There's something going on that
I can't
explain. You've seen Russell on all the billboards and on
television?"
"Yes." '.f
"Well, that's stopped." "I don't understand. Why?" "No
one knows for
certain, but there are a lot of strange rumors. One of
the rumors is
that someone was backing Russell, putting up all the money
for his
campaign, and then for some reason suddenly dropped him."
"In the
middle of a campaign he was winning? That doesn't make
sense, Jim."
"I know." "Why did he come to us?" "He really wants
this. I think
he's ambitious. And he feels he can make a difference.
He would like
us to figure out a campaign that won't cost him a lot of
money. He
can't afford to buy any more airtime or do much
advertising. All we
can really do for him is to arrange interviews, plant
newspaper
articles, that sort of thing." He shook his head.
"Governor Addison
is spending a fortune on his campaign. In the last two
weeks,
Russell's gone way down in the polls. It's a shame. He's
a good
lawyer. Does a lot of pro bono work. I think he'd make a
good
governor, too." That night Leslie made her first note in
her new
diary. Dear Diary: This morning I met the man I am going
to marry.
Leslie Stewart's early childhood was idyllic. She was an
extraordinarily intelligent child. Her father was an
English professor
at Lexington Community College and her mother was a
housewife.
Leslie's father was a handsome man, patrician and
intellectual. He was
a caring father, and he saw to it that the family took
their vacations
together and traveled together. Her father adored her.
"You're Daddy's
girl," he would say. He would tell her how beautiful she
looked and
compliment her on her grades, her behavior, her friends.
Leslie could
do no wrong in his eyes. For her ninth birthday, her
father bought her
a beautiful brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. He would
have her put
the dress on, and he would show her off to his friends
when they came
to dinner. "Isn't she a beauty?" he would say. Leslie
worshiped him.
One morning, a year later, in a split second, Leslie's
wonderful life
vanished. Her mother, face stained with tears, sat her
down.
"Darling, your father has ... left us." Leslie did not
understand at
first. "When will he be back?" "He's not coming back."
And each word
was a sharp knife. My mother has driven him away, Leslie
thought. She
felt sorry for her mother because now there would be a
divorce and a
custody fight. Her father would never let her go. Never.
He'll come
for me, Leslie told herself. But weeks passed, and her
father never
called. They won't let him come and see me, Leslie
decided. Mother's
punishing him. It was Leslie's elderly aunt who explained
to the child
that there would be no custody battle. Leslie's father had
fallen in
love with a widow who taught at the university and had
moved in with
her, in her house on Limestone Street.
One day when they were out shopping, Leslie's mother
pointed out the
house. "That's where they live," she said bitterly.
Leslie resolved to visit her father. When he sees me, she
thought,
he'll want to come home.
On a Friday, after school, Leslie went to the house on
Limestone Street
and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a girl
Leslie's age. She
was wearing a brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. Leslie
stared at
her, in shock.
The little girl was looking at her curiously. "Who are
you?"
Leslie fled.
Over the next year, Leslie watched her mother retire into
herself. She
had lost all interest in life. Leslie had believed that
"dying of a
broken heart" was an empty phrase, but Leslie helplessly
watched her
mother fade away and die, and when people asked her what
her mother had
died of, Leslie answered, "She died of a broken heart."
And Leslie
resolved that no man would ever do that to her. After her
mother's
death, Leslie moved in with her aunt. Leslie attended
Bryan Station
High School and was graduated from the University of
Kentucky summa cum
laude. In her final year in college, she was voted beauty
queen, and
turned down numerous offers from modeling agencies.
Leslie had two
brief affairs, one with a college football hero, and the
other with her
economics professor. They quickly bored her. The fact
was that she
was brighter than both of them.
Just before Leslie was graduated, her aunt died. Leslie
finished
school and applied for a job at the advertising and public
relations
agency of Bailey & Tomkins. Its offices were on Vine
Street in a
U-shaped brick building with a copper roof and a fountain
in the
courtyard.
Jim Bailey, the senior partner, had examined Leslie's
resume, and
nodded. "Very impressive. You're in luck. We need a
secretary."
"A secretary? I hoped "
"Yes?"
"Nothing."
Leslie started as a secretary, taking notes at all the
meetings, her
mind all the while judging and thinking of ways to improve
the
advertising campaigns that were being suggested. One
morning, an
account executive was saying, "I've thought of the perfect
logo for the
Rancho Beef Chili account. On the label of the can, we
show a picture
of a cowboy roping a cow. It suggests that the beef is
fresh, and "
That's a terrible idea, Leslie thought. They were all
staring at her,
and to her horror, Leslie realized she had spoken aloud.
"Would you mind explaining that, young lady?"
"I..." She wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere.
They were all waiting. Leslie took a deep breath. "When
people eat
meat, they don't want to be reminded that they're eating a
dead
animal."
There was a heavy silence. Jim Bailey cleared his throat.
"Maybe we
should give this a little more thought."
The following week, during a meeting on how to publicize a
new beauty
soap account, one of the executives said, "We'll use
beauty contest
winners."
"Excuse me," Leslie said diffidently. "I believe that's
been done. Why
couldn't we use lovely flight attendants from around the
world to show
that our beauty soap is universal?"
In the meetings after that, the men found themselves
turning to Leslie
for her opinion.
A year later, she was a junior copywriter, and two years
after that,
she became an account executive, handling both advertising
and
publicity.
Oliver Russell was the first real challenge that Leslie
had had at the
agency. Two weeks after Oliver Russell came to them,
Bailey suggested
to Leslie that it might be better to drop him, because he
could not
afford to pay their usual agency fee, but Leslie persuaded
him to keep
the account.
"Call it pro bono," she said.
Bailey studied her a moment. "Right."
Leslie and Oliver Russell were seated on a bench in
Triangle Park. It
was a cool fall day, with a soft breeze coming from the
lake. "I hate
politics," Oliver Russell said.
Leslie looked at him in surprise. "Then why in the world
are you ?"
"Because I want to change the system, Leslie. It's been
taken over by
lobbyists and corporations that help put the wrong people
in power and
then control them. There are a lot of things I want to
do." His voice
was filled with passion. "The people who are running the
country have
turned it into an old boys' club. They care more about
themselves than
they do about the people. It's not right, and I'm going
to try to
correct that."
Leslie listened as Oliver went on, and she was thinking,
He could do
it. There was such a compelling excitement about him.
The truth was
that she found everything about him exciting. She had
never felt this
way about a man before, and it was an exhilarating
experience. She had
no way of knowing how he felt about her. He is always the
perfect
gentleman, damn him. It seemed to Leslie that every few
minutes people
were coming up to the park bench to shake Oliver's hand
and to wish him
well. The women were visually throwing daggers at Leslie.
They've
probably all been out with him, Leslie thought. They've
probably all
been to bed with him. Well, that's none of my business.
She had heard that until recently he had been dating the
daughter of a
senator. She wondered what had happened. That's none of
my business,
either.
There was no way to avoid the fact that Oliver's campaign
was going
badly. Without money to pay his staff, and no television,
radio, or
newspaper ads, it was impossible to compete with Governor
Gary Addison,
whose image seemed to be everywhere. Leslie arranged for
Oliver to
appear at company picnics, at factories, and at dozens of
social
events, but she knew these appearances were all
minor-league, and it
frustrated her.
"Have you seen the latest polls?" Jim Bailey asked
Leslie. "Your boy
is going down the tubes."
Not if I can help it, Leslie thought.
Leslie and Oliver were having dinner at Cheznous. "It's
not working,
is it?" Oliver asked quietly. "There's still plenty of
time," Leslie
said reassuringly. "When the voters get to know you "
Oliver shook his
head. "I read the polls, too. I want you to know I
appreciate
everything you've tried to do for me, Leslie. You've been
great." She
sat there looking at him across the table, thinking, He's
the most
wonderful man I've ever met, and I can't help him. She
wanted to take
him in her arms and hold him and console him. Console
him? Who am I
kidding? As they got up to leave, a man, a woman, and two
small girls
approached the table. "Oliver! How are you?" The
speaker was in his
forties, an attractive-looking man with a black eye patch
that gave him
the raffish look of an amiable pirate.
Oliver rose and held out his hand. "Hello, Peter. I'd
like you to
meet Leslie Stewart. Peter Tager."
"Hello, Leslie." Tager nodded toward his family. "This
is my wife,
Betsy, and this is Elizabeth and this is Rebecca." There
was enormous
pride in his voice.
Peter Tager turned to Oliver. "I'm awfully sorry about
what happened.
It's a damned shame. I hated to do it, but I had no
choice."
"I understand, Peter."
"If there was anything I could have done "
"It doesn't matter. I'm fine."
"You know I wish you only the best of luck."
On the way home, Leslie asked, "What was that all about?"
Oliver started to say something, then stopped. "It's not
important."
Leslie lived in a neat one-bedroom apartment in the
Brandy-wine section
of Lexington. As they approached the building, Oliver
said hesitantly,
"Leslie, I know that your agency is handling me for almost
nothing, but
frankly, I think you're wasting your time. It might be
better if I
just quit now."
"No," she said, and the intensity of her voice surprised
her. "You
can't quit. We'll find a way to make it work."
Oliver turned to look at her. "You really care, don't
you?"
Am I reading too much into that question? "Yes," she said
quietly. "I
really care."
When they arrived at her apartment, Leslie took a deep
breath. "Would
you like to come in?"
He looked at her a long time. "Yes."
Afterward, she never knew who made the first move. All
she remembered
was that they were undressing each other and she was in
his arms and
there was a wild, feral haste in their lovemaking, and
after that, a
slow and easy melting, in a rhythm that was timeless and
ecstatic. It
was the most wonderful feeling Leslie had ever
experienced.
They were together the whole night, and it was magical.
Oliver was
insatiable, giving and demanding at the same time, and he
went on
forever. He was an animal. And Leslie thought, Oh, my
God, I'm one,
too.
In the morning, over a breakfast of orange juice,
scrambled eggs,
toast, and bacon, Leslie said, "There's going to be a
picnic at Green
River Lake on Friday, Oliver. There will be a lot of
people there.
I'll arrange for you to make a speech. We'll buy radio
time to let
everyone know you're going to be there. Then we'll "
"Leslie," he
protested, "I haven't the money to do that." "Oh, don't
worry about
that," she said airily. "The agency will pay for it."
She knew that
there was not the remotest chance that the agency would
pay for it. She
intended to do that herself. She would tell Jim Bailey
that the money
had been donated by a Russell supporter. And it would be
the truth.
Ill do anything in the world to help him, she thought.
There were two hundred people at the picnic at Green River
Lake, and
when Oliver addressed the crowd, he was brilliant.
"Half the people in this country don't vote," he told
them. "We have
the lowest voting record of any industrial country in the
world less
than fifty percent. If you want things to change, it's
your
responsibility to make sure they do change. It's more
than a
responsibility, it's a privilege. There's an election
coming up soon.
Whether you vote for me or my opponent, vote. Be there."
They cheered him.
Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at as many functions
as possible.
He presided at the opening of a children's clinic,
dedicated a bridge,
talked to women's groups, labor groups, at charity events,
and
retirement homes. Still, he kept slipping in the polls.
Whenever
Oliver was not campaigning, he and Leslie found some time
to be
together. They went riding in a horse-drawn carriage
through Triangle
Park, spent a Saturday afternoon at the Antique Market,
and had dinner
at A la Lucie. Oliver gave Leslie flowers for Groundhog
Day and on the
anniversary of the Battle of Bull Run, and left loving
messages on her
answering machine: "Darling where are you? I miss you,
miss you, miss
you."
"I'm madly in love with your answering machine. Do you
have any idea
how sexy it sounds?"
"I think it must be illegal to be this happy. I love
you."
It didn't matter to Leslie where she and Oliver went: She
just wanted
to be with him.
One of the most exciting things they did was to go
white-water rafting
on the Russell Fork River one Sunday. The trip started
innocently,
gently, until the river began to pound its way around the
base of the
mountains in a giant loop that began a series of
deafening,
breathtaking vertical drops in the rapids: five feet...
eight feet...
nine feet... only a terrifying raft length apart. The
trip took three
and a half hours, and when Leslie and Oliver got off the
raft, they
were soaking wet and glad to be alive. They could not
keep their hands
off each other. They made love in their cabin, in the
back of his
automobile, in the woods.
One early fall evening, Oliver prepared dinner at his
home, a charming
house in Versailles, a small town near Lexington. There
were grilled
flank steaks marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and herbs,
served with
baked potato, salad, and a perfect red wine.
"You're a wonderful cook," Leslie told him. She snuggled
up to him.
"In fact, you're a wonderful everything, sweetheart."
"Thank you, my
love." He remembered something. "I have a little
surprise for you
that I want you to try." He disappeared into the bedroom
for a moment
and came out carrying a small bottle with a clear liquid
inside. "Here
it is," he said. "What is it?" "Have you heard of
Ecstasy?" "Heard
of it? I'm in it." "I mean the drug Ecstasy. This is
liquid Ecstasy.
It's supposed to be a great aphrodisiac." Leslie frowned.
"Darling
you don't need that. We don't need it. It could be
dangerous." She
hesitated. "Do you use it often?" Oliver laughed. "As a
matter of
fact, I don't. Take that look off your face. A friend of
mine gave me
this and told me to try it. This would have been the
first time."
"Let's not have a first time," Leslie said. "Will you
throw it away?"
"You're right. Of course I will." He went into the
bathroom, and a
moment later Leslie heard the toilet flush. Oliver
reappeared. "All
gone." He grinned. "Who needs Ecstasy in a bottle? I
have it in a
better package." And he took her in his arms. Leslie had
read the
love stories and had heard the love songs, but nothing had
prepared her
for the incredible reality. She had always thought that
romantic
lyrics were sentimental nonsense, wishful dreaming. She
knew better
now. The world suddenly seemed brighter, more beautiful.
Everything
was touched with magic, and the magic was Oliver Russell.
One Saturday morning, Oliver and Leslie were hiking in the
Breaks
Interstate Park, enjoying the spectacular scenery that
surrounded
them.
"I've never been on this trail before," Leslie said.
"I think you're going to enjoy it."
They were approaching a sharp curve in the path. As they
rounded it,
Leslie stopped, stunned. In the middle of the path was a
hand-painted
wooden sign: LESLIE, WILL YOU
MARRY ME?
Leslie's heart began to beat faster. She turned to
Oliver,
speechless.
He took her in his arms. "Will you?"
How did I get so lucky? Leslie wondered. She hugged him
tightly and
whispered, "Yes, darling. Of course I will."
"I'm afraid I can't promise you that you're going to marry
a governor,
but I'm a pretty good attorney."
She snuggled up to him and whispered, "That will do
nicely."
A few nights later, Leslie was getting dressed to meet
Oliver for
dinner when he telephoned.
"Darling, I'm terribly sorry, but I've bad news. I have
to go to a
meeting tonight, and I'll have to cancel our dinner. Will
you forgive
me?"
Leslie smiled and said softly, "You're forgiven."
The following day, Leslie picked up a copy of the State
Journal. The
headline read: WOMAN'S BODY FOUND IN KENTUCKY RIVER. The
story went
on: "Early this morning, the body of a nude woman who
appeared to be in
her early twenties was found by police in the Kentucky
River ten miles
east of Lexington. An autopsy is being performed to
determine the
cause of death...."
Leslie shuddered as she read the story. To die so young.
Did she have
a lover? A husband? How thankful I am to be alive and so
happy and so
loved.
It seemed that all of Lexington was talking about the
forthcoming
wedding. Lexington was a small town, and Oliver Russell
was a popular
figure. They were a spectacular-looking couple, Oliver
dark and
handsome, and Leslie with her lovely face and figure and
honey-blond
hair. The news had spread like wildfire. "I hope he
knows how lucky
he is," Jim Bailey said. Leslie smiled. "We're both
lucky."
"Are you going to elope?"
"No. Oliver wants to have a formal wedding. We're
getting married at
the Calvary Chapel church."
"When does the happy event take place?" "In six weeks."
A few days later, a story on the front page of the State
Journal read:
"An autopsy has revealed that the woman found in the
Kentucky River,
identified as Lisa Burnette, a legal secretary, died of an
overdose of
a dangerous illegal drug known on the streets as liquid
Ecstasy...."
Liquid Ecstasy. Leslie recalled the evening with Oliver.
And she
thought, How lucky it was that he threw that bottle away.
The next few weeks were filled with frantic preparations
for the
wedding. There was so much to do. Invitations went out
to two hundred
people. Leslie chose a maid of honor and selected her
outfit, a
ballerina-length dress with matching shoes and gloves to
complement the
length of the sleeves. For herself, Leslie shopped at
Fayette Mall on
Nicholasville Road and selected a floor-length gown with a
full skirt
and a sweep train, shoes to match the gown, and long
gloves. Oliver
ordered a black cutaway coat with striped trousers, gray
waistcoat, a
wing-collared white shirt, and a striped ascot. His best
man was a
lawyer in his firm.
"Everything is set," Oliver told Leslie. "I've made all
the
arrangements for the reception afterward. Almost everyone
has
accepted."
Leslie felt a small shiver go through her. "I can't wait,
my
darling."
On a Thursday night one week before the wedding, Oliver
came to
Leslie's apartment. "I'm afraid something has come up,
Leslie. A
client of mine is in trouble. I'm going to have to fly to
Paris to
straighten things out." "Paris? How long will you be
gone?" "It
shouldn't take more than two or three days, four days at
the most. I'll
be back in plenty of time." "Tell the pilot to fly
safely." "I
promise." When Oliver left, Leslie picked up the
newspaper on the
table. Idly, she turned to the horoscope by Zoltaire. It
read: FOR
LEO (JULY 23RD TO AUGUST 22ND). THIS is NOT
A GOOD DAY TO CHANGE PLANS. TAKING RISKS CAN LEAD TO
SERIOUS
PROBLEMS.
Leslie read the horoscope again, disturbed. She was
almost tempted to
telephone Oliver and tell him not to leave. But that's
ridiculous, she
thought. It's just a stupid horoscope.
By Monday, Leslie had not heard from Oliver. She
telephoned his
office, but the staff had no information. There was no
word from him
Tuesday. Leslie was beginning to panic. At four o'clock
on Wednesday
morning, she was awakened by the insistent ringing of the
telephone.
She sat up in bed and thought: It's Oliver! Thank God.
She knew that
she should be angry with him for not calling her sooner,
but that was
unimportant now. She picked up the receiver. "Oliver
..." A male
voice said, "Is this Leslie Stewart?" She felt a sudden
cold chill.
"Who who is this?" "Al Towers, Associated Press. We have
a story
going out on our wires, Miss Stewart, and we wanted to get
your
reaction." Something terrible had happened. Oliver was
dead. "Miss
Stewart?" "Yes." Her voice was a strangled whisper.
"Could we get a
quote from you?" "A quote?" "About Oliver Russell
marrying Senator
Todd Davis's daughter in Paris." For an instant the room
seemed to
spin. "You and Mr. Russell were engaged, weren't you?
If we could
get a quote ..." She sat there, frozen. "Miss Stewart."
She found her voice. "Yes." wish them both well." She
replaced the
receiver, numb. It was a nightmare. She would awaken in
a few minutes
and find that she had been dreaming.
But this was no dream. She had been abandoned again.
"Yourfather's
not coming back." She walked into the bathroom and stared
at her pale
image in the mirror. "We have a story going out on our
wires." Oliver
had married someone else. Why? What have I done wrong?
How have I
failed him? But deep down she knew that it was Oliver who
had failed
her. He was gone. How could she face the future?
When Leslie walked into the agency that morning, everyone
was trying
hard not to stare at her. She went into Jim Bailey's
office.
He took one look at her pale face and said, "You shouldn't
have come in
today, Leslie. Why don't you go home and "
She took a deep breath. "No, thank you. I'll be fine."
The radio and television newscasts and afternoon
newspapers were filled
with details of the Paris wedding. Senator Todd Davis was
without
doubt Kentucky's most influential citizen, and the story
of his
daughter's marriage and of the groom's jilting Leslie was
big news.
The phones in Leslie's office never stopped ringing.
"This is the Courier-Journal, Miss Stewart. Could you
give us a
statement about the wedding?"
"Yes. The only thing I care about is Oliver Russell's
happiness."
"But you and he were going to be "
"It would have been a mistake for us to marry. Senator
Davis's
daughter was in his life first. Obviously, he never got
over her. I
wish them both well."
"This is the State Journal in Frankfort...."
And so it went.
It seemed to Leslie that half of Lexington pitied her, and
the other
half rejoiced at what had happened to her. Wherever
Leslie went, there
were whispers and hastily broken-off conversations. She
was fiercely
determined not to show her feelings.
"How could you let him do this to ?"
"When you truly love someone," Leslie said firmly, "you
want him to be
happy. Oliver Russell is the finest human being I've ever
known. I
wish them both every happiness."
She sent notes of apology to all those who had been
invited to the
wedding and returned their gifts.
Leslie had been half hoping for and half dreading the call
from Oliver.
Still, when it came, she was unprepared. She was shaken
by the
familiar sound of his voice. "Leslie ... I don't know
what to say."
"It's true, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then there isn't anything to say."
"I just wanted to explain to you how it happened. Before
I met you,
Jan and I were almost engaged. And when I saw her again I
I knew that
I still loved her."
"I understand, Oliver. Goodbye."
Five minutes later, Leslie's secretary buzzed her.
"There's a
telephone call for you on line one, Miss Stewart."
"I don't want to talk to "
"It's Senator Davis."
The father of the bride. What does he want with me?
Leslie wondered.
She picked up the telephone.
A deep southern voice said, "Miss Stewart?"
"Yes."
"This is Todd Davis. I think you and I should have a
little talk."
She hesitated. "Senator, I don't know what we "
"I'll pick you up in one hour." The line went dead.
Exactly one hour later, a limousine pulled up in front of
the office
building where Leslie worked. A chauffeur opened the car
door for
Leslie. Senator Davis was in the backseat. He was a
distinguished-looking man with flowing white hair and a
small, neat
mustache. He had the face of a patriarch. Even in the
fall he was
dressed in his trademark white suit and white
broad-brimmed leghorn
hat. He was a classic figure from an earlier century, an
old-fashioned
southern gentleman.
As Leslie got into the car, Senator Davis said, "You're a
beautiful
young woman."
"Thank you," she said stiffly.
The limousine started off.
"I didn't mean just physically, Miss Stewart. I've been
hearing about
the manner in which you've been handling this whole sordid
matter. It
must be very distressing for you. I couldn't believe the
news when I
heard it." His voice filled with anger. "Whatever
happened to good
old-fashioned morality? To tell you the truth, I'm
disgusted with
Oliver for treating you so shabbily. And I'm furious with
Jan for
marrying him. In a way, I feel guilty, because she's my
daughter. They
deserve each other." His voice was choked with emotion.
They rode in silence for a while. When Leslie finally
spoke, she said,
"I know Oliver. I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt me. What
happened...
just happened. I want only the best for him. He deserves
that, and I
wouldn't do anything to stand in his way."
"That's very gracious of you." He studied her a moment.
"You really
are a remarkable young lady."
The limousine had come to a stop. Leslie looked out the
window. They
had reached Paris Pike, at the Kentucky Horse Center.
There were more
than a hundred horse farms in and around Lexington, and
the largest of
them was owned by Senator Davis. As far as the eye could
see were
white plank fences, white paddocks with red trim, and
rolling Kentucky
bluegrass.
Leslie and Senator Davis stepped out of the car and walked
over to the
fence surrounding the racetrack. They stood there a few
moments,
watching the beautiful animals working out.
Senator Davis turned to Leslie. "I'm a simple man," he
said quietly.
"Oh, I know how that must sound to you, but it's the
truth. I was born
here, and I could spend the rest of my life here. There's
no place in
the world like it. Just look around you, Miss Stewart.
This is as
close as we may ever come to heaven. Can you blame me for
not wanting
to leave all this? Mark Twain said that when the world
came to an end,
he wanted to be in Kentucky, because it's always a good
twenty years
behind. I have to spend half my life in Washington, and I
loathe
it."
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because I have a sense of obligation. Our people voted
me into the
Senate, and until they vote me out, I'll be there trying
to do the best
job I can." He abruptly changed the subject. "I want you
to know how
much I admire your sentiments and the way you've behaved.
If you had
been nasty about this, I suppose it could have created
quite a scandal.
As it is, well I'd like to show my appreciation."
Leslie looked at him.
"I thought that perhaps you would like to get away for a
while, take a
little trip abroad, spend some time traveling. Naturally,
I'd pick up
all the "
"Please don't do this."
"I was only "
"I know. I haven't met your daughter, Senator Davis, but
if Oliver
loves her, she must be very special. I hope they'll be
happy."
He said awkwardly, "I think you should know they're coming
back here to
get married again. In Paris, it was a civil ceremony, but
Jan wants a
church wedding here."
It was a stab in the heart. "I see. All right. They
have nothing to
worry about."
"Thank you."
The wedding took place two weeks later, in the Calvary
Chapel church
where Leslie and Oliver were to have been married. The
church was
packed.
Oliver Russell, Jan, and Senator Todd Davis were standing
before the
minister at the altar. Jan Davis was an attractive
brunette, with an
imposing figure and an aristocratic air.
The minister was nearing the end of the ceremony. "God
meant for man
and woman to be united in holy matrimony, and as you go
through life
together..."
The church door opened, and Leslie Stewart walked in. She
stood at the
back for a moment, listening, then moved to the last pew,
where she
remained standing.
The minister was saying, "... so if anyone knows why this
couple should
not be united in holy matrimony, let him speak now or
forever hold his
..." He glanced up and saw Leslie. "... hold his peace."
Almost involuntarily, heads began to turn in Leslie's
direction.
Whispers began to sweep through the crowd. People sensed
that they
were about to witness a dramatic scene, and the church
filled with
sudden tension.
The minister waited a moment, then nervously cleared his
throat. "Then,
by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and
wife." There was
a note of deep relief in his voice. "You may kiss the
bride."
When the minister looked up again, Leslie was gone.
The final note in Leslie Stewart's diary read:
Dear Diary: It was a beautiful wedding. Oliver's bride is
very pretty.
She wore a lovely white lace-and-satin wedding gown with a
halter top
and a bolero jacket. Oliver looked more handsome than
ever. He seemed
very happy. I'm pleased.
Because before I'm finished with him, I'm going to make
him wish he had
never been born.
Two.
It was Senator Todd Davis who had arranged the
reconciliation of Oliver
Russell and his daughter. Todd Davis was a widower. A
multi
billionaire the senator owned tobacco plantations, coal
mines, oil
fields in Oklahoma and Alaska, and a world-class racing
stable. As
Senate majority leader, he was one of the most powerful
men in
Washington, and was serving his fifth term. He was a man
with a simple
philosophy: Never forget a favor, never forgive a slight.
He prided
himself on picking winners, both at the track and in
politics, and
early on he had spotted Oliver Russell as a comer. The
fact that
Oliver might marry his daughter was an unexpected plus,
until, of
course, Jan foolishly called it off. When the senator
heard the news
of the impending wedding between Oliver Russell and Leslie
Stewart, he
found it disturbing. Very disturbing.
Senator Davis had first met Oliver Russell when Oliver
handled a legal
matter for him. Senator Davis was impressed. Oliver was
intelligent,
handsome, and articulate, with a boyish charm that drew
people to him.
The senator arranged to have lunch with Oliver on a
regular basis, and
Oliver had no idea how carefully he was being assessed. A
month after
meeting Oliver, Senator Davis sent for Peter Tager. "I
think we've
found our next governor." Tager was an earnest man who
had grown up in
a religious family. His father was a history teacher and
his mother
was a housewife, and they were devout churchgoers. When
Peter Tager
was eleven, he had been traveling in a car with his
parents and younger
brother when the brakes of the car failed. There had been
a deadly
accident. The only one who survived was Peter, who lost
an eye. Peter
believed that Goo had spared him so that he could spread
His word.
Peter Tager understood the dynamics of politics better
than anyone
Senator Davis had ever met. Tager knew where the votes
were and how to
get them. He had an uncanny sense of what the public
wanted to hear
and what it had gotten tired of hearing. But even more
important to
Senator Davis was the fact that Peter Tager was a man he
could trust, a
man of integrity. People liked him. The black eye patch
he wore gave
him a dashing look. What mattered to Tager more than
anything in the
world was his family. The senator had never met a man so
deeply proud
of his wife and children.
When Senator Davis first met him, Peter Tager had been
contemplating
going into the ministry.
"So many people need help, Senator. I want to do what I
can."
But Senator Davis had talked him out of the idea. "Think
of how many
more people you can help by working for me in the Senate
of the United
States." It had been a felicitous choice. Tager knew how
to get
things done.
"The man I have in mind to run for governor is Oliver
Russell."
"The attorney?"
"Yes. He's a natural. I have a hunch if we get behind
him, he can't
miss."
"Sounds interesting, Senator."
The two of them began to discuss it.
Senator Davis spoke to Jan about Oliver Russell. "The boy
has a hot
future, honey." "He has a hot past, too, Father. He's
the biggest
wolf in town." "Now, darling, you mustn't listen to
gossip. I've
invited Oliver to dinner here Friday."
The dinner Friday evening went well. Oliver was charming,
and in spite
of herself, Jan found herself warming to him. The senator
sat at his
place watching them, asking questions that brought out the
best in
Oliver.
At the end of the evening, Jan invited Oliver to a dinner
party the
following Saturday. "I'd be delighted."
From that night on, they started seeing only each other.
"They'll be getting married soon," the senator predicted
to Peter
Tager. "It's time we got Oliver's campaign rolling."
Oliver was summoned to a meeting at Senator Davis's
office. "I want to
ask you a question," the senator said. "How would you
like to be the
governor of Kentucky?" Oliver looked at him in surprise.
"I I haven't
thought about it." "Well, Peter Tager and I have.
There's an election
coming up next year. That gives us more than enough time
to build you
up, let people know who you are. With us behind you, you
can't lose."
And Oliver knew it was true. Senator Davis was a powerful
man, in
control of a well-oiled political machine, a machine that
could create
myths or destroy anyone who got in its way. "You'd have
to be totally
committed," the senator warned. "I would be."
"I have some even better news for you, son. As far as I'm
concerned,
this is only the first step. You serve a term or two as
governor, and
I promise you we'll move you into the White House."
Oliver swallowed. "Are are you serious?"
"I don't joke about things like this. I don't have to
tell you that
this is the age of television. You have something that
money can't buy
charisma. People are drawn to you. You genuinely like
people, and it
shows. It's the same quality Jack Kennedy had."
"I I don't know what to say, Todd."
"You don't have to say anything. I have to return to
Washington
tomorrow, but when I get back, we'll go to work."
A few weeks later, the campaign for the office of governor
began.
Billboards with Oliver's picture flooded the state. He
appeared on
television and at rallies and political seminars. Peter
Tager had his
own private polls that showed Oliver's popularity
increasing each week.
"He's up another five points," he told the senator. "He's
only ten
points behind the governor, and we've still got plenty of
time left. In
another few weeks, they should be neck and neck." Senator
Davis
nodded. "Oliver's going to win. No question about it."
Todd Davis and Jan were having breakfast. "Has our boy
proposed to you
yet?"
Jan smiled. "He hasn't come right out and asked me, but
he's been
hinting around."
"Well, don't let him hint too long. I want you to be
married before he
becomes governor. It will play better if the governor has
a wife."
Jan put her arms around her father. "I'm so glad you
brought him into
my life. I'm mad about him."
The senator beamed. "As long as he makes you happy, I'm
happy."
Everything was going perfectly.
The following evening, when Senator Davis came home, Jan
was in her
room, packing, her face stained with tears. He looked at
her,
concerned. "What's going on, baby?" "I'm getting out of
here. I
never want to see Oliver again as long as I live!" "Whoa!
Hold on
there. What are you talking about?" She turned to him.
"I'm talking
about Oliver." Her tone was bitter. "He spent last night
in a motel
with my best friend. She couldn't wait to call and tell
me what a
wonderful lover he was." The senator stood there in
shock. "Couldn't
she have been just ?" "No. I called Oliver. He he
couldn't deny it.
I've decided to leave. I'm going to Paris."
"Are you sure you're doing ?"
"I'm positive."
And the next morning Jan was gone.
The senator sent for Oliver. "I'm disappointed in you,
son." Oliver
took a deep breath. "I'm sorry about what happened, Todd.
It was it
was just one of those things. I had a few drinks and this
woman came
on to me and well, it was hard to say no." "I can
understand that,"
the senator said sympathetically. "After all, you're a
man, right?"
Oliver smiled in relief. "Right. It won't happen again,
I can assure
" "It's too bad, though. You would have made a fine
governor." The
blood drained from Oliver's face. "What what are you
saying, Todd?"
"Well, Oliver, it wouldn't look right if I supported you
now, would it?
I mean, when you think about Jan's feelings " "What does
the
governorship have to do with Jan?" "I've been telling
everybody that
there was a good chance that the next governor was going
to be my
son-in-law. But since you're not going to be my
son-in-law, well, I'll
just have to make new plans, won't I?" "Be reasonable,
Todd. You
can't " Senator Davis's smile faded. "Never tell me what
I can or
can't do, Oliver. I can make you and I can break you!"
He smiled
again. "But don't misunderstand me. No hard feelings. I
wish you
only the best."
Oliver sat there, silent for a moment. "I see." He rose
to his feet.
"I I'm sorry about all this."
"I am, too, Oliver. I really am."
When Oliver left, the senator called in Peter Tager.
"We're dropping
the campaign."
"Dropping it? Why? It's in the bag. The latest polls "
"Just do as I
tell you. Cancel all of Oliver's appearances.
As far as we're concerned, he's out of the race."
Two weeks later, the polls began to show a drop in Oliver
Russell's
ratings. The billboards started to disappear, and the
radio and
television ads had been canceled.
"Governor Addison is beginning to pick up ratings in the
polls. If
we're going to find a new candidate, we'd better hurry,"
Peter Tager
said.
The senator was thoughtful. "We have plenty of time.
Let's play this
out."
It was a few days later that Oliver Russell went to the
Bailey &
Tomkins agency to ask them to handle his campaign. Jim
Bailey
introduced him to Leslie, and Oliver was immediately taken
with her.
She was not only beautiful, she was intelligent and
sympathetic and
believed in him. He had sometimes felt a certain
aloofness in Jan, but
he had overlooked it. With Leslie, it was completely
different. She
was warm and sensitive, and it had been natural to fall in
love with
her. From time to time, Oliver thought about what he had
lost. "...
this is only the first step. You serve a term or two as
governor, and
I promise you we'll move you into the White House."
The hell with it. I can be happy without any of that,
Oliver persuaded
himself. But occasionally, he could not help thinking
about the good
things he might have accomplished.
With Oliver's wedding imminent, Senator Davis had sent for
Tager.
"Peter, we have a problem. We can't let Oliver Russell
throw away his
career by marrying a nobody." Peter Tager frowned. "I
don't know what
you can do about it now, Senator. The wedding is all
set." Senator
Davis was thoughtful for a moment. "The race hasn't been
run yet, has
it?" He telephoned his daughter in Paris. "Jan, I have
some terrible
news for you. Oliver is getting married." There was a
long silence.
"I I heard." "The sad part is that he doesn't love this
woman. He
told me he's marrying her on the rebound because you left
him. He's
still in love with you." "Did Oliver say that?"
"Absolutely. It's a
terrible thing he's doing to himself.
And, in a way, you're forcing him to do it, baby. When
you ran out on
him, he just fell apart."
"Father, I I had no idea."
"I've never seen a more unhappy man."
"I don't know what to say."
"Do you still love him?"
"I'll always love him. I made a terrible mistake."
"Well, then, maybe it's not too late."
"But he's getting married."
"Honey, why don't we just wait and see what happens?
Maybe he'll come
to his senses."
When Senator Davis hung up, Peter Tager said, "What are
you up to,
Senator?"
"Me?" Senator Davis said innocently. "Nothing. Just
putting a few
pieces back together, where they belong. I think I'll
have a little
talk with Oliver."
That afternoon, Oliver Russell was in Senator Davis's
office. "It's
good to see you, Oliver. Thank you for dropping by.
You're looking
very well." "Thank you, Todd. So are you." "Well, I'm
getting on,
but I do the best I can." "You asked to see me, Todd?"
"Yes, Oliver.
Sit down." Oliver took a chair. "I want you to help me
out with a
legal problem I'm having in Paris. One of my companies
over there is
in trouble.
There's a stockholders' meeting coming up. I'd like you
to be there
for it." "I'll be glad to. When is the meeting? I'll
check my
calendar and " "I'm afraid you'd have to leave this
afternoon." Oliver
stared at him. "This afternoon?" "I hate to give you
such short
notice, but I just heard about it. My plane's waiting at
the airport.
Can you manage it? It's important to me." Oliver was
thoughtful.
"I'll try to work it out, somehow." "I appreciate that,
Oliver. I
knew I could count on you." He leaned forward. "I'm real
unhappy
about what's been happening to you. Have you seen the
latest polls?"
He sighed. "I'm afraid you're way down." "I know." "I
wouldn't mind
so much, but..." He stopped. "But ?" "You'd have made a
fine
governor. In fact, your future couldn't have been
brighter. You would
have had money... power. Let me tell you something about
money and
power, Oliver. Money doesn't care who owns it. A bum can
win it in a
lottery, or a dunce can inherit it, or someone can get it
by holding up
a bank. But power that's something different. To have
power is to own
the world. If you were governor of this state, you could
affect the
lives of everybody living here. You could get bills
passed that would
help the people, and you'd have the power to veto bills
that could harm
them. I once promised you that someday you could be
President of the
United
States. Well, I meant it, and you could have been. And
think about
that power, Oliver, to be the most important man in the
world, running
the most powerful country in the world. That's something
worth
dreaming about, isn't it? Just think about it." He
repeated slowly,
"The most powerful man in the world." Oliver was
listening, wondering
where the conversation was leading. As though in answer
to Oliver's
unspoken question, the senator said, "And you let all that
get away,
for a piece of pussy. I thought you were smarter than
that, son."
Oliver waited. Senator Davis said casually, "I talked to
Jan this
morning. She's in Paris, at the Ritz. When I told her
you were
getting married well, she just broke down and sobbed." "I
I'm sorry,
Todd. I really am." The senator sighed. "It's just a
shame that you
two couldn't get together again." "Todd, I'm getting
married next
week." "I know. And I wouldn't interfere with that for
anything in
the world. I suppose I'm just an old sentimentalist, but
to me
marriage is the most sacred thing on earth. You have my
blessing,
Oliver." "I appreciate that." "I know you do." The
senator looked at
his watch. "Well, you'll want to go home and pack. The
background and
details of the meeting will be faxed to you in Paris."
Oliver rose.
"Right. And don't worry. I'll take care of things over
there." "I'm
sure you will. By the way, I've booked you in at the
Ritz."
On Senator Davis's luxurious Challenger, flying to Paris,
Oliver
thought about his conversation with the senator. "You'd
have made a
fine governor. In fact, your future couldn't have been
brighter,...
Let me tell you something about money and power,
Oliver.... To have
power is to own the world. If you were governor of this
state, you
could affect the lives of everybody living here. You
could get bills
passed that would help the people, and you could veto
bills that might
harm them."
But I don't need that power, Oliver reassured himself.
No. I'm
getting married to a wonderful woman. We'll make each
other happy.
Very happy.
When Oliver arrived at the Trans Air Execujet base at Le
Bourget
Airport in Paris, there was a limousine waiting for him.
"Where to,
Mr. Russell?" the chauffeur asked. "By the way, I've
booked you in at
the Ritz." Jan was at the Ritz. It would be smarter,
Oliver thought,
if I stayed at a different hotel the Plaza-Athen6e or the
Meurice. The
chauffeur was looking at him expectantly. "The Ritz,"
Oliver said.
The least he could do was to apologize to Jan.
He telephoned her from the lobby. "It's Oliver. I'm in
Paris."
"I know," Jan said. "Father called me."
"I'm downstairs. I'd like to say hello if you "
"Come up."
When Oliver walked into Jan's suite, he was still not sure
what he was
going to say.
Jan was waiting for him at the door. She stood there a
moment,
smiling, then threw her arms around him and held him
close. "Father
told me you were coming here. I'm so glad!"
Oliver stood there, at a loss. He was going to have to
tell her about
Leslie, but he had to find the right words. I'm sorry
about what
happened with us.... I never meant to hurt you.... I've
fallen in love
with someone else.... but I'll always... "I I have to tell
you
something," he said awkwardly. "The fact is ..." And as
he looked at
Jan, he thought of her father's words. "I once promised
you that some
day you could be President of the United States. Well, I
meant it....
And think about that power, Oliver, to be the most
important man in the
world, running the most powerful country in the world.
That's
something worth dreaming about, isn't it?"
"Yes, darling?"
And the words poured out as though they had a life of
their own. "I
made a terrible mistake, Jan. I was a bloody fool. I
love you. I
want to marry you."
"Oliver!"
AA
"Will you marry me?"
There was no hesitation. "Yes. Oh, yes, my love!"
He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, and
moments later
they were in bed, naked, and Jan was saying, "You don't
know how much
I've missed you, darling."
"I must have been out of my mind.. .."
Jan pressed close to his naked body and moaned. "Oh!
This feels so
wonderful."
"It's because we belong together." Oliver sat up. "Let's
tell your
father the news."
She looked at him, surprised. "Now?"
"Yes."
And I'm going to have to tell Leslie.
Fifteen minutes later Jan was speaking to her father.
"Oliver and I
are going to be married." "That's wonderful news, Jan. I
couldn't be
more surprised or delighted. By the way, the mayor of
Paris is an old
friend of mine. He's expecting your call. He'll marry
you there. I'll
make sure everything's arranged." "But " "Put Oliver on."
"Just a
minute, Father." Jan held out the phone to Oliver. "He
wants to talk
to you." Oliver picked up the phone. "Todd?" "Well, my
boy, you've
made me very happy. You've done the right thing."
"Thank you. I feel the same way."
"I'm arranging for you and Jan to be married in Paris.
And when you
come home, you'll have a big church wedding here. At the
Calvary
Chapel."
Oliver frowned. "The Calvary Chapel? I I don't think
that's a good
idea, Todd. That's where Leslie and I... Why don't we ?"
Senator Davis's voice was cold. "You embarrassed my
daughter, Oliver,
and I'm sure you want to make up for that. Am I right?"
There was a long pause. "Yes, Todd. Of course."
"Thank you, Oliver. I look forward to seeing you in a few
days. We
have a lot to talk about... governor...."
The Paris wedding was a brief civil ceremony in the
mayor's office.
When it was over, Jan looked at Oliver and said, "Father
wants to give
us a church wedding at the Calvary Chapel."
Oliver hesitated, thinking about Leslie and what it would
do to her.
But he had come too far to back down now. "Whatever he
wants."
Oliver could not get Leslie out of his mind. She had done
nothing to
deserve what he had done to her. I'll call her and
explain. But each
time he picked up the telephone, he thought: How can I
explain? What
can I tell her? And he had no answer. He had finally
gotten up the
nerve to call her, but the press had gotten to her first,
and he had
felt worse afterward.
The day after Oliver and Jan returned to Lexington,
Oliver's election
campaign went back into high gear. Peter Tager had set
all the wheels
in motion, and Oliver became ubiquitous again on
television and radio
and in the newspapers. He spoke to a large crowd at the
Kentucky
Kingdom Thrill Park and headed a rally at the Toyota Motor
Plant in
Georgetown. He spoke at the twenty-thousand-square-foot
mall in
Lancaster. And that was only the beginning.
Peter Tager arranged for a campaign bus to take Oliver
around the
state. The bus toured from Georgetown down to Stanford
and stopped at
Frankfort... Versailles ... Winchester ... Louisville.
Oliver spoke at
the Kentucky Fairground and at the Exposition Center. In
Oliver's
honor, they served burgoo, the traditional Kentucky stew
made of
chicken, veal, beef, lamb, pork, and a variety of fresh
vegetables
cooked in a big kettle over an open fire.
Oliver's ratings kept going up. The only interruption in
the campaign
had been Oliver's wedding. He had seen Leslie at the back
of the
church, and he had had an uneasy feeling. He talked about
it with
Peter Tager. "You don't think Leslie would try to do
anything to hurt
me, do you?" "Of course not. And even if she wanted to,
what could
she do? Forget her."
Oliver knew that Tager was right. Things were moving
along
beautifully. There was no reason to worry. Nothing could
stop him
now. Nothing.
On election night, Leslie Stewart sat alone in her
apartment in front
of her television set, watching the returns. Precinct by
precinct,
Oliver's lead kept mounting. Finally, at five minutes
before midnight,
Governor Addison appeared on television to make his
concession speech.
Leslie turned off the set. She stood up and took a deep
breath. Weep
no more, my lady, Oh, weep no more today! We will sing
one song for
the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.
It was
time.
Three.
Senator Todd Davis was having a busy morning. He had
flown into
Louisville from the capital for the day, to attend a sale
of
Thoroughbreds. "You have to keep up the bloodlines," he
told Peter
Tager, as they sat watching the splendid-looking horses
being led in
and out of the large arena. "That's what counts, Peter."
A beautiful
mare was being led into the center of the ring. "That's
Sail Away,"
Senator Davis said. "I want her." The bidding was
spirited, but ten
minutes later, when it was over, Sail Away belonged to
Senator Davis.
The cellular phone rang. Peter Tager answered it. "Yes?"
He listened
a moment, then turned to the senator. "Do you want to
talk to Leslie
Stewart?"
Senator Davis frowned. He hesitated a moment, then took
the phone from
Tager. "Miss Stewart?" "I'm sorry to bother you, Senator
Davis, but I
wonder if I could see you? I need a favor." "Well, I'm
flying back to
Washington tonight, so " "I could come and meet you. It's
really
important." Senator Davis hesitated a moment. "Well, if
it's that
important, I can certainly accommodate you, young lady.
I'll be
leaving for my farm in a few minutes. Do you want to meet
me there?"
"That will be fine." "I'll see you in an hour." "Thank
you." Davis
pressed the END button and turned to Tager. "I was wrong
about her. I
thought she was smarter than that. She should have asked
me for money
before Jan and Oliver got married." He was thoughtful for
a moment,
then his face broke into a slow grin. "I'll be a son of a
bitch."
"What is it, Senator?" "I just figured out what this
urgency is all
about. Miss Stewart has discovered that she's pregnant
with Oliver's
baby and she's going to need a little financial help.
It's the oldest
con game in the world."
One hour later, Leslie was driving onto the grounds of
Dutch Hill, the
senator's farm. A guard was waiting outside the main
house. "Miss
Stewart?" "Yes." "Senator Davis is expecting you. This
way, please."
He showed Leslie inside, along a wide corridor that led to
a large
paneled library crammed with books. Senator Davis was at
his desk,
thumbing through a volume. He looked up and rose as
Leslie entered.
"It's good to see you, my dear. Sit down, please."
Leslie took a
seat. The senator held up his book. "This is fascinating.
It lists
the name of every Kentucky Derby winner from the first
derby to the
latest. Do you know who the first Kentucky Derby winner
was?" "No."
"Aristides, in 1875. But I'm sure you didn't come here to
discuss
horses." He put the book down. "You said you wanted a
favor." He
wondered how she was going to phrase it. I just found out
I'm going to
have Oliver's baby, and I don't know what to do.... I
don't want to
cause a scandal, but... I'm willing to raise the baby, but
I don't have
enough money.... "Do you know Henry Chambers?" Leslie
asked. Senator
Davis blinked, caught completely off guard. "Do I Henry?
Yes, I do.
Why?" "I would appreciate it very much if you would give
me an
introduction to him."
Senator Davis looked at her, hastily reorganizing his
thoughts. "Is
that the favor? You want to meet Henry Chambers?"
"Yes."
"I'm afraid he's not here anymore, Miss Stewart. He's
living in
Phoenix, Arizona."
"I know. I'm leaving for Phoenix in the morning. I
thought it would
be nice if I knew someone there."
Senator Davis studied her a moment. His instinct told him
that there
was something going on that he did not understand.
He phrased his next question cautiously. "Do you know
anything about
Henry Chambers?"
"No. Only that he comes from Kentucky."
He sat there, making up his mind. She's a beautiful lady,
he thought.
Henry will owe me a favor. "I'll make a call."
Five minutes later, he was speaking to Henry Chambers.
"Henry, it's Todd. You'll be sorry to know that I bought
Sail Away
this morning. I know you had your eye on her." He
listened a moment,
then laughed. "I'll bet you did. I hear you just got
another divorce.
Too bad. I liked Jessica."
Leslie listened as the conversation went on for a few more
minutes.
Then Senator Davis said, "Henry, I'm going to do you a
good turn. A
friend of mine is arriving in Phoenix tomorrow, and she
doesn't know a
soul there. I would appreciate it if you would keep an
eye on her....
What does she look like?" He looked over at Leslie and
smiled. "She's
not too bad-looking. Just don't get any ideas."
He listened a moment, then turned back to Leslie. "What
time does your
plane get in?"
"At two-fifty. Delta flight 159."
The senator repeated the information into the phone. "Her
name is
Leslie Stewart. You'll thank me for this. You take care
now, Henry.
I'll be in touch." He replaced the receiver.
"Thank you," Leslie said.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. That's all I need."
Why? What the hell does Leslie Stewart want with Henry
Chambers?
The public fiasco with Oliver Russell had been a hundred
times worse
than anything Leslie could have imagined. It was a
never-ending
nightmare. Everywhere Leslie went there were the
whispers: "She's the
one. He practically jilted her at the altar___" "I'm
saving my wedding
invitation as a souvenir...." "I wonder what she's going
to do with
her wedding gown?..." The public gossip fueled Leslie's
pain, and the
humiliation was unbearable. She would never trust a man
again. Never.
Her only consolation was that somehow, someday, she was
going to make
Oliver Russell pay for the unforgivable thing he had done
to her. She
had no idea how. With Senator Davis behind him, Oliver
would have
money and power. Then I have to find a way to have more
money and more
power, Leslie thought. But how? How?
The inauguration took place in the garden of the state
capitol in
Frankfort, near the exquisite thirty-four-foot floral
clock.
Jan stood at Oliver's side, proudly watching her handsome
husband being
sworn in as governor of Kentucky.
If Oliver behaved himself, the next stop was the White
House, her
father had assured her. And Jan intended to do everything
in her power
to see that nothing went wrong. Nothing.
After the ceremony, Oliver and his father-in-law were
seated in the
palatial library of the Executive Mansion, a beautiful
building modeled
after the Petit Trianon, Marie Antoinette's villa near the
palace of
Versailles. Senator Todd Davis looked around the
luxurious room and
nodded in satisfaction. "You're going to do fine here,
son. Just
fine." "I owe it all to you," Oliver said warmly. "I
won't forget
that." Senator Davis waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't
give it a
thought, Oliver. You're here because you deserve to be.
Oh, maybe I
helped push things along a wee bit. But this is just the
beginning.
I've been in politics a long time, son, and there are a
few things I've
learned."
He looked over at Oliver, waiting, and Oliver said
dutifully, "I'd love
to hear them, Todd." "You see, people have got it wrong.
It's not who
you know," Senator Davis explained, "it's what you know
about who you
know. Everybody's got a little skeleton buried somewhere.
All you
have to do is dig it up, and you'll be surprised how glad
they'll be to
help you with whatever you need. I happen to know that
there's a
congressman in Washington who once spent a year in a
mental
institution. A representative from up North served time
in a reform
school for stealing. Well, you can see what it would do
to their
careers if word ever got out. But it's grist for our
mills." The
senator opened an expensive leather briefcase and took out
a sheaf of
papers and handed them to Oliver. "These are the people
you'll be
dealing with here in Kentucky. They're powerful men and
women, but
they all have Achilles' heels." He grinned. "The mayor
has an
Achilles' high heel. He's a transvestite." Oliver was
scanning the
papers, wide-eyed. "You keep those locked up, you hear?
That's pure
gold." "Don't worry, Todd. I'll be careful." "And, son
don't put too
much pressure on those people when you need something from
them. Don't
break them just bend them a little." He studied Oliver a
moment. "How
are you and Jan getting along?" "Great," Oliver said
quickly. It was
true, in a sense. As far as Oliver was concerned, it was
a marriage of
convenience, and he was careful to see that he did nothing
to disrupt
it. He would never forget what his earlier indiscretion
had almost
cost him.
"That's fine. Jan's happiness is very important to me."
It was a
warning.
"For me, as well," Oliver said.
"By the way, how do you like Peter Tager?"
Oliver said enthusiastically, "I like him a lot. He's
been a
tremendous help to me."
Senator Davis nodded. "I'm glad to hear that. You won't
find anyone
better. I'm going to lend him to you, Oliver. He can
smooth a lot of
paths for you."
Oliver grinned. "Great. I really appreciate that."
Senator Davis rose. "Well, I have to get back to
Washington. You let
me know if you need anything."
"Thanks, Todd. I will."
On the Sunday after his meeting with Senator Davis, Oliver
tried to
find Peter Tager. "He's in church, Governor." "Right. I
forgot.
I'll see him tomorrow." Peter Tager went to church every
Sunday with
his family, and attended a two-hour prayer meeting three
times a week.
In a way, Oliver envied him. He's probably the only truly
happy man
I've ever known, he thought. On Monday morning, Tager
came into
Oliver's office. "You wanted to see me, Oliver?" "I need
a favor.
It's personal."
Peter nodded. "Anything I can do." "I need an
apartment." Tager
glanced around the large room in mock disbelief. "This
place is too
small for you, Governor?" "No." Oliver looked into
Tager's one good
eye. "Sometimes I have private meetings at night. They
have to be
discreet. You know what I mean?" There was an
uncomfortable pause.
"Yes." "I want someplace away from the center of town.
Can you handle
that for me?" "I guess so." "This is just between us, of
course."
Peter Tager nodded, unhappily. One hour later, Tager
telephoned
Senator Davis in Washington. "Oliver asked me to rent an
apartment for
him, Senator. Something discreet." "Did he now? Well,
he's learning,
Peter. He's learning. Do it. Just make damned sure Jan
never hears
about it." The senator was thoughtful for a moment. "Find
him a place
out in Indian Hills. Someplace with a private entrance."
"But it's
not right for him to " "Peter just do it."
Four.
The solution to Leslie's problem had come in two disparate
items in the
Lexington Herald-Leader. The first was a long, flattering
editorial
praising Governor Oliver Russell. The last line read,
"None of us here
in Kentucky who knows him will be surprised when one day
Oliver Russell
becomes President of the United States." The item on the
next page
read: "Henry Chambers, a former Lexington resident, whose
horse
Lightning won the Kentucky Derby five years ago, and
Jessica, his third
wife, have divorced. Chambers, who now lives in Phoenix,
is the owner
and publisher of the Phoenix Star." The power of the
press. That was
real power. Katharine Graham and her Washington Post had
destroyed a
president. And that was when the idea jelled.
Leslie had spent the next two days doing research on Henry
Chambers.
The Internet had some interesting information on him.
Chambers was a
fifty-five-year-old philanthropist who had inherited a
tobacco fortune
and had devoted most of his life to giving it away. But
it was not his
money that interested Leslie. It was the fact that he
owned a
newspaper and that he had just gotten a divorce.
Half an hour after her meeting with Senator Davis, Leslie
walked into
Jim Bailey's office. "I'm leaving, Jim."
He looked at her sympathetically. "Of course. You need a
vacation.
When you come back, we can "
"I'm not coming back."
"What? I I don't want you to go, Leslie. Running away
won't solve "
"I'm not running away."
"You've made up your mind?"
"Yes."
"We're going to hate to lose you. When do you want to
leave?"
"I've already left."
Leslie Stewart had given a lot of thought to the various
ways in which
she could meet Henry Chambers. There were endless fin
possibilities,
but she discarded them one by one. What she had in mind
had to be
planned very carefully. And then she had thought of
Senator Davis.
Davis and Chambers had the same background, traveled in
the same
circles. The two men would certainly know each other.
That was when
Leslie had decided to call the senator.
When Leslie arrived at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, on
an impulse,
she walked over to the newsstand in the terminal. She
bought a copy of
the Phoenix Star and scanned it. No luck. She bought the
Arizona
Republic, and then the Phoenix Gazette, and there it was,
the
astrological column by Zoltaire. Not that I believe in
astrology, I'm
much too intelligent for that nonsense. But... FOR LEO
(JULY 23RD TO
AUGUST 22ND). JUPITER is JOINING YOUR SUN. ROMANTIC
PLANS MADE NOW
WILL BE FULFILLED. EXCELLENT PROSPECTS FOR THE FUTURE.
PROCEED
CAUTIOUSLY. There was a chauffeur and limousine waiting
for her at the
curb. "Miss Stewart?" "Yes." "Mr. Chambers sends his
regards and
asked me to take you to your hotel." "That's very kind of
him."
Leslie was disappointed. She had hoped that he would come
to meet her
himself.
"Mr. Chambers would like to know whether you are free to
join him for
dinner this evening." Better. Much better. "Please tell
him I would
be delighted."
At eight o'clock that evening, Leslie was dining with
Henry Chambers.
Chambers was a pleasant-looking man, with an aristocratic
face, graying
brown hair, and an endearing enthusiasm. He was studying
Leslie
admiringly. "Todd really meant it when he said he was
doing me a
favor." Leslie smiled. "Thank you." "What made you
decide to come to
Phoenix, Leslie?" You don't really want to know. "I've
heard so much
about it, I thought I might enjoy living here," "It's a
great place.
You'll love it. Arizona has everything the Grand Canyon,
desert,
mountains. You can find anything you want here." And I
have, Leslie
thought. "You'll need a place to live. I'm sure I can
help you locate
something." Leslie knew the money she had would last for
no more than
three months. As it turned out, her plan took no more
than two
months.
Bookstores were filled with how-to books for women on how
to get a man.
The various pop psychologies ranged from "Play hard to
get" to "Get
them hooked in bed." Leslie followed none of that advice.
She had her
own method: She teased Henry Chambers. Not physically,
but mentally.
Henry had never met anyone like her. He was of the old
school that
believed if a blonde was beautiful, she must be dumb. It
never
occurred to him that he had always been attracted to women
who were
beautiful and not overly bright. Leslie was a revelation
to him. She
was intelligent and articulate and knowledgeable about an
amazing range
of subjects.
They talked about philosophy and religion and history, and
Henry
confided to a friend, "I think she's reading up on a lot
of things so
she can keep up with me."
Henry Chambers enjoyed Leslie's company tremendously. He
showed her
off to his friends and wore her on his arm like a trophy.
He took her
to the Carefree Wine and Fine Art Festival and to the
Actors Theater.
They watched the Phoenix Suns play at the America West
Arena. They
visited the Lyon Gallery in Scottsdale, the Symphony Hall,
and the
little town of Chandler to see the Doo-dah Parade. One
evening, they
went to see the Phoenix Roadrunners play hockey. After
the hockey
game, Henry said, "I really like you a lot, Leslie. I
think we'd be
great together. I'd like to make love with you."
She took his hand in hers and said softly, "I like you,
too, Henry, but
the answer is no."
The following day they had a luncheon date. Henry
telephoned Leslie.
"Why don't you pick me up at the Star? I want you to see
the place."
"I'd love to," Leslie said. That was what she had been
waiting for.
There were two other newspapers in Phoenix, the Arizona
Republic and
the Phoenix Gazette. Henry's paper, the Star, was the
only one losing
money.
The offices and production plant of the Phoenix Star were
smaller than
Leslie had anticipated. Henry took her on a tour, and as
Leslie looked
around, she thought, This isn't going to bring down a
governor or a
president. But it was a stepping-stone. She had plans
for it.
Leslie was interested in everything she saw. She kept
asking Henry
questions, and he kept referring them to Lyle Bannister,
the managing
editor. Leslie was amazed at how little Henry seemed to
know about the
newspaper business and how little he cared. It made her
all the more
determined to learn everything she could.
It happened at the Borgata, a restaurant in a castle like
old Italian
village setting. The dinner was superb. They had enjoyed
fi4
a lobster bisque, medallions of veal with a sauce
bearnaise, white
asparagus vinaigrette, and a Grand Marnier souffle. Henry
Chambers was
charming and easy to be with, and it had been a beautiful
evening. "I
love Phoenix," Henry was saying. "It's hard to believe
that only fifty
years ago the population here was just sixty-five
thousand. Now it's
over a million." Leslie was curious about something.
"What made you
decide to leave Kentucky and move here, Henry?" He
shrugged. "It
wasn't my decision, really. It was my damned lungs. The
doctors
didn't know how long I had to live. They told me Arizona
would be the
best climate for me. So I decided to spend the rest of my
life
whatever that means living it up." He smiled at her.
"And here we
are." He took her hand in his. "When they told me how
good it would
be for me, they had no idea. You don't think I'm too old
for you, do
you?" he asked anxiously. Leslie smiled. "Too young.
Much too
young." Henry looked at her for a long moment. "I'm
serious. Will
you marry me?" Leslie closed her eyes for a moment. She
could see the
hand-painted wooden sign on the Breaks Interstate Park
trail: LESLIE,
WILL YOU MARRY ME? ... "I'm afraid I can't promise you
that you're
going to marry a governor, but I'm a pretty good
attorney." Leslie
opened her eyes and looked up at Henry. "Yes, I want to
marry you."
More than anything in the world. They were married two
weeks later.
When the wedding announcement appeared in the Lexington
Herald-Leader,
Senator Todd Davis studied it for a long time. "I'm sorry
to bother
you, Senator, but I wonder if I could see you? I need a
favor.... Do
you know Henry Chambers?... I'd appreciate it if you'd
introduce me to
him."
If that's all she was up to, there would be no problem.
If that's all she was up to.
Leslie and Henry honeymooned in Paris, and wherever they
went, Leslie
wondered whether Oliver and Jan had visited those same
places, walked
those streets, dined there, shopped there. She pictured
the two of
them together, making love, Oliver whispering the same
lies into Jan's
ears that he had whispered into hers. Lies that he was
going to pay
dearly for.
Henry sincerely loved her and went out of his way to make
her happy.
Under other circumstances, Leslie might have fallen in
love with him,
but something deep within her had died. I can never trust
any man
again.
A few days after they returned to Phoenix, Leslie
surprised Henry by
saying, "Henry, I'd like to work at the paper." He
laughed. "Why?"
"I think it would be interesting. I was an executive at
an advertising
agency. I could probably help with that part." He
protested, but in
the end, he gave in.
Henry noticed that Leslie read the Lexington Herald-Leader
every day.
"Keeping up with the hometown folks?" he teased her.
"In a way," Leslie smiled. She avidly read every word
that was written
about Oliver. She wanted him to be happy and successful.
The bigger
they are ... When Leslie pointed out to Henry that the
Star was losing
money, he laughed. "Honey, it's a drop in the bucket.
I've got money
coming in from places you never even heard of. It doesn't
matter."
But it mattered to Leslie. It mattered a great deal. As
she began to
get more and more involved in the running of the
newspaper, it seemed
to her that the biggest reason it was losing money was the
unions. The
Phoenix Star's presses were outdated, but the unions
refused to let the
newspaper put in new equipment, because they said it would
cost union
members their jobs. They were currently negotiating a new
contract
with the Star. When Leslie discussed the situation with
Henry, he
said, "Why do you want to bother with stuff like that?
Let's just have
fun." "I'm having fun," Leslie assured him.
Leslie had a meeting with Craig McAllister, the Star's
attorney. "How
are the negotiations going?" "I wish I had better news,
Mrs.
Chambers, but I'm afraid the situation doesn't look good."
"We're
still in negotiation, aren't we?" "Ostensibly. But Joe
Riley, the
head of the printers' union, is a stubborn son of a a
stubborn man. He
won't give an inch. The pressmen's contract is up in ten
days, and
Riley says if the union doesn't have a new contract by
then, they're
going to walk." "Do you believe him?" "Yes. I don't like
to give in
to the unions, but the reality is that without them, we
have no
newspaper. They can shut us down. More than one
publication has
collapsed because it tried to buck the unions." "What are
they
asking?" "The usual. Shorter hours, raises, protection
against future
automation...." "They're squeezing us, Craig. I don't
like it."
"This is not an emotional issue, Mrs. Chambers. This is a
practical
issue." "So your advice is to give in?" "I don't think we
have a
choice." "Why don't I have a talk with Joe Riley?"
The meeting was set for two o'clock, and Leslie was late
coming back
from lunch. When she walked into the reception office,
Riley was
waiting, chatting with Leslie's secretary, Amy, a pretty,
dark-haired
young woman.
Joe Riley was a rugged-looking Irishman in his middle
forties. He had
been a pressman for more than fifteen years. Three years
earlier he
had been appointed head of his union and had earned the
reputation of
being the toughest negotiator in the business. Leslie
stood there for
a moment, watching him flirting with Amy.
Riley was saying, "... and then the man turned to her and
said, "That's
easy for you to say, but how will I get back?" "
Amy laughed. "Where do you hear those, Joe?"
"I get around, darling'. How about dinner tonight?"
"I'd love it."
Riley looked up and saw Leslie. "Afternoon, Mrs.
Chambers."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Riley. Come in, won't you?"
Riley and Leslie were seated in the newspaper's conference
room. "Would
you like some coffee?" Leslie offered.
"No, thanks."
"Anything stronger?"
He grinned. "You know it's against the rules to drink
during company
hours, Mrs. Chambers."
Leslie took a deep breath. "I wanted the two of us to
have a talk
because I've heard that you're a very fair man."
fiQ
"I try to be," Riley said.
"I want you to know that I'm sympathetic to the union. I
think your
men are entitled to something, but what you're asking for
is
unreasonable. Some of their habits are costing us
millions of dollars
a year."
"Could you be more specific?"
"I'll be glad to. They're working fewer hours of straight
time and
finding ways to get on the shifts that pay overtime. Some
of them put
in three shifts back to back, working the whole weekend.
I believe
they call it 'going to the whips." We can't afford that
anymore. We're
losing money because our equipment is outdated. If we
could put in new
cold-type production "
"Absolutely not! The new equipment you want to put in
would put my men
out of work, and I have no intention of letting machinery
throw my men
out into the street. Your goddam machines don't have to
eat, my men
do." Riley rose to his feet. "Our contract is up next
week. We
either get what we want, or we walk."
When Leslie mentioned the meeting to Henry that evening,
he said, "Why
do you want to get involved in all that? The unions are
something we
all have to live with. Let me give you a piece of advice,
sweetheart.
You're new to all this, and you're a woman. Let the men
handle it.
Let's not " He stopped, out of breath. "Are you all
right?"
He nodded. "I saw my stupid doctor today, and he thinks I
should get
an oxygen tank."
"I'll arrange it," Leslie said. "And I'm going to get you
a nurse so
that when I'm not here "
"No! I don't need a nurse. I'm I'm just a little tired."
"Come on, Henry. Let's get you into bed."
Three days later, when Leslie called an emergency board
meeting, Henry
said, "You go, baby. I'll just stay here and take it
easy." The
oxygen tank had helped, but he was feeling weak and
depressed.
Leslie telephoned Henry's doctor. "He's losing too much
weight and
he's in pain. There must be something you can do."
"Mrs. Chambers, we're doing everything we can. Just see
that he gets
plenty of rest and stays on the medication."
Leslie sat there, watching Henry lying in bed, coughing.
"Sorry about the meeting," Henry said. "You handle the
board. There's
nothing anyone can do, anyway."
She only smiled. Five.
The members of the board were gathered around the table in
the
conference room, sipping coffee and helping themselves to
bagels and
cream cheese, waiting for Leslie. When she arrived, she
said, "Sorry
to keep you waiting, ladies and gentlemen. Henry sends
his regards."
Things had changed since the first board meeting Leslie
had attended.
The board had snubbed her then, and treated her as an
interloper. But
gradually, as Leslie had learned enough about the business
to make
valuable suggestions, she had won their respect. Now, as
the meeting
was about to begin, Leslie turned to Amy, who was serving
coffee. "Amy,
I would like you to stay for the meeting." Amy looked at
her in
surprise. "I'm afraid my shorthand isn't very good, Mrs.
Chambers.
Cynthia can do a better job of "
"I don't want you to take minutes of the meeting. Just
make a note of
whatever resolutions we pass at the end."
"Yes, ma'am." Amy picked up a notebook and pen and sat in
a chair
against the wall.
Leslie turned to face the board. "We have a problem. Our
contract
with the pressmen's union is almost up. We've been
negotiating for
three months now, and we haven't been able to reach an
agreement. We
have to make a decision, and we have to make it fast.
You've all seen
the reports I sent you. I'd like to have your opinions."
She looked at Gene Osborne, a partner in a local law firm.
"If you ask me, Leslie, I think they're getting too damn
much already.
Give them what they want now, and tomorrow they'll want
more."
Leslie nodded and looked at Aaron Drexel, the owner of a
local
department store. "Aaron?"
"I have to agree. There's a hell of a lot of
featherbedding going on.
If we give them something, we should get something in
return. In my
opinion, we can afford a strike, and they can't."
The comments from the others were similar.
Leslie said, "I have to disagree with all of you." They
looked at her
in surprise. "I think we should let them have what they
want."
"That's crazy."
"They'll wind up owning the newspaper."
"There won't be any stopping them." "You can't give in to
them."
Leslie let them speak. When they had finished, she said,
"Joe Riley is
a fair man. He believes in what he's asking for." Seated
against the
wall, Amy was following the discussion, astonished. One
of the women
spoke up. "I'm surprised you're taking his side, Leslie."
"I'm not
taking anyone's side. I just think we have to be
reasonable about
this. Anyway, it's not my decision. Let's take a vote."
She turned to
look at Amy. "This is what I want you to put in the
record." "Yes,
ma'am." Leslie turned back to the group. "All those
opposed to the
union demands, raise your hands." Eleven hands went into
the air.
"Let the record show that I voted yes and that the rest of
the
committee has voted not to accept the union demands." Amy
was writing
in her notebook, a thoughtful expression on her face.
Leslie said,
"Well, that's it then." She rose. "If there's no further
business
..." The others got to their feet. "Thank you all for
coming." She
watched them leave, then turned to Amy. "Would you type
that up,
please?" "Right away, Mrs. Chambers." Leslie headed for
her
office.
The telephone call came a short time later.
"Mr. Riley is on line one," Amy said.
Leslie picked up the telephone. "Hello."
"Joe Riley. I just wanted to thank you for what you tried
to do."
Leslie said, "I don't understand ..."
"The board meeting. I heard what happened."
Leslie said, "I'm surprised, Mr. Riley. That was a
private
meeting."
Joe Riley chuckled. "Let's just say I have friends in low
places.
Anyway, I thought what you tried to do was great. Too bad
it didn't
work."
There was a brief silence, then Leslie said slowly, "Mr.
Riley ...
what if I could make it work?"
"What do you mean?"
"I have an idea. I'd rather not discuss it on the phone.
Could we
meet somewhere ... discreetly?"
There was a pause. "Sure. Where did you have in mind?"
"Someplace where neither of us will be recognized."
"What about meeting at the Golden Cup?"
"Right. I'll be there in an hour."
"I'll see you."
The Golden Cup was an infamous cafe in the seedier section
of Phoenix,
near the railroad tracks, an area police warned tourists
to stay away
from. Joe Riley was seated at a corner booth when Leslie
walked in. He
rose as she approached him.
"Thank you for being here," Leslie said. They sat down.
"I came
because you said there might be a way for me to get my
contract."
"There is. I think the board is being stupid and
shortsighted. I
tried to talk to them, but they wouldn't listen." He
nodded, "I know.
You advised them to give us the new contract." "That's
right. They
don't realize how important you pressmen are to our
newspaper." He was
studying her, puzzled. "But if they voted you down, how
can we ... ?"
"The only reason they voted me down is that they're not
taking your
union seriously. If you want to avoid a long strike, and
maybe the
death of the paper, you have to show them you mean
business." "How do
you mean?" Leslie said nervously, "What I'm telling you
is very
confidential, but it's the only way that you're going to
get what you
want. The problem is simple. They think you're bluffing.
They don't
believe you mean business. You have to show them that you
do. Your
contract is up this Friday at midnight." "Yes ..."
"They'll expect
you just to quietly walk out." She leaned forward.
"Don't!" He was
listening intently. "Show them that they can't run the
Star without
you. Don't just go out like lambs. Do some damage." His
eyes
widened. "I don't mean anything serious," Leslie said
quickly. "Just
enough to show them that you mean business. Cut a few
cables, put a
press or two out of commission. Let them learn that they
need you to
operate them. Everything can be repaired in a day or two,
but
meanwhile, you'll have scared them into their senses.
They'll finally
know what they're dealing with."
Joe Riley sat there for a long time, studying Leslie.
"You're a
remarkable lady."
"Not really. I thought it over, and I have a very simple
choice. You
can cause a little damage that can be easily corrected,
and force the
board to deal with you, or you can walk out quietly and
resign yourself
to a long strike that the paper may never recover from.
All I care
about is protecting the paper."
A slow smile lit Riley's face. "Let me buy you a cup of
coffee, Mrs.
Chambers."
"We're striking!" Friday night, at one minute past
midnight, under Joe
Riley's direction, the pressmen attacked. They stripped
parts from the
machines, overturned tables full of equipment, and set two
printing
presses on fire. A guard who tried to stop them was badly
beaten. The
pressmen, who had started out merely to disable a few
presses, got
caught up in the fever of the excitement, and they became
more and more
destructive. "Let's show the bastards that they can't
shove us
around!" one of the men cried. "There's no paper without
us!"
"We're the Star!"
Cheers went up. The men attacked harder. The pressroom
was turning
into a shambles.
In the midst of the wild excitement, floodlights suddenly
flashed on
from the four corners of the room. The men stopped,
looking around in
bewilderment. Near the doors, television cameras were
recording the
fiery scene and the destruction. Next to them were
reporters from the
Arizona Republic, the Phoenix Gazette, and several news
services,
covering the havoc. There were at least a dozen policemen
and
firemen.
Joe Riley was looking around in shock. How the hell had
they all
gotten here so fast? As the police started to close in
and the firemen
turned on their hoses, the answer suddenly came to Riley,
and he felt
as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. Leslie
Chambers had
set him up! When these pictures of the destruction the
union had
caused got out, there would be no sympathy for them.
Public opinion
would turn against them. The bitch had planned this all
along.... The
television pictures were aired within the hour, and the
radio waves
were filled with details of the wanton destruction. News
services
around the world printed the story, and they all carried
the theme of
the vicious employees who had turned on the hand that fed
them. It was
a public relations triumph for the Phoenix Star.
Leslie had prepared well. Earlier, she had secretly sent
some of the
Star's executives to Kansas to learn how to run the giant
presses, and
to teach nonunion employees cold-type production.
Immediately after
the sabotage incident, two other striking unions, the
mailers and
photoengravers, came to terms with the Star.
With the unions defeated, and the way open to modernize
the paper's
technology, profits began to soar. Overnight,
productivity jumped 20
percent.
The morning after the strike, Amy was fired.
On a late Friday afternoon, two years from the date of
their wedding,
Henry had a touch of indigestion. By Saturday morning, it
had become
chest pains, and Leslie called for an ambulance to rush
him to the
hospital. On Sunday, Henry Chambers passed away.
He left his entire estate to Leslie.
The Monday after the funeral, Craig McAllister came to see
Leslie. "I
wanted to go over some legal matters with you, but if it's
too soon "
"No," Leslie said. "I'm all right." Henry's death had
affected Leslie
more than she had expected. He had been a dear, sweet
man, and she had
used him because she wanted him to help her get revenge
against
Oliver.
And somehow, in Leslie's mind, Henry's death became
another reason to
destroy Oliver.
"What do you want to do with the Star'?" McAllister
asked. "I don't
imagine you'll want to spend your time running it."
"That's exactly what I intend to do. We're going to
expand."
Leslie sent for a copy of the Managing Editor, the trade
magazine that
lists newspaper brokers all over the United States.
Leslie selected
Dirks, Van Essen and Associates in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
"This is Mrs. Henry Chambers. I'm interested in
acquiring another
newspaper, and I wondered what might be available...."
It turned out to be the Sun in Hammond, Oregon.
"I'd like you to fly up there and take a look at it,"
Leslie told
McAllister.
Two days later, McAllister telephoned Leslie. "You can
forget about
the Sun, Mrs. Chambers."
"What's the problem?"
"The problem is that Hammond is a two-newspaper town. The
daily
circulation of the Sun is fifteen thousand. The other
newspaper, the
Hammond Chronicle, has a circulation of twenty-eight
thousand, almost
double. And the owner of the Sun is asking five million
dollars. The
deal doesn't make any sense."
Leslie was thoughtful for a moment. "Wait for me," she
said. "I'm on
my way."
Leslie spent the following two days examining the
newspaper and
studying its books.
"There's no way the Sun can compete with the Chronicle,"
McAllister
assured her. "The Chronicle keeps growing. The Sun's
circulation has
gone down every year for the past five years."
"I know," Leslie said. "I'm going to buy it."
He looked at her in surprise. "You're going to what?"
"I'm going to buy it."
The deal was completed in three days. The owner of the
Sun was
delighted to get rid of it. "I suckered the lady into
making a deal,"
he crowed. "She paid me the full five million." Walt
Meriwether, the
owner of the Hammond Chronicle, came to call on Leslie.
"I understand
you're my new competitor," he said genially. Leslie
nodded. "That's
right." "If things don't work out here for you, maybe
you'd be
interested in selling the Sun to me." Leslie smiled.
"And if things
do work out, perhaps you'd be interested in selling the
Chronicle to
me."
Meriwether laughed. "Sure. Lots of luck, Mrs.
Chambers."
When Meriwether got back to the Chronicle, he said
confidently, "In six
months, we're going to own the Sun."
Leslie returned to Phoenix and talked to Lyle Bannister,
the Star's
managing editor. "You're going with me to Hammond,
Oregon. I want you
to run the newspaper there until it gets on its feet."
"I talked to Mr. McAllister," Bannister said. "The paper
has no feet.
He said it's a disaster waiting to happen."
She studied him a moment. "Humor me."
In Oregon, Leslie called a staff meeting of the employees
of the Sun.
"We're going to operate a little differently from now on,"
she informed
them. "This is a two-newspaper town, and we're going to
own them
both." Derek Zornes, the managing editor of the Sun,
said, "Excuse me,
Mrs. Chambers. I'm not sure you understand the
situation. Our
circulation is way below the Chronick's, and we're
slipping every
month. There's no way we can ever catch up to it."
"We're not only
going to catch up to it," Leslie assured him, "we're going
to put the
Chronicle out of business."
The men in the room looked at one another and they all had
the same
thought: Females and amateurs should stay the hell out of
the newspaper
business.
"How do you plan to do that?" Zornes asked politely.
"Have you ever watched a bullfight?" Leslie asked.
He blinked. "A bullfight? No ..."
"Well, when the bull rushes into the ring, the matador
doesn't go for
the kill right away. He bleeds the bull until it's weak
enough to be
killed."
Zornes was trying not to laugh. "And we're going to bleed
the
Chronicle?"
"Exactly."
"How are we going to do that?"
"Starting Monday, we're cutting the price of the Sun from
thirty-five
cents to twenty cents. We're cutting our advertising
rates by thirty
percent. Next week, we're starting a giveaway contest
where our
readers can win free trips all over the world. We'll
begin publicizing
the contest immediately."
When the employees gathered later to discuss the meeting,
the consensus
was that their newspaper had been bought by a crazy woman.
The bleeding began, but it was the Sun that was being
bled.
McAllister asked Leslie, "Do you have any idea how much
money the Sun
is losing?"
"I know exactly how much it's losing," Leslie said.
"How long do you plan to go on with this?"
"Until we win," Leslie said. "Don't worry. We will."
But Leslie was worried. The losses were getting heavier
every week.
Circulation continued to dwindle, and advertisers'
reactions to the
rate reduction had been lukewarm.
"Your theory's not working," McAllister said. "We've got
to cut our
losses. I suppose you can keep pumping in money, but
what's the
point?"
The following week, the circulation stopped dropping.
It took eight weeks for the Sun to begin to rise.
The reduction in the price of the newspaper and in the
cost of
advertising was attractive, but what made the circulation
of the Sun
move up was the giveaway contest. It ran for twelve
weeks, and
entrants had to compete every week. The prizes were
cruises to the
South Seas and trips to London and Paris and Rio. As the
prizes were
handed out and publicized with front-page photographs of
the winners,
the circulation of the Sun began to explode.
"You took a hell of a gamble," Craig McAllister said
grudgingly, "but
it's working."
"It wasn't a gamble," Leslie said. "People can't resist
getting
something for nothing."
When Walt Meriwether was handed the latest circulation
figures, he was
furious. For the first time in years, the Sun was ahead
of the
Chronicle.
"All right," Meriwether said grimly. "Two can play that
stupid game. I
want you to cut our advertising rates and start some kind
of
contest."
But it was too late. Eleven months after Leslie had
bought the Sun,
Walt Meriwether came to see her.
"I'm selling out," he said curtly. "Do you want to buy
the
Chronicle?"
"Yes."
The day the contract for the Chronicle was signed, Leslie
called in her
staff.
"Starting Monday," she said, "we raise the price of the
Sun, double our
advertising rates, and stop the contest."
One month later, Leslie said to Craig McAllister, "The
Evening Standard
in Detroit is up for sale. It owns a television station,
too. I think
we should make a deal." McAllister protested. "Mrs.
Chambers, we
don't know anything about television, and " "Then we'll
have to learn,
won't we?" The empire Leslie needed was beginning to
build.
Six.
Oliver's days were full, and he loved every minute of what
he was
doing. There were political appointments to be made,
legislation to be
put forward, appropriations to be approved, meetings and
speeches and
press interviews. The State Journal in Frankfort, the
Herald-Leader in
Lexington, and the Louisville Courier-Journal gave him
glowing reports.
He was earning the reputation of being a governor who got
things done.
Oliver was swept up in the social life of the super
wealthy and he knew
that a large part of that was because he was married to
the daughter of
Senator Todd Davis.
Oliver enjoyed living in Frankfort. It was a lovely,
historic city
nestled in a scenic river valley among the rolling hills
of Kentucky
fabled bluegrass region. He wondered what it would be
like to live in
Washington, D.C.
The busy days merged into weeks, and the weeks merged into
months.
Oliver began the last year of his term.
Oliver had made Peter Tager his press secretary. He was
the perfect
choice. Tager was always forthright with the press, and
because of the
decent, old-fashioned values he stood for and liked to
talk about, he
gave the party substance and dignity. Peter Tager and his
black eye
patch became almost as well recognized as Oliver.
Todd Davis made it a point to fly down to Frankfort to see
Oliver at
least once a month.
He said to Peter Tager, "When you've got a Thoroughbred
running, you
have to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't lose
his timing."
On a chilly evening in October, Oliver and Senator Davis
were seated in
Oliver's study. The two men and Jan had gone out to
dinner at
Gabriel's and had returned to the Executive Mansion. Jan
had left the
men to talk. "Jan seems very happy, Oliver. I'm
pleased." "I try to
make her happy, Todd." Senator Davis looked at Oliver and
wondered how
often he used the apartment. "She loves you a lot, son."
"And I love
her." Oliver sounded very sincere.
Senator Davis smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. She's
already
redecorating the White House." Oliver's heart skipped a
beat. "I beg
your pardon?" "Oh, didn't I tell you? It's begun. Your
name's
becoming a byword in Washington. We're going to begin our
campaign the
first of the year." Oliver was almost afraid to ask the
next question.
"Do you honestly think I have a chance, Todd?" "The word
'chance'
implies a gamble, and I don't gamble, son. I won't get
involved in
anything unless I know it's a sure thing." Oliver took a
deep breath.
"You can be the most important man in the world." "I want
you to know
how very much I appreciate everything you've done for me,
Todd." Todd
patted Oliver's arm. "It's a man's duty to help his
son-in-law, isn't
it?" The emphasis on "son-in-law" was not lost on Oliver.
The senator
said casually, "By the way, Oliver, I was very
disappointed that your
legislature passed that tobacco tax bill." "That money
will take care
of the shortfall in our fiscal budget, and " "But of
course you're
going to veto it." Oliver stared at him. "Veto it?" The
senator gave
him a small smile. "Oliver, I want you to know that I'm
not thinking
about myself. But I have a lot of friends who invested
their
hard-earned money in tobacco plantations, and I wouldn't
want to see
them get hurt by oppressive new taxes, would you?"
There was a silence.
"Would you, Oliver?"
"No," Oliver finally said. "I guess it wouldn't be fair."
"I appreciate that. I really do."
Oliver said, "I had heard that you'd sold your tobacco
plantations,
Todd."
Todd Davis looked at him, surprised. "Why would I want to
do that?"
"Well, the tobacco companies are taking a beating in the
courts. Sales
are way down, and "
"You're talking about the United States, son. There's a
great big
world out there. Wait until our advertising campaigns
start rolling in
China and Africa and India." He looked at his watch and
rose. "I have
to head back to Washington. I have a committee meeting."
"Have a good flight."
Senator Davis smiled. "Now I will, son. Now I will."
Oliver was upset. "What the hell am I going to do, Peter?
The tobacco
tax is by far the most popular measure the legislature has
passed this
year. What excuse do I have for vetoing it?" Peter Tager
took several
sheets of paper from his pocket. "All the answers are
right here,
Oliver. I've discussed it with the senator. You won't
have any
problem. I've set up a press conference for four
o'clock." Oliver
studied the papers. Finally, he nodded. "This is good."
"It's what I do. Is there anything else you need me for?"
"No. Thank
you. I'll see you at four." Peter Tager started to
leave. "Peter."
Tager turned. "Yes?" "Tell me something. Do you think I
really have
a chance of becoming president?" "What does the senator
say?" "He
says I do." Tager walked back to the desk. "I've known
Senator Davis
for many years, Oliver. In all that time, he hasn't been
wrong once.
Not once. The man has incredible instincts. If Todd Davis
says you're
going to be the next President of the United States, you
can bet the
farm on it." There was a knock at the door. "Come in."
The door
opened, and an attractive young secretary walked in,
carrying some
faxes. She was in her early twenties, bright and eager.
"Oh, excuse
me, Governor. I didn't know you were in a " "That's all
right,
Miriam." Tager smiled. "Hi, Miriam." "Hello, Mr.
Tager." Oliver
said, "I don't know what I'd do without Miriam. She does
everything
for me." Miriam blushed. "If there's nothing else " She
put the faxes
on Oliver's desk and turned and hurried out of the office.
"That's a pretty woman," Tager said. He looked over at
Oliver.
"Yes."
"Oliver, you are being careful, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. That's why I had you get that little
apartment for
me."
"I mean big-time careful. The stakes have gone up. The
next time you
get horny, just stop and think about whether a Miriam or
Alice or Karen
is worth the Oval Office."
"I know what you're saying, Peter, and I appreciate it.
But you don't
have to worry about me."
"Good." Tager looked at his watch. "I have to go. I'm
taking Betsy
and the kids out to lunch." He smiled. "Did I tell you
what Rebecca
did this morning? She's my five-year-old. There was a
tape of a kid's
show she wanted to watch at eight o'clock this morning.
Betsy said,
"Darling, I'll run it for you after lunch." Rebecca
looked at her and
said, "Mama, I want lunch now." Pretty smart, huh?"
Oliver had to smile at the pride in Tager's voice.
At ten o'clock that evening, Oliver walked into the den
where Jan was
reading and said, "Honey, I have to leave. I have a
conference to go
to." Jan looked up. "At this time of night?" He sighed.
"I'm afraid
so. There's a budget committee meeting in the morning,
and they want
to brief me before the meeting."
"You're working too hard. Try to come home early, will
you, Oliver?"
She hesitated a moment. "You've been out a lot lately."
He wondered whether that was intended as a warning. He
walked over to
her, leaned down, and kissed her. "Don't worry, honey.
I'll be home
as early as I can."
Downstairs Oliver said to his chauffeur, "I won't need you
tonight. I'm
taking the small car."
"Yes, Governor."
"You're late, darling." Miriam was naked.
He grinned and walked over to her. "Sorry about that.
I'm glad you
didn't start without me."
She smiled. "Hold me."
He took her in his arms and held her close, her warm body
pressed
against his.
"Get undressed. Hurry."
Afterward, he said, "How would you like to move to
Washington, D.C.?"
Miriam sat up in bed. "Are you serious?" "Very. I may
be going
there. I want you to be with me." "If your wife ever
found out about
us ..." "She won't." "Why Washington?"
"I can't tell you that now. All I can say is that it's
going to be
very exciting." "I'll go anywhere you want me to go, as
long as you
love me." "You know I love you." The words slipped out
easily, as
they had so many times in the past. "Make love to me
again." "Just a
second. I have something for you." He got up and walked
over to the
jacket he had flung over a chair. He took a small bottle
out of his
pocket and poured the contents into a glass. It was a
clear liquid.
"Try this." "What is it?" Miriam asked. "You'll like it.
I promise."
He lifted the glass and drank half of it. Miriam took a
sip, then
swallowed the rest of it. She smiled. "It's not bad."
"It's going to
make you feel real sexy." "I already feel real sexy.
Come back to
bed." They were making love again when she gasped and
said, "I I'm not
feeling well." She began to pant. "I can't breathe." Her
eyes were
closing. "Miriam!" There was no response. She fell back
on the bed.
"Miriam!" She lay there, unconscious. Son of a bitch!
Why are you
doing this to me? He got up and began to pace. He had
given the
liquid to a dozen women, and only once had it harmed
anyone. He had to
be careful. Unless he handled this right, it was going to
be the end of
everything. All his dreams, everything he had worked for.
He could not
let that happen. He stood at the side of the bed, looking
down at her.
He felt her pulse. She was still breathing, thank God.
But he could
not let her be discovered in this apartment. It would be
traced back
to him. He had to leave her somewhere where she would be
found and be
given medical help. He could trust her not to reveal his
name.
It took him almost half an hour to get her dressed and to
remove all
traces of her from his apartment. He opened the door a
crack to make
sure that the hallway was empty, then picked her up, put
her over his
shoulder, and carried her downstairs and put her in the
car. It was
almost midnight, and the streets were deserted. It was
beginning to
rain. He drove to Juniper Hill Park, and when he was sure
that no one
was in sight, he lifted Miriam out of the car and gently
laid her down
on a park bench. He hated to leave her there, but he had
no choice.
None. His whole future was at stake.
There was a public phone booth a few feet away. He
hurried over to it
and dialed 911.
Jan was waiting up for Oliver when he returned home.
"It's after
midnight," she said. "What took you ?" "I'm sorry,
darling. We got
into a long, boring discussion on the budget, and well,
everyone had a
different opinion." "You look pale," Jan said. "You must
be
exhausted." "I am a little tired," he admitted.
She smiled suggestively. "Let's go to bed." He kissed
her on the
forehead. "I've really got to get some sleep, Jan. That
meeting
knocked me out."
The story was on the front page of the State Journal the
following
morning:
GOVERNOR'S SECRETARY FOUND UNCONSCIOUS IN PARK.
At two o'clock this morning, police found the unconscious
woman, Miriam
Friedland, lying on the bench in the rain and immediately
called for an
ambulance. She was taken to Memorial Hospital, where her
condition is
said to be critical.
As Oliver was reading the story, Peter came hurrying into
his office,
carrying a copy of the newspaper.
"Have you seen this?"
"Yes. It's it's terrible. The press has been calling all
morning."
"What do you suppose happened?" Tager asked.
Oliver shook his head. "I don't know. I just talked to
the hospital.
She's in a coma. They're trying to learn what caused it.
The hospital
is going to let me know as soon as they find out."
Tager looked at Oliver. "I hope she's going to be all
right."
Leslie Chambers missed seeing the newspaper stories. She
was in
Brazil, buying a television station.
Qfi
The telephone call from the hospital came the following
day. "Governor,
we've just finished the laboratory tests. She's ingested
a substance
called methylenedioxymethamphetamine, commonly known as
Ecstasy. She
took it in liquid form, which is even more lethal."
"What's her condition?"
"I'm afraid it's critical. She's in a coma. She could
wake up or " He
hesitated. "It could go the other way."
"Please keep me informed."
"Of course. You must be very concerned, Governor."
"I am."
Oliver Russell was in a conference when a secretary
buzzed. "Excuse
me, Governor. There's a telephone call for you." "I told
you no
interruptions, Heather." "It's Senator Davis on line
three." "Oh."
Oliver turned to the men in the room. "We'll finish this
later,
gentlemen. If you'll excuse me ..." He watched them
leave the room,
and when the door closed behind them, he picked up the
telephone.
"Todd?" "Oliver, what's this about a secretary of yours
found drugged
on a park bench?" "Yes," Oliver said. "It's a terrible
thing, Todd.
I " "How terrible?" Senator Davis demanded.
"What do you mean?" "You know damn well what I mean."
"Todd, you
don't think I I swear I don't know anything about what
happened." "I
hope not." The senator's voice was grim. "You know how
fast gossip
gets around in Washington, Oliver. It's the smallest town
in America.
We don't want anything negative linked to you. We're
getting ready to
make our move. I'd be very, very upset if you did
anything stupid."
"I promise you, I'm clean." "Just make sure you keep it
that way."
"Of course I will. I " The line went dead. Oliver sat
there thinking.
I'll have to be more careful. I can't let anything stop
me now. He
glanced at his watch, then reached for the remote control
that turned
on the television set. The news was on. On the screen
was a picture
of a besieged street, with snipers shooting at random from
buildings.
The sound of mortar fire could be heard in the background.
An
attractive young female reporter, dressed in battle
fatigues and
holding a microphone, was saying, "The new treaty is
supposed to take
effect at midnight tonight, but regardless of whether it
holds, it can
never bring back the peaceful villages in this war-torn
country or
restore the lives of the innocents who have been swept up
in the
ruthless reign of terror." The scene shifted to a
close-up of Dana
Evans, a passionate, lovely young woman in a flak jacket
and combat
boots. "The people here are hungry and tired. They ask
for only one
thing peace. Will it come? Only time will tell. This is
Dana
Evans reporting from Sarajevo for WTE, Washington Tribune
Enterprises."
The scene dissolved into a commercial. Dana Evans was a
foreign
correspondent for the Washington Tribune Enterprises
Broadcasting
System. She reported the news every day, and Oliver tried
not to miss
her broadcasts. She was one of the best reporters on the
air. She's a
great-looking woman, Oliver thought, not for the first
time. Why the
hell would someone that young and attractive want to be in
the middle
of a shooting war?
Seven.
Dana Evans was an army brat, the daughter of a colonel who
traveled
from base to base as an armaments instructor. By the time
Dana was
eleven years old, she had lived in five American cities
and in four
foreign countries. She had moved with her father and
mother to the
Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland, Fort Benning in
Georgia, Fort Hood
in Texas, Fort Leavenworth in Kansas, and Fort Mon-mouth
in New Jersey.
She had gone to schools for officers' children at Camp
Zama in Japan,
Chiemsee in Germany, Camp Darby in Italy, and Fort
Buchanan in Puerto
Rico. Dana was an only child, and her friends were the
army personnel
and their families who were stationed at the various
postings. She was
precocious, cheerful, and outgoing, but her mother worried
about the
fact that Dana was not having a normal childhood.
"I know that moving every six months must be terribly hard
on you,
darling," her mother said.
Dana looked at her mother, puzzled. "Why?"
Whenever Dana's father was assigned to a new post, Dana
was thrilled.
"We're going to move again!" she would exclaim.
Unfortunately, although Dana enjoyed the constant moving,
her mother
hated it.
When Dana was thirteen, her mother said, "I can't live
like a gypsy any
longer. I want a divorce."
Dana was horrified when she heard the news. Not about the
divorce so
much, but by the fact that she would no longer be able to
travel around
the world with her father.
"Where am I going to live?" Dana asked her mother.
"In Claremont, California. I grew up there. It's a
beautiful little
town. You'll love it."
Dana's mother had been right about Claremont's being a
beautiful little
town. She was wrong about Dana's loving it. Claremont
was at the base
of the San Gabriel Mountains in Los Angeles County, with a
population
of about thirty-three thousand. Its streets were lined
with lovely
trees and it had the feel of a quaint college community.
Dana hated
it. The change from being a world traveler to settling
down in a small
town brought on a severe case of culture shock.
"Are we going to live here forever?" Dana asked gloomily.
"Why, darling?"
"Because it's too small for me. I need a bigger town."
On Dana's first day at school, she came home depressed.
"What's the
matter? Don't you like your school?" Dana sighed. "It's
all right,
but it's full of kids." Dana's mother laughed. "They'll
get over
that, and so will you."
Dana went on to Claremont High School and became a
reporter for the
Woljpacket, the school newspaper. She found that she
enjoyed newspaper
work, but she desperately missed traveling.
"When I grow up," Dana said, "I'm going to go all over the
world
again."
When Dana was eighteen, she enrolled in Claremont McKenna
College,
majored in journalism, and became a reporter for the
college newspaper,
the Forum. The following year, she was made editor of the
paper.
Students were constantly coming to her for favors. "Our
sorority is
having a dance next week, Dana. Would you mention it in
the paper ...
?"
"The debating club is having a meeting Tuesday...."
"Could you review
the play the drama club is putting on...?"
"We need to raise funds for the new library...."
It was endless, but Dana enjoyed it enormously. She was
in a position
to help people, and she liked that. In her senior year,
Dana decided
that she wanted a newspaper career.
"I'll be able to interview important people all over the
world," Dana
told her mother. "It will be like helping to make
history."
Growing up, whenever young Dana looked in a mirror, she
became
depressed. Too short, too thin, too flat. Every other
girl was
awesomely beautiful. It was some kind of California law.
I'm an ugly
duckling in a land of swans, she thought. She made it a
point to avoid
looking in mirrors. If Dana had looked, she would have
realized that
at the age of fourteen, her body was beginning to blossom.
At the age
of sixteen, she had become very attractive. When she was
seventeen,
boys began seriously to pursue her. There was something
about her
eager, heart-shaped face, large inquisitive eyes, and
husky laugh that
was both adorable and a challenge.
Dana had known since she was twelve how she wanted to lose
her
virginity. It would be on a beautiful, moon-lit night on
some faraway
tropical island, with the waves gently lapping against the
shore. There
would be soft music playing in the background. A
handsome,
sophisticated stranger would approach her and look deeply
into her
eyes, into her soul, and he would take her in his arms
without a word
and suavely carry her to a nearby palm tree. They would
get undressed
and make love and the music in the background would swell
to a
climax.
She actually lost her virginity in the back of an old
Chevrolet, after
a school dance, to a skinny eighteen-year-old redhead
named Richard
Dobbins, who worked on the Forum with her. He gave Dana
his ring and a
month later, moved to Milwaukee with his parents. Dana
never heard
from him again.
The month before she was graduated from college with a
B.A. in
journalism, Dana went down to the local newspaper, the
Claremont
Examiner, to see about a job as a reporter. A man in the
personnel
office looked over her resume. "So you were the editor of
the Forum,
eh?" Dana smiled modestly. "That's right." "Okay.
You're in luck.
We're a little short-handed right now. We'll give you a
try." Dana
was thrilled. She had already made a list of the
countries she wanted
to cover: Russia ... China ... Africa.... "I know I can't
start as a
foreign correspondent," Dana said, "but as soon as "
"Right. You'll be
working here as a gofer. You'll see that the editors have
coffee in
the morning. They like it strong, by the way. And you'll
run copy
down to the printing presses."
Dana stared at him in shock. "I can't "
He leaned forward, frowning. "You can't what?"
"I can't tell you how glad I am to have this job."
The reporters all complimented Dana on her coffee, and she
became the
best runner the paper had ever had. She was at work early
every day
and made friends with everyone. She was always eager to
help out. She
knew that was the way to get ahead.
The problem was that at the end of six months, Dana was
still a gofer.
She went to see Bill Crowell, the managing editor.
"I really think I'm ready," Dana said earnestly. "If you
give me an
assignment, I'll "
He did not even look up. "There's no opening yet. My
coffee's
cold."
It isn't fair, Dana thought. They won't even give me a
chance. Dana
had heard a line that she firmly believed in. "If
something can stop
you, you might as well let it." Well, nothing's going to
stop me, Dana
thought. Nothing. But how am I going to get started?
One morning, as Dana was walking through the deserted
Teletype room,
carrying cups of hot coffee, a police scanner print out
was coming over
the wires. Curious, Dana walked over and read it:
ASSOCIATED PRESS CLARE MONT CALIFORNIA. IN CLARE MONT
THIS MORNING,
THERE WAS AN ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING. A SIX-YEAR-OLD BOY WAS
PICKED UP
BY
A STRANGER AND .. .
Dana read the rest of the story, wide-eyed. She took a
deep breath,
ripped the story from the teletype, and put it in her
pocket. No one
else had seen it.
Dana hurried into Bill Crowell's office, breathless. "Mr.
Crowell,
someone tried to kidnap a little boy in Claremont this
morning. He
offered to take him on a pony ride. The boy wanted some
candy first,
and the kidnapper took him to a candy store, where the
owner recognized
the boy. The owner called the police and the kidnapper
fled."
Bill Crowell was excited. "There was nothing on the
wires. How did
you hear about this?"
"I I happened to be in the store, and they were talking
about it and
"
"I'll get a reporter over there right away."
"Why don't you let me cover it?" Dana said quickly. "The
owner of the
candy store knows me. He'll talk to me."
He studied Dana a moment and said reluctantly, "All
right."
Dana interviewed the owner of the candy store, and her
story appeared
on the front page of the Claremont Examiner the next day
and was well
received.
"That wasn't a bad job," Bill Crowell told her. "Not bad
at all."
"Thank you."
It was almost a week before Dana found herself alone again
in the
teletype room. There was a story coming in on the wire
from the
Associated Press:
POMONA, CALIFORNIA: FEMALE JUDO INSTRUCTOR CAPTURES
WOULD-BE RAPIST.
Perfect, Dana decided. She tore off the printout,
crumpled it, stuffed
it in her pocket, and hurried in to see Bill Crowell. "My
old roommate
just called me," Dana said excitedly. "She was looking
out the window
and saw a woman attack a would-be rapist. I'd like to
cover it."
Crowell looked at her a moment. "Go ahead." Dana drove
to Pomona to
get an interview with the judo instructor, and again her
story made the
front page. Bill Crowell asked Dana to come into his
office. "How
would you like to have a regular beat?" Dana was
thrilled. "Great!"
It's begun, she thought. My career has finally begun.
The following
day, the Claremont Examiner was sold to the Washington
Tribune in
Washington, D.C.
When the news of the sale came out, most of the Claremont
Examiner
employees were dismayed. It was inevitable that there
would be
downsizing and that some of them would lose their jobs.
Dana did not
think of it that way. I work for the Washington Tribune
now, she
thought, and the next logical thought was, Why don't I go
to work at
its headquarters? She marched into Bill Crowell's office.
"I'd like a
ten-day leave." He looked at her curiously. "Dana, most
of the people
around here won't go to the bathroom because they're
scared to death
that their desks won't be there when they get back.
Aren't you
worried?" "Why should I be? I'm the best reporter you
have," she said
confidently. "I'm going to get a job at the Washington
Tribune." "Are
you serious?" He saw her expression. "You're serious."
He sighed.
"All right. Try to see Matt Baker. He's in charge of
Washington
Tribune Enterprises newspapers, TV stations, radio,
everything." "Matt
Baker. Right."
Eight.
Washington, D.C." was a much larger city than Dana bad
imagined. This
was the power center of the world, and Dana could feel the
electricity
in the air. This is where I belong, she thought happily.
Her first
move was to check into the Stouffer Renaissance Hotel.
She looked up
the address of the Washington Tribune and headed there.
The Tribune
was located on 6th Street and took up the entire block.
It consisted
of four separate buildings that seemed to reach to
infinity. Dana
found the main lobby and confidently walked up to the
uniformed guard
behind the desk. "Can I help you, miss?" "I work here.
That is, I
work for the Tribune. I'm here to see Matt Baker."
"Do you have an appointment?" Dana hesitated. "Not yet,
but " "Come
back when you have one." He turned his attention to
several men who
had come up to the desk. "We have an appointment with the
head of the
circulation department," one of the men said. "Just a
moment, please."
The guard dialed a number. In the background, one of the
elevators had
arrived and people were getting out. Dana casually headed
for it. She
stepped inside, praying that it would go up before the
guard noticed
her. A woman got into the elevator and pressed the
button, and they
started up. "Excuse me," Dana said. "What floor is Matt
Baker on?"
"Third." She looked at Dana. "You're not wearing a
pass." "I lost
it," Dana said. When the elevator reached the third
floor, Dana got
out. She stood there, speechless at the scale of what she
was seeing.
She was looking at a sea of cubicles. It seemed as though
there were
hundreds of them, occupied by thousands of people. There
were
different-colored signs over each cubicle. EDITORIAL .
ART .. . METRO
.. . SPORTS .. . CALENDAR .. . Dana stopped a man hurrying
by. "Excuse
me. Where's Mr. Baker's office?" "Matt Baker?" He
pointed. "Down
at the end of the hall to the right, last door." "Thank
you." As Dana
turned, she bumped into an unshaven, rumpled-looking man
carrying some
papers. The papers fell to the floor.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was "
"Why don't you look where the hell you're going?" the man
snapped. He
stooped to pick up the papers.
"It was an accident. Here. I'll help you. I " Dana
reached down, and
as she started to pick up the papers, she knocked several
sheets under
a desk.
The man stopped to glare at her. "Do me a favor. Don't
help me
anymore."
"As you like," Dana said icily. "I just hope everyone in
Washington
isn't as rude as you."
Haughtily, Dana rose and walked toward Mr. Baker's
office. The legend
on the glass window read MATT BAKER." The office was
empty. Dana
walked inside and sat down. Looking through the office
window, she
watched the frenetic activity going on.
It's nothing like the Claremont Examiner, she thought.
There were
thousands of people working here. Down the corridor, the
grumpy,
rumpled-looking man was heading toward the office.
No! Dana thought. He's not coming in here. He's on his
way somewhere
else
And the man walked in the door. His eyes narrowed. "What
the hell are
you doing here?"
Dana swallowed. "You must be Mr. Baker," she said
brightly. "I'm
Dana Evans."
"I asked you what you're doing here."
"I'm a reporter with the Claremont Examiner."
"And?"
"You just bought it."
"I did?"
"I I mean the newspaper bought it. The newspaper bought
the
newspaper." Dana felt it was not going well. "Anyway,
I'm here for a
job. Of course, I already have a job here. It's more
like a transfer,
isn't it?"
He was staring at her.
"I can start right away." Dana babbled on. "That's no
problem."
Matt Baker moved toward the desk. "Who the hell let you
in here?"
"I told you. I'm a reporter for the Claremont Examiner
and "
"Go back to Claremont," he snapped. "Try not to knock
anyone down on
your way out."
Dana rose and said stiffly, "Thank you very much, Mr.
Baker. I
appreciate your courtesy." She stormed out of the office.
Matt Baker looked after her, shaking his head. The world
was full of
weirdos.
Dana retraced her steps to the huge editorial room, where
dozens of
reporters were typing out stories on their computers.
This is where
I'm going to work, Dana thought fiercely. Go back to
Claremont. How
dare he!
As Dana looked up, she saw Matt Baker in the distance,
moving in her direction. The damned man was everywhere!
Dana quickly
stepped behind a cubicle so he could not see her.
Baker walked past her to a reporter seated at a desk.
"Did you get the
interview, Sam?"
"No luck. I went to the Georgetown Medical Center, and
they said
there's nobody registered by that name. Tripp Taylor's
wife isn't a
patient there."
Matt Baker said, "I know damn well she is. They're
covering something
up, dammit. I want to know why she's in the hospital."
"If she is in there, there's no way to get to her, Matt."
"Did you try the flower delivery routine?"
"Sure. It didn't work."
Dana stood there watching Matt Baker and the reporter walk
away. What
kind of reporter is it, Dana wondered, who doesn't know
how to get an
interview?
Thirty minutes later, Dana was entering the Georgetown
Medical Center.
She went into the flower shop. "May I help you?" a clerk
asked.
"Yes. I'd like " She hesitated a moment. " fifty dollars'
worth of
flowers." She almost choked on the word "fifty." When the
clerk handed
her the flowers, Dana said, "Is there a shop in the
hospital that might
have a little cap of some kind?" "There's a gift shop
around the
corner."
"Thank you."
The gift shop was a cornucopia of junk, with a wide array
of greeting
cards, cheaply made toys, balloons and banners, junk-food
racks, and
gaudy items of clothing. On a shelf were some souvenir
caps. Dana
bought one that resembled a chauffeur's cap and put it on.
She
purchased a get-well card and scribbled something on the
inside.
Her next stop was at the information desk in the hospital
lobby. "I
have flowers here for Mrs. Tripp Taylor."
The receptionist shook her head. "There's no Mrs. Tripp
Taylor
registered here."
Dana sighed. "Really? That's too bad. These are from
the Vice
President of the United States." She opened the card and
showed it to
the receptionist. The inscription read, "Get well
quickly." It was
signed, "Arthur Cannon."
Dana said, "Guess I'll have to take these back." She
turned to
leave.
The receptionist looked after her uncertainly. "Just a
moment!"
Dana stopped. "Yes?"
"I can have those flowers delivered to her."
"Sorry," Dana said. "Vice President Cannon asked that
they be
delivered personally." She looked at the receptionist.
"Could I have
your name, please? They'll want to tell Mr. Cannon why I
couldn't
deliver the flowers."
Panic. "Oh, well. All right. I don't want to cause any
problems.
Take them to Room 615. But as soon as you deliver them,
you'll have to
leave."
"Right," Dana said.
Five minutes later, she was talking to the wife of the
famous rock star
Tripp Taylor.
Stacy Taylor was in her middle twenties. It was difficult
to tell
whether she was attractive or not, because at the moment,
her face was
badly battered and swollen. She was trying to reach for a
glass of
water on a table near the bed when Dana walked in.
"Flowers for " Dana
stopped in shock as she saw the woman's face. "Who are
they from?"
The words were a mumble. Dana had removed the card.
"From from an
admirer." The woman was staring at Dana suspiciously.
"Can you reach
that water for me?" "Of course." Dana put the flowers
down and handed
the glass of water to the woman in bed. "Can I do
anything else for
you?" Dana asked. "Sure," she said through swollen lips.
"You can
get me out of this stinking place. My husband won't let
me have
visitors. I'm sick of seeing all these doctors and
nurses." Dana sat
down on a chair next to the bed. "What happened to you?"
The woman
snorted. "Don't you know? I was in an auto accident."
"You were?"
"Yes."
"That's awful," Dana said skeptically. She was filled
with a deep
anger, for it was obvious that this woman had been beaten.
Forty-five minutes later, Dana emerged with the true
story.
When Dana returned to the lobby of the Washington Tribune,
a different
guard was there. "Can I help ?"
"It's not my fault," Dana said breathlessly. "Believe me,
it's the
darned traffic. Tell Mr. Baker I'm on my way up. He's
going to be
furious with me for being late." She hurried toward the
elevator and
pressed the button. The guard looked after her
uncertainly, then began
dialing. "Hello. Tell Mr. Baker there's a young woman
who "
The elevator arrived. Dana stepped in and pressed three.
On the third
floor, the activity seemed to have increased, if that was
possible.
Reporters were rushing to make their deadlines. Dana
stood there,
looking around frantically. Finally, she saw what she
wanted. In a
cubicle with a green sign that read GARDENING was an empty
desk. Dana
hurried over to it and sat down. She looked at the
computer in front
of her, then began typing. She was so engrossed in the
story she was
writing that she lost all track of time. When she was
finished, she
printed it and pages began spewing out. She was putting
them together
when she sensed a shadow over her shoulder.
"What the hell are you doing?" Matt Baker demanded.
"I'm looking for a job, Mr. Baker. I wrote this story,
and I thought
" "You thought wrong," Baker exploded. "You don't just
walk in here
and take over someone's desk. Now get the hell out before
I call
security and have you arrested." "But " "Out!" Dana
rose. Summoning
all her dignity, she thrust the pages in Matt Baker's hand
and walked
around the corner to the elevator. Matt Baker shook his
head in
disbelief. Jesus! What the hell is the world coming to?
There was a
wastebasket under the desk. As Matt moved toward it, he
glanced at the
first sentence of Dana's story: "Stacy Taylor, her face
battered and
bruised, claimed from her hospital bed today that she was
there because
her famous rock star husband, Tripp Taylor, beat her.
"Every time I
get pregnant, he beats me up. He doesn't want children."
" Matt
started to read further and stood there rooted. He looked
up, but Dana
was gone. Clutching the pages in his hand, Matt raced
toward the
elevators, hoping to find her before she disappeared. As
he ran around
the corner, he bumped into her. She was leaning against
the wall,
waiting. "How did you get this story?" he demanded.
Dana said
simply, "I told you. I'm a reporter." He took a deep
breath. "Come
on back to my office."
They were seated in Matt Baker's office again. "That's a
good job," he
said grudgingly. "Thank you! I can't tell you how much I
appreciate
this," Dana said excitedly. "I'm going to be the best
reporter you
ever had. You'll see. What I really want is to be a
foreign
correspondent, but I'm willing to work my way up to that,
even if it
takes a year." She saw the expression on his face. "Or
maybe two."
"The Tribune has no job openings, and there's a waiting
list." She
looked at him in astonishment. "But I assumed " "Hold
it." Dana
watched as he picked up a. pen and wrote out the letters
of the word
"assume," ASS u ME. He pointed to the word. "When a
reporter assumes
something, Miss Evans, it makes an oss out of you and me.
Do you
understand?" "Yes, sir." "Good." He was thoughtful for
a moment,
then came to a decision. "Do you ever watch WTE? The
Tribune
Enterprises television station." "No, sir. I can't say
that I "
"Well, you will now. You're in luck. There's a job
opening there.
One of the writers just quit. You can take his place."
"Doing what?"
Dana asked tentatively. "Writing television copy." Her
face fell.
"Television copy? I don't know anything about " "It's
simple. The
producer of the news will give you the raw material from
all the news
services. You'll put it into English and put it on the
TelePrompTer
for the anchors to read."
Dana sat there, silent.
"What?"
"Nothing, it's just that I'm a reporter."
"We have five hundred reporters here, and they've all
spent years
earning their stripes. Go over to Building Four. Ask for
Mr. Hawkins.
If you have to start somewhere, television isn't bad."
Matt Baker
reached for the phone. "I'll give Hawkins a call."
Dana sighed. "Right. Thank you, Mr. Baker. If you ever
need "
"Out."
The WTE television studios took up the entire sixth floor
of Building
Four. Tom Hawkins, the producer of the nightly news, led
Dana into his
office. "Have you ever worked in television?" "No, sir.
I've worked
on newspapers." "Dinosaurs. They're the past. We're the
present.
And who knows what the future will be? Let me show you
around." There
were dozens of people working at desks and monitors. Wire
copy from
half a dozen news services was appearing on computers.
"Here's where
stories and news breaks come in from all over the world,"
Hawkins
explained. "I decide which ones we're going with. The
assignment desk
sends out crews to cover those stories. Our reporters in
the field
send in their stories by microwave or transmitters.
Besides our wire
services, we have one hundred and sixty police channels,
reporters with
cell phones, scanners, monitors. Every story is planned
to the second.
The writers work with tape editors to get the timing
exact. The
average news story runs between a minute and a half and a
minute and
forty-five seconds."
"How many writers work here?" Dana asked.
"Six. Then you have a video coordinator, news tape
editors, producers,
directors, reporters, anchors ..." He stopped. A man and
woman were
approaching them. "Speaking of anchors, meet Julia
Brinkman and
Michael Tate."
Julia Brinkman was a stunning woman, with chestnut-colored
hair, tinted
contacts that made her eyes a sultry green, and a
practiced, disarming
smile. Michael Tate was an athletic-looking man with a
burs tingly
genial smile and an outgoing manner.
"Our new writer," Hawkins said. "Donna Evanston."
"Dana Evans."
"Whatever. Let's get to work."
He took Dana back to his office. He nodded toward the
assignment board
on the wall. "Those are the stories I'll choose from.
They're called
slugs. We're on twice a day. We do the noon news from
twelve to one
and the nightly news from ten to eleven. When I tell you
which stories
I want to run with, you'll put them together and make
everything sound
so exciting that the viewers can't switch channels. The
tape editor
will feed you video clips, and you'll work them into the
scripts and
indicate where the clips go."
"Right."
"Sometimes there's a breaking story, and then we'll cut
into our
regular programming with a live feed."
"That's interesting," Dana said.
She had no idea that one day it was going to save her
life.
The first night's program was a disaster. Dana had put
the news leads
in the middle instead of the beginning, and Julia Brinkman
found
herself reading Michael Tate's stories while Michael was
reading hers.
When the broadcast was over, the director said to Dana,
"Mr. Hawkins
would like to see you in his office. Now." Hawkins was
sitting behind
his desk, grim-faced. "I know," Dana said contritely.
"It was a new
low in television, and it's all my fault." Hawkins sat
there watching
her. Dana tried again. "The good news, Tom, is that from
now on it
can only get better. Right?" He kept staring at her.
"And it will
never happen again because" she saw the look on his face
"I'm fired."
"No," Hawkins said curtly. "That would be letting you off
too easily.
You're going to do this until you get it right. And I'm
talking about
the noon news tomorrow. Am I making myself clear?"
"Very."
"Good. I want you here at eight o'clock in the morning."
"Right,
Tom."
"And since we're going to be working together you can call
me Mr.
Hawkins."
The noon news the next day went smoothly. Tom Hawkins had
been right,
Dana decided. It was just a matter of getting used to the
rhythm. Get
your assignment... write the story ... work with the tape
editor ...
set up the TelePrompTer for the anchors to read.
From that point on, it became routine.
Dana's break came eight months after she had started
working at WTE.
She had just finished putting the evening news report on
the
TelePrompTer at nine forty-five and was preparing to
leave. When she
walked into the television studio to say good night, there
was chaos.
Everyone was talking at once.
Rob Cline, the director, was shouting, "Where the hell is
she?"
"I don't know."
"Hasn't anyone seen her?"
"No."
"Did you phone her apartment?"
"I got the answering machine."
"Wonderful. We're on the air" he looked at his watch "in
twelve
minutes." "Maybe Julia was in an accident," Michael Tate
said. "She
could be dead." "That's no excuse. She should have
phoned." Dana
said, "Excuse me ..." The director turned to her
impatiently. "Yes?"
"If Julia doesn't show up, I could do the newscast."
"Forget it." He
turned back to his assistant. "Call security and see if
she's come
into the building." The assistant picked up the phone and
dialed.
"Has Julia Brinkman checked in yet... ? Well, when she
does, tell her
to get up here, fast." "Have him hold an elevator for
her. We're on
the air in" he looked at his watch again "seven damned
minutes." Dana
stood there, watching the growing panic. Michael Tate
said, "I could
do both parts." "No," the director snapped. "We need two
of you up
there." He looked at his watch again. "Three minutes.
Goddammit.
How could she do this to us? We're on the air in " Dana
spoke up. "I
know all the words. I wrote them." He gave her a quick
glance. "You
have no makeup on. You're dressed wrong." A voice came
from the sound
engineer's booth. "Two minutes. Take your places,
please." Michael
Tate shrugged and took his seat on the platform in front
of the
cameras.
"Places, please!"
Dana smiled at the director. "Good night, Mr. Cline."
She started
toward the door.
"Wait a minute!" He was rubbing his hand across his
forehead. "Are
you sure you can do this?"
"Try me," Dana said.
"I don't have any choice, do I?" he moaned. "All right.
Get up
there. My God! Why didn't I listen to my mother and
become a
doctor?"
Dana hurried up to the platform and took the seat next to
Michael
Tate.
"Thirty seconds ... twenty... ten ... five ..."
The director signaled with his hand, and the red light on
the camera
flashed on.
"Good evening," Dana said smoothly. "Welcome to the WTE
ten-o'clock
news. We have a breaking story for you in Holland. There
was an
explosion at an Amsterdam school this afternoon and..."
The rest of the broadcast went smoothly.
The following morning, Rob Cline came into Dana's office.
"Bad news.
Julia was in an automobile accident last night. Her face
is" he
hesitated "disfigured." "I'm sorry," Dana said,
concerned. "How bad
is it?" "Pretty bad." "But today plastic surgery can "
He shook his head. "Not this time. She won't be coming
back."
"I'd like to go see her. Where is she?"
"They're taking her back to her family, in Oregon."
"I'm so sorry."
"You win some, you lose some." He studied Dana a moment.
"You were
okay last night. We'll keep you on until we find someone
permanent."
Dana went to see Matt Baker. "Did you see the news last
night?" she
asked.
"Yes," he grunted. "For God's sakes, try putting on some
makeup and a
more appropriate dress."
Dana felt deflated. "Right."
As she turned to leave, Matt Baker said grudgingly, "You
weren't bad."
Coming from him, it was a high compliment.
On the fifth night of the news broadcast, the director
said to Dana,
"By the way, the big brass said to keep you on."
She wondered if the big brass was Matt Baker.
Within six months, Dana became a fixture on the Washington
scene. She
was young and attractive and her intelligence shone
through. At the
end of the year, she was given a raise and special
assignments. One of
her shows, Here and Now, interviews with celebrities, had
zoomed to the
top of the ratings.
Her interviews were personal and sympathetic, and
celebrities who
hesitated to appear on other talk shows asked to be on
Dana's show.
Magazines and newspapers began interviewing Dana. She was
becoming a
celebrity herself.
At night, Dana would watch the international news. She
envied the
foreign correspondents. They were doing something
important. They
were reporting history, informing the world about the
important events
that were happening around the globe. She felt
frustrated.
Dana's two-year contract with WTE was nearly up. Philip
Cole, the
chief of correspondents, called her in.
"You're doing a great job, Dana. We're all proud of you."
"Thank you, Philip."
"It's time for us to be talking about your new contract.
First of all
"
"I'm quitting."
"I beg your pardon?"
"When my contract's up, I'm not doing the show anymore."
He was looking at her incredulously. "Why would you want
to quit?
Don't you like it here?"
"I like it a lot," Dana said. "I want to be with WTE, but
I want to be
a foreign correspondent."
"That's a miserable life," he exploded. "Why in God's
name would you
want to do that?" "Because I'm tired of hearing what
celebrities want
to cook for dinner and how they met their fifth husband.
There are
wars going on, and people are suffering and dying. The
world doesn't
give a damn. I want to make them care." She took a deep
breath. "I'm
sorry. I can't stay on here." She rose and started
toward the door.
"Wait a minute! Are you sure this is what you want to
do?" "It's what
I've always wanted to do," Dana said quietly. He was
thoughtful for a
moment. "Where do you want to go?" It took her a moment
for the
import of his words to sink in. When Dana found her
voice, she said,
"Sarajevo."
Nine.
Being governor was even more exciting than Oliver Russell
had
anticipated. Power was a seductive mistress, and Oliver
loved it. His
decisions influenced the lives of hundreds of thousands of
people. He
became adept at swaying the state legislature, and his
influence and
reputation kept expanding. I really am making a
difference, Oliver
thought happily. He remembered Senator Davis's words:
"This is just a
stepping-stone, Oliver. Walk carefully." And he was
careful. He had
numerous affairs, but they were always handled with the
greatest
discretion. He knew that they had to be.
From time to time, Oliver checked with the hospital about
Miriam's
condition.
"She's still in a coma, Governor."
"Keep me informed."
One of Oliver's duties as governor was hosting state
dinners. The
guests of honor were supporters, sports figures,
entertainers, people
with political clout, and visiting dignitaries. Jan was a
gracious
hostess, and Oliver enjoyed the way people reacted to her.
One day Jan came to Oliver and said, "I just talked to
Father. He's
giving a party next weekend at his home. He would like us
to come.
There are some people he wants you to meet."
That Saturday, at Senator Davis's sumptuous home in
Georgetown, Oliver
found himself shaking hands with some of the most
important wheelers
and dealers in Washington. It was a beautiful party, and
Oliver was
enjoying himself immensely. "Having a good time, Oliver?"
"Yes. It's
a wonderful party. You couldn't wish for a better one."
Peter Tager
said, "Speaking of wishes, that reminds me. The other
day, Elizabeth,
my six-year-old, was in a cranky mood and wouldn't get
dressed. Betsy
was getting desperate. Elizabeth looked at her and said,
"Mama, what
are you thinking?" Betsy said, "Honey, I was just wishing
that you
were in a good mood, and that you would get dressed and
have your
breakfast like a good girl." And Elizabeth said, "Mama,
your wish is
not being granted!" Isn't that great? Those kids are
fantastic. See
you later, Governor."
A couple walked in the door and Senator Davis went to
greet them.
The Italian ambassador, Atilio Picone, was an
imposing-looking man in
his sixties, with dark, Sicilian features. His wife,
Sylva, was one of
the most beautiful women Oliver had ever seen. She had
been an actress
before she married Atilio and was still popular in Italy.
Oliver could
see why. She had large, sensuous brown eyes, the face of
a Madonna,
and the voluptuous body of a Rubens nude. She was
twenty-five years
younger than her husband.
Senator Davis brought the couple over to Oliver and
introduced them.
"I'm delighted to meet you," Oliver said. He could not
take his eyes
off her.
She smiled. "I've been hearing a great deal about you."
"Nothing bad, I hope."
"I Her husband cut in. "Senator Davis speaks very highly
of you."
Oliver looked at Sylva and said, "I'm nattered."
Senator Davis led the couple away. When he returned to
Oliver, he
said, "That's off limits, Governor. Forbidden fruit.
Take a bite of
that, and you can kiss your future goodbye."
"Relax, Todd. I wasn't "
"I'm serious. You can alienate two countries at once."
At the end of the evening, when Sylva and her husband were
leaving,
Atilio said, "It was nice to meet you."
"It was a pleasure."
Sylva took Oliver's hand in hers and said softly, "We look
forward to
seeing you again."
Their eyes met. "Yes."
And Oliver thought, I must be careful.
Two weeks later, back in Frankfort, Oliver was working in
his office
when his secretary buzzed him.
"Governor, Senator Davis is here to see you."
"Senator Davis is here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Send him in." Oliver knew that his father-in-law was
fighting for an
important bill in Washington, and Oliver wondered what he
was doing in
Frankfort. The door opened, and the senator walked in.
Peter Tager
was with him.
Senator Todd Davis smiled and put his arm around Oliver.
"Governor,
it's good to see you."
"It's great to see you, Todd." He turned to Peter Tager.
"Morning,
Peter."
"Morning, Oliver."
"Hope I'm not disturbing you," Senator Davis said. "No,
not at all.
Is is anything wrong?" Senator Davis looked at Tager and
smiled. "Oh,
I don't think you could say anything's wrong, Oliver. In
fact, I would
say that everything's just fine." Oliver was studying the
two of them,
puzzled. "I don't understand." "I have some good news
for you, son.
May we sit down?" "Oh, forgive me. What would you like?
Coffee?
Whiskey ?" "No. We're pretty well stimulated already."
Again, Oliver
wondered what was going on. "I've just flown in from
Washington.
There's a pretty influential group there who think you're
going to be
our next president." Oliver felt a small thrill go
through him. "I
really?" "As a matter of fact, the reason I flew down
here is that
it's time for us to start your campaign. The election is
less than two
years away." "It's perfect timing," Peter Tager said
enthusiastically.
"Before we're through, everyone in the world is going to
know who you
are." Senator Davis added, "Peter is going to take charge
of your
campaign. He'll handle everything for you. You know you
won't find
anyone better." Oliver looked at Tager and said warmly,
"I agree."
"It's my pleasure. We're going to have a lot of fun,
Oliver."
Oliver turned to Senator Davis. "Isn't this going to cost
a lot?"
"Don't worry about that. You'll go first-class all the
way. I've
convinced a lot of my good friends that you're the man to
put their
money on." He leaned forward in his chair. "Don't
underestimate
yourself, Oliver. The survey that came out a couple of
months ago
listed you as the third most effective governor in the
country. Well,
you have something that the other two don't have. I told
you this
before charisma. That is something that money can't buy.
People like
you, and they're going to vote for you."
Oliver was getting more and more excited. "When do we get
started?"
"We've already started," Senator Davis told him. "We're
going to build
a strong campaign team, and we're going to start lining up
delegates
around the country."
"How realistic are my chances?"
"In the primaries, you're going to blow everyone away,"
Tager replied.
"As for the general election, President Norton is riding
pretty high.
If you had to run against him, he'd be pretty tough to
beat. The good
news, of course, is that since this is his second term, he
can't run
again and Vice President Cannon is a pale shadow. A
little sunshine
will make him disappear."
The meeting lasted for four hours. When it was over,
Senator Davis
said to Tager, "Peter, would you excuse us for a minute?"
"Certainly, Senator."
They watched him go out the door.
Senator Davis said, "I had a talk with Jan this morning."
Oliver felt a small fris son of alarm. "Yes?"
Senator Davis looked at Oliver and smiled. "She's very
happy."
Oliver breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad."
"So am I, son. So am I. Just keep the home fires burning.
You know what I mean?"
"Don't worry about that, Todd. I "
Senator Davis's smile faded. "I do worry about it,
Oliver.
I can't fault you for being horny just don't let it turn
you into a
toad."
As Senator Davis and Peter Tager were walking through the
corridor of
the state capitol, the senator said, "I want you to start
putting a
staff together. Don't spare any expense. To begin with,
I want
campaign offices in New York, Washington, Chicago, and San
Francisco.
Primaries begin in twelve months. The convention is
eighteen months
away. After that, we should have smooth sailing." They
had reached
the car. "Ride with me to the airport, Peter."
"He'll make a wonderful president."
Senator Davis nodded. And I'll have him in my pocket, he
thought. He's
going to be my puppet. I'll pull the strings, and the
President of the
United States will speak.
The senator pulled a gold cigar case from his pocket. "Ci
gar?
The primaries around the country started well. Senator
Davis had been
right about Peter Tager. He was one of the best political
managers in
the world, and the organization he created was superb.
Because Tager
was a strong family man and a deeply religious churchgoer,
he attracted
the religious right. Because he knew what made politics
work, he was
also able to persuade the liberals to put aside their
differences and
work together. Peter Tager was a brilliant campaign
manager, and his
raffish black eye patch became a familiar sight on all the
networks.
Tager knew that if Oliver was to be successful, he would
have to go
into the convention with a minimum of two hundred delegate
votes. He
intended to see to it that Oliver got them.
The schedule Tager drew up included multiple trips to
every state in
the union.
Oliver looked at the program and said, "This this is
impossible,
Peter!"
"Not the way we've set it up," Tager assured him. "It's
all been
coordinated. The senator's lending you his Challenger.
There will be
people to guide you every step of the way, and I'll be at
your side."
13it
Senator Davis introduced Sirne Lombardo to Oliver.
Lombardo was a
giant of a man, tall and burly, dark both physically and
emotionally, a
brooding man who spoke little.
"How does he fit into the picture?" Oliver asked the
senator when they
were alone.
Senator Davis said, "Sime is our problem-solver.
Sometimes people need
a little persuasion to go along. Sime is very
convincing."
Oliver did not pursue it any further.
When the presidential campaign began in earnest, Peter
Tager gave
Oliver detailed briefings on what to say, when to say it,
and how to
say it. He saw to it that Oliver made appearances in all
the key
electoral states. And wherever Oliver went, he said what
people wanted
to hear.
In Pennsylvania: "Manufacturing is the lifeblood of this
country. We're
not going to forget that. We're going to open up the
factories again
and get America back on the track!"
Cheers.
In California: "The aircraft industry is one of America's
most vital
assets. There's no reason for a single one of your plants
to be shut
down. We're going to open them up again."
13Q
Cheers.
In Detroit: "We invented cars, and the Japanese took the
technology
away from us. Well, we're going to get back our rightful
place as
number one. Detroit's going to be the automobile center
of the world
again!"
Cheers.
At college campuses, it was federally guaranteed student
loans.
In speeches at army bases around the country, it was
preparedness.
In the beginning, when Oliver was relatively unknown, the
odds were
stacked against him. As the campaign went on, the polls
showed him
moving up.
The first week in July, more than four thousand delegates
and
alternates, along with hundreds of party officials and
candidates,
gathered at the convention in Cleveland and turned the
city upside down
with parades and floats and parties. Television cameras
from all over
the world recorded the spectacle. Peter Tager and Sime
Lombardo saw to
it that Governor Oliver Russell was always in front of the
lenses.
There were half a dozen possible nominees in Oliver's
party, but
Senator Todd Davis had worked behind the scenes to assure
that, one by
one, they were eliminated. He ruthlessly called in favors
owed, some
as old as twenty years.
"Toby, it's Todd. How are Emma and Suzy?... Good. I want
to talk to
you about your boy, Andrew. I'm worried about him, Toby.
You know, in
my opinion, he's too liberal. The South will never accept
him. Here's
what I suggest...."
"Alfred, it's Todd. How's Roy doing?... No need to thank
me. I was
happy to help him out. I want to talk to you about your
candidate,
Jerry. In my opinion, he's too right-wing. If we go with
him, we'll
lose the North. Now, here's what I would suggest...."
"Kenneth Todd. I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad
that real
estate deal worked out for you. We all did pretty well,
didn't we? By
the way, I think we ought to have a little talk about
Slater. He's
weak. He's a loser. We can't afford to back a loser, can
we?..."
And so it went, until practically the only viable
candidate left to the
party was Governor Oliver Russell.
The nomination process went smoothly. On the first
ballot, Oliver
Russell had seven hundred votes: more than two hundred
from six
northeastern industrial states, one hundred and fifty from
six New
England states, forty from four southern states, another
one hundred
and eighty from two farm states, and the balance from
three Pacific
states. Peter Tager was working frantically to make sure
the publicity
train kept rolling. When the final tally was counted,
Oliver Russell
was the winner. And with the excitement of the circus
atmosphere that
had carefully been created, Oliver Russell was nominated
by
acclamation. The next step was to choose a vice
president. Melvin
Wicks was a perfect choice. He was a politically correct
Californian a
wealthy entrepreneur, and a personable congressman.
"They'll complement each other," Tager said. "Now the
real work
begins. We're going after the magic number two hundred
and seventy."
The number of electoral votes needed to win the
presidency.
Tager told Oliver, "The people want a young leader....
Good-looking, a
little humor and a vision.... They want you to tell them
how great they
are and they want to believe it.... Let them know you're
smart, but
don't be too smart.... If you attack your opponent, keep
it
impersonal.... Never look down on a reporter. Treat them
as friends,
and they'll be your friends.... Try to avoid any show of
pettiness.
Remember you're a statesman."
The campaign was nonstop. Senator Davis's jet carried
Oliver to Texas
for three days, California for a day, Michigan for half a
day,
Massachusetts for six hours. Every minute was accounted
for. Some
days Oliver would visit as many as ten towns and deliver
ten speeches.
There was a different hotel every night, the Drake in
Chicago, the St.
Regis in Detroit, the Carlyle in New York City, the Place
dAmes in New
Orleans, until, finally, they all seemed to blend into
one. Wherever
Oliver went, there were police cars leading the
procession, large
crowds, and cheering voters.
Jan accompanied Oliver on most of the trips, and he had to
admit that
she was a great asset. She was attractive and
intelligent, and the
reporters liked her. From time to time, Oliver read about
Leslie's
latest acquisitions: a newspaper in Madrid, a television
station in
Mexico, a radio station in Kansas. He was happy for her
success. It
made him feel less guilty about what he had done to her.
Everywhere Oliver went, the reporters photographed him,
interviewed
him, and quoted him. There were more than a hundred
correspondents
covering his campaign, some of them from countries at the
far ends of
the earth. As the campaign neared its climax, the polls
showed that
Oliver Russell was the front-runner. But unexpectedly,
his opponent,
Vice President Cannon, began overtaking him. Peter Tager
became
worried. "Cannon's moving up in the polls. We've got to
stop him."
Two television debates between Vice President Cannon and
Oliver had
been agreed upon. "Cannon is going to discuss the
economy," Tager told
Oliver, "and he'll do a good job. We have to fake him
out. Here's my
plan...."
The night of the first debate, in front of the television
cameras, Vice
President Cannon talked about the economy. "America has
never been
more economically sound. Business is flourishing." He
spent the next
ten minutes elaborating on his theme, proving his points
with facts and
figures. When it was Oliver Russell's turn at the
microphone, he said,
"That was very impressive. I'm sure we're all pleased
that big
business is doing so well and that corporate profits have
never been
higher." He turned to his opponent. "But you forgot to
mention that
one of the reasons corporations are doing so well is
because of what is
euphemistically termed 'downsizing." To put it bluntly,
downsizing
simply means that people are being fired to make way for
machines. More
people are out of work than ever before. It's the human
side of the
picture we should be examining. I don't happen to share
your view that
corporate financial success is more important than
people...." And so
it went. Where Vice President Cannon had talked about
business, Oliver
Russell took a humanitarian approach and talked about
emotions and
opportunities. By the time he was through, Russell had
managed to make
Cannon sound like a coldblooded politician who cared
nothing about the
American people. The morning after the debate, the polls
shifted,
putting Oliver Russell within three points of the vice
president. There
was to be one more national debate.
Arthur Cannon had learned his lesson. At the final
debate, he stood
before the microphone and said, "Ours is a land where all
people must
have equal opportunities. America has been blessed with
freedom, but
that alone is not enough. Our people must have the
freedom to work,
and earn a decent living...."
He stole Oliver Russell's thunder by concentrating on all
the wonderful
plans he had in mind for the welfare of the people. But
Peter Tager
had anticipated that. When Cannon was finished, Oliver
Russell stepped
to the microphone.
"That was very touching. I'm sure we were all very moved
by what you
had to say about the plight of the unemployed, and, as you
called him,
the 'forgotten man." What disturbs me is that you forgot
to say how
you are going to do all those wonderful things for those
people." And
from then on, where Vice President Cannon had dealt in
emotions, Oliver
Russell talked about issues and his economic plans,
leaving the vice
president hanging high and dry.
Oliver, Jan, and Senator Davis were having dinner at the
senator's
mansion in Georgetown. The senator smiled at Jan. "I've
just seen the
latest polls. I think you can begin redecorating the
White House."
Her face lit up. "Do you really think we're going to win,
Father?"
"I'm wrong about a lot of things, honey, but never about
politics.
That's my life's blood. In November, we're going to have
a new
president, and he's sitting right next to you."
Ten.
Fasten your seat belts, please." Here we go! Dana
thought excitedly.
She looked over at Benn Albertson and Wally Newman. Benn
Al-bert son
Dana's producer, was a hyperkinetic bearded man in his
forties. He had
produced some of the top-rated news shows in television
and was highly
respected. Wally Newman, the cameraman, was in his early
fifties. He
was talented and enthusiastic, and eagerly looking forward
to his new
assignment. Dana thought about the adventure that lay
ahead. They
would land in Paris and then fly to Zagreb, Croatia, and
finally to
Sarajevo.
During her last week in Washington, Dana had been briefed
by Shelley
McGuire, the foreign editor. "You'll need a truck in
Sarajevo to
transmit your stories to the satellite," McGuire told her.
"We don't
own one there so we'll rent a truck and buy time from the
Yugoslav
company that owns the satellite. If things go well, we'll
get our own
truck later. You'll be operating on two different levels.
Some
stories you'll cover live, but most of them will be taped.
Benn
Albertson will tell you what he wants, and you'll shoot
the footage and
then do a sound track in a local studio. I've given you
the best
producer and cameraman in the business. You shouldn't
have any
problem." Dana was to remember those optimistic words
later.
"The day before Dana left, Matt Baker had telephoned.
"Get over to my
office." His voice was gruff.
"I'll be right there." Dana had hung up with a feeling of
Apprehension. He's changed his mind about approving my
transfer ctnd
he's not going to let me go. How could he do this to me?
Well, she
thought determinedly, I'm going to fight him.
Ten minutes later, Dana was marching into Matt Baker's
office. "I know
what you're going to say," she began, "but it "Won't do
you any good.
I'm going! I've dreamed about this since I was a little
girl. I think
I can do some good over there. you've got to give me a
chance to try."
She took a deep breath. "All right," Dana said defiantly.
"What did
you want to say?"
Matt Baker looked at her and said mildly, "Bon voyage."
Dana blinked. "What?"
"Bon voyage. It means 'good journey." "
"I know what it means. I didn't you send for me to ?"
"I sent for you because I've spoken to a few of our
foreign
correspondents. They gave me some advice to pass on to
you."
This gruff bear of a man had taken the time and trouble to
talk to some
foreign correspondents so that he could help her! "I I
don't know how
to "
"Then don't," he grunted. "You're going into a shooting
war. There's
no guarantee you can protect yourself a hundred percent,
because
bullets don't give a damn who they kill. But when you're
in the middle
of action, the adrenaline starts to flow. It can make you
reckless,
and you do stupid things you wouldn't ordinarily do. You
have to
control that. Always play it safe. Don't wander around
the streets
alone. No news story is worth your life. Another thing
..."
The lecture had gone on for almost an hour. Finally, he
said, "Well,
that's it. Take care of yourself. If you let anything
happen to you,
I'm going to be damned mad."
Dana had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"Don't ever do that again," he snapped. He stood up.
"It's going to
be rough over there, Dana. If you should change your mind
when you get
there and want to come home, just let me know, and I'll
arrange it."
"I won't change my mind," Dana said confidently.
As it turned out, she was wrong.
The flight to Paris was uneventful. They landed at
Charles de Gaulle
Airport and the trio took an airport minibus to Croatia
Airlines. There
was a three-hour delay.
At ten o'clock that night, the Croatia Airlines plane
landed at Butmir
Airport in Sarajevo. The passengers were herded into a
security
building, where their passports were checked by uniformed
guards and
they were waved on. As Dana moved toward the exit, a
short,
unpleasant-looking man in civilian clothes stepped in
front of her,
blocking her way. "Passport."
"I showed them my "
"I am Colonel Gordan Divjak. Your passport."
Dana handed her passport to him, along with her press
credentials.
He flipped through it. "A journalist?" He looked at her
sharply.
"Whose side are you on?"
"I'm not on anyone's side," Dana said evenly.
"Just be careful what you report," Colonel Divjak warned.
"We do not
treat espionage lightly."
Welcome to Sarajevo.
A bulletproof Land Rover was at the airport to meet them.
The driver
was a swarthy-looking man in his early twenties. "I am
Jovan Tolj, for
your pleasure. I will be your driver in Sarajevo." Jovan
drove fast,
swerving around corners and racing through deserted
streets as though
they were being pursued. "Excuse me," Dana said
nervously. "Is there
any special hurry?" "Yes, if you want to get there
alive." "But " In
the distance, Dana heard the sound of rumbling thunder,
and it seemed
to be coming closer. What she was hearing was not
thunder. In the
darkness, Dana could make out buildings with shattered
fronts,
apartments without roofs, stores without windows. Ahead,
she could see
the Holiday Inn, where they were staying. The front of
the hotel was
badly pockmarked, and a deep hole had been gouged in the
driveway. The
car sped past it. "Wait! This is our hotel," Dana cried.
"Where are
you going?" "The front entrance is too dangerous." Jovan
said. He
turned the corner and raced into an alley. "Everyone uses
the back
entrance." Dana's mouth was suddenly dry. "Oh." The
lobby of the
Holiday Inn was filled with people milling about and
chatting. An
attractive young Frenchman approached Dana. "Ah, we have
been
expecting you. You are Dana Evans?" "Yes." "Jean Paul
Hubert, M6,
Metropole Television." "I'm happy to meet you. This is
Benn Albertson
and Wally Newman." The men shook hands. "Welcome to
what's left of
our rapidly disappearing city."
Others were approaching the group to welcome them. One by
one, they
stepped up and introduced themselves. "Steffan Mueller,
Kabel
Network." "Roderick Munn, BBC 2." "Marco Benelli, Italia
I." "Akihiro
Ishihara, TV Tokyo." "Juan Santos, Channel 6,
Guadalajara." "Chun
Qian, Shanghai Television." It seemed to Dana that every
country in
the world had a journalist there. The introductions
seemed to go on
forever. The last one was a burly Russian with a gleaming
gold front
tooth. "Nikolai Petrovich, Gorizont 22." "How many
reporters are
here?" Dana asked Jean Paul. "Over two hundred and
fifty. We don't
see many wars as colorful as this one. Is this your
first?" He made
it sound as though it were some kind of tennis match.
"Yes." Jean
Paul said, "If I can be of any help, please let me know."
"Thank you."
She hesitated. "Who is Colonel Gordan Div-jak?" "You
don't want to
know. We all think he is with the Serbian equivalent of
the Gestapo,
but we're not sure. I would suggest you stay out of his
way." "I'll
remember."
Later, as Dana got into her bed, there was a sudden loud
explosion from
across the street, and then another, and the room began to
shake. It
was terrifying, and at the same time exhilarating. It
seemed unreal,
something out of a movie. Dana lay awake all night,
listening to the
sounds of the terrible killing machines and watching the
flashes of
light reflected in the grimy hotel windows.
In the morning, Dana got dressed jeans, boots, flak
jacket. She felt
self-conscious, and yet: "Always play it safe.... No news
story is
worth your life."
Dana, Benn, and Wally were in the lobby restaurant,
talking about their
families.
"I forgot to tell you the good news," Wally said. "I'm
going to have a
grandson next month."
"That's great!" And Dana thought: Will I ever have a
child and a
grandchild? Que sera sera.
"I have an idea," Benn said. "Let's do a general story
first on what's
happening here and how the people's lives have been
affected. I'll go
with Wally and scout locations. Why don't you get us some
satellite
time, Dana?"
"Fine."
Jovan Tolj was in the alley, in the Land Rover.
"Dobrojutro. Good
morning."
"Good morning, Jovan. I want to go to the place where
they rent
satellite time."
As they drove, Dana was able to get a clear look at
Sarajevo for the
first time. It seemed to her that there was not a
building that had
been untouched. The sound of gunfire was continuous.
"Don't they ever stop?" Dana asked.
"They will stop when they run out of ammunition," Jovan
said bitterly.
"And they will never run out of ammunition."
The streets were deserted, except for a few pedestrians,
and all the
cafes were closed. Pavements were pockmarked with shell
craters. They
passed the Oslobodjenje building.
"That is our newspaper," Jovan said proudly. "The Serbs
keep trying to
destroy it, but they cannot."
A few minutes later, they reached the satellite offices.
"I will wait
for you," Jovan said.
Behind a desk in the lobby, there was a receptionist who
appeared to be
in his eighties. "Do you speak English?" Dana asked. He
looked at
her wearily. "I speak nine languages, madam. What do you
wish?" "I'm
with WTE. I want to book some satellite time and arrange
" "Third
floor."
The sign on the door read: YUGOSLAVIA SATELLITE DIVISION.
The
reception room was filled with men seated on wooden
benches lined
against the walls.
Dana introduced herself to the young woman at the
reception desk. "I'm
Dana Evans, with WTE. I want to book some satellite
time."
"Take a seat, please, and wait your turn."
Dana looked around the room. "Are all these people here
to book
satellite time?"
The woman looked up at her and said, "Of course."
Almost two hours later, Dana was ushered into the office
of the
manager, a short, squat man with a cigar in his mouth; he
looked like
the old cliche prototype of a Hollywood producer. He had
a heavy
accent. "How can I help you?" "I'm Dana Evans, with WTE.
I'd like to
rent one of your trucks and book the satellite for half an
hour. Six
o'clock in Washington would be a good time. And I'll want
that same
time every day indefinitely." She looked at his
expression. "Any
problem?" "One. There are no satellite trucks available.
They have
all been booked. I will give you a call if someone
cancels." Dana
looked at him in dismay. "No ? But I need some satellite
time," she
said. "I'm " "So does everybody else, madam. Except for
those who
have their own trucks, of course."
When Dana returned to the reception room, it was full. I
have to do
something about this, she thought.
When Dana left the satellite office, she said to Jovan,
"I'd like you
to drive me around the city."
He turned to look at her, then shrugged. "As you wish."
He started
the car and began to race through the streets.
"A little slower, please. I need to get a feel of this
place."
Sarajevo was a city under siege. There was no running
water or
electricity, and more houses were being bombed every hour.
The air
raid alarm went on so frequently that people ignored it.
A miasma of
fatalism seemed to hang over the city. If the bullet had
your name on
it, there was nowhere to hide.
On almost every street corner, men, women, and children
were peddling
the few possessions they had left.
"They are refugees from Bosnia and Croatia," Jovan
explained, "trying
to get enough money to buy food."
Fires were raging everywhere. There were no firemen in
sight.
"Isn't there a fire department?" Dana asked.
He shrugged. "Yes, but they don't dare come. They make
too good a
target for Serb snipers."
In the beginning, the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina had
made little
sense to Dana. It was not until she had been in Sarajevo
for a week
that she realized that it made no sense at all. No one
could explain
it. Someone had mentioned a professor from the
university, who was a
well-known historian. He had been wounded and was
confined to his
home. Dana decided to have a talk with him. Jovan drove
her to one of
the old neighborhoods in the city, where the professor
lived. Professor
Mladic Staka was a small, gray-haired man, almost ethereal
in
appearance. A bullet had shattered his spine and
paralyzed him.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "I do not get many
visitors these
days. You said you needed to talk to me." "Yes. I'm
supposed to be
covering this war," Dana told him. "But to tell the
truth, I'm having
trouble understanding it." "The reason is very simple, my
dear. This
war in Bosnia and Herzegovina is beyond understanding.
For decades,
the Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, and Muslims lived together in
peace, under
Tito. They were friends and neighbors. They grew up
together, worked
together, went to the same schools, intermarried." "And
now?" "These
same friends are torturing and murdering one another.
Their hatred has
made them do things so disgusting that I cannot even speak
about them."
"I've heard some of the stories," Dana said. The stories
she had heard
were almost beyond belief: a well filled with bloody human
testicles,
babies raped and slaughtered, innocent villagers locked in
churches
that were then set on fire. "Who started this?" Dana
asked. He shook
his head. "It depends on whom you ask. During the Second
World War,
hundreds of thousand of Serbs, who were on the side of the
Allies, were
wiped out by the Croats, who were on the side of the
Nazis. Now the
Serbs are taking their bloody revenge. They are holding
the country
hostage, and they are merciless. More than two hundred
thousand shells
have fallen on Sarajevo alone. At least ten thousand
people have been
killed and more than sixty thousand injured. The Bosnians
and Muslims
must bear the responsibility for their share of the
torture and
killing. Those who do not want war are being forced into
it. No one
can trust anyone. The only thing they have left is hate.
What we have
is a conflagration that keeps feeding on itself, and what
fuels the
fires is the bodies of the innocent."
When Dana returned to her hotel that afternoon, Benn
Albert-son was
waiting there to tell her that he had received a message
that a truck
and satellite time would be available to them the
following day at 6:00
P.M. "I found the ideal place for us to shoot," Wally
Newman told her.
"There's a square with a Catholic church, a mosque, a
Protestant
church, and a synagogue, all within a block of one
another. They've
all been bombed out. You can write a story about
equal-opportunity
hatred, and what it has done to the people who live here,
who don't
want anything to do with the war but are forced to be a
part of it."
Dana nodded, excited. "Great. I'll see you at dinner.
I'm going to
work." She headed for her room.
At six o'clock the following evening, Dana and Wally and
Benn were
gathered in front of the square where the bombed-out
churches and
synagogue were located. Wally's television camera had
been set up on a
tripod, and Benn was waiting for confirmation from
Washington that the
satellite signal was good. Dana could hear sniper fire in
the near
background. She was suddenly glad she was wearing her
flak jacket.
There's nothing to be afraid of. They're not shooting at
us. They're
shooting at one another. They need us to tell the world
their story.
Dana saw Wally signal. She took a deep breath, looked
into the camera
lens, and began. "The bombed-out churches you see behind
me are a
symbol of what is happening in this country. There are no
walls for
people to hide behind anymore, no place that is safe. In
earlier
times, people could find sanctuary in their churches. But
here, the
past and the present and the future have all blended
together and " At
that second, she heard a shrill approaching whistle,
looked up, and saw
Wally's head explode into a red melon. It's a trick of
the light, was
Dana's first thought. And then she watched, aghast, as
Wally's body
slammed to the pavement. Dana stood there, frozen,
unbelieving. People
around her were screaming. The sound of rapid sniper fire
came closer,
and Dana began to tremble uncontrollably. Hands grabbed
her and rushed
her down the street. She was fighting them, trying to
free herself.
No! We have to go back. We haven't used up our ten
minutes. Waste
not, want not... it was wrong to waste things. "Finish
your soup,
darling. Children in China are starving." You think
you're some kind
of God up there, sitting on a white cloud? Well, let me
tell you
something. You're a fake. A real God would never, never,
never let
Watty's head be blown off. Wally was expecting his first
grandson. Are
you listening to me? Are you? Are you?
She was in a state of shock, unaware that she was being
led through a
back street to the car.
When Dana opened her eyes, she was in her bed. Benn
Al-bert son and
Jean Paul Hubert were standing over her.
Dana looked up into their faces. "It happened, didn't
it?" She
squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"I'm so sorry," Jean Paul said. "It's an awful thing to
see. You're
lucky you weren't killed."
The telephone jarred the stillness of the room. Benn
picked it up.
"Hello." He listened a moment "Yes. Hold on." He turned
to Dana.
"It's Matt Baker. Are you able to talk to him?"
"Yes." Dana sat up. After a moment, she rose and walked
over to the
telephone. "Hello." Her throat was dry, and it was
difficult to
speak.
Matt Baker's voice boomed over the line. "I want you to
come home,
Dana."
Her voice was a whisper. "Yes. I want to come home."
"I'll arrange for you to be on the first plane out of
there."
"Thank you." She dropped the telephone.
Jean Paul and Benn helped her back into bed. "I'm sorry,"
Jean Paul
said, again. "There's there's nothing anyone can say."
Tears were
running down her cheeks. "Why did they kill him? He
never harmed
anyone. What's happening? People are being slaughtered
like animals
and no one cares. No one cares!" Benn said, "Dana,
there's nothing we
can do about " "There has to be!" Dana's voice was filled
with fury.
"We have to make them care. This war isn't about
bombed-out churches
or buildings or streets. It's about people innocent
people getting
their heads blown off. Those are the stories we should be
doing.
That's the only way to make this war real." She turned to
Benn and
took a deep breath. "I'm staying, Benn. I'm not going to
let them
scare me away." He was watching her, concerned. "Dana,
are you sure
you ?" "I'm sure. I know what I have to do now. Will
you call Matt
and tell him?" He said reluctantly, "If that's what you
really want."
Dana nodded. "It's what I really want." She watched Benn
leave the
room. Jean Paul said, "Well, I had better go and let you
" "No." For
an instant, Dana's mind was filled with a vision of
Wally's head
exploding, and his body falling to the ground. "No," Dana
said. She
looked up at Jean Paul. "Please stay. I need you." Jean
Paul sat
down on the bed. And Dana took him in her arms and held
him close to
her.
The following morning, Dana said to Benn Albertson, "Can
you get hold
of a cameraman? Jean Paul told me about an orphanage in
Kosovo that's
just been bombed. I want to go there and cover it."
"I'll round up someone."
"Thanks, Benn. I'll go on ahead and meet you there."
"Be careful."
"Don't worry."
Jovan was waiting for Dana in the alley.
"We're going to Kosovo," Dana told him.
Jovan turned to look at her. "That is dangerous, madam.
The only road
there is through the woods, and "
"We've already had our share of bad luck, Jovan. We'll be
all
right."
"As you wish."
They sped through the city, and fifteen minutes later were
driving
through a heavily forested area. "How much farther?"
Dana asked.
"Not far. We should be there in " And at that moment, the
Land Rover
struck a land mine.
Eleven.
As election day approached, the presidential race became
too close to
call. "We've got to win Ohio," Peter Tager said. "That's
twenty-one
electoral votes. We're all right with Alabama that's nine
votes and we
have Florida's twenty-five votes." He held up a chart.
"Illinois,
twenty-two votes ... New York, thirty-three, and
California,
forty-four. It's just too damned early to call it."
Everyone was concerned except Senator Davis. "I've got a
nose," he
said. "I can smell victory."
In a Frankfort hospital, Miriam Friedland was still in a
coma.
On election day, the first Tuesday in November, Leslie
stayed home to
watch the returns on television. Oliver Russell won by
more than two
million popular votes and a huge majority of electoral
votes. Oliver
Russell was the president now, the biggest target in the
world. No one
had followed the election campaign more closely than
Leslie Stewart
Chambers. She had been busily expanding her empire and
had acquired a
chain of newspapers and television and radio stations
across the United
States, as well as in England, Australia, and Brazil.
"When are you
going to have enough?" her chief editor, Darin Solana,
asked. "Soon,"
Leslie said. "Soon." There was one more step she had to
take, and the
last piece fell into place at a dinner party in
Scortsdale. A guest
said, "I heard confidentially that Margaret Port-man is
getting a
divorce." Margaret Portman was the owner of the
Washington Tribune, in
the nation's capital. Leslie had no comment, but early
the following
morning, she was on the telephone with Chad Morton, one of
her
attorneys. "I want you to find out if the Washington
Tribune is for
sale." The answer came back later that day. "I don't
know how you
heard about it, Mrs. Chambers, but it looks as though you
could be
right. Mrs. Portman and her husband are quietly getting
a divorce,
and they're dividing up their property. I think
Washington Tribune
Enterprises is going up for sale."
"I want to buy it."
"You're talking about a mega deal Washington Tribune
Enterprises owns
a newspaper chain, a magazine, a television network, and "
"I want it."
That afternoon, Leslie and Chad Morton were on their way
to
Washington,
D.C.
Leslie telephoned Margaret Portman, whom she had met
casually a few
years earlier. "I'm in Washington," Leslie said, "and I "
"I know."
Word gets around fast, Leslie thought. "I heard that you
might be
interested in selling Tribune Enterprises." "Possibly."
"I wonder if
you would arrange a tour of the paper for me?" "Are you
interested in
buying it, Leslie?" "Possibly." Margaret Portman sent
for Matt Baker.
"Do you know who Leslie Chambers is?" "The Ice Princess.
Sure."
"She'll be here in a few minutes. I'd like you to take
her on a tour
of the plant."
Everyone at the Tribune was aware of the impending sale.
"It would be a mistake to sell the Tribune to Leslie
Chambers," Matt
Baker said flatly.
"What makes you say that?"
"First of all, I doubt if she really knows a damn thing
about the
newspaper business. Have you looked at what she's done to
the other
papers she bought? She's turned respectable newspapers
into cheap
tabloids. She'll destroy the Tribune. She's " He looked
up. Leslie
Chambers was standing in the doorway, listening.
Margaret Portman spoke up. "Leslie! How nice to see you.
This is
Matt Baker, our editor in chief of Tribune Enterprises."
They exchanged cool greetings.
"Matt is going to show you around."
"I'm looking forward to it."
Matt Baker took a deep breath. "Right. Let's get
started."
At the beginning of the tour, Matt Baker said
condescendingly, "The
structure is like this: At the top is the editor in chief
" "That would
be you, Mr. Baker." "Right. And under me, the managing
editor and
the editorial staff. That includes Metro, National,
Foreign, Sports,
Business, Life and Style, People, Calendar, Books, Real
Estate, Travel,
Food.... I'm probably leaving a few out." "Amazing. How
many
employees does Washington Tribune Enterprises have, Mr.
Baker?" "Over
five thousand."
They passed a copy desk. "Here's where the news editor
lays out the
pages. He's the one who decides where the photos are
going to go and
which stories appear on which pages. The copy desk writes
the
headlines, edits the stories, and then puts them together
in the
composing room." "Fascinating." "Are you interested in
seeing the
printing plants?" "Oh, yes. I'd like to see everything."
He mumbled
something under his breath. "I'm sorry?" "I said,
"Fine." " They
took the elevator down and walked over to the next
building. The
printing plant was four stories high and the size of four
football
fields. Everything in the huge space was automated. There
were thirty
robot carts in the building, carrying enormous rolls of
paper that they
dropped off at various stations. Baker explained, "Each
roll of paper
weighs about twenty-five hundred pounds. If you unrolled
one, it would
be eight miles long. The paper goes through the presses
at twenty-one
miles an hour. Some of the bigger carts can carry sixteen
rolls at
once." There were six presses, three on each side of the
room. Leslie
and Matt Baker stood there and watched as the newspapers
were
automatically assembled, cut, folded, put into bales, and
delivered to
the trucks waiting to carry them off. "In the old days it
took about
thirty men to do what one man can do today," Matt Baker
said. "The age
of technology."
Leslie looked at him a moment. "The age of downsizing."
"I don't know
if you're interested in the economics of the operation?"
Matt Baker
asked dryly. "Perhaps you'd prefer your lawyer or
accountant to " "I'm
very interested, Mr. Baker. Your editorial budget is
fifteen million
dollars. Your daily circulation is eight hundred and
sixteen thousand,
four hundred and seventy-four, and one million, one
hundred and forty
thousand, four hundred and ninety-eight on Sunday, and
your advertising
is sixty-eight point two." Matt looked at her and
blinked. "With the
ownership of all your newspapers, your daily circulation
is over two
million, with two million four Sunday circulation. Of
course, that's
not the largest paper in the world, is it, Mr. Baker?
Two of the
largest newspapers in the world are printed in London.
The Sun is the
biggest, with a circulation of four million daily. The
Daily Mirror
sells over three million." He took a deep breath. "I'm
sorry. I
didn't realize you " "In Japan, there are over two hundred
dailies,
including Asahi Shimbun, Mainchi Shimbun, and Yomiuri
Shimbun. Do you
follow me?" "Yes. I apologize if I seemed patronizing."
"Accepted,
Mr. Baker. Let's go back to Mrs. Portman's office."
The next morning, Leslie was in the executive conference
room of the
Washington Tribune, facing Mrs. Portman and half a dozen
attorneys.
"Let's talk about price," Leslie said. The discussion
lasted four
hours, and when it was over, Leslie Stewart Chambers was
the owner of
Washington Tribune Enterprises.
It was more expensive than Leslie had anticipated. It did
not
matter.
There was something more important.
The day the deal was finalized, Leslie sent for Matt
Baker. "What are
your plans?" Leslie asked. "I'm leaving." She looked at
him
curiously. "Why?" "You have quite a reputation. People
don't like
working for you. I think the word they use most is
'ruthless." I
don't need that. This is a good newspaper, and I hate to
leave it, but
I have more job offers than I can handle." "How long have
you worked
here?" "Fifteen years." "And you're going to just throw
that away?"
"I'm not throwing anything away, I'm " She looked him in
the eye.
"Listen to me. I think the Tribune is a good newspaper,
too, but I
want it to be a great newspaper. I want you to help me."
"No. I
don't "
"Six months. Try it for six months. We'll start by
doubling your
salary." He studied her for a long moment. Young and
beautiful and
intelligent. And yet... He had an uneasy feeling about
her. "Who will
be in charge here?" She smiled. "You're the editor in
chief of
Washington Tribune Enterprises. You will be." And he
believed her.
Twelve.
It had been six months since Dana's Land Rover had been
blown up. She
escaped with nothing worse than a concussion, a cracked
rib, a broken
wrist, and painful bruises. Jovan suffered a fractured
leg and scrapes
and bruises. Matt Baker had telephoned Dana that night
and ordered her
to return to Washington, but the incident had made Dana
more determined
than ever to stay. "These people are desperate," Dana
told him. "I
can't just walk away from this. If you order me home,
then I quit."
"Are you blackmailing me?" "Yes." "That's what I
thought," Matt
snapped. "I don't let anyone blackmail me. Do you
understand?" Dana
waited.
"What about a leave of absence?" he asked.
"I don't need a leave of absence." She could hear his
sigh over the
phone.
"All right. Stay there. But, Dana "
"Yes?"
"Promise me that you'll be careful."
From outside the hotel, Dana could hear the sound of
machine-gun fire.
"Right."
The city had been under heavy attack all night. Dana had
been unable
to sleep. Each explosion of a mortar landing meant
another building
destroyed, another family homeless, or worse, dead. Early
in the
morning, Dana and her crew were out on the street, ready
to shoot. Benn
Albertson waited for the thunder of a mortar to fade away,
then nodded
to Dana. "Ten seconds." "Ready," Dana said. Benn
pointed a finger,
and Dana turned away from the ruins behind her and faced
the television
camera. "This is a city that is slowly disappearing from
the face of
the earth. With its electricity cut off, its eyes have
been put
out.... Its television and radio stations have been shut
down, and it
has no ears.... All public transportation has come to a
halt, so it has
lost its legs...." The camera panned to show a deserted,
bombed-out
playground, with the rusty skeletons of swings and slides.
"In another life, children played here, and the sound of
their laughter
filled the air." Mortar fire could be heard again in the
near
distance. An air raid alarm suddenly sounded. The people
walking the
streets behind Dana continued as though they had heard
nothing. "The
sound you're hearing is another air raid alarm. It's the
signal for
people to run and hide. But the citizens of Sarajevo have
found that
there is no place to hide, so they walk on in their own
silence. Those
who can, flee the country, and give up their apartments
and all their
possessions. Too many who stay, die. It's a cruel
choice. There are
rumors of peace. Too many rumors, too little peace. Will
it come? And
when? Will the children come out of their cellars and use
this
playground again one day? Nobody knows. They can only
hope. This is
Dana Evans reporting from Sarajevo for WTE." The red
light on the
camera blinked off. "Let's get out of here," Benn said.
Andy Casarez,
the new cameraman, hurriedly started to pack up his gear.
A young boy
was standing on the sidewalk, watching Dana. He was a
street urchin,
dressed in filthy, ragged clothes and torn shoes. Intense
brown eyes
flashed out of a face streaked with dirt. His right arm
was missing.
Dana watched the boy studying her. Dana smiled. "Hello."
There was
no reply. Dana shrugged and turned to Benn. "Let's go."
A few minutes later, they were on their way back to the
Holiday Inn.
The Holiday Inn was filled with newspaper, radio, and
television
reporters, and they formed a disparate family. They were
rivals, but
because of the dangerous circumstances they found
themselves in, they
were always ready to help one another. They covered
breaking stories
together:
There was a riot in Montenegro.... There was a bombing in
Vukovar.... A
hospital had been shelled in Petrovo Selo.... Jean Paul
Hubert was
gone. He had been given another assignment, and Dana
missed him
terribly.
As Dana was leaving the hotel one morning, the little boy
she had seen
on the street was standing in the alley. Jovan opened the
door of the
replacement Land Rover for Dana. "Good morning, madam."
"Good
morning." The boy stood there, staring at Dana. She
walked over to
him. "Good morning." There was no reply. Dana said to
Jovan, "How do
you say 'good morning' in Slovene?" The little boy
answered, "Dobro
jutro." Dana turned to him. "So you understand English."
"Maybe."
"What's your name?"
"Kemal."
"How old are you, Kemal?"
He turned and walked away.
"He's frightened of strangers," Jovan said.
Dana looked after the boy. "I don't blame him. So am I."
Four hours later, when the Land Rover returned to the
alley in back of
the Holiday Inn, Kemal was waiting near the entrance.
As Dana got out of the car, Kemal said, "Twelve."
"What?" Then Dana remembered. "Oh." He was small for
his age. She
looked at his empty right shirtsleeve and started to ask
him a
question, then stopped herself. "Where do you live,
Kemal? Can we
take you home?" She watched him turn and walk away.
Jovan said, "He has no manners."
Dana said quietly, "Maybe he lost them when he lost his
arm."
That evening in the hotel dining room, the reporters were
talking about
the new rumors of an imminent peace. "The UN has finally
gotten
involved," Gabriella Orsi declared. "It's about time."
"If you ask
me, it's too late." "It's never too late," Dana said
quietly. The
following morning, two news stories came over the wires.
The first one
was about a peace agreement brokered by the United States
and the
United Nations. The second story was that Oslobodjenje,
Sarajevo's
newspaper, had been bombed out of existence.
"Our Washington bureaus are covering the peace agreement,"
Dana told
Benn. "Let's do a story on Oslobodjenje."
Dana was standing in front of the demolished building that
had once
housed Oslobodjenje. The camera's red light was on.
"People die here
every day," Dana said into the lens, "and buildings are
destroyed. But
this building was murdered. It housed the only free
newspaper in
Sarajevo, Oslobodjenje. It was a newspaper that dared to
tell the
truth. When it was bombed out of its headquarters, it was
moved into
the basement, to keep the presses alive. When there were
no more
newsstands to sell the papers from, its reporters went out
on the
streets to peddle them themselves. They were selling more
than
newspapers. They were selling freedom. With the death of
Oslobodjenje, another piece of freedom has died here."
In his office, Matt Baker was watching the news broadcast.
"Dammit,
she's good!" He turned to his assistant. "I want her to
have her own
satellite truck. Move on it." "Yes, sir."
When Dana returned to her room, there was a visitor
waiting for her.
Colonel Gordan Divjak was lounging in a chair when Dana
walked in. She
stopped, startled. "They didn't tell me I had a visitor."
"This is
not a social visit." His beady black eyes focused on her.
"I watched
your broadcast about Oslobodjenje." Dana studied him
warily. "Yes?"
"You were permitted to come into our country to report,
not to make
judgments." "I didn't make any " "Do not interrupt me.
Your idea of
freedom is not necessarily our idea of freedom. Do you
understand me?"
"No. I'm afraid I " "Then let me explain it to you, Miss
Evans. You
are a guest in my country. Perhaps you are a spy for your
government."
"I am not a " "Do not interrupt me. I warned you at the
airport. We
are not playing games. We are at war. Anyone involved in
espionage
will be executed." His words were all the more chilling
because they
were spoken softly. He got to his feet. "This is your
last warning."
Dana watched him leave. I'm not going to kt him frighten
me, she
thought defiantly. She was frightened.
A care package arrived from Matt Baker. It was an
enormous box filled
with candy, granola bars, canned foods, and a dozen other
nonperishable
items. Dana took it into the lobby to share it with the
other
reporters. They were delighted.
"Now, that's what I call a boss," Satomi Asaka said.
"How do I get a job with the Washington Tribune?" Juan
Santos joked.
Kemal was waiting in the alley again. The frayed, thin
jacket he had
on looked as though it was about to fall apart.
"Good morning, Kemal."
He stood there, silent, watching her from under
half-closed lids.
"I'm going shopping. Would you like to go with me?"
No answer.
"Let me put it another way," Dana said, exasperated. She
opened the
back door of the vehicle. "Get in the car. Now!"
The boy stood there a moment, shocked, then slowly moved
toward the
car.
Dana and Jovan watched him climb into the backseat.
Dana said to Jovan, "Can you find a department store or
clothing shop
that's open?"
"I know one."
"Let's go there."
They rode in silence for the first few minutes.
"Do you have a mother or father, Kemal?"
He shook his head.
"Where do you live?" He shrugged.
Dana felt him move closer to her as though to absorb the
warmth of her
body.
The clothing store was in the Bascarsija, the old market
of Sarajevo.
The front had been bombed out, but the store was open.
Dana took
Kemal's left hand and led him into the store. A clerk
said, "Can I
help you?" "Yes. I want to buy a jacket for a friend of
mine." She
looked at Kemal. "He's about his size." "This way,
please." In the
boy's section there was a rack of jackets. Dana turned to
Kemal.
"Which one do you like?" Kemal stood there, saying
nothing. Dana said
to the clerk, "We'll take the brown one." She looked at
Kemal's
trousers. "And I think we need a pair of trousers and some
new shoes."
When they left the store half an hour later, Kemal was
dressed in his
new outfit. He slid into the backseat of the car without a
word.
"Don't you know how to say thank you?" Jovan demanded
angrily. Kemal
burst into tears. Dana put her arms around him. "It's all
right," she
said. "It's all right." What kind of a world does this
to children?
When they returned to the hotel, Dana watched Kemal turn
and walk away
without a word.
"Where does someone like that live?" Dana asked Jovan.
"On the streets, madam. There are hundreds of orphans in
Sarajevo like
him. They have no homes, no families...."
"How do they survive?"
He shrugged. "I do not know."
The next day, when Dana walked out of the hotel, Kemal was
waiting for
her, dressed in his new outfit. He had washed his face.
The big news at the luncheon table was the peace treaty
and whether it
would work. Dana decided to go back to visit Professor
Mladic Staka
and ask what he thought about it. He looked even more
frail than the
last time she had seen him. "I am happy to see you, Miss
Evans. I
hear you are doing wonderful broadcasts, but " He
shrugged.
"Unfortunately, I have no electricity for my television
set. What can
I do for you?" "I wanted to get your opinion of the new
peace treaty,
Professor." He leaned back in his chair and said
thoughtfully, "It is
interesting to me that in Dayton, Ohio, they made a
decision about what
is going to happen to the future of Sarajevo."
"They've agreed to a troika, a three-person presidency,
composed of a
Muslim, a Croat, and a Serb. Do you think it can work,
Professor?"
"Only if you believe in miracles." He frowned. "There
will be
eighteen national legislative bodies and another hundred
and nine
different local governments. It is a Tower of political
Babel. It is
what you Americans call a 'shotgun marriage." None of
them wants to
give up their autonomy. They insist on having their own
flags, their
own license plates, their own currency." He shook his
head. "It is a
morning peace. Beware of the night."
Dana Evans had gone beyond being a mere reporter and was
becoming an
international legend. What came through in her television
broadcasts
was an intelligent human being filled with passion. And
because Dana
cared, her viewers cared, and shared her feelings.
Matt Baker began getting calls from other news outlets
saying that they
wanted to syndicate Dana Evans's broadcasts. He was
delighted for her.
She went over there to do good, he thought, and she's
going to wind up
doing well.
With her own new satellite truck, Dana was busier than
ever. She was
no longer at the mercy of the Yugoslav satellite company
She and Benn
decided what stories they wanted to do, and Dana would
write them and
broadcast them. Some of the stories were broadcast live,
and others
were taped. Dana and Benn and Andy would go out on the
streets and
photograph whatever background was needed, then Dana would
tape her
commentary in an editing room and send it back on the line
to
Washington.
At lunchtime, in the hotel dining room, large platters of
sandwiches
were placed in the center of the table. Journalists were
busily
helping themselves. Roderick Munn, from the BBC, walked
into the room
with an AP clipping in his hand. "Listen to this,
everybody." He read
the clipping aloud. " "Dana Evans, a foreign
correspondent for WTE, is
now being syndicated by a dozen news stations. Miss Evans
has been
nominated for the coveted Peabody Award...." " The story
went on from
there. "Aren't we lucky to be associated with somebody so
famous?"
one of the reporters said sarcastically. At that moment,
Dana walked
into the dining room. "Hi, everybody. I don't have time
for lunch
today. I'm going to take some sandwiches with me." She
scooped up
several sandwiches and covered them with paper napkins.
"See you
later." They watched in silence as she left. When Dana
got outside,
Kemal was there, waiting. "Good afternoon, Kemal." No
response.
"Get into the car."
Kemal slid into the backseat. Dana handed him a sandwich
and sat
there, watching him silently wolf it down. She handed him
another
sandwich, and he started to eat it.
"Slowly," Dana said.
"Where to?" Jovan asked.
Dana turned to Kemal. "Where to?" He looked at her
uncomprehendingly
"We're taking you home, Kemal. Where do you live?"
He shook his head.
"I need to know. Where do you live?"
Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of a large
vacant lot
near the banks of the Miljacka. Dozens of big cardboard
boxes were
scattered around, and the lot was littered with debris of
all kinds.
Dana got out of the car and turned to Kemal. "Is this
where you live?"
He reluctantly nodded. "And other boys live here, too?"
He nodded
again. "I want to do a story about this, Kemal." He
shook his head.
"No." "Why not?" "The police will come and take us away.
Don't."
Dana studied him a moment. "All right. I promise."
The next morning, Dana moved out of her room at the
Holiday Inn. When
she did not appear at breakfast, Gabriella Orsi from the
Altre Station
in Italy asked, "Where's Dana?"
Roderick Munn replied, "She's gone. She's rented a
farmhouse to live
in. She said she wanted to be by herself."
Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian from Gorizont 22, said, "We
would all
like to be by ourselves. So we are not good enough for
her?"
There was a general feeling of disapproval.
The following afternoon, another large care package
arrived for Dana.
Nikolai Petrovich said, "Since she is not here, we might
as well enjoy
it, eh?"
The hotel clerk said, "I'm sorry. Miss Evans is having it
picked
up."
A few minutes later, Kemal arrived. The reporters watched
him take the
package and leave.
"She doesn't even share with us anymore," Juan Santos
grumbled. "I
think her publicity has gone to her head."
During the next week, Dana filed her stories, but she did
not appear at
the hotel again. The resentment against her was growing.
Dana and her ego were becoming the main topic of
conversation. A few
days later, when another huge care package was delivered
to the hotel,
Nikolai Petrovich went to the hotel clerk. "Is Miss Evans
having this
package picked up?" "Yes, sir." The Russian hurried back
into the
dining room. "There is another package," he said.
"Someone is going
to pick it up. Why don't we follow him and tell Miss
Evans our opinion
of reporters who think they're too good for everyone
else?" There was
a chorus of approval. When Kemal arrived to pick up the
package,
Nikolai said to him, "Are you taking that to Miss Evans?"
Kemal
nodded. "She asked to see us. We'll go along with you."
Kemal looked
at him a moment, then shrugged. "We'll take you in one of
our cars,"
Nikolai Petrovich said. "You tell us where to go." Ten
minutes later,
a caravan of cars was making its way along deserted side
streets. On
the outskirts of the city, Kemal pointed to an old
bombed-out
farmhouse. The cars came to a stop. "You go ahead and
bring her the
package," Nikolai said. "We're going to surprise her."
They watched
Kemal walk into the farmhouse. They waited a moment, then
moved toward
the farmhouse and burst in through the front door. They
stopped, in
shock. The room was filled with children of all ages,
sizes, and
colors. Most of them were crippled. A dozen army cots had
been set up
along the walls. Dana was parceling out the contents of
the care
package to the children when the door flew open. She
looked up in
astonishment as the group charged in. "What what are you
doing here?"
Roderick Munn looked around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry,
Dana. We made a
a mistake. We thought " Dana turned to face the group. "I
see.
They're orphans. They have nowhere to go and no one to
take care of
them. Most of them were in a hospital when it was bombed.
If the
police find them, they'll be put in what passes for an
orphanage, and
they'll die there. If they stay here, they'll die. I've
been trying to
figure out a way to get them out of the country, but so
far, nothing
has worked." She looked at the group pleadingly. "Do you
have any
ideas?" Roderick Munn said slowly, "I think I have.
There's a Red
Cross plane leaving for Paris tonight. The pilot is a
friend of mine."
Dana asked hopefully, "Would you talk to him?" Munn
nodded. "Yes."
Nikolai Petrovich said, "Wait! We can't get involved in
anything like
that. They'll throw us all out of the country." "You
don't have to be
involved," Munn told him. "We'll handle it." "I'm
against it,"
Nikolai said stubbornly. "It will place us all in danger."
"What about
the children?" Dana asked. "We're talking about their
lives."
Late in the afternoon, Roderick Munn came to see Dana. "I
talked to my
friend. He said he would be happy to take the children to
Paris, where
they'll be safe. He has two boys of his own."
Dana was thrilled. "That's wonderful. Thank you so
much."
Munn looked at her. "It is we who should thank you."
At eight o'clock that evening, a van with the Red Cross
insignia on its
sides pulled up in front of the farmhouse. The driver
blinked the
lights, and under the cover of darkness, Dana and the
children hurried
into the van. Fifteen minutes later, it was rolling
toward Butmir
Airport. The airport had been temporarily closed except
to the Red
Cross planes that delivered supplies and took away the
seriously
wounded. The drive was the longest ride of Dana's life.
It seemed to
take forever. When she saw the lights of the airport
ahead, she said
to the children, "We're almost there." Kemal was
squeezing her hand.
"You'll be fine," Dana assured him. "All of you will be
taken care
of." And she thought, I'm going to miss you. At the
airport, a guard
waved the van through, and it drove up to a waiting cargo
plane with
the Red Cross markings painted on the fuselage. The pilot
was standing
next to the plane.
He hurried up to Dana. "For God's sake, you're late! Get
them aboard,
fast. We were due to take off twenty minutes ago." Dana
herded the
children up the ramp into the plane. Kemal was the last.
He turned to
Dana, his lips trembling. "Will I see you again?" "You
bet you will,"
Dana said. She hugged him and held him close for a
moment, saying a
silent prayer. "Get aboard now." Moments later, the door
closed.
There was a roar of the engines, and the plane began to
taxi down the
runway. Dana and Munn stood there, watching. At the end
of the
runway, the plane soared into the air and speared into the
eastern sky,
banking north toward Paris. "That was a wonderful thing
you did," the
driver said. "I want you to know " A car screeched to a
stop behind
them, and they turned. Colonel Gordan Divjak jumped out
of the car and
glared up at the sky where the plane was disappearing. At
his side was
Nikolai Petrovich, the Russian journalist. Colonel Divjak
turned to
Dana. "You are under arrest. I warned you that the
punishment for
espionage is death." Dana took a deep breath. "Colonel,
if you're
going to put me on trial for espionage " He looked into
Dana's eyes and
said softly, "Who said anything about a trial?"
Thirteen.
The inaugural celebrations, the parades, and the
swearing-in ceremonies
were over, and Oliver was eager to begin his presidency.
Washington,
D.C." was probably the only city anywhere completely
devoted to and
obsessed with politics. It was the power hub of the
world, and Oliver
Russell was the center of that hub. It seemed that
everyone was
connected in one way or another to the federal government.
In the
metropolitan area of Washington, there were fifteen
thousand lobbyists
and more than five thousand journalists, all of them
nursing at the
mother's milk of government. Oliver Russell remembered
John Kennedy's
sly put-down: "Washington, D.C." is a city of southern
efficiency and
northern charm."
On the first day of his presidency, Oliver wandered around
the White
House with Jan. They were familiar with its statistics:
132 rooms, 32
bathrooms, 29 fireplaces, 3 elevators, a swimming pool,
putting green,
tennis court, jogging track, exercise room, horseshoe pit,
bowling
alley, and movie theater, and eighteen acres of
beautifully tended
grounds. But actually living in it, being a part of it,
was
overwhelming.
"It's like a dream, isn't it?" Jan sighed.
Oliver took her hand. "I'm glad we're sharing it,
darling." And he
meant it. Jan had become a wonderful companion. She was
always there
for him, supportive and caring. More and more, he found
that he
enjoyed being with her.
When Oliver returned to the Oval Office, Peter Tager was
waiting to see
him. Oliver's first appointment had been to make Tager
his chief of
staff.
Oliver said, "I still can't believe this, Peter." Peter
Tager smiled.
"The people believe it. They voted you in, Mr.
President."
Oliver looked up at him. "It's still Oliver." "All
right. When we're
alone. But you have to realize that from this moment on,
anything you
do can affect the entire world. Anything you say could
shake up the
economy or have an impact on a hundred other countries
around the
globe. You have more power than any other person in the
world."
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. President, Senator Davis is
here."
"Send him in, Heather." Tager sighed. "I'd better get
started. My
desk looks like a paper mountain." The door opened and
Todd Davis
walked in. "Peter ..." "Senator ..." The two men shook
hands. Tager
said, "I'll see you later, Mr. President." Senator Davis
walked over
to Oliver's desk and nodded. "That desk fits you just
fine, Oliver. I
can't tell you what a real thrill it is for me to see you
sitting
there." "Thank you, Todd. I'm still trying to get used
to it. I mean
Adams sat here ... and Lincoln ... and Roosevelt..."
Senator Davis
laughed. "Don't let that scare you. Before they became
legends, they
were men just like you, sitting there trying to do the
right thing.
Putting their asses in that chair terrified them all, in
the beginning.
I just left Jan. She's in seventh heaven. She's going to
make a great
First Lady." "I know she is." "By the way, I have a
little list here
I'd like to discuss with you, Mr. President." The
emphasis on "Mr.
President" was jovial. "Of course, Todd." Senator Davis
slid the list
across the desk. "What is this?" "Just a few suggestions
I have for
your cabinet." "Oh. Well, I've already decided " "I
thought you might
want to look these over." "But there's no point in "
"Look them over,
Oliver." The senator's voice had cooled.
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Todd ..."
Senator Davis held up a hand. "Oliver, I don't want you
to think for
one minute that I'm trying to impose my will or my wishes
on you. You
would be wrong. I put together that list because I think
they're the
best men who can help you serve your country. I'm a
patriot, Oliver,
and I'm not ashamed of it. This country means everything
to me." There
was a catch in his voice. "Everything. If you think I
helped put you
in this office just because you're my son-in-law, you're
gravely
mistaken. I fought to make sure you got here because I
firmly believe
you're the man best suited for the job. That's what I
care most
about." He tapped a finger on the piece of paper. "And
these men can
help you do that job."
Oliver sat there, silent.
"I've been in this town for a lot of years, Oliver. And
do you know
what I've learned? That there's nothing sadder than a
one-term
president. And do you know why? Because during the first
four years,
he's just beginning to get an idea of what he can do to
make this
country better. He has all those dreams to fulfill. And
just when
he's ready to do that just when he's ready to really make
a difference"
he glanced around the office "someone else moves in here,
and those
dreams just vanish. Sad to think about, isn't it? All
those men with
grand dreams who serve only one term. Did you know that
since McKinley
took office in 1897, more than half the presidents who
followed him
were one-term presidents? But you, Oliver I'm going to
see to it that
you're a two-term president. I want you to be able to
fulfill all your
dreams. I'm going to see to it that you're reelected."
Senator Davis looked at his watch and rose. "I have to
go. We have a
quorum call at the Senate. I'll see you at dinner
tonight." He walked
out the door.
Oliver looked after him for a long time. Then he reached
down and
picked up the list Senator Todd Davis had left.
In his dream, Miriam Friedland awakened and sat up in bed.
A policeman
was at her bedside. He looked down at her and said, "Now
you can tell
us who did this to you."
"Yes."
He woke up, soaked in perspiration.
Early the following morning, Oliver telephoned the
hospital where
Miriam was. "I'm afraid there's no change, Mr.
President," the chief
of staff told him. "Frankly, it doesn't look good."
Oliver said
hesitantly, "She has no family. If you don't think she's
going to make
it, would it be more humane to take her off the
life-support systems?"
"I think we should wait a little while longer and see what
happens,"
the doctor said. "Sometimes there's a miracle."
Jay Perkins, chief of protocol, was briefing the
president. "There are
one hundred and forty-seven diplomatic missions in
Washington, Mr.
President. The blue book the Diplomatic List lists the
name of every
representative of a foreign government and spouse. The
green book the
Social List names the top diplomats, Washington residents,
and members
of Congress."
He handed Oliver several sheets of paper. "This is a list
of the
potential foreign ambassadors you will receive."
Oliver looked down the list and found the Italian
ambassador and his
wife: Atilio Picone and Sylva. Sylva. Oliver asked
innocently, "Will
they bring their wives with them?"
"No. The wives will be introduced later. I would suggest
that you
begin seeing the candidates as quickly as possible."
"Fine."
Perkins said, "I'll try to arrange it so that by next
Saturday, all the
foreign ambassadors will be accredited. You might want to
consider
having a White House dinner to honor them."
"Good idea." OliVer glanced again at the list on his
desk. Atilio and
Sylva Picone.
Saturday evening, the State Dining Room was decorated with
flags from
the various countries represented by the foreign
ambassadors. Oliver
had spoken with Atilio Picone two days earlier when he had
presented
his credence papers. "How is Mrs. Picone?" Oliver had
asked. There
was a small pause. "My wife is fine. Thank you, Mr.
President."
The dinner was going beautifully. Oliver went from table
to table,
chatting with his guests and charming them all. Some of
the most
important people in the world were gathered in that room.
Oliver Russell approached three ladies who were socially
prominent and
married to important men. But they were movers and
shakers in their
own right. "Leonore ... Delores .. . Carol..."
As Oliver was making his way across the room, Sylva
Pi-cone went up to
him and held out her hand. "This is a moment I've been
looking forward
to." Her eyes were sparkling.
"I, too," Oliver murmured.
"I knew you were going to be elected." It was almost a
whisper.
"Can we talk later?"
There was no hesitation. "Of course."
After dinner, there was dancing in the grand ballroom to
the music of
the Marine Band. Oliver watched Jan dancing, and he
thought: What a
beautiful woman. What a great body. The evening was a
huge success.
The following week, on the front page of the Washington
Tribune, the
headline blazed out: PRESIDENT ACCUSED OF CAMPAIGN FRAUD.
Oliver stared at it in disbelief. It was the worst timing
possible.
How could this have happened? And then he suddenly
realized how it had
happened. The answer was in front of him on the masthead
of the
newspaper: "Publisher, Leslie Stewart."
The following week, a front-page item in the Washington
Tribune read:
PRESIDENT TO BE QUESTIONED ABOUT FALSIFIED
KENTUCKY STATE INCOME TAX RETURNS.
Two weeks later, another story appeared on the front page
of the
Tribune: FORMER ASSISTANT TO PRESIDENT RUSSELL PLANS
TO FILE LAWSUIT CHARGING SEXUAL HARASSMENT.
The door to the Oval Office flew open and Jan walked in.
"Have you
seen the morning paper?"
"Yes, I "
"How could you do this to us, Oliver? You "
"Wait a minute! Don't you see what's happening, Jan?
Leslie Stewart
is behind it. I'm sure she bribed that woman to do this.
She's trying
to get her revenge because I jilted her for you. All
right. She got
it. It's over."
Senator Davis was on the telephone. "Oliver. I would
like to see you
in one hour." "I'll be here, Todd." Oliver was in the
small library
when Todd Davis arrived. Oliver rose to greet him. "Good
morning."
"Like hell it's a good morning." Senator Davis's voice
was filled with
fury. "That woman is going to destroy us."
"No, she's not. She just " "Everyone reads that damned
gossip rag, and
people believe what they read." "Todd, this is going to
blow over and
" "It's not going to blow over. Did you hear the
editorial on WTE this
morning? It was about who our next president is going to
be. You were
at the bottom of the list. Leslie Stewart is out to get
you. You must
stop her. What's the line 'hell hath no fury ..."?"
"There's another
adage, Todd, about freedom of the press. There's nothing
we can do
about this." Senator Davis looked at Oliver
speculatively. "But there
is." "What are you talking about?" "Sit down." The two
men sat.
"The woman is obviously still in love with you, Oliver.
This is her
way of punishing you for what you did to her. Never argue
with someone
who buys ink by the ton. My advice is to make peace."
"How do I do
that?" Senator Davis looked at Oliver's groin. "Use your
head." "Wait
a minute, Todd! Are you suggesting that I ?" "What I'm
suggesting is
that you cool her down. Let her know that you're sorry.
I'm telling
you she still loves you. If she didn't, she wouldn't be
doing this."
"What exactly do you expect me to do?" "Charm her, my
boy. You did it
once, you can do it again. You've got to win her over.
You're having
a State Department dinner here Friday evening. Invite
her. You must
persuade her to stop what she's doing."
"I don't know how I can "
"I don't care how you do it. Perhaps you could take her
away
somewhere, where you can have a quiet chat. I have a
country house in
Virginia. It's very private. I'm going to Florida for
the weekend,
and I've arranged for Jan to go with me." He took out a
slip of paper
and some keys and handed them to Oliver. "Here are the
directions and
the keys to the house."
Oliver was staring at him. "Jesus! You had this all
planned? What if
Leslie won't what if she's not interested? If she refuses
to go?"
Senator Davis rose. "She's interested. She'll go. I'll
see you
Monday, Oliver. Good luck."
Oliver sat there for a long time. And he thought: No. I
can't do this
to her again. I won't.
That evening as they were getting dressed for dinner, Jan
said,
"Oliver, Father asked me to go to Florida with him for the
weekend.
He's getting some kind of award, and I think he wants to
show off the
president's wife. Would you mind very much if I went? I
know there's
a State Department dinner here Friday, so if you want me
to stay ..."
"No, no. You go ahead. I'll miss you." And I am going
to miss her,
he thought. As soon as I solve this problem with Leslie,
I'm going to
start spending more time with Jan.
Leslie was on the telephone when her secretary came
hurrying in. "Miss
Stewart "
"Can't you see I'm "
"President Russell is on line three."
Leslie looked at her a moment, then smiled. "Right." She
said into
the phone, "I'll call you back."
She pressed the button on line three. "Hello."
"Leslie?"
"Hello, Oliver. Or should I call you Mr. President?"
"You can call me anything you like." He added lightly,
"And have."
There was a silence. "Leslie, I want to see you."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"I'm very sure."
"You're the president. I can't say no to you, can I?"
"Not if you're a patriotic American. There's a State
Department dinner
at the White House Friday night. Please come."
"What time?"
"Eight o'clock."
"All right. I'll be there."
She looked stunning in a long, clinging black knit
Mandarin-necked St.
John gown fastened in front with buttons over-coated in
twenty-two-karat gold. There was a revealing
fourteen-inch slit on the
left side of the dress.
The instant Oliver looked at her, memories came flooding
back. "Leslie
..."
i on
"Mr. President."
He took her hand, and it was moist. It's a sign, Oliver
thought. But
of what? Nervousness? Anger? Old memories? "I'm so
glad you came,
Leslie." "Yes. I am, too." "We'll talk later." Her
smile warmed
him. "Yes."
Two tables away from where Oliver was seated was a group
of Arab
diplomats. One of them, a swarthy man with sharply etched
features and
dark eyes, seemed to be staring intently at Oliver.
Oliver leaned over to Peter Tager and nodded toward the
Arab. "Who's
that?"
Tager took a quick look. "Ali al-Fulani. He's the
secretary at one of
the United Arab Emirates. Why do you ask?"
"No reason." Oliver looked again. The man's eyes were
still focused
on him.
Oliver spent the evening working the room, making his
guests feel
comfortable. Sylva was at one table, Leslie at another.
It was not
until the evening was almost over that Oliver managed to
get Leslie
alone for a moment. "We need to talk. I have a lot to
tell you. Can
we meet somewhere?"
There was the faintest hesitation in her voice. "Oliver,
perhaps it
would be better if we didn't "
"I have a house in Manassas, Virginia, about an hour out
of Washington.
Will you meet me there?"
She looked into his eyes. This time there was no
hesitation. "If you
want me to."
Oliver described the location of the house. "Tomorrow
night at
eight?"
Leslie's voice was husky. "I'll be there."
At a National Security Council meeting the following
morning, Director
of Central Intelligence James Frisch dropped a bombshell.
"Mr.
President, we received word this morning that Libya is
buying a variety
of atomic weapons from Iran and China. There's a strong
rumor that
they're going to be used to attack Israel. It will take a
day or two
to get a confirmation." Lou Werner, the secretary of
state, said, "I
don't think we should wait. Let's protest now, in the
strongest
possible terms." Oliver said to Werner, "See what
additional
information you can get." The meeting lasted all morning.
From time
to time, Oliver found himself thinking about the
rendezvous with
Leslie. "Charm her, my boy.... You've got to win her
over."
On Saturday evening, Oliver was in one of the White House
staff cars,
driven by a trusted Secret Service agent, heading for
Manassas,
Virginia. He was strongly tempted to cancel the
rendezvous, but it was
too late. I'm worrying for no reason. She probably won't
even show
up.
At eight o'clock, Oliver looked out the window and saw
Leslie's car
pull into the driveway of the senator's house. He watched
her get out
of the car and move toward the entrance. Oliver opened
the front door.
The two of them stood there, silently staring at each
other, and time
disappeared and somehow it was as though they had never
been apart.
Oliver was the first to find his voice. "My God! Last
night when I
saw you ... I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are."
Oliver took
Leslie's hand, and they walked into the living room.
"What would you
like to drink?" "I don't need anything. Thank you."
Oliver sat down
next to her on the couch. "I have to ask you something,
Leslie. Do
you hate me?" She shook her head slowly. "No. I thought
I hated
you." She smiled wryly. "In a way, I suppose that's the
reason for my
success." "I don't understand." "I wanted to get back at
you, Oliver.
I bought newspapers and television stations so that I
could attack you.
You're the only man I've ever loved. And when you when
you deserted
me, I I didn't think I could stand it." She was fighting
back tears.
Oliver put his arm around her. "Leslie " And then his
lips were on
hers, and they were kissing passionately. "Oh, my God,"
she said. "I
didn't expect this to happen." And they were in a fierce
embrace, and
he took her hand and led her into the bedroom. They began
undressing
each other. "Hurry, my darling," Leslie said. "Hurry..."
And they
were in bed, holding each other, their bodies touching,
remembering.
Their lovemaking was gentle and fierce, as it had been in
the
beginning. And this was a new beginning. The two of them
lay there,
happy, spent. "It's so funny," Leslie said. "What?" "All
those
terrible things I published about you. I did it to get
your
attention." She snuggled closer. "And I did, didn't I?"
He grinned.
"I'll say." Leslie sat up and looked at him. "I'm so
proud of you,
Oliver. The President of the United States." "I'm trying
to be a damn
good one. That's what's really important to me. I want
to make a
difference." Oliver looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I
have to get
back." "Of course. I'll let you leave first." "When am
I going to
see you again, Leslie?" "Anytime you want to." "We're
going to have
to be careful." "I know. We will be."
Leslie lay there, dreamily watching Oliver as he dressed.
When Oliver was ready to leave, he leaned over and said,
"You're my
miracle."
"And you're mine. You always have been."
He kissed her. "I'll call you tomorrow."
Oliver hurried out to the car and was driven back to
Washington. The
more things change, the more they stay the same, Oliver
thought. I
have to be careful never to hurt her again. He picked up
the car
telephone and dialed the number in Florida that Senator
Davis had given
him.
The senator answered the phone himself. "Hello."
"It's Oliver."
"Where are you?"
"On my way back to Washington. I just called to tell you
some good
news. We don't have to worry about that problem anymore.
Everything
is under control."
"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that." There was
a note of
deep relief in Senator Davis's voice.
"I knew you would be, Todd."
The following morning, as Oliver was getting dressed, he
picked up a
copy of the Washington Tribune. On the front page was a
photograph of
Senator Davis's country home in Manassas The caption
under it read:
PRESIDENT RUSSELL'S SECRET LOVE NEST.
Fourteen.
Oliver stared at the paper unbelievingly. How could she
have done
that? He thought about how passionate she had been in
bed. And he had
completely misread it. It was a passion filled with hate,
not love.
There's no way I can ever stop her, Oliver thought
despairingly.
Senator Todd Davis looked at the front-page story and was
aghast. He
understood the power of the press, and he knew how much
this vendetta
could cost him. I'll have to stop her myself, Senator
Davis decided.
When he got to his Senate office, he telephoned Leslie.
"It's been a
long time," Senator Davis said warmly. "Too long. I
think about you a
lot, Miss Stewart."
"I think about you, too, Senator Davis. In a way,
everything I have I
owe to you." He chuckled. "Not at all. When you had a
problem, I was
happy to be able to assist you." "Is there something I
can do for you,
Senator?" "No, Miss Stewart. But there's something I'd
like to do for
you. I'm one of your faithful readers, you know, and I
think the
Tribune is a truly fine paper. I just realized that we
haven't been
doing any advertising in it, and I want to correct that.
I'm involved
in several large companies, and they do a lot of
advertising. I mean a
lot of advertising. I think that a good portion of that
should go to a
fine paper like the Tribune." "I'm delighted to hear
that, Senator.
We can always use more advertising. Whom shall I have my
advertising
manager talk to?" "Well, before he talks to anyone, I
think you and I
should settle a little problem between us." "What's
that?" Leslie
asked. "It concerns President Russell." "Yes?" "This is
a rather
delicate matter, Miss Stewart. You said a few moments ago
that you
owed everything you have to me. Now I'm asking you to do
me a little
favor." "I'll be happy to, if I can." "In my own small
way, I helped
the president get elected to office." "I know."
"And he's doing a fine job. Of course, it makes it more
difficult for
him when he's attacked by a powerful newspaper like the
Tribune every
time he turns around."
"What are you asking me to do, Senator?"
"Well, I would greatly appreciate it if those attacks
would stop."
"And in exchange for that, I can count on getting
advertising from some
of your companies."
"A great deal of advertising, Miss Stewart."
"Thank you, Senator. Why don't you call me back when you
have
something more to offer?"
And the line went dead.
In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was
reading the
story about President Russell's secret love nest. "Who
the hell
authorized this?" he snapped at his assistant. "It came
from the
White Tower." "Goddammit. She's not running this paper,
I am." Why
the hell do I put up with her? he wondered, not for the
first time.
Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year plus
bonuses and stock
options, he told himself wryly. Every time he was ready
to quit, she
seduced him with more money and more power. Besides, he
had to admit
to himself that it was fascinating working for one of the
most powerful
women in the world. There were things about her that he
would never
understand.
When she had first bought the Tribune, Leslie had said to
Matt,
"There's an astrologer I want you to hire. His name is
Zoltaire."
"He's syndicated by our competition."
"I don't care. Hire him."
Later that day, Matt Baker told her, "I checked on
Zoltaire. It would
be too expensive to buy out his contract."
"Buy it."
The following week, Zoltaire, whose real name Matt learned
was David
Hayworth, came to work for the Washington Tribune. He was
in his
fifties, small and dark and intense.
Matt was puzzled. Leslie did not seem like the kind of
woman who would
have any interest in astrology. As far as he could see,
there was no
contact between Leslie and David Hay-worth.
What he did not know was that Hayworth went to visit
Leslie at her home
whenever she had an important decision to make.
On the first day, Matt had had Leslie's name put on the
masthead:
"Leslie Chambers, Publisher." She had glanced at it and
said, "Change
it. It's Leslie Stewart." The lady is on an ego trip,
Matt had
thought. But he was wrong. Leslie had decided to revert
to her maiden
name because she wanted Oliver Russell to know exactly who
was
responsible for what was going to happen to him.
The day after Leslie took over the newspaper, she said,
"We're going to
buy a health magazine." Matt looked at her curiously.
"Why?"
"Because the health field is exploding." She had proved
to be right.
The magazine was an instant success. "We're going to
start expanding,"
Leslie told Baker. "Let's get some people looking for
publications
overseas." "All right." "And there's too much fat around
here. Get
rid of the reporters who aren't pulling their weight."
"Leslie " "I
want young reporters who are hungry." When an executive
position
became open, Leslie insisted on being there for the
interview. She
would listen to the applicant, and then would ask one
question: "What's
your golf score?" The job would often depend on the
answer. "What the
hell kind of question is that?" Matt Baker asked the
first time he
heard it. "What difference does a golf score make?" "I
don't want
people here who are dedicated to golf. If they work here,
they're
going to be dedicated to the Washington Tribune."
Leslie Stewart's private life was a subject of endless
discussions at
the Tribune. She was a beautiful woman, unattached, and
as far as
anyone knew, she was not involved with any man and had no
personal
life. She was one of the capital's preeminent hostesses,
and important
people vied for an invitation to her dinner parties. But
people
speculated about what she did when all the guests had left
and she was
alone. There were rumors that she was an insomniac who
spent the
nights working, planning new projects for the Stewart
empire.
There were other rumors, more titillating, but there was
no way of
proving them.
Leslie involved herself in everything: editorials, news
stories,
advertising. One day, she said to the head of the
advertising
department, "Why aren't we getting any ads from
Glea-son's?" an
upscale store in Georgetown.
"I've tried, but "
"I know the owner. I'll give him a call."
She called him and said, "Allan, you're not giving the
Tribune any ads.
Why?"
He had laughed and said, "Leslie, your readers are our
shoplifters."
Before Leslie went into a conference, she read up on
everyone who would
be there. She knew everyone's weaknesses and strengths,
and she was a
tough negotiator.
"Sometimes you can be too tough," Matt Baker warned her.
"You have to
leave them something, Leslie."
"Forget it. I believe in the scorched-earth policy."
In the course of the next year, Washington Tribune
Enterprises acquired
a newspaper and radio station in Australia, a television
station in
Denver, and a newspaper in Hammond, Indiana. Whenever
there was a new
acquisition, its employees were terrified of what was
coming. Leslie's
reputation for being ruthless was growing.
Leslie Stewart was intensely jealous of Katharine Graham.
"She's just lucky," Leslie said. "And she has the
reputation of being
a bitch."
Matt Baker was tempted to ask Leslie what she thought her
own
reputation was, but he decided not to.
One morning when Leslie arrived at her office, she found
that someone
had placed a small wooden block with two brass balls on
her desk.
Matt Baker was upset. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll take "
"No. Leave it."
"But "
"Leave it."
Matt Baker was having a conference in his office when
Leslie's voice
came on over the intercom. "Matt, come up here."
No "please," no "good morning." Jt's going to be a
bad-hair day, Matt
Baker thought grimly. The Ice Princess was in one of her
moods.
"That's it for now," Matt said. He left his office and
walked through
the corridors, where hundreds of employees were busily at
work. He
took the elevator up to the White Tower and entered the
sumptuous
publisher's office. Half a dozen editors were already
gathered in the
room. Behind an enormous desk sat Leslie Stewart. She
looked up as
Matt Baker entered. "Let's get started." She had called
an editorial
meeting. Matt Baker remembered her saying, "You'll be
running the
newspaper. I'll keep my hands off." He should have known
better. She
had no business calling meetings like this. That was his
job. On the
other hand, she was the publisher and owner of the
Washington Tribune,
and she could damn well do anything she pleased. Matt
Baker said, "I
want to talk to you about the story about President
Russell's love nest
in Virginia." "There's nothing to talk about," Leslie
said. She held
up a copy of The Washington Post, their rival. "Have you
seen this?"
Matt had seen it. "Yes, it's just " "In the old days it
was called a
scoop, Matt. Where were you and your reporters when the
Post was
getting the news?" The headline in The Washington Post
read: SECOND
LOBBYIST TO BE INDICTED FOR GIVING ILLEGAL GIFTS TO
SECRETARY OF
DEFENSE.
"Why didn't we get that story?" "Because it isn't
official yet. I
checked on it. It's just " "I don't like being scooped."
Matt Baker
sighed and sat back in his chair. It was going to be a
stormy session.
"We're number one, or we're nothing," Leslie Stewart
announced to the
group. "And if we're nothing, there won't be any jobs
here for anyone,
will there?" Leslie turned to Arnie Cohn, the editor of
the Sunday
magazine section. "When people wake up Sunday morning, we
want them to
read the magazine section. We don't want to put our
readers back to
sleep. The stories we ran last Sunday were boring." He
was thinking,
If you were a man, I'd "Sorry," he mumbled. "I'll try to
do better
next time." Leslie turned to Jeff Connors, the sports
editor. Connors
was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, tall, with an
athletic
build, blond hair, intelligent gray eyes. He had the easy
manner of
someone who knew that he was good at what he did. Matt
had heard that
Leslie had made a play for him, and he had turned her
down. "You wrote
that Fielding was going to be traded to the Pirates." "I
was told "
"You were told wrong! The Tribune is guilty of printing a
story that
never happened." "I got it from his manager," Jeff
Connors said,
unperturbed. "He told me that " "Next time check out your
stories, and
then check them out again." Leslie turned and pointed to
a framed,
yellowed newspaper article hanging on the wall. It was
the front page
of the Chicago Tribune, dated November 3,1948. The banner
headline
read: DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN. "The worst thing a newspaper
can do,"
Leslie said, "is to get the facts wrong. We're in a
business where you
always have to get it right." She glanced at her watch.
"That's it
for now. I'll expect you all to do a lot better." As
they rose to
leave, Leslie said to Matt Baker, "I want you to stay."
"Right." He
sank back into his chair and watched the others depart.
"Was I rough
on them?" she asked. "You got what you wanted. They're
all suicidal."
"We're not here to make friends, we're here to put out a
newspaper."
She looked up again at the framed front page on the wall.
"Can you
imagine what the publisher of that paper must have felt
after that
story hit the streets and Truman was president? I never
want to have
that feeling, Matt. Never." "Speaking of getting it
wrong," Matt
said, "that story on page one about President Russell was
more suitable
for a cheap tabloid publication. Why do you keep riding
him? Give him
a chance."
Leslie said enigmatically, "I gave him his chance." She
stood up and
began to pace. "I got a tip that Russell is going to veto
the new
communications bill. That means we'll have to call off
the deal for
the San Diego station and the Omaha station."
"There's nothing we can do about that."
"Oh, yes, there is. I want him out of office, Matt.
We'll help put
someone else in the White House, someone who knows what
he's doing."
Matt had no intention of getting into another argument
with Leslie
Stewart about the president. She was fanatic on the
subject.
"He's not fit to be in that office, and I'm going to do
everything I
can to make sure that he's defeated in the next election."
Philip Cole, chief of correspondents for WTE, hurried into
Matt Baker's
office as Matt was ready to leave. There was a worried
expression on
his face. "We have a problem, Matt." "Can it wait until
tomorrow?
I'm late for a " "It's about Dana Evans." Matt said
sharply, "What
about her?" "She's been arrested."
"Arrested?" Matt asked incredulously. "What for?"
"Espionage. Do
you want me to ?" "No. I'll handle this." Matt Baker
hurried back to
his desk and dialed the State Department. Fifteen.
She was being dragged, naked, out of her cell into a cold,
dark
courtyard. She struggled wildly against the two men
holding her, but
she was no match for them. There were six soldiers with
rifles
outside, waiting for her as she was carried, screaming, to
a wooden
post hammered into the ground. Colonel Gordan Divjak
watched his men
tie her to the post. "You can't do this to me! I'm not a
spy!" she
yelled. But she could not make her voice heard above the
sounds of
mortar fire in the near distance. Colonel Divjak stepped
away from her
and nodded toward the firing squad. "Ready, aim " "Stop
that
screaming!" Rough hands were shaking her. Dana opened
her eyes, her
heart pounding. She was lying on the cot in her small,
dark cell.
Colonel Divjak was standing over her.
Dana sat up, panicky, trying to blink away the nightmare.
"What what
are you going to do to me?"
Colonel Divjak said coldly, "If there were justice, you
would be shot.
Unfortunately, I have been given orders to release you."
Dana's heart skipped a beat.
"You will be put on the first plane out of here." Colonel
Divjak
looked into her eyes and said, "Don't ever come back."
It had taken all the pressure that the State Department
and the
president could muster to get Dana Evans released. When
Peter Tager
heard about the arrest, he had gone in to see the
president. "I just
got a call from the State Department. Dana Evans has been
arrested on
charges of espionage. They're threatening to execute
her." "Jesus!
That's terrible. We can't let that happen." "Right. I'd
like
permission to use your name." "You've got it. Do
whatever has to be
done." "I'll work with the State Department. If we can
pull this off,
maybe the Tribune will go a little easier on you." Oliver
shook his
head. "I wouldn't count on it. Let's just get her the
hell out of
there."
Dozens of frantic telephone calls later, with pressure
from the Oval
Office, the secretary of state, and the secretary-general
of the United
Nations, Dana's captors reluctantly agreed to release her.
When the news came, Peter Tager hurried in to tell Oliver.
"She's
free. She's on her way home."
"Great."
He thought about Dana Evans on his way to a meeting that
morning. I'm
glad we were able to save her.
He had no idea that that action was going to cost him his
life.
When Dana's plane landed at Dulles International Airport,
Mart Baker
and two dozen reporters from newspapers and television and
radio
stations were waiting to greet her. Dana looked at the
crowd in
disbelief. "What's ?" "This way, Dana. Smile!" "How
were you
treated? Was there any brutality?" "How does it feel to
be back home?"
"Let's have a picture." "Do you have any plans to go
back?" They
were all talking at once. Dana stood there, overwhelmed.
Matt Baker
hustled Dana into a waiting limousine, and they sped away.
"What's what's going on?" Dana asked.
"You're a celebrity."
She shook her head. "I don't need this, Matt." She
closed her eyes
for a moment. "Thanks for getting me out."
"You can thank the president and Peter Tager. They pushed
all the
buttons. You also have Leslie Stewart to thank."
When Matt told Leslie the news, she had said, "Those
bastards! They
can't do that to the Tribune. I want you to see that they
free her.
Pull every string you can and get her out of there."
Dana looked out the window of the limousine. People were
walking along
the street, talking and laughing. There was no sound of
gunfire or
mortar shells. It was eerie.
"Our real estate editor found an apartment for you. I'm
taking you
there now. I want you to have some time off as much as
you like. When
you're ready, we'll put you back to work." He took a
closer look at
Dana. "Are you feeling all right? If you want to see a
doctor, I'll
arrange "
"I'm fine. Our bureau took me to a doctor in Paris."
The apartment was on Calvert Street, an attractively
furnished place
with one bedroom, living room, kitchen, bath, and small
study.
"Will this do?" Matt asked.
"This is perfect. Thank you, Matt."
"I've had the refrigerator stocked for you. You'll
probably
OTA
want to go shopping for clothes tomorrow, after you get
some rest.
Charge everything to the paper."
"Thanks, Matt. Thank you for everything."
"You're going to be debriefed later. I'll set it up for
you."
She was on a bridge, listening to the gunfire and watching
bloated
bodies float by, and she woke up, sobbing. It had been so
real. It
was a dream, but it was happening. At that moment,
innocent victims
men, women, and children were being senselessly and
brutally
slaughtered. She thought of Professor Staka's words.
"This war in
Bosnia and Herzegovina is beyond understanding." What was
incredible
to her was that the rest of the world didn't seem to care.
She was
afraid to go back to sleep, afraid of the nightmares that
filled her
brain. She got up and walked over to the window and
looked out at the
city. It was quiet no guns, no people running down the
street,
screaming. It seemed unnatural. She wondered how Kemal
was, and
whether she would ever see him again. He's probably
forgotten me by
now.
Dana spent part of the morning shopping for clothes.
Wherever she
went, people stopped to stare at her. She heard whispers:
"That's Dana
Evans!" The sales clerks all recognized her. She was
famous. She
hated it.
Dana had had no breakfast and no lunch. She was hungry,
but she was
unable to eat. She was too tense. It was as though she
were waiting
for some disaster to strike. When she walked down the
street, she
avoided the eyes of strangers. She was suspicious of
everyone. She
kept listening for the sound of gunfire. I can't go on
like this, Dana
thought.
At noon, she walked into Matt Baker's office.
"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on
vacation."
"I need to go back to work, Matt."
He looked at her and thought about the young girl who had
come to him a
few years earlier. "I'm here for a job. Of course, I
already have a
job here. It's more like a transfer, isn't it? ... I can
start right
away...." And she had more than fulfilled her promise.
If I ever had
a daughter... "Your boss wants to meet you," Matt told
Dana.
They headed for Leslie Stewart's office.
The two women stood there appraising each other. "Welcome
back,
Dana."
"Thank you."
"Sit down." Dana and Matt took chairs opposite Leslie's
desk.
"I want to thank you for getting me out of there," Dana
said.
"It must have been hell. I'm sorry." Leslie looked at
Matt. "What
are we going to do with her now, Matt?"
He looked at Dana. "We're about to reassign our White
House
correspondent. Would you like the job?" It was one of
the most
prestigious television assignments in the country.
Dana's face lit up. "Yes. I would."
Leslie nodded. "You've got it."
Dana rose. "Well thank you, again."
"Good luck."
Dana and Matt left the office. "Let's get you settled,"
Matt said. He
walked her over to the television building, where the
whole staff was
waiting to greet her. It took Dana fifteen minutes to
work her way
through the crowd of well-wishers.
"Meet your new White House correspondent," Matt said to
Philip Cole.
"That's great. I'll show you to your office."
"Have you had lunch yet?" Matt asked Dana.
"No, I "
"Why don't we get a bite to eat?"
The executive dining room was on the fifth floor, a
spacious, airy room
with two dozen tables. Matt led Dana to a table in the
corner, and
they sat down. "Miss Stewart seemed very nice," Dana
said. Matt
started to say something. "Yeah. Let's order." "I'm not
hungry."
"You haven't had lunch?" "No."
"Did you have breakfast?"
"No."
"Dana when did you eat last?"
She shook her head. "I don't remember. It's not
important."
"Wrong. I can't have our new White House correspondent
starving
herself to death."
The waiter came over to the table. "Are you ready to
order, Mr.
Baker?"
"Yes." He scanned the menu. "We'll start you off light.
Miss Evans
will have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich." He
looked over at
Dana. "Pastry or ice cream?"
"Noth "
"Pie a la mode. And I'll have a roast beef sandwich."
"Yes, sir."
Dana looked around. "All this seems so unreal. Life is
what's
happening over there, Matt. It's horrible. No one here
cares."
"Don't say that. Of course we care. But we can't run the
world, and
we can't control it. We do the best we can."
"It's not good enough," Dana said fiercely.
"Dana..." He stopped. She was far away, listening to
distant sounds
that he could not hear, seeing grisly sights that he could
not see.
They sat in silence until the waiter arrived with their
food.
"Here we are."
"Mart, I'm not really hung "
O '1 A
"You're going to eat," Matt commanded. Jeff Connors was
making his way
over to the table. "Hi, Matt." "Jeff." Jeff Connors
looked at Dana.
"Hello." Mart said, "Dana, this is Jeff Connors. He's
the Tribune's
sports editor." Dana nodded. "I'm a big fan of yours,
Miss Evans.
I'm glad you got out safely." Dana nodded again. Matt
said, "Would
you like to join us, Jeff?" "Love to." He took a chair
and said to
Dana, "I tried never to miss any of your broadcasts. I
thought they
were brilliant." Dana mumbled, "Thank you." "Jeff here
is one of our
great athletes. He's in the Baseball Hall of Fame."
Another small
nod. "If you happen to be free," Jeff said, "on Friday,
the Orioles
are playing the Yankees in Baltimore. It's " Dana turned
to look at
him for the first time. "That sounds really exciting.
The object of
the game is to hit the ball and then run around the field
while the
other side tries to stop you?" He looked at her warily.
"Well " Dana
got to her feet, her voice trembling. "I've seen people
running around
a field but they were running for their lives because
someone was
shooting at them and killing them!" She was near
hysteria. "It wasn't
a game, and it it wasn't about a stupid baseball."
The other people in the room were turning to stare at her.
"You can go to hell," Dana sobbed. And she fled from the
room.
Jeff turned to Matt. "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean
to "
"It wasn't your fault. She hasn't come home yet. And God
knows she's
entitled to a bad case of nerves."
Dana hurried into her office and slammed the door. She
went to her
desk and sat down, fighting hysteria. Oh, Cod. I've made
a complete
fool of myself. They'll fire me, and I deserve it. Why
did I attack
that man? How could I have done anything so awful? I
don't belong
here. I don't belong anywhere anymore. She sat there
with her head on
the desk, sobbing. A few minutes later, the door opened
and someone
came in. Dana looked up. It was Jeff Connors, carrying a
tray with a
bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a slice of pie a
la mode. "You
forgot your lunch," Jeff said mildly. Dana wiped away her
tears,
mortified. "I I want to apologize. I'm so sorry. I had
no right to "
"You had every right," he said quietly. "Anyway, who
needs to watch a
dumb old baseball game?" Jeff put the tray on the desk.
"May I join
you for lunch?" He sat down. "I'm not hungry. Thank
you."
He sighed. "You're putting me in a very difficult
position, Miss
Evans. Mart says you have to eat. You don't want to get
me fired, do
you?"
Dana managed a smile. "No." She picked up half of the
sandwich and
took a small bite.
"Bigger."
Dana took another small bite.
"Bigger."
She looked up at him. "You're really going to make me eat
this, aren't
you?"
"You bet I am." He watched her take a larger bite of the
sandwich.
"That's better. By the way, if you're not doing anything
Friday night,
I don't know if I mentioned it, but there's a game between
the Orioles
and the Yankees. Would you like to go?"
She looked at him and nodded. "Yes."
At three o'clock that afternoon, when Dana walked into the
White House
entrance, the guard said, "Mr. Tager would like to see
you, Miss
Evans. I'll have someone take you to his office." A few
minutes
later, one of the guides led Dana down a long corridor to
Peter Tager's
office. He was waiting for her. "Mr. Tager ..." "I
didn't expect to
see you so soon, Miss Evans. Won't your station give you
any time
off?" "I didn't want any," Dana said. "I I need to
work."
"Please sit down." She sat across from him. "Can I offer
you
anything?" "No, thanks. I just had lunch." She smiled
to herself at
the recollection of Jeff Connors. "Mr. Tager, I want to
thank you and
President Russell so much for rescuing me." She
hesitated. "I know
the Tribune hasn't been too kind to the president, and I "
Peter Tager
raised a hand. "This was something above politics. There
was no
chance that the president was going to let them get away
with this. You
know the story of Helen of Troy?" "Yes." He smiled.
"Well, we might
have started a war over you. You're a very important
person." "I
don't feel very important." "I want you to know how
pleased both the
president and I are that you've been assigned to cover the
White
House." "Thank you." He paused for a moment. "It's
unfortunate that
the Tribune doesn't like President Russell, and there's
nothing you can
do about it. But in spite of that, on a very personal
level, if
there's anything the president or I can do to help ... we
both have an
enormous regard for you." "Thank you. I appreciate
that." The door
opened and Oliver walked in. Dana and Peter Tager stood
up. "Sit
down," Oliver said. He walked over to Dana. "Welcome
home."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Dana said. "And I do mean
thank you."
Oliver smiled. "If you can't save someone's life, what's
the point of
being president? I want to be frank with you, Miss Evans.
None of us
here is a fan of your newspaper. All of us are your
fans."
"Thank you."
"Peter is going to give you a tour of the White House. If
you have any
problems, we're here to help you."
"You're very kind."
"If you don't mind, I want you to meet with Mr. Werner,
the secretary
of state. I'd like to have him get a firsthand briefing
from you on
the situation in Herzegovina."
"I'd be happy to do that," Dana said.
There were a dozen men seated in the secretary of state's
private
conference room, listening to Dana describe her
experiences. "Most of
the buildings in Sarajevo have been damaged or
destroyed.... There's no
electricity, and the people there who still have cars
unhook the car
batteries at night to run their television sets.... "The
streets of the
city are obstructed by the wreckage of bombed automobiles,
carts, and
bicycles. The main form of transportation is walking....
"When there's
a storm, people catch the water from the street gutters
and put it into
buckets.... "There's no respect for the Red Cross or for
the
journalists there. More than forty correspondents have
been killed
covering the Bosnian war, and dozens have been wounded....
Whether the
present revolt against Slobodan Milosevic is successful or
not, the
feeling is that because of the popular uprising, his
regime has been
badly damaged...."
The meeting went on for two hours. For Dana it was both
traumatic and
cathartic, because as she described what happened, she
found herself
living the terrible scenes all over again; and at the same
time, she
found it a. relief to be able to talk about it. When she
was finished,
she felt drained.
The secretary of state said, "I want to thank you, Miss
Evans. This
has been very informative." He smiled. "I'm glad you got
back here
safely."
"So am I, Mr. Secretary."
Friday night, Dana was seated next to Jeff Connors in the
press box at
Camden Yards, watching the baseball game. And for the
first time since
she had returned, she was able to think about something
other than the
war. As Dana watched the players on the field, she
listened to the
announcer reporting the game. "... it's the top of the
sixth inning
and Nelson is pitching. Alomar hits a line drive down the
left-field
line for a double. Palmeiro is approaching the plate.
The count is
two and one. Nelson throws a fastball down the middle and
Palmeiro is
going for it. What a hit! It looks like it's going to
clear the right
9-30
field wall. It's over! Palmeiro is rounding the bases
with a two-run
homer that puts the Orioles in the lead...."
At the seventh-inning stretch, Jeff stood up and looked at
Dana. "Are
you enjoying yourself?"
Dana looked at him and nodded. "Yes."
Back in D.C. after the game, they had supper at Bistro
Twenty
Fifteen.
"I want to apologize again for the way I behaved the other
day," Dana
said. "It's just that I've been living in a world where "
She stopped,
not sure how to phrase it. "Where everything is a matter
of life and
death. Everything. It's awful. Because unless someone
stops the war,
those people have no hope."
Jeff said gently, "Dana, you can't put your life on hold
because of
what's happening over there. You have to begin living
again. Here."
"I know. It's just... not easy."
"Of course it isn't. I'd like to help you. Would you let
me?"
Dana looked at him for a long time. "Please."
The next day, Dana had a luncheon date with Jeff Connors.
"Can you
pick me up?" he asked. He gave her the address.
"Right." Dana
wondered what Jeff was doing there. It was in a very
troubled
inner-city neighborhood. When Dana arrived, she found the
answer.
Jeff was surrounded by two teams of baseball players,
ranging in age
from nine to thirteen, dressed in a creative variety of
baseball
uniforms. Dana parked at the curb to watch.
"And remember," Jeff was saying, "don't rush. When the
pitcher throws
the ball, imagine that it's coming at you very slowly, so
that you have
plenty of time to hit it. Feel your bat smacking the
ball. Let your
mind help guide your hands so "
Jeff looked over and saw Dana. He waved. "All right,
fellows. That's
it for now."
One of the boys asked, "Is that your girl, Jeff?"
"Only if I'm lucky." Jeff smiled. "See you later." He
walked over to
Dana's car.
"That's quite a ball club," Dana said.
"They're good boys. I coach them once a week."
She smiled. "I like that." And she wondered how Kemal
was and what he
was doing.
As the days went on, Dana found herself coming to like
Jeff Connors
more and more. He was sensitive, intelligent, and
amusing. She
enjoyed being with him. Slowly, the horrible memories of
Sarajevo were
beginning to fade. The morning came when she woke up
without having
had nightmares. When she told Jeff about it, he took her
hand and
said, "That's my girl."
And Dana wondered whether she should read a deeper meaning
into it.
There was a hand-printed letter waiting for Dana at the
office. It
read: "miss evans, don't worry about me. i'm happy, i am
not lonely, i
don't miss anybody, and i am going to send you back the
clothes you
bought me because i don't need them, i have my own
clothes, goodbye."
It was signed "kemal." The letter was postmarked Paris,
and the
letterhead read "Xavier's Home for Boys." Dana read the
letter twice
and then picked up the phone. It took her four hours to
reach Kemal.
She heard his voice, a tentative "Hello ..." "Kemal, this
is Dana
Evans." There was no response. "I got your letter."
Silence. "I
just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're so happy, and
that you're
having such a good time." She waited a moment, then went
on, "I wish I
were as happy as you are. Do you know why I'm not?
Because I miss
you. I think about you a lot." "No, you don't," Kemal
said. "You
don't care about me." "You're wrong. How would you like
to come to
Washington and live with me?" There was a long silence.
"Do you do
you mean that?" "You bet I do. Would you like that?" "I
" He began
to cry. "Would you, Kemal?" "Yes yes, ma'am." "I'll make
the
arrangements."
"Miss Evans?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
Dana and Jeff Connors were walking in West Potomac Park.
"I think I'm
going to have a roommate," Dana said. "He should be here
in the next
few weeks." Jeff looked at her in surprise. "He?" Dana
found herself
pleased at his reaction. "Yes. His name is Kemal. He's
twelve years
old." She told him the story. "He sounds like a great
kid." "He is.
He's been through hell, Jeff. I want to help him forget."
He looked
at Dana and said, "I'd like to help, too." That night
they made love
for the first time.
Sixteen.
There are two Washington, D.C."s. One is a city of
inordinate beauty:
imposing architecture, world-class museums, statues,
monuments to the
giants of the past: Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington... a
city of verdant
parks, cherry blossoms, and velvet air.
The other Washington, D.C." is a citadel of the homeless,
a city with
one of the highest crime rates in the nation, a labyrinth
of muggings
and murders.
The Monroe Arms is an elegant boutique hotel discreetly
tucked away not
far from the corner of ayth and K streets. It does no
advertising and
caters mainly to its regular clientele.
The hotel was built a number of years ago by an
enterprising young real
estate entrepreneur named Lara Cameron. Jeremy Robinson,
the hotel's
general manager, had just arrived on his evening shift and
was studying
the guest register with a perplexed expression on his
face. He checked
the names of the occupants of the elite Terrace Suites
once again to
make certain someone had not made a mistake. In Suite
325, a faded
actress was rehearsing for a play opening at the National
Theater.
According to a story in The Washington Post, she was
hoping to make a
comeback. In 425, the suite above hers, was a well-known
arms dealer
who visited Washington regularly. The name on the guest
register was
J. L. Smith, but his looks suggested one of the Middle
East countries.
Mr. Smith was an extraordinarily generous tipper. Suite
525 was
registered to William Quint, a congressman who headed the
powerful drug
oversight committee. Above, Suite 625 was occupied by a
computer
software salesman who visited Washington once a month.
Registered in
Suite 725 was Pat Murphy, an international lobbyist. So
far, so good,
Jeremy Robinson thought. The guests were all well known
to him. It
was Suite 825, the Imperial Suite on the top floor, that
was the
enigma. It was the most elegant suite in the hotel, and
it was always
held in reserve for the most important VIPs. It occupied
the entire
floor and was exquisitely decorated with valuable
paintings and
antiques. It had its own private elevator leading to the
basement
garage, so that its guests who wished to be anonymous
could arrive and
depart in privacy.
What puzzled Jeremy Robinson was the name on the hotel
register: Eugene
Gant. Was there actually a person by that name, or had
someone who
enjoyed reading Thomas Wolfe selected it as an alias?
Carl Gorman, the day clerk who had registered the
eponymous Mr. Gant,
had left on his vacation a few hours earlier, and was
unreachable.
Robinson hated mysteries. Who was Eugene Gant and why had
he been
given the Imperial Suite?
In Suite 325, on the third floor, Dame Gisella Barrett was
rehearsing
for a play. She was a distinguished-looking woman in her
late sixties,
an actress who had once mesmerized audiences and critics
from London's
West End to Manhattan's Broadway. There were still faint
traces of
beauty in her face, but they were overlaid with
bitterness. She had
read the article in The Washington Post that said she had
come to
Washington to make a comeback. A comeback! Dame Barrett
thought
indignantly. How dare they! I've never been away. True,
it had been
more than twenty years since she had last appeared
onstage, but that
was only because a great actress needed a great part, a
brilliant
director, and an understanding producer. The directors
today were too
young to cope with the grandeur of real Theater, and the
great English
producers H. M. Tenant, Binkie Beaumont, C. B. Cochran
were all gone.
Even the reasonably competent American producers, Helburn,
Belasco, and
Golden, were no longer around. There was no question
about it: The
current theater was controlled by know-nothing parvenus
with no
background. The old days had been so wonderful. There
were
playwrights back then whose pens were dipped in lightning.
Dame
Barrett had starred in the part of Ellie Dunn in Shaw's
Heartbreak
House. How the critics raved about me. Poor George. He
hated to be
called George. He preferred Bernard. People thought of
him as acerbic
and bitter, but underneath it all, he was really a
romantic Irishman.
He used to send me red roses. I think he was too shy to
go beyond
that. Perhaps he was afraid I would reject him. She was
about to make
her return in one of the most powerful roles ever written
Lady Macbeth.
It was the perfect choice for her. Dame Barrett placed a
chair in
front of a blank wall, so that she would not be distracted
by the view
outside. She sat down, took a deep breath, and began to
get into the
character Shakespeare had created. "Come, you spirits
That tend on
mortal thoughts! Unsex me here, And fill me from the
crown to the toe
top-full Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood, Stop up
the access and
passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of
nature Shake my
fell purpose, nor keep the peace between The effect and
it!"
".. . For God's sake, how can they be so stupid? After
all the years
I have been staying in this hotel, you would think
that..."
The voice was booming through the open window, from the
suite above.
In Suite 425, J. L. Smith, the arms dealer, was loudly
berating a
waiter from room service. "... they would know by now
that I order
only Beluga caviar. Beluga!" He pointed to a plate of
caviar on the
room-service table. "That is a dish fit for peasants!"
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Smith. I'll go down to the kitchen
and "
"Never mind." J. L. Smith looked at his diamond-studded
Rolex. "I
have no time. I have an important appointment." He rose
and started
toward the door. He was due at his attorney's office. A
day earlier,
a federal grand jury had indicted him on fifteen counts of
giving
illegal gifts to the secretary of defense. If found
guilty, he was
facing three years in prison and a million-dollar fine.
In Suite 525, Congressman William Quint, a member of a
prominent
third-generation Washington family, was in conference with
three
members of his investigating staff. "The drug problem in
this city is
getting completely out of hand," Quint said. "We have to
get it back
under control He turned to Dalton Isaak. "What's your
take on it?"
"It's the street gangs. The Brentwood Crew is
undercutting the
Fourteenth Street Crew and the Simple City Crew. That's
led to four
killings in the last month."
"We can't let this go on," Quint said. "It's bad for
business. I've
been getting calls from the DEA and the chief of police
asking what
we're planning to do about it."
"What did you tell them?"
"The usual. That we're investigating." He turned to his
assistant.
"Set up a meeting with the Brentwood Crew. Tell them if
they want
protection from us, they're going to have to get their
prices in line
with the others." He turned to another of his assistants.
"How much
did we take in last month?"
"Ten million here, ten million offshore."
"Let's bump that up. This city is getting too damned
expensive."
In 625, the suite above, Norman Haff lay naked in the dark
in bed,
watching a porno film on the hotel's closed-circuit
channel. He was a
pale-skinned man with an enormous beer belly and a flabby
body. He
reached over and stroked the breast of his bed mate.
"Look what
they're doing, Irma." His voice was a strangled whisper.
"Would you
like me to do that to you?" He circled his fingers around
her belly,
his eyes fastened to the screen where a woman was making
passionate
love to a man. "Does that excite you, baby? It sure gets
me hot."
He slipped two fingers between Irma's legs. "I'm ready,"
he groaned.
He grabbed the inflated doll, rolled over, and pushed
himself into her.
The vagina of the battery-operated doll opened and closed
on him,
squeezing him tighter and tighter.
"Oh, my God!" he exclaimed. He gave a satisfied groan.
"Yes! Yes!"
He switched off the battery and lay there panting. He
felt wonderful.
He would use Irma again in the morning before he deflated
her and put
her in a suitcase.
Norman was a salesman, and he was on the road most of the
time in
strange towns where he had no companionship. He had
discovered Irma
years ago, and she was all the female company he needed.
His stupid
salesmen friends traveled around the country picking up
sluts and
professional whores, but Norman had the last laugh.
Irma would never give him a disease.
On the floor above, in Suite 725, Pat Murphy's family had
just come
back from dinner. Tim Murphy, twelve, was standing on the
balcony
overlooking the park. "Tomorrow can we climb up to the
top of the
monument, Daddy?" he begged. "Please?" His younger
brother said,
"No. I want to go to the Smithsonian Institute."
"Institution," his
father corrected him.
"Whatever. I want to go." It was the first time the
children had been
in the nation's capital, although their father spent more
than half of
every year there. Pat Murphy was a successful lobbyist
and had access
to some of the most important people in Washington. His
father had
been the mayor of a small town in Ohio, and Pat had grown
up fascinated
by politics. His best friend had been a boy named Joey.
They had gone
through school together, had gone to the same summer
camps, and had
shared everything. They were best friends in the truest
sense of the
phrase. That had all changed one holiday when Joey's
parents were away
and Joey was staying with the Murphys. In the middle of
the night,
Joey had come to Pat's room and climbed into his bed.
"Pat," he
whispered. "Wake up." Pat's eyes had flown open. "What?
What's the
matter?" "I'm lonely," Joey whispered. "I need you."
Pat Murphy was
confused. "What for?" "Don't you understand? I love
you. I want
you." And he had kissed Pat on the lips. And the
horrible realization
had dawned that Joey was a homosexual. Pat was sickened
by it. He
refused ever to speak to Jney again. Pat Murphy loathed
homosexuals.
They were freaks, faggots, fairies, cursed by God, trying
to seduce
innocent children. He turned his hatred and disgust into
a lifelong
campaign, voting for anti homosexual candidates and
lecturing about the
evils and dangers of homosexuality. In the past, he had
always come to
Washington alone, but this time his wife had stubbornly
insisted that
he bring her and the children.
"We want to see what your life here is like," she said.
And Pat had
finally given in.
He looked at his wife and children now and thought, It's
one of the
last times I'll ever see them. How could I have ever made
such a
stupid mistake? Well, it's almost over now. His family
had such grand
plans for tomorrow. But there would be no tomorrow. In
the morning,
before they were awake, he would be on his way to Brazil.
Alan was waiting for him.
In Suite 825, the Imperial Suite, there was total silence.
Breathe, he
told himself. You must breathe ... slower, slower.... He
was at the
edge of panic. He looked at the slim, naked body of the
young girl on
the floor and thought, It wasn't my fault. She slipped.
Her head had
split open where she had fallen against the sharp edge of
the
wrought-iron table, and blood was oozing from her
forehead. He had
felt her wrist. There was no pulse. It was incredible.
One moment
she had been so alive, and the next moment... I've got to
get out of
here. Now! He turned away from the body and hurriedly
began to dress.
This would not be just another scandal. This would be a
scandal that
rocked the world. They must never trace me to this suite.
When he
finished dressing, he went into the bathroom, moistened a
towel, and
began polishing the surfaces of every place he might have
touched.
When he was finally sure he had left no fingerprints to
mark his
presence, he took one last look around. Her purse! He
picked up the
girl's purse from the couch, and walked to the far end of
the
apartment, where the private elevator waited.
He stepped inside, trying hard to control his breathing.
He pressed G,
and a few seconds later, the elevator door opened and he
was in the
garage. It was deserted. He started toward his car,
then, suddenly
remembering, hurried back to the elevator. He took out
his
handkerchief and wiped his fingerprints from the elevator
buttons. He
stood in the shadows, looking around again to make sure he
was still
alone. Finally satisfied, he walked over to his car,
opened the door,
and sat behind the wheel. After a moment, he turned on
the ignition
and drove out of the garage.
It was a Filipina maid who found the dead girl's body
sprawled on the
floor. "O Dios ko, kawawa naman iyong babae!" She made
the sign of
the cross and hurried out of the room, screaming for help.
Three
minutes later, Jeremy Robinson and Thorn Peters, the
hotel's head of
security, were in the Imperial Suite staring down at the
naked body of
the girl. "Jesus," Thorn said. "She can't be more than
sixteen or
seventeen years old." He turned to the manager. "We'd
better call the
police."
"Wait!" Police. Newspapers. Publicity. For one wild
moment,
Robinson wondered whether it would be possible to spirit
the girl's
body out of the hotel. "I suppose so," he finally said
reluctantly.
Thorn Peters took a handkerchief from his pocket and used
it to pick up
the telephone.
"What are you doing?" Robinson demanded. "This isn't a
crime scene.
It was an accident."
"We don't know that yet, do we?" Peters said.
He dialed a number and waited. "Homicide."
Detective Nick Reese looked like the paperback version of
a
street-smart cop. He was tall and brawny, with a broken
nose that was
a memento from an early boxing career. He had paid his
dues by
starting as an officer in Washington's Metropolitan Police
Department
and had slowly worked his way through the ranks: Master
Patrol Officer,
Sergeant, Lieutenant. He had been promoted from Detective
Da to
Detective Di, and in the past ten years had solved more
cases than
anyone else in the department. Detective Reese stood
there quietly
studying the scene. In the suite with him were half a
dozen men. "Has
anyone touched her?" Robinson shuddered. "No." "Who is
she?" "I
don't know."
Reese turned to look at the hotel manager. "A young girl
is found dead
in your Imperial Suite, and you don't have any idea who
she is? Doesn't
this hotel have a guest register?" "Of course, Detective,
but in this
case " He hesitated. "In this case ... ?" "The suite is
registered to
a Eugene Gant." "Who's Eugene Gant?" "I have no idea."
Detective
Reese was getting impatient. "Look. If someone booked
this suite, he
had to have paid for it... cash, credit card sheep
whatever. Whoever
checked this Gant in must have gotten a look at him. Who
checked him
in?" "Our day clerk, Gorman." "I want to talk to him."
"I I'm afraid
that's impossible." "Oh? Why?" "He left on his vacation
today."
"Call him." Robinson sighed. "He didn't say where he was
going."
"When will he be back?" "In two weeks." "I'll let you in
on a little
secret. I'm not planning to wait two weeks. I want some
information
now. Somebody must have seen someone entering or leaving
this suite."
"Not necessarily," Robinson said apologetically. "Besides
the regular
exit, this suite has a private elevator that goes directly
to the
basement garage.... I don't know what the fuss is all
about. It it was
obviously an accident. She was probably on drugs and took
an overdose
and tripped and fell." Another detective approached
Detective Reese.
"I checked the closets. Her dress is from the Gap, shoes
from the Wild
Pair. No help there." "There's nothing to identify her
at all?" "No.
If she had a purse, it's gone." Detective Reese studied
the body
again. He turned to a police officer standing there.
"Get me some
soap. Wet it." The police officer was staring at him.
"I'm sorry?"
"Wet soap." "Yes, sir." He hurried off. Detective Reese
knelt down
beside the body of the girl and studied the ring on her
finger. "It
looks like a school ring." A minute later, the police
officer returned
and handed Reese a bar of wet soap. Reese gently rubbed
the soap along
the girl's finger and carefully removed the ring. He
turned it from
side to side, examining it. "It's a class ring from
Denver High.
There are initials on it, P.Y." He turned to his partner.
"Check it
out. Call the school and find out who she is. Let's get
an ID on her
as fast as we can." Detective Ed Nelson, one of the
fingerprint men,
came up to Detective Reese. "Something damned weird is
going on, Nick.
We're picking up prints all over the place, and yet
someone took the
trouble to wipe the fingerprints off all the doorknobs."
"So someone
was here with her when she died. Why didn't he call a
doctor? Why did
he bother wiping out his fingerprints? And what the hell
is a young
kid doing in an expensive suite like this?" He turned to
Robinson.
"How was this suite paid for?" "Our records show that it
was paid for
in cash. A messenger delivered the envelope. The
reservation was made
over the phone." The coroner spoke up. "Can we move the
body now,
Nick?" "Just hold it a minute. Did you find any marks of
violence?"
"Only the trauma to the forehead. But of course we'll do
an autopsy."
"Any track marks?" "No. Her arms and legs are clean."
"Does it look
like she's been raped?" "We'll have to check that out."
Detective
Reese sighed. "So what we have here is a schoolgirl from
Denver who
comes to Washington and gets herself killed in one of the
most
expensive hotels in the city. Someone wipes out his
fingerprints and
disappears. The whole thing stinks. I want to know who
rented this
suite." He turned to the coroner. "You can take her out
now." He
looked at Detective Nelson. "Did you check the
fingerprints in the
private elevator?" "Yes. The elevator goes from this
suite directly
to the basement. There are only two buttons. Both
buttons have been
wiped clean."
"You checked the garage?" "Right. Nothing unusual down
there."
"Whoever did this went to a hell of a lot of trouble to
cover his
tracks. He's either someone with a record, or a V.I.P
who's been
playing games out of school." He turned to Robinson.
"Who usually
rents this suite?" Robinson said reluctantly, "It's
reserved for our
most important guests. Kings, prime ministers ..." He
hesitated.
"... Presidents." "Have any telephone calls been placed
from this
phone in the last twenty-four hours?" "I don't know."
Detective Reese
was getting irritated. "But you would have a record if
there was?"
"Of course." Detective Reese picked up the telephone.
"Operator, this
is Detective Nick Reese. I want to know if any calls were
made from
the Imperial Suite within the last twenty-four hours....
I'll wait."
He watched as the white-coated coroner's men covered the
naked girl
with a sheet and placed her on a gurney. Jesus Christ,
Reese thought.
She hadn't even begun to live yet. He heard the
operator's voice.
"Detective Reese?" "Yes." "There was one call placed
from the suite
yesterday. It was a local call." Reese took out a
notepad and pencil.
"What was the number? ...
Four-five-six-seven-zero-four-one?..." Reese
started to write the numbers down, then suddenly stopped.
He was
staring at the notepad. "Oh, shit!" "What's the matter?"
Detective
Nelson asked. Reese looked up. "That's the number of the
White
House."
Seventeen.
The next morning at breakfast, Jan asked, "Where were you
last night,
Oliver?" Oliver's heart skipped a beat. But she could
not possibly
have known what happened. No one could. No one. "I was
meeting with
" Jan cut him short. "The meeting was called off. But
you didn't get
home until three o'clock in the morning. I tried to reach
you. Where
were you?" "Well, something came up. Why? Did you need
? Was
something wrong?" "It doesn't matter now," Jan said
wearily. "Oliver,
you're not just hurting me, you're hurting yourself.
You've come so
far. I don't want to see you lose it all because because
you can't "
Her eyes filled with tears.
Oliver stood up and walked over to her. He put his arms
around her.
"It's all right, Jan. Everything's fine. I love you very
much."
And I do, Oliver thought, in my own way. What happened
last night
wasn't my fault. She was the one who called. I never
should have gone
to meet her. He had taken every possible precaution not
to be seen.
I'm in the clear, Oliver decided.
Peter Tager was worried about Oliver. He had learned that
it was
impossible to control Oliver Russell's libido, and he had
finally
worked out an arrangement with him. On certain nights,
Peter Tager set
up fictitious meetings for the president to attend, away
from the White
House, and arranged for the Secret Service escort to
disappear for a
few hours.
When Peter Tager had gone to Senator Davis to complain
about what was
happening, the senator had said calmly, "Well, after all,
Oliver is a
very hot-blooded man, Peter. Sometimes it's impossible to
control
passions like that. I deeply admire your morals, Peter.
I know how
much your family means to you, and how distasteful the
president's
behavior must seem to you. But let's not be too
judgmental. You just
keep on seeing that everything is handled as discreetly as
possible."
Detective Nick Reese hated going into the forbidding,
white-walled
autopsy room. It smelled of formaldehyde and death.
When he walked in the door, the coroner, Helen Chuan, a
petite,
attractive woman, was waiting for him. "Morning," Reese
said. "Have
you finished with the autopsy?" "I have a preliminary
report for you,
Nick. Jane Doe didn't die from her head injury. Her
heart stopped
before she hit the table. She died of an overdose of
methylenedioxymethamphe-tami. He sighed. "Don't do this
to me,
Helen." "Sorry. On the streets, it's called Ecstasy."
She handed him
a coroner's report. "Here's what we have so far."
AUTOPSY PROTOCOL
NAME OF DECEDENT: JANE DOE FILE No: C-Ix6l
ANATOMIC SUMMARY
I. DILATED AND HYPERTROPHIC CARDIOMYOPATHY
A. CARDIOMEGALY (750 GM)
B. LEFT VENTRICULAR HYPERTROPHY, HEART
(2.3 CM)
C. CONGESTIVE HEPATOMEGALY (2750 GM
D. CONGESTIVE SPLENOMEGALY (350 MG>
II. ACUTE OPIATE INTOXICATION
A. ACUTE PASSIVE CONGESTION, ALL VISCERA
III. TOXICOLOGY (SEE SEPARATE REPORT)
IV. BRAIN HEMORRHAGE (SEE SEPARATE REPORT) CONCLUSION:
(CAUSE OF
DEATH)
DILATED AND HYPERTROPHIC CARDIOMYOPATHY ACUTE OPIATE
INTOXICATION
Nick Reese looked up. "So if you translated this into
English, she
died of a drug overdose of Ecstasy?" "Yes." "Was she
sexually
assaulted?" Helen Chuan hesitated. "Her hymen had been
broken, and
there were traces of semen and a little blood along her
thighs." "So
she was raped." "I don't think so." "What do you mean
you don't think
so?" Reese frowned. "There were no signs of violence."
Detective
Reese was looking at her, puzzled. "What are you saying?"
"I think
that Jane Doe was a virgin. This was her first sexual
experience."
Detective Reese stood there, digesting the information.
Someone had
been able to persuade a virgin to go up to the Imperial
Suite and have
sex with him. It would have had to be someone she knew.
Or someone
famous or powerful. The telephone rang. Helen Chuan
picked it up.
"Coroner's office." She listened a moment, then handed
the phone to
the detective. "It's for you." Nick Reese took the
phone. "Reese."
His face brightened.
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Holbrook. Thanks for returning my call.
It's a class
ring from your school with the initials P.Y. on it. Do
you have a
female student with those initials?... I'd appreciate it.
Thank you.
I'll wait." He looked up at the coroner. "You're sure
she couldn't
have been raped?" "I found no signs of violence. None."
"Could she
have been penetrated after she died?" "I would say no."
Mrs.
Holbrook's voice came back on the phone. "Detective
Reese?" "Yes."
"According to our computer, we do have a female student
with the
initials P.Y. Her name is Pauline Young." "Could you
describe her for
me, Mrs. Holbrook?" "Why, yes. Pauline is eighteen.
She's short and
stocky, with dark hair...." "I see." Wrong girl. "And
that's the
only one?" "The only female, yes." He picked up on it.
"You mean you
have a male with those initials? "Yes. Paul Yerby. He's
a senior.
As a matter of fact, Paul happens to be in Washington,
D.C." right
now." Detective Reese's heart began to beat faster. "He's
here?"
"Yes. A class of students from Denver High is on a trip
to Washington
to visit the White House and Congress and " "And they're
all in the
city now?"
"That's right."
"Do you happen to know where they're staying?"
"At the Hotel Lombardy. They gave us a group rate there.
I talked
with several of the other hotels, but they wouldn't "
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Holbrook. I appreciate it."
Nick Reese replaced the receiver and turned to the
coroner. "Let me
know when the autopsy is complete, will you, Helen?"
"Of course. Good luck, Nick."
He nodded. "I think I've just had it."
The Hotel Lombardy is located on Pennsylvania Avenue, two
blocks from
Washington Circle and within walking distance of the White
House, some
monuments, and a subway station. Detective Reese walked
into the
old-fashioned lobby and approached the clerk behind the
desk. "Do you
have a Paul Yerby registered here?" "I'm sorry. We don't
give out "
Reese flashed his badge. "I'm in a big hurry, friend."
"Yes, sir."
The clerk looked through his guest register. "There's a
Mr. Yerby in
Room 315. Shall I ?" "No, I'll surprise him. Stay away
from the
phone." Reese took the elevator, got off on the third
floor, and
walked down the corridor. He stopped before Room 315. He
could hear
voices inside. He unfastened the button of his jacket and
knocked on
the door. It was opened by a boy in his late teens.
"Hello." "Paul Yerby?" "No." The boy turned to someone
in the room.
"Paul, someone for you." Nick Reese pushed his way into
the room. A
slim, tousle-haired boy in jeans and a sweater was coming
out of the
bathroom. "Paul Yerby?" "Yes. Who are you?" Reese
pulled out his
badge. "Detective Nick Reese. Homicide." The boy's
complexion turned
pale. "I what can I do for you?" Nick Reese could smell
the fear. He
took the dead girl's ring from his pocket and held it out.
"Have you
ever seen this ring before, Paul?" "No," Yerby said
quickly. "I " "It
has your initials on it." "It has? Oh. Yeah." He
hesitated. "I
guess it could be mine. I must have lost it somewhere."
"Or given it
to someone?" The boy licked his lips, "Uh, yeah. I might
have."
"Let's go downtown, Paul." The boy looked at him
nervously. "Am I
under arrest?" "What for?" Detective Reese asked. "Have
you
committed a crime?" "Of course not. I..." The words
trailed off.
"Then why would I arrest you?"
"I I don't know. I don't know why you want me to go
downtown."
He was eyeing the open door. Detective Reese reached out
and took a
grip on Paul's arm. "Let's go quietly."
The roommate said, "Do you want me to call your mother or
anybody,
Paul?"
Paul Yerby shook his head, miserable. "No. Don't call
anyone." His
voice was a whisper.
The Henry I. Daly Building at 300 Indiana Avenue, NW, in
downtown
Washington is an unprepossessing six-story gray brick
building that
serves as police headquarters for the district. The
Homicide Branch
office is on the third floor. While Paul Yerby was being
photographed
and fingerprinted, Detective Reese went to see Captain
Otto Miller. "I
think we got a break in the Monroe Arms case." Miller
leaned back in
his chair. "Go on." "I picked up the girl's boyfriend.
The kid's
scared out of his wits. We're going to question him now.
Do you want
to sit in?" Captain Miller nodded toward a pile of papers
heaped on
his desk. "I'm busy for the next few months. Give me a
report."
"Right." Detective Reese started toward the door. "Nick
be sure to
read him his rights."
Paul Yerby was brought into an interrogation room. It was
small, nine
by twelve, with a battered desk, four chairs, and a video
camera. There
was a one-way mirror so that officers could watch the
interrogation
from the next room.
Paul Yerby was facing Nick Reese and two other detectives,
Doug Hogan
and Edgar Bernstein. "You're aware that we're videotaping
this
conversation?" Detective Reese "Yes, sir." "You have the
right to an
attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be
appointed to
represent you." "Would you like to have a lawyer
present?" Detective
Bernstein "I don't need a lawyer." "All right. You have
a right to
remain silent. If you waive that right, anything you say
here can and
will be used against you in a court of law. Is that
clear?" "Yes,
sir." "What's your legal name?" "Paul Yerby." "Your
address?"
"Three-twenty Marion Street, Denver, Colorado. Look, I
haven't done
anything wrong."
"No one says you have. We're just trying to get some
information,
Paul. You'd like to help us, wouldn't you?" "Sure, but I
I don't know
what it's all about." "Don't you have any idea?" "No,
sir." "Do you
have any girlfriends, Paul?" "Well, you know..." "No, we
don't know.
Why don't you tell us?" "Well, sure. I see girls ..."
"You mean you
date girls? You take girls out?" "Yeah." "Do you date
any one
particular girl?" There was a silence. "Do you have a
girlfriend,
Paul?" "Yes." "What's her name?" Detective Bernstein
"Chloe."
"Chloe what?" Detective Reese "Chloe Houston." Reese
made a note.
"What's her address, Paul?" "Six-oh-two Oak Street,
Denver." "What
are her parents' names?" "She lives with her mother."
"And her name?"
"Jackie Houston. She's the governor of Colorado." The
detectives
looked at one another. Shit! That's all we need!
Reese held up a ring. "Is this your ring, Paul?" He
studied it a
moment, then said reluctantly, "Yeah." "Did you give
Chloe this ring?"
He swallowed nervously. "I I guess I did." "You're not
sure?" "I
remember now. Yes, I did." "You came to Washington with
some
classmates, right? Kind of a school group?" "That's
right." "Was
Chloe part of that group?" "Yes, sir." "Where's Chloe
now, Paul?"
Detective Bernstein "I I don't know." "When did you last
see her?"
Detective Hogan "I guess a couple of days ago." "Two days
ago?"
Detective Reese "Yeah." "And where was that?" Detective
Bernstein "In
the White House." The detectives looked at one another in
surprise.
"She was in the White House?" Reese asked. "Yes, sir.
We were all on
a private tour. Chloe's mother arranged it." "And Chloe
was with
you?" Detective Hogan "Yes." "Did anything unusual happen
on the
tour?" Detective Bernstein
"What do you mean?" "Did you meet or talk to anyone on
the tour?"
Detective Bernstein "Well, sure, the guide." "And that's
all?"
Detective Reese "That's right." "Was Chloe with the group
all the
time?" Detective Hogan "Yes " Yerby hesitated. "No. She
slipped away
to go to the ladies' room. She was gone about fifteen
minutes. When
she came back, she " He stopped. "She what?" Reese
asked. "Nothing.
She just came back." The boy was obviously lying. "Son,"
Detective
Reese asked, "do you know that Chloe Houston is dead?"
They were
watching him closely. "No! My God! How?" The surprised
look on his
face could have been feigned. "Don't you know?"
Detective Bernstein
"No! I I can't believe it." "You had nothing to do with
her death?"
Detective Hogan "Of course not! I love ... I loved
Chloe." "Did you
ever go to bed with her?" Detective Bernstein "No. We we
were
waiting. We were going to get married." "But sometimes
you did drugs
together?" Detective Reese
"No! We never did drugs." The door opened and a burly
detective,
Harry Carter, came into the room. He walked over to Reese
and
whispered something in his ear. Reese nodded. He sat
there staring at
Paul Yerby. "When was the last time you saw Chloe
Houston?" "I told
you, in the White House." He shifted uncomfortably in his
chair.
Detective Reese leaned forward. "You're in a lot of
trouble, Paul.
Your fingerprints are all over the Imperial Suite at the
Monroe Arms
Hotel. How did they get there?" Paul Yerby sat there,
pale-faced.
"You can quit lying now. We've got you nailed." "I I
didn't do
anything." "Did you book the suite at the Monroe Arms?"
Detective
Bernstein "No, I didn't." The emphasis was on the "I."
Detective
Reese pounced on it. "But you know who did?" "No." The
answer came
too quickly. "You admit you were in the suite?"
Detective Hogan "Yes,
but but Chloe was alive when I left." "Why did you
leave?" Detective
Hogan "She asked me to. She she was expecting someone."
"Come on,
Paul. We know you killed her." Detective Bernstein "No!"
He was
trembling. "I swear I had nothing to do with it. I I
just went up to
the suite with her. I only stayed a little while."
"Because she was expecting someone?" Detective Reese
"Yes. She she
was kind of excited." "Did she tell you who she was going
to meet?"
Detective Hogan He was licking his lips. "No." "You're
lying. She
did tell you." "You said she was excited. What about?"
Detective
Reese Paul licked his lips again. "About about the man
she was going
to meet there for dinner." "Who was the man, Paul?"
Detective
Bernstein "I can't tell you." "Why not?" Detective Hogan
"I promised
Chloe I would never tell anyone." "Chloe is dead." Paul
Yerby's eyes
filled with tears. "I just can't believe it." "Give us
the man's
name." Detective Reese "I can't do that. I promised."
"Here's what's
going to happen to you: You're going to spend tonight in
jail. In the
morning, if you give us the name of the man she was going
to meet,
we'll let you go. Otherwise, we're going to book you for
murder one."
Detective Reese They waited for him to speak. Silence.
Nick Reese
nodded to Bernstein. "Take him away."
Detective Reese returned to Captain Miller's office. "I
have bad news
and I have worse news." "I haven't time for this, Nick."
"The bad
news is that I'm not sure it was the boy who gave her the
drug. The
worse news is that the girl's mother is the governor of
Colorado."
"Oh, God! The papers will love this." Captain Miller took
a deep
breath. "Why don't you think the boy's guilty?" "He
admits he was in
the girl's suite, but he said she told him to leave
because she was
expecting someone. I think the kid's too smart to come up
with a story
that stupid. What I do believe is that he knows who Chloe
Houston was
expecting. He won't say who it was." "Do you have any
idea?" "It was
her first time in Washington, and they were on a tour of
the White
House. She didn't know anyone here. She said she was
going to the
ladies' room. There is no public rest room in the White
House. She
would have had to go outside to the Visitor's Pavilion on
the Ellipse
at I5th and E streets or to the White House Visitor
Center. She was
gone about fifteen minutes. What I think happened is that
while trying
to find a ladies' room, she ran into someone in the White
House,
someone she might have recognized. Maybe someone she saw
on TV.
Anyway, it must have been somebody important. He led her
to a private
washroom and impressed her enough that she agreed to meet
him at the
Monroe Arms." Captain Miller was thoughtful. "I'd better
call the
White
House. They asked to be kept up-to-date on this. Don't
let up on the
kid. I want that name."
"Right."
As Detective Reese walked out the door, Captain Miller
reached for the
telephone and dialed a number. A few minutes later, he
was saying,
"Yes, sir. We have a material witness in custody. He's
in a holding
cell at the Indiana Avenue police station.... We won't,
sir. I think
the boy will give us the man's name tomorrow.... Yes, sir.
I
understand." The line went dead.
Captain Miller sighed and went back to the pile of papers
on his
desk.
At eight o'clock the following morning, when Detective
Nick Reese went
to Paul Yerby's cell, Yerby's body was hanging from one of
the top
bars.
Eighteen.
DEAD 16-YEAR-OLD IDENTIFIED AS DAUGHTER OF COLORADO
GOVERNOR
BOYFRIEND
IN POLICE CUSTODY HANGS HIMSELF POLICE HUNT MYSTERY
WITNESS
He stared at the headlines and felt suddenly faint.
Sixteen years old.
She had looked older than that. What was he guilty of?
Murder?
Manslaughter, maybe. Plus statutory rape. He had watched
her come out
of the bathroom of the suite, wearing only a shy smile.
"I've never
done this before." And he had put his arms around her and
stroked her.
"I'm glad the first time is with me, honey." Earlier, he
had shared a
glass of liquid Ecstasy with her. "Drink this. It will
make you feel
good." They had made love, and afterward she had
complained about not
feeling well. She had gotten out of bed, stumbled, and
hit her head
against the table. An accident. Of course, the police
would not see
it that way. But there's nothing to connect me with her.
Nothing.
The whole episode had an air of unreality, a nightmare
that had
happened to someone else. Somehow, seeing it in print
made it real.
Through the walls of the office, he could hear the sound
of traffic on
Pennsylvania Avenue, outside the White House, and he
became aware again
of his surroundings. A cabinet meeting was scheduled to
begin in a few
minutes. He took a deep breath. Pull yourself together.
In the Oval Office were gathered Vice President Melvin
Wicks, Sime
Lombardo, and Peter Tager. Oliver walked in and sat
behind his desk.
"Good morning, gentlemen." There were general greetings.
Peter Tager
said, "Have you seen the Tribune, Mr. President?" "No."
"They've
identified the girl who died at the Monroe Arms Hotel.
I'm afraid it's
bad news." Oliver unconsciously stiffened in his chair.
"Yes?" "Her
name is Chloe Houston. She's the daughter of Jackie
Houston."
"Oh, my God!" The words barely escaped the president's
lips. They
were staring at him, surprised at his reaction. He
recovered quickly.
"I I knew Jackie Houston ... a long time ago. This this
is terrible
news. Terrible." Sime Lombardo said, "Even though
Washington crime is
not our responsibility, the Tribune is going to hammer us
on this."
Melvin Wicks spoke up. "Is there any way we can shut
Leslie Stewart
up?" Oliver thought of the passionate evening he had spent
with her.
"No," Oliver said. "Freedom of the press, gentlemen."
Peter Tager
turned to the president. "About the governor ... ?"
"I'll handle it."
He flicked down an intercom key. "Get me Governor Houston
in Denver."
"We've got to start some damage control," Peter Tager was
saying. "I'll
get together statistics on how much crime has gone down in
this
country, you've asked Congress for more money for our
police
departments, et cetera." The words sounded hollow even to
his own
ears. "This is terrible timing," Melvin Wicks said. The
intercom
buzzed. Oliver picked up the telephone. "Yes?" He
listened a moment,
then replaced the receiver. "The governor is on her way
to
Washington." He looked at Peter Tager. "Find out what
plane she's on,
Peter. Meet her and bring her here."
"Right. There's an editorial in the Tribune. It's pretty
rough."
Peter Tager handed Oliver the editorial page of the
newspaper.
PRESIDENT UNABLE TO CONTROL CRIME IN THE CAPITAL. "It
goes on from
there."
"Leslie Stewart is a bitch," Sime Lombardo said quietly.
"Someone
should have a little talk with her."
In his office at the Washington Tribune, Matt Baker was
rereading the
editorial attacking the president for being soft on crime
when Frank
Lonergan walked in. Lonergan was in his early forties, a
bright,
street-smart journalist who had at one time worked on the
police force.
He was one of the best investigative journalists in the
business.
"You wrote this editorial, Frank?"
"Yes," he said.
"This paragraph about crime going down twenty-five percent
in
Minnesota, that's still bothering me. Why did you just
talk about
Minnesota?"
Lonergan said, "It was a suggestion from the Ice
Princess."
"That's ridiculous," Matt Baker snapped. "I'll talk to
her."
Leslie Stewart was on the telephone when Matt Baker walked
into her
office. "I'll leave it to you to arrange the details, but
I want us to
raise as much money for him as we can. As a matter of
fact,
Senator Embry of Minnesota is stopping by for lunch today,
and I'll get
a list of names from him. Thank you." She replaced the
receiver.
"Matt." Matt Baker walked over to her desk. "I want to
talk to you
about this editorial." "It's good, isn't it?" "It
stinks, Leslie.
It's propaganda. The president's not responsible for
controlling crime
in Washington, D.C. We have a mayor who's supposed to do
that, and a
police force. And what's this crap about crime going down
twenty-five
percent in Minnesota? Where did you come up with those
statistics?"
Leslie Stewart leaned back and said calmly, "Matt, this is
my paper,
f'll say anything I want to say. Oliver Russell is a
lousy president,
and Gregory Embry would make a great one. We're going to
help him get
into the White House." She saw the expression on Mart's
face and
softened. "Come on, Matt. The Tribune is going to be on
the side of
the winner. Embry will be good for us. He's on his way
here now.
Would you like to join us for lunch?" "No. I don't like
people who
eat with their hands out." He turned and left the office.
In the
corridor outside, Matt Baker ran into Senator Embry. The
senator was
in his fifties, a self-important politician. "Oh,
Senator!
Congratulations." Senator Embry looked at him, puzzled,
"Thank you. Er
for what?"
"For bringing crime down twenty-five percent in your
state." And Matt
Baker walked away, leaving the senator looking after him
with a blank
expression on his face.
Lunch was in Leslie Stewart's antique-furnished dining
room. A chef
was working in the kitchen preparing lunch as Leslie and
Senator Embry
walked in. The captain hurried up to greet them.
"Luncheon is ready
whenever you wish, Miss Stewart. Would you care for a
drink?" "Not
for me," Leslie said. "Senator?" "Well, I don't usually
drink during
the day, but I'll have a martini." Leslie Stewart was
aware that
Senator Embry drank a lot during the day. She had a
complete file on
him. He had a wife and five children and kept a Japanese
mistress.
His hobby was secretly funding a paramilitary group in his
home state.
None of this was important to Leslie. What mattered was
that Gregory
Embry was a man who believed in letting big business alone
and
Washington Tribune Enterprises was big business. Leslie
intended to
make it bigger, and when Embry was president, he was going
to help her.
They were seated at the dining table. Senator Embry took
a sip of his
second martini. "I want to thank you for the fundraiser,
Leslie.
That's a nice gesture." She smiled warmly. "It's my
pleasure. I'll do
everything I can to help you beat Oliver Russell."
"Well, I think I stand a pretty good chance."
"I think so, too. The people are getting tired of him and
his
scandals. My guess is that if there's one more scandal
between now and
election, they'll throw him out."
Senator Embry studied her a moment. "Do you think there
will be?"
Leslie nodded and said softly, "I wouldn't be surprised."
The lunch was delicious.
The call came from Antonio Valdez, an assistant in the
coroner's
office. "Miss Stewart, you said you wanted me to keep you
informed
about the Chloe Houston case?" "Yes ..." "The cops asked
us to keep a
lid on it, but since you've been such a good friend, I
thought " "Don't
worry. You'll be taken care of. Tell me about the
autopsy." "Yes,
ma'am. The cause of death was a drug called Ecstasy."
"What?"
"Ecstasy. She took it in liquid form." "I have a little
surprise for
you that I want you to try.... This is liquid Ecstasy....
A friend of
mine gave me this...." And the woman who had been found
in the
Kentucky River had died of an overdose of liquid Ecstasy.
Leslie sat
there motionless, her heart pounding. There is a God.
Leslie sent for Frank Lonergan, "I want you to follow up
on the death
of Chloe Houston. I think the president is involved."
Frank Lonergan was staring at her incredulously. "The
president?"
"There's a cover-up going on. I'm convinced of it. That
boy they
arrested, who conveniently committed suicide ... dig into
that. And I
want you to check on the president's movements the
afternoon and
evening of her death. I want this to be a private
investigation. Very
private. You'll report only to me."
Frank Lonergan took a deep breath. "You know what this
could mean?"
"Get started. And Frank?"
"Yes?"
"Check the Internet for a drug called Ecstasy. And look
for a
connection with Oliver Russell."
In a medical Internet site devoted to the hazards of the
drug, Lonergan
found the story of Miriam Friedland, the former secretary
to Oliver
Russell. She was in a hospital in Frankfort, Kentucky.
Lonergan
telephoned to inquire about her. A doctor said, "Miss
Friedland passed
away two days ago. She never recovered from her coma."
Frank Lonergan put in a telephone call to the office of
Governor
Houston.
"I'm sorry," her secretary told him, "Governor Houston is
on her way to
Washington."
Ten minutes later, Frank Lonergan was on his way to
National Airport.
He was too late.
As the passengers descended from the plane, Lonergan saw
Peter Tager
approach an attractive blonde in her forties and greet
her. The two of
them talked for a moment, and then Tager led her to a
waiting
limousine.
Watching in the distance, Lonergan thought, I've got to
talk to that
lady. He headed back toward town and began making calls
on his car
phone. On the third call, he learned that Governor
Houston was
expected at the Four Seasons Hotel.
When Jackie Houston was ushered into the private study
next to the Oval
Office, Oliver Russell was waiting for her. He took her
hands in his
and said, "I'm so terribly sorry, Jackie. There are no
words." It had
been almost seventeen years since he had last seen her.
They had met
at a lawyers' convention in Chicago. She had just gotten
out of law
school. She was young and attractive and eager, and they
had had a
brief, torrid affair. Seventeen years ago. And Chloe was
sixteen
years old.
He dared not ask Jackie the question in his mind. I don't
want to
know. They looked at each other in silence, and for a
moment Oliver
thought she was going to speak of the past. He looked
away. Jackie
Houston said, "The police think Paul Yerby had something
to do with
Chloe's death." "That's right." "No." "No?" "Paul was
in love with
Chloe. He never would have harmed her." Her voice broke.
"They they
were going to get married one day." "According to my
information,
Jackie, they found the boy's fingerprints in the hotel
room where she
was killed." Jackie Houston said, "The newspapers said
that it... that
it happened in the Imperial Suite at the Monroe Arms."
"Yes."
"Oliver, Chloe was on a small allowance. Paul's father
was a retired
clerk. Where did Chloe get the money for the Imperial
Suite?" "I I
don't know." "Someone has to find out. I won't leave
until I know who
is responsible for the death of my daughter." She
frowned. "Chloe had
an appointment to see you that afternoon. Did you see
her?" There was
a brief hesitation. "No. I wish I had. Unfortunately,
an emergency
came up, and I had to cancel our appointment."
In an apartment at the other end of town, lying in bed,
their naked
bodies spooned together, he could feel the tension in her.
"Are you
okay, Jo Ann?" "I'm fine, Alex." "You seem far away,
baby. What are
you thinking about?" "Nothing," JoAnn McGrath said.
"Nothing?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I was thinking about that poor
little girl
who was murdered at the hotel." "Yeah, I read about it.
She was some
governor's daughter." "Yes." "Do the police know who she
was with?"
"No. They were all over the hotel questioning everybody."
"You, too?"
"Yeah. All I could tell them was about the telephone
call." "What
telephone call?" "The one someone in that suite made to
the White
House." He was suddenly still. He said casually, "That
doesn't mean
anything. Everybody gets a kick out of calling the White
House. Do
that to me again, baby. Got any more maple syrup?"
Frank Lonergan had just returned to his office from the
airport when
the phone rang. "Lonergan."
"Hello, Mr. Lonergan. This is Shallow Throat." Alex
Cooper, a
small-time parasite who fancied himself a Watergate-class
tipster. It
was his idea of a joke. "Are you still paying for hot
tips?"
"Depends on how hot."
"This one will burn your ass. I want five thousand
dollars for it."
"Goodbye."
"Wait a minute. Don't hang up. It's about that girl who
was murdered
at the Monroe Arms."
Frank Lonergan was suddenly interested. "What about her?"
"Can you and me meet somewhere?"
"I'll see you at Ricco's in half an hour."
At two o'clock, Frank Lonergan and Alex Cooper were in a
booth at
Ricco's. Alex Cooper was a thin weasel of a man, and
Lonergan hated
doing business with him. Lonergan wasn't sure where
Cooper got his
information, but he had been very helpful in the past. "I
hope you're
not wasting my time," Lonergan said. "Oh, I don't think
it's a waste
of time. How would you feel if I told you there's a White
House
connection to the girl's murder?" There was a smug smile
on his
face.
Frank Lonergan managed to conceal his excitement. "Go
on."
"Five thousand dollars?"
"One thousand."
"Two."
"You have a deal. Talk."
"My girlfriend's a telephone operator at the Monroe Arms."
"What's her name?"
"JoAnn McGrath."
Lonergan made a note. "So?"
"Someone in the Imperial Suite made a telephone call to
the White House
during the time the girl was there."
"I think the president is involved," Leslie Stewart had
said. "Are you
sure about this?"
"Horse's mouth."
"I'll check it out. If it's true, you'll get your money.
Have you
mentioned this to anyone else?"
"Nope."
"Good. Don't." Lonergan rose. "We'll keep in touch."
"There's one more thing," Cooper said.
Lonergan stopped. "Yes?"
"You've got to keep me out of this. I don't want JoAnn to
know that I
talked to anyone about it."
"No problem."
And Alex Cooper was alone, thinking about how he was going
to spend the
two thousand dollars without JoAnn's knowing about it.
T7O
The Monroe Arms switchboard was in a cubicle behind the
lobby reception
desk. When Lonergan walked in carrying a clipboard, JoAnn
McGrath was
on duty. She was saying into the mouthpiece, "I'm ringing
for you."
She connected a call and turned to Lonergan. "Can I help
you?"
"Telephone Company," Lonergan said. He flashed some
identification.
"We have a problem here." JoAnn McGrath looked at him,
surprised.
"What kind of problem?" "Someone reported that they're
being charged
for calls they didn't make." He pretended to consult the
clipboard.
"October fifteenth. They were charged for a call to
Germany, and they
don't even know anyone in Germany. They're pretty teed
off." "Well, I
don't know anything about that," JoAnn said indignantly.
"I don't even
remember placing any calls to Germany in the last month."
"Do you have
a record of the fifteenth?" "Of course." "I'd like to
see it." "Very
well." She found a folder under a pile of papers and
handed it to him.
The switchboard was buzzing. While she attended to the
calls, Lonergan
quickly went through the folder. October I2th ... i3th
... i4th ...
i6th ... The page for the fifteenth was missing.
Frank Lonergan was waiting in the lobby of the Four
Seasons when Jackie
Houston returned from the White House. "Governor
Houston?" She
turned. "Yes?" "Frank Lonergan. I'm with the Washington
Tribune. I
want to tell you how sorry all of us are, Governor."
"Thank you." "I
wonder if I could talk to you for a minute?" "I'm really
not in the "
"I might be able to be helpful." He nodded toward the
lounge off the
main lobby. "Could we go in there for a moment?" She took
a deep
breath. "All right." They walked into the lounge and sat
down. "I
understand that your daughter went on a tour of the White
House the day
she..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
"Yes. She
she was on a tour with her school friends. She was very
excited about
meeting the president." Lonergan kept his voice casual.
"She was
going to see President Russell?" "Yes. I arranged it.
We're old
friends." "And did she see him, Governor Houston?" "No.
He wasn't
able to see her." Her voice was choked. "There's one
thing I'm sure
of." "Yes, ma'am."
"Paul Yerby didn't kill her. They were in love with each
other."
"But the police said "
"I don't care what they said. They arrested an innocent
boy, and he he
was so upset that he hanged himself. It's awful."
Frank Lonergan studied her for a moment. "If Paul Yerby
didn't kill
your daughter, do you have any idea who might have? I
mean, did she
say anything about meeting anyone in Washington?"
"No. She didn't know a soul here. She was so looking
forward to ...
to ..." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry. You'll
have to
excuse me."
"Of course. Thanks for your time, Governor Houston."
Lonergan's next stop was at the morgue. Helen Chuan was
just coming
out of the autopsy room. "Well, look who's here." "Hi,
Doc." "What
brings you down here, Frank?" "I wanted to talk to you
about Paul
Yerby." Helen Chuan sighed. "It's a damn shame. Those
kids were both
so young." "Why would a boy like that commit suicide?"
Helen Chuan
shrugged. "Who knows?" "I mean are you sure he committed
suicide?"
"If he didn't, he gave a great imitation. His belt was
wrapped around
his neck so tightly that they had to cut it in half to
bring him
down."
"There were no other marks or anything on his body that
might have
suggested foul play?"
She looked at him, curious. "No."
Lonergan nodded. "Okay. Thanks. You don't want to keep
your patients
waiting."
"Very funny."
There was a phone booth in the outside corridor. From the
Denver
information operator, Lonergan got the number of Paul
Yerby's parents.
Mrs. Yerby answered the phone. Her voice sounded weary.
"Hello."
"Mrs. Yerby?" "Yes." "I'm sorry to bother you. This is
Frank
Lonergan. I'm with the Washington Tribune. I wanted to "
"I can't..."
A moment later, Mr. Yerby was on the line. "I'm sorry.
My wife is
... Newspapers have been bothering us all morning. We
don't want to "
"This will only take a minute, Mr. Yerby. There are some
people in
Washington who don't believe your son killed Chloe
Houston." "Of
course he didn't!" His voice suddenly became stronger.
"Paul could
never, never have done anything like that."
"Did Paul have any friends in Washington, Mr. Yerby?"
"No. He didn't
know anyone there." "I see. Well, if there's anything I
can do ..."
"There is something you can do for us, Mr. Lonergan.
We've arranged
to have Paul's body shipped back here, but I'm not sure
how to get his
possessions. We'd like to have whatever he ... If you
could tell me
who to talk to ..." "I can handle that for you." "We'd
appreciate it.
Thank you."
In the Homicide Branch office, the sergeant on duty was
opening a
carton containing Paul Yerby's personal effects. "There's
not much in
it," he said. "Just the kid's clothes and a camera."
Lonergan reached into the box and picked up a black
leather belt.
It was uncut.
When Frank Lonergan walked into the office of President
Russell's
appointments secretary, Deborah Kanner, she was getting
ready to leave
for lunch. "What can I do for you, Frank?" "I've got a
problem,
Deborah." "What else is new?" Frank Lonergan pretended
to look at
some notes. "I have information that on October fifteenth
the
president had a secret meeting here with an emissary from
China to talk
about Tibet."
"I don't know of any such meeting."
"Could you just check it out for me?"
"What did you say the date was?"
"October fifteenth." Loriergan watched as Deborah pulled
an
appointment book from a drawer and skimmed through it.
"October fifteenth? What time was this meeting supposed
to be?"
"Ten P.M." here in the Oval Office."
She shook her head. "Nope. At ten o'clock that night the
president
was in a meeting with General Whitman."
Lonergan frowned. "That's not what I heard. Could I have
a look at
that book?"
"Sorry. It's confidential, Frank."
"Maybe I got a bum steer. Thanks, Deborah." He left.
Thirty minutes later, Frank Lonergan was talking to
General Steve
Whitman. "General, the Tribune would like to do some
coverage on the
meeting you had with the president on October fifteenth.
I understand
some important points were discussed." The general shook
his head. "I
don't know where you get your information, Mr. Lonergan.
That meeting
was called off. The president had another appointment."
"Are you
sure?"
"Yes. We're going to reschedule it." "Thank you,
General."
Frank Lonergan returned to the White House. He walked
into Deborah
Kanner's office again. "What is it this time, Frank?"
"Same thing,"
Lonergan said ruefully. "My informant swears that at ten
o'clock on
the night of October fifteenth the president was here in a
meeting with
a Chinese emissary to discuss Tibet." She looked at him,
exasperated.
"How many times do I have to tell you that there was no
such meeting?"
Lonergan sighed. "Frankly, I don't know what to do. My
boss really
wants to run that story. It's big news. I guess we'll
just have to go
with it." He started toward the door. "Wait a minute!"
He turned.
"Yes?" "You can't run that story. It's not true. The
president will
be furious." "It's not my decision." Deborah hesitated.
"If I can
prove to you that he was meeting with General Whitman,
will you forget
about it?" "Sure. I don't want to cause any problems."
Lonergan
watched Deborah pull the appointment book out again and
flip the pages.
"Here's a list of the president's appointments for that
date. Look.
October fifteenth." There were two pages of listings.
Deborah pointed
to a 10:00 P.M. entry. "There it is, in black and white."
"You're
right," Lonergan said. He was busy scanning the page.
There was an
entry at three o'clock. Chloe Houston.
Nineteen.
The hastily called meeting in the Oval Office had been
going on for
only a few minutes and the air was already crackling with
dissension.
The secretary of defense was saying, "If we delay any
longer, the
situation is going to get completely out of control. It
will be too
late to stop it." "We can't rush into this." General
Stephen Gossard
turned to the head of the CIA. "How hard is your
information?" "It's
difficult to say. We're fairly certain that Libya is
buying a variety
of weapons from Iran and China." Oliver turned to the
secretary of
state. "Libya denies it?" "Of course. So do China and
Iran." Oliver
asked, "What about the other Arab states?"
The CIA chief responded. "From the information I have,
Mr. President,
if a serious attack is launched on Israel, I think it's
going to be the
excuse that all the other Arab states have been waiting
for. They'll
join in to wipe Israel out."
They were all looking at Oliver expectantly. "Do you have
reliable
assets in Libya?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I want an update. Keep me informed. If there are signs
of an attack,
we have no choice but to move."
The meeting was adjourned.
Oliver's secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Mr.
Tager would
like to see you, Mr. President."
"Have him come in."
"How did the meeting go?" Peter Tager asked. "Oh, it was
just your
average meeting," Oliver said bitterly, "about whether I
want to start
a war now or later." Tager said sympathetically, "It goes
with the
territory." "Right." "Something of interest has come
up." "Sit
down." Peter Tager took a seat. "What do you know about
the United
Arab Emirates?" "Not a lot," Oliver said. "Five or six
Arab states
got together twenty years ago or so and formed a
coalition." "Seven of
them. They joined together in 1971. Abu Dhabi, Fujaira,
Dubai,
Sharjah, Ras al-Khaimah, Umm al-Qaiwan, and
Ajman. When they started out, they weren't very strong,
but the
Emirates have been incredibly well run. Today they have
one of the
world's highest standards of living. Their gross domestic
product last
year was over thirty-nine billion dollars."
Oliver said impatiently, "I assume there's a point to
this, Peter?"
"Yes, sir. The head of the council of the United Arab
Emirates wants
to meet with you."
"All right. I'll have the secretary of defense "
"Today. In private."
"Are you serious? I couldn't possibly "
"Oliver, the Majus their council is one of the most
important Arab
influences in the world. It has the respect of every
other Arab
nation. This could be an important breakthrough. I know
this is
unorthodox, but I think you should meet with them."
"State would have a fit if I "
"I'll make the arrangements."
There was a long silence. "Where do they want to meet?"
"They have a yacht anchored in Chesapeake Bay, near
Annapolis. I can
get you there quietly."
Oliver sat there, studying the ceiling. Finally, he
leaned forward and
pressed down the intercom switch. "Cancel my appointments
for this
afternoon."
The yacht, a 212-foot Feadship, was moored at the dock.
They were
waiting for him. All the crew members were Arabs.
"Welcome, Mr. President." It was Ali al-Fulani, the
secretary at one
of the United Arab Emirates. "Please come aboard."
Oliver stepped
aboard and Ali al-Fulani signaled to one of the men. A
few moments
later, the yacht was underway. "Shall we go below?"
Right. Where I
can be killed or kidnapped. This is the stupidest thing I
have ever
done, Oliver decided. Maybe they brought me here so they
can begin
their attack on Israel, and I won't be able to give orders
to
retaliate. Why the hell did I let Tager talk me into
this? Oliver
followed Ali al-Fulani downstairs into the sumptuous main
saloon, which
was decorated in Middle Eastern style. There were four
muscular Arabs
standing on guard in the saloon. An imposing-looking man
seated on the
couch rose as Oliver came in. Ali al-Fulani said, "Mr.
President, His
Majesty King Hamad of Ajman." The two men shook hands.
"Your
Majesty." "Thank you for coming, Mr. President. Would
you care for
some tea?" "No, thank you." "I believe you will find this
visit well
worth your while." King Hamad began to pace. "Mr.
President, over
the centuries, it has been difficult, if not impossible,
to bridge the
problems that divide us philosophical, linguistic,
religious, cultural.
Those are the reasons there have been so many wars in our
part of the
world. If Jews confiscate the land of Palestinians, no
one in Omaha or
Kansas is affected. Their lives go on the same. If a
synagogue in
Jerusalem is bombed, the Italians in Rome and Venice pay
no attention."
Oliver wondered where this was heading. Was it a warning
of a coming
war? "There is only one part of the world that suffers
from all the
wars and bloodshed in the Middle East. And that is the
Middle East."
He sat down across from Oliver. "It is time for us to put
a stop to
this madness." Here it comes, Oliver thought. "The heads
of the Arab
states and the Majlis have authorized me to make you an
offer." "What
kind of an offer?" "An offer of peace." Oliver blinked.
"Peace?"
"We want to make peace with your ally, Israel. Your
embargoes against
Iran and other Arab countries have cost us untold billions
of dollars.
We want to put an end to that. If the United States will
act as a
sponsor, the Arab countries including Iran, Libya, and
Syria have
agreed to sit down and negotiate a permanent peace treaty
with Israel."
Oliver was stunned. When he found his voice, he said,
"You're doing
this because " "I assure you it is not out of love for the
Israelis or
for the Americans. It is in our own interests. Too many
of our sons
have been killed in this madness. We want it to end. It
is enough. We
want to be free to sell all our oil to the world again.
We are
prepared to go to war if necessary, but we would prefer
peace."
Oliver took a deep breath. "I think I would like some
tea."
"I wish you had been there," Oliver said to Peter Tager.
"It was
incredible. They're ready to go to war, but they don't
want to.
They're pragmatists. They want to sell their oil to the
world, so they
want peace."
"That's fantastic," Tager said enthusiastically. "When
this gets out,
you're going to be a hero."
"And I can do this on my own," Oliver told him. "It
doesn't have to go
through Congress. I'll have a talk with the Prime
Minister of Israel.
We'll help him make a deal with the Arab countries." He
looked at
Tager and said ruefully, "For a few minutes there, I
thought I was
going to be kidnapped."
"No chance," Peter Tager assured him. "I had a boat and a
helicopter
following you."
"Senator Davis is here to see you, Mr. President. He has
no
appointment, but he says it's urgent."
"Hold up my next appointment and send the senator in."
The door opened
and Todd Davis walked into the Oval
Office.
"This is a nice surprise, Todd. Is everything all right?"
Senator
Davis took a seat. "Fine, Oliver. I just thought you and
I should
have a little chat."
9Q4
Oliver smiled. "I have a pretty full schedule today, but
for you "
"This will take only a few minutes. I ran into Peter
Tager. He told
me about your meeting with the Arabs." Oliver grinned.
"Isn't that
wonderful? It looks like we're finally going to have
peace in the
Middle East." He slammed a fist on the desk. "After all
these
decades! That's what my administration is going to be
remembered for,
Todd." Senator Davis asked quietly, "Have you thought
this through,
Oliver?" Oliver frowned. "What? What do you mean?"
"Peace is a
simple word, but it has a lot of ramifications. Peace
doesn't have any
financial benefits. When there's a war, countries buy
billions of
dollars' worth of armaments that are made here in the
United States. In
peacetime, they don't need any. Because Iran can't sell
its oil, oil
prices are up, and the United States gets the benefit of
that." Oliver
was listening to him unbelievingly. "Todd this is the
opportunity of a
lifetime!" "Don't be naive, Oliver. If we had really
wanted to make
peace between Israel and the Arab countries, we could have
done it long
ago. Israel is a tiny country. Any one of the last
half-dozen
presidents could have forced them to make a deal with the
Arabs, but
they preferred to keep things as they were. Don't
misunderstand me.
Jews are fine people. I work with some of them in the
Senate." "I
don't believe that you can " "Believe what you like,
Oliver. A peace
treaty now would not be in the best interest of this
country. I don't
want you to go ahead with it."
"I have to go ahead with it."
"Don't tell me what you have to do, Oliver." Senator
Davis leaned
forward. "I'll tell you. Don't forget who put you in
that chair."
Oliver said quietly, "Todd, you may not respect me, but
you must
respect this office. Regardless of who put me here, I'm
the
president."
Senator Davis got to his feet. "The president? You're a
fucking
blow-up toy! You're my dummy, Oliver. You take orders,
you don't give
them."
Oliver looked at him for a long moment. "How many oil
fields do you
and your friends own, Todd?"
"That's none of your goddam business. If you go through
with this,
you're finished. Do you hear me? I'm giving you
twenty-four hours to
come to your senses."
At dinner that evening, Jan said, "Father asked me to talk
to you,
Oliver. He's very upset." He looked across the table at
his wife and
thought, I'm going to have to fight you, too. "He told me
what was
happening." "Did he?" "Yes." She leaned across the
table. "And I
think what you're going to do is wonderful."
It took a moment for Oliver to understand. "But your
father's against
it."
"I know. And he's wrong. If they're willing to make
peace you have to
help."
Oliver sat there listening to Jan's words, studying her.
He thought
about how well she had handled herself as the First Lady.
She had
become involved in important charities and had been an
advocate for a
half-dozen major causes. She was lovely and intelligent
and caring and
it was as though Oliver were seeing her for the first
time. Why have I
been running around? Oliver thought. I have everything I
need right
here.
"Will it be a long meeting tonight?"
"No," Oliver said slowly. "I'm going to cancel it. I'm
staying
home."
That evening, Oliver made love to Jan for the first time
in weeks, and
it was wonderful. And in the morning, he thought, I'm
going to have
Peter get rid of the apartment.
The note was on his desk the next morning. I want you to
know that I
am a real fan of yours, and I would not do anything to
harm you. I was
in the garage of the Monroe Arms on the iph, and I was
very surprised
to see you there. The next day when I read about the
murder of that
young girl, I knew why you went back to wipe your
fingerprints off the
elevator but tons. I'm sure that all the newspapers would
be
interested in my story and would pay me a lot of money.
But like I
said, I'm a fan of yours. I certainly would not want to
do anything to
hurt you. I could use some financial help, and if you are
interested,
this will be just between us. I will get in touch with
you in a few
days while you think about it.
Sincerely, A friend
"Jesus," Sime Lombardo said softly. "This is incredible.
How was it
delivered?"
"It was mailed," Peter Tager told him. "Addressed to the
president,
"Personal." "
Sime Lombardo said, "It could be some nut who's just
trying to "
"We can't take a chance, Sime. I don't believe for a
minute that it's
true, but if even a whisper of this gets out, it would
destroy the
president. We must protect him."
"How do we do that?"
"First, we have to find out who sent this."
Peter Tager was at the Federal Bureau of Investigation
headquarters at
loth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, talking to Special
Agent Clay
Jacobs. "You said it was urgent, Peter?" "Yes." Peter
Tager opened a
briefcase and took out a single sheet of paper. He slid
it across the
desk. Clay Jacobs picked it up and read it aloud:
" "I want you to know that I'm a real fan of yours.... I
will get in
touch with you in a few days while you think about it." "
Everything in between had been whited out.
Jacobs looked up. "What is this?"
"It involves the highest security," Peter Tager said.
"The president
asked me to try to find out who sent it. He would like
you to check it
for fingerprints."
Clay Jacobs studied the paper again, frowning. "This is
highly
unusual, Peter."
"Why?"
"It just smells wrong."
"All the president wants is for you to give him the name
of the
individual who wrote it."
"Assuming his fingerprints are on it."
Peter Tager nodded. "Assuming his fingerprints are on
it."
"Wait here." Jacobs rose and left the office.
Peter Tager sat there looking out the window, thinking
about the letter
and its possible terrible consequences.
Exactly seven minutes later, Clay Jacobs returned.
"You're in luck," he said.
Peter Tager's heart began to race. "You found something?"
"Yes." Jacobs handed Tager a slip of paper. "The man
you're looking
for was involved in a traffic accident about a year ago.
His name is
Carl Gorman. He works as a clerk at the Monroe Arms." He
stood there
a moment, studying Tager. "Is there anything else you'd
like to tell
me about this?" "No," Peter Tager said sincerely. "There
isn't."
"Frank Lonergan is on line three, Miss Stewart. He says
it's
urgent."
"I'll take it." Leslie picked up the telephone and
pressed a button.
"Frank?"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
She heard him take a deep breath. "Okay. Here we go."
He spoke for
the next ten minutes without interruption.
Leslie Stewart hurried into Matt Baker's office. "We have
to talk,
Matt." She sat down across from his desk. "What if I
told you that
Oliver Russell is involved in the murder of Chloe
Houston?" "For
openers, I'd say you are paranoid and that you've gone
over the edge."
"Frank Lonergan just phoned in. He talked to Governor
Houston, who
doesn't believe that Paul Yerby killed her daughter. He
talked to Paul
Yerby's parents. They don't believe it either." "I
wouldn't expect
them to," Matt Baker said. "If that's the only " "That's
just the
beginning. Frank went down to the morgue and spoke to the
coroner. She
told him that the kid's belt was so tight that they had to
cut it away
from his throat." He was listening more intently now.
"And ?" "Frank
went down to pick up Yerby's belongings. His belt was
there. Intact."
Matt Baker drew a deep breath. "You're telling me that he
was murdered
in prison and that there was a cover-up?" "I'm not
telling you
anything. I'm just reporting the facts. Oliver Russell
tried to get
me to use Ecstasy once. When he was running for governor,
a woman who
was a legal secretary died from Ecstasy. While he was
governor, his
secretary was found in a park in an Ecstasy-induced coma.
Lonergan
learned that Oliver called the hospital and suggested they
take her off
life-support systems." Leslie leaned forward. "There was
a telephone
call from the Imperial Suite to the White House the night
Chloe Houston
was murdered. Frank checked the hotel telephone records.
The page for
the fifteenth was missing. The president's appointments
secretary told
Lonergan that the president had a meeting with General
Whitman that
night. There was no meeting. Frank spoke to Governor
Houston, and she
said that Chloe was on a tour of the White House and that
she had
arranged for her daughter to meet the president." There
was a long
silence. "Where's Frank Lonergan now?" Matt Baker asked.
"He's
tracking down Carl Gorman, the hotel clerk who booked the
Imperial
Suite."
Jeremy Robinson was saying, "I'm sorry. We don't give out
personal
information about our employees." Frank Lonergan said,
"All I'm asking
for is his home address so I can " "It wouldn't do you any
good. Mr.
Gorman is on vacation." Lonergan sighed. "That's too
bad. I was
hoping he could fill in a few blank spots." "Blank
spots?" "Yes.
We're doing a big story on the death of Governor Houston's
daughter in
your hotel. Well, I'll just have to piece it together
without Gorman."
He took out a pad and a pen. "How long has this hotel
been here? I
want to know all about its background, its clientele, its
" Jeremy
Robinson frowned. "Wait a minute! Surely that's not
necessary. I
mean she could have died anywhere." Frank Lonergan said
sympathetically, "I know, but it happened here. Your
hotel is going to
become as famous as Watergate." "Mr. ?" "Lonergan."
"Mr. Lonergan,
I would appreciate it if you could I mean this kind of
publicity is
very bad. Isn't there some way ?" Lonergan was
thoughtful for a
moment. "Well, if I spoke to Mr. Gorman, I suppose I
could find a
different angle." "I would really appreciate that. Let
me get you his
address."
Frank Lonergan was becoming nervous. As the outline of
events began to
take shape, it became clear that there was a murder
conspiracy and a
cover-up at the highest level. Before he went to see the
hotel clerk,
he decided to stop at his apartment house. His wife,
Rita, was in the
kitchen preparing dinner. She was a petite redhead with
sparkling
green eyes and a fair complexion. She turned in surprise
as her
husband walked in. "Frank, what are you doing home in the
middle of
the day?" "Just thought I'd drop in and say hello." She
looked at his
face. "No. There's something going on. What is it?" He
hesitated.
"How long has it been since you've seen your mother?" "I
saw her last
week. Why?" "Why don't you go visit her again, honey?"
"Is anything
wrong?" He grinned. "Wrong?" He walked over to the
mantel. "You'd
better start dusting this off. We're going to put a
Pulitzer Prize
here and a Peabody Award here." "What are you talking
about?" "I'm on
to something that's going to blow everybody away and I
mean people in
high places. It's the most exciting story I've ever been
involved
in."
"Why do you want me to go see my mother?"
He shrugged. "There's just an outside chance that this
could get to be
a little dangerous. There are some people who don't want
this story to
get out. I'd feel better if you were away for a few days,
just until
this breaks."
"But if you're in danger "
"I'm not in any danger."
"You're sure nothing's going to happen to you?"
"Positive. Pack a few things, and I'll call you tonight."
"All right," Rita said reluctantly.
Lonergan looked at his watch. "I'll drive you to the
train station."
One hour later, Lonergan stopped in front of a modest
brick house in
the Wheaton area. He got out of the car, walked to the
front door, and
rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again and
waited. The
door suddenly swung open and a heavyset middle-aged woman
stood in the
doorway, regarding him suspiciously. "Yes?" "I'm with
the Internal
Revenue Service," Lonergan said. He flashed a piece of
identification.
"I want to see Carl Gorman." "My brother's not here."
"Do you know
where he is?" "No." Too fast. Lonergan nodded. "That's
a shame.
Well, you might as well start packing up his things. I'll
have the
department send over the vans." Lonergan started back
down the
driveway toward his car. "Wait a minute! What vans?
What are you
talking about?" Lonergan stopped and turned. "Didn't
your brother
tell you?" "Tell me what?" Lonergan took a few steps
back toward the
house. "He's in trouble." She looked at him anxiously.
"What kind of
trouble?" "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss it."
He shook his
head. "He seems like a nice guy, too." "He is," she said
fervently.
"Carl is a wonderful person." Lonergan nodded. "That was
my feeling
when we were questioning him down at the bureau." She was
panicky.
"Questioning him about what?" "Cheating on his income
tax. It's too
bad. I wanted to tell him about a loophole that could
have helped him
out, but " He shrugged. "If he's not here..." He turned
to go again.
"Wait! He's he's at a fishing lodge. I I'm not supposed
to tell
anybody." He shrugged. "That's okay with me." "No ...
but this is
different. It's the Sunshine Fishing Lodge on the lake in
Richmond,
Virginia." "Fine. I'll contact him there." "That would
be wonderful.
You're sure he'll be all right?" "Absolutely," Lonergan
said. "I'll
see that he's taken care of."
Lonergan took 1-95, heading south. Richmond was a little
over a
hundred miles away. On a vacation, years ago, Lonergan
had fished the
lake, and he had been lucky.
He hoped he would be as lucky this time.
It was drizzling, but Carl Gorman did not mind. That's
when the fish
were supposed to bite. He was fishing for striped bass,
using large
minnows on slip bobbers, far out behind the row-boat. The
waves lapped
against the small boat in the middle of the lake, and the
bait drifted
behind the boat, untouched. The fish were in no hurry.
It did not
matter. Neither was he. He had never been happier. He
was going to
be rich beyond his wildest dreams. It had been sheer
luck. You have
to be at the right place at the right time. He had
returned to the
Monroe Arms to pick up a jacket he had forgotten and was
about to leave
the garage when the private elevator door opened. When he
saw who got
out, he had sat in his car, stunned. He had watched the
man return,
wipe off his fingerprints, then drive away. It was not
until he read
about the murder the following day that he had put it all
together. In
a way, he felt sorry for the man. I really am a fan of
his. The
trouble is, when you're that famous, you can never hide.
Wherever you
go, the world knows you. He'll pay me to be quiet. He
has no choice.
I'll start with a hundred thousand. Once he pays that,
he'll have to
keep paying.
Maybe I'll buy a chateau in France or a chalet in
Switzerland.
He felt a tug at the end of his line and snapped the rod
toward him. He
could feel the fish trying to get away. You're not going
anywhere.
I've got you hooked.
In the distance, he heard a large speedboat approaching.
They
shouldn't allow power boats on the lake. They'll scare
all the fish
away. The speedboat was bearing down on him.
"Don't get too close," Carl shouted.
The speedboat seemed to be heading right toward him.
"Hey! Be careful. Watch where you're going. For God's
sake "
The speedboat plowed into the rowboat, cutting it in half,
the water
sucking Gorman under.
Damn drunken fool! He was gasping for air. He managed to
get his head
above water. The speedboat had circled and was heading
straight for
him again. And the last thing Carl Gorman felt before the
boat smashed
into his skull was the tug of the fish on his line.
When Frank Lonergan arrived, the area was crowded with
police cars, a
fire engine, and an ambulance. The ambulance was just
pulling away.
Frank Lonergan got out of his car and said to a bystander,
"What's all
the excitement?" "Some poor guy was in an accident on the
lake.
There's not much left of him." And Lonergan knew.
At midnight, Frank Lonergan was working at his computer,
alone in his
apartment, writing the story that was going to destroy the
President of
the United States. It was a story that would earn him a
Pulitzer
Prize. There was no doubt about it in his mind. This was
going to
make him more famous than Woodward and Bernstein. It was
the story of
the century. He was interrupted by the sound of the
doorbell. He got
up and walked over to the front door. "Who is it?" "A
package from
Leslie Stewart." She's found some new information. He
opened the
door. There was a glint of metal, and an unbearable pain
tore his chest
apart. Then nothing.
Twenty.
Frank Lonergan's living room looked as if it had been
struck by a
miniature hurricane. All the drawers and cabinets had
been pulled open
and their contents had been scattered over the floor.
Nick Reese
watched Frank Lonergan's body being removed. He turned to
Detective
Steve Brown. "Any sign of the murder weapon?" "No."
"Have you talked
to the neighbors?" "Yeah. The apartment building is a
zoo, full of
monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Nada.
Mrs.
Lonergan is on her way back here. She heard the news on
the radio.
There have been a couple other robberies here in the last
six months,
and "
"I'm not so sure this was a robbery."
"What do you mean?"
"Lonergan was down at headquarters the other day to check
on Paul
Yerby's things. I'd like to know what story Lonergan was
working on.
No papers in the drawers?"
"Nope."
"No notes?"
"Nothing."
"So either he was very neat, or someone took the trouble
to clean
everything out." Reese walked over to the work table.
There was a
cable dangling off the table, connected to nothing. Reese
held it up.
"What's this?"
Detective Brown walked over. "It's a power cable for a
computer. There
must have been one here. That means there could be
backups
somewhere."
"They may have taken the computer, but Lonergan might have
saved copies
of his files. Let's check it out."
They found the backup disk in a briefcase in Lonergan's
automobile.
Reese handed it to Brown. "I want you to take this down
to
headquarters. There's probably a password to get into it.
Have Chris
Colby look at it. He's an expert." The front door of the
apartment
opened and Rita Lonergan walked in. She looked pale and
distraught.
She stopped when she saw the men. "Mrs. Lonergan?"
"Who are ?"
"Detective Nick Reese, Homicide. This is Detective
Brown."
Rita Lonergan looked around. "Where is ?"
"We had your husband's body taken away, Mrs. Lonergan.
I'm terribly
sorry. I know it's a bad time, but I'd like to ask you a
few
questions."
She looked at him, and her eyes suddenly filled with fear.
The last
reaction Reese had expected. What was she afraid of?
"Your husband was working on a story, wasn't he?"
His voice echoed in her mind. "I'm on to something that's
going to
blow everybody away and I mean people in high places.
It's the most
exciting story I've ever been involved in."
"Mrs. Lonergan?"
"I I don't know anything,"
"You don't know what assignment he was working on?"
"No. Frank never discussed his work with me."
She was obviously lying.
"You have no idea who might have killed him?"
She looked around at the open drawers and cabinets. "It
it must have
been a burglar."
Detective Reese and Detective Brown looked at each other.
"If you don't mind, I'd I'd like to be alone. This has
been a terrible
shock."
"Of course. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"No. Just... just leave."
"We'll be back," Nick Reese promised.
When Detective Reese returned to police headquarters, he
telephoned
Matt Baker. "I'm investigating the Frank Lonergan
murder," Reese said.
"Can you tell me what he was working on?"
"Yes. Frank was investigating the Chloe Houston killing."
"I see. Did he file a story?"
"No. We were waiting for it, when " He stopped.
"Right. Thank you, Mr. Baker."
"If you get any information, will you let me know?"
"You'll be the first," Reese assured him.
The following morning, Dana Evans went into Tom Hawkins's
office. "I
want to do a story on Frank's death. I'd like to go see
his widow."
"Good idea. I'll arrange for a camera crew."
Late that afternoon, Dana and her camera crew pulled up in
front of
Frank Lonergan's apartment building. With the crew
following her, Dana
approached Lonergan's apartment door and rang the bell.
This was the
kind of interview Dana dreaded. It was bad enough to show
on
television the victims of horrible crimes, but to intrude
on the grief
of the stricken families seemed even worse to her.
The door opened and Rita Lonergan stood there. "What do
you ?" "I'm
sorry to bother you, Mrs. Lonergan. I'm Dana Evans, with
WTE. We'd
like to get your reaction to " Rita Lonergan froze for a
moment, and
then screamed, "You murderers!" She turned and ran inside
the
apartment. Dana looked at the cameraman, shocked. "Wait
here." She
went inside and found Rita Lonergan in the bedroom. "Mrs.
Lonergan "
"Get out! You killed my husband!" Dana was puzzled.
"What are you
talking about?" "Your people gave him an assignment so
dangerous that
he made me leave town because he... he was afraid for my
life." Dana
looked at her, appalled. "What what story was he working
on?" "Frank
wouldn't tell me." She was fighting hysteria. "He said
it was too too
dangerous. It was something big. He talked about the
Pulitzer Prize
and the " She started to cry. Dana went over to her and
put her arms
around her. "I'm so sorry. Did he say anything else?"
"No. He said
I should get out, and he drove me to the train station.
He was on his
way to see some some hotel clerk." "Where?" "At the
Monroe Arms."
"I don't know why you're here, Miss Evans," Jeremy
Robinson protested.
"Lonergan promised me that if I cooperated, there would be
no bad
publicity about the hotel."
"Mr. Robinson, Mr. Lonergan is dead. All I want is some
information."
Jeremy Robinson shook his head. "I don't know anything."
"What did you tell Mr. Lonergan?"
Robinson sighed. "He asked for the address of Carl
Gorman, my hotel
clerk. I gave it to him."
"Did Mr. Lonergan go to see him?"
"I have no idea."
"I'd like to have that address."
Jeremy looked at her a moment and sighed again. "Very
well. He lives
with his sister."
A few minutes later, Dana had the address in her hands.
Robinson
watched her leave the hotel, and then he picked up the
phone and dialed
the White House.
He wondered why they were so interested in the case.
Chris Colby, the department's computer expert, walked into
Detective
Reese's office holding a floppy disk. He was almost
trembling with
excitement. "What did you get?" Detective Reese asked.
Chris Colby
took a deep breath. "This is going to blow your mind.
Here's a
printout of what's on this disk."
Detective Reese started to read it and an incredulous
expression came
over his face. "Mother of God," he said. "I've got to
show this to
Captain Miller."
When Captain Otto Miller finished reading the printout, he
looked up at
Detective Reese. "I I've never seen anything like this."
"There's never been anything like this," Detective Reese
said. "What
the hell do we do with it?"
Captain Miller said slowly, "I think we have to turn it
over to the
U.S. attorney general."
They were gathered in the office of Attorney General
Barbara Gatlin.
With her in the room were Scott Brandon, director of the
FBI; Dean
Bergstrom, the Washington chief of police; James Frisch,
director of
Central Intelligence, and Edgar Graves, Chief Justice of
the Supreme
Court. Barbara Gatlin said, "I asked you gentlemen here
because I need
your advice. Frankly, I don't know how to proceed. We
have a
situation that's unique. Frank Lonergan was a reporter
for the
Washington Tribune. When he was killed, he was in the
middle of an
investigation into the murder of Chloe Houston. I'm going
to read you
a transcript of what the police found on a disk in
Lonergan's car." She
looked at the printout in her hand and started to read
aloud:
" "I have reason to believe that the President of the
United States has
committed at least one murder and is involved in four more
" "What?"
Scott Brandon exclaimed. "Let me go on." She started to
read again.
" "I obtained the following information from various
sources. Leslie
Stewart, the owner and publisher of the Washington
Tribune, is willing
to swear that at one time, Oliver Russell tried to
persuade her to take
an illegal drug called liquid Ecstasy. " "When Oliver
Russell was
running for governor of Kentucky, Lisa Burnette, a legal
secretary who
worked in the state capitol building, threatened to sue
him for sexual
harassment. Russell told a colleague that he would have a
talk with
her. The next day, Lisa Burnette's body was found in the
Kentucky
River. She had died of an overdose of liquid Ecstasy. "
"Then-Governor Oliver Russell's secretary, Miriam
Friedland, was found
unconscious on a park bench late at night. She was in a
coma induced
by liquid Ecstasy. The police were waiting for her to
come out of it
so that they could find out who had given it to her.
Oliver Russell
telephoned the hospital and suggested they take her off
life support.
Miriam Fried-land passed away without coming out of the
coma. " "Chloe
Houston was killed by an overdose of liquid Ecstasy. I
learned that on
the night of her death, there was a phone call from the
hotel suite to
the White House. When I looked at the hotel telephone
records to check
it, the page for that day was missing.
" "I was told that the president was at a meeting that
night, but I
discovered that the meeting had been canceled. No one
knows the
president's whereabouts that night. " "Paul Yerby was
detained as a
suspect in Chloe Houston's murder. Captain Otto Miller
told the White
House where Yerby was being held. The following morning
Yerby was
found hanging in his cell. He was supposed to have hanged
himself with
his belt, but when I looked through his effects at the
police station,
his belt was there, intact. " "Through a friend at the
FBI, I learned
that a blackmail letter had been sent to the White House.
President
Russell asked the FBI to check it for fingerprints. Most
of the letter
had been whited out, but with the aid of an infra scope
the FBI was
able to decipher it. " "The fingerprints on the letter
were identified
as belonging to Carl Gorman, a clerk at the Monroe Arms
Hotel, probably
the only one who might have known the identity of the
person who booked
the suite where the girl was killed. He was away at a
fishing camp,
but his name had been revealed to the White House. When I
arrived at
the camp, Gorman had been killed in what appeared to be an
accident. "
"There are too many connections for these killings to be a
coincidence.
I am going ahead with the investigation, but frankly, I'm
frightened.
At least I have this on the record, in case anything
should happen to
me. More later." " "My God," James Frisch exclaimed.
"This is ...
horrible." "I can't believe it." Attorney General Gatlin
said,
"Lonergan believed it, and he was probably killed to stop
this
information from getting out."
"What do we do now?" Chief Justice Graves asked. "How do
you ask the
President of the United States if he's killed half a dozen
people?"
"That's a good question. Impeach him? Arrest him? Throw
him in
jail?"
"Before we do anything," Attorney General Gatlin said, "I
think we have
to present this transcript to the president himself and
give him an
opportunity to comment."
There were murmurs of agreement.
"In the meantime, I'll have a warrant for his arrest drawn
up. Just in
case it's necessary."
One of the men in the room was thinking, I've got to
inform Peter
Tager.
Peter Tager put the telephone down and sat there for a
long time,
thinking about what he had just been told. He rose and
walked down the
corridor to Deborah Kanner's office. "I have to see the
president."
"He's in a meeting. If you can " "I have to see him now,
Deborah. It's
urgent." She saw the look on his face. "Just a moment."
She picked
up the telephone and pressed a button. "I'm sorry to
interrupt you,
Mr. President. Mr. Tager is here, and he said he must
see you." She
listened a moment. "Thank you." She replaced the
receiver and turned
to Tager. "Five minutes."
Five minutes later, Peter Tager was alone in the Oval
Office with
President Russell.
"What's so important, Peter?"
Tager took a deep breath. "The Attorney General and the
FBI think
you're involved in six murders."
Oliver smiled. "This is some kind of joke...."
"Is it? They're on their way here now. They believe you
killed Chloe
Houston and "
Oliver had gone pale. "What?"
"I know it's crazy. From what I was told, all the
evidence is
circumstantial. I'm sure you can explain where you were
the night the
girl died."
Oliver was silent.
Peter Tager was waiting. "Oliver, you can explain, can't
you?"
Oliver swallowed. "No. I can't."
"You have to!"
Oliver said heavily, "Peter, I need to be alone."
Peter Tager went to see Senator Davis in the Capitol.
"What is it
that's so urgent, Peter?" "It's it's about the
president." "Yes?"
"The attorney general and the FBI think that Oliver is a
murderer."
Senator Davis sat there staring at Tager. "What the hell
are you
talking about?"
"They're convinced Oliver's committed several murders. I
got a tip
from a friend at the FBI."
Tager told Senator Davis about the evidence.
When Tager was through, Senator Davis said slowly, "That
dumb son of a
bitch! Do you know what this means?"
"Yes, sir. It means that Oliver "
"Fuck Oliver. I've spent years putting him where I want
him. I don't
care what happens to him. I'm in control now, Peter. I
have the
power. I'm not going to let Oliver's stupidity take it
away from me.
I'm not going to let anyone take it away from me!"
"I don't see what you can "
"You said the evidence was all circumstantial?"
"That's right. I was told they have no hard proof. But
he has no
alibi."
"Where is the president now?"
"In the Oval Office."
"I've got some good news for him," Senator Todd Davis
said.
Senator Davis was facing Oliver in the Oval Office. "I've
been hearing
some very disturbing things, Oliver. It's insane, of
course. I don't
know how anyone could possibly think you " "I don't,
either. I haven't
done anything wrong, Todd."
"I'm sure you haven't. But if word got out that you were
even
suspected of horrible crimes like these well, you can see
how this
would affect the office, can't you?" "Of course, but "
"You're too
important to let anything like this happen to you. This
office
controls the world, Oliver. You don't want to give this
up." "Todd
I'm not guilty of anything." "But they think you are.
I'm told you
have no alibi for the evening of Chloe Houston's murder?"
There was a
momentary silence. "No." Senator Davis smiled. "What
happened to
your memory, son? You were with me that evening. We
spent the whole
evening together." Oliver was looking at him, confused.
"What?"
"That's right. I'm your alibi. No one's going to question
my word. No
one. I'm going to save you, Oliver." There was a long
silence.
Oliver said, "What do you want in return, Todd?" Senator
Davis nodded.
"We'll start with the Middle Eastern peace conference.
You'll call
that off. After that, we'll talk. I have great plans for
us. We're
not going to let anything spoil them." Oliver said, "I'm
going ahead
with the peace conference." Senator Davis's eyes
narrowed. "What did
you say?" "I've decided to go ahead with it. You see,
what's
important is not how long a president stays in this
office, Todd, but
what he does when he's in it."
Senator Davis's face was turning red. "Do you know what
you're doing?"
"Yes." The senator leaned across the desk. "I don't
think you do.
They're on their way here to accuse you of murder, Oliver.
Where are
you going to make your goddam deals from the penitentiary?
You've just
thrown your whole life away, you stupid " A voice came
over the
intercom. "Mr. President, there are some people here to
see you.
Attorney General Gatlin, Mr. Brandon from the FBI, Chief
Justice
Graves, and " "Send them in." Senator Davis said
savagely, "It looks
like I should stick to judging horseflesh. I made a big
mistake with
you, Oliver. But you just made the biggest mistake of
your life. I'm
going to destroy you." The door opened and Attorney
General Gatlin
entered, followed by Brandon, Justice Graves, and
Bergstrom. Justice
Graves said, "Senator Davis ..." Todd Davis nodded curtly
and strode
out of the room. Barbara Gatlin closed the door behind
him. She
walked up to the desk. "Mr. President, this is highly
embarrassing,
but I hope you will understand. We have to ask you some
questions."
Oliver faced them. "I've been told why you're here. Of
course, I had
nothing to do with any of those deaths." "I'm sure we're
all relieved
to hear that, Mr. President," Scott Brandon said, "and I
assure you
that none of us really believes that you could be
involved. But an
accusation has been made, and we have no choice but to
pursue it."
"I understand."
"Mr. President, have you ever taken the drug Ecstasy?"
"No."
The group looked at one another.
"Mr. President, if you could tell us where you were on
October
fifteenth, the evening of Chloe Houston's death ..."
There was a silence.
"Mr. President?"
"I'm sorry. I can't."
"But surely you can remember where you were, or what you
were doing on
that evening?"
Silence.
"Mr. President?"
"I I can't think right now. I'd like you to come back
later."
"How much later?" Bergstrom asked.
"Eight o'clock."
Oliver watched them leave. He got up and slowly walked
into the small
sitting room where Jan was working at a desk. She looked
up as Oliver
entered.
He took a deep breath and said, "Jan, I I have a
confession to make."
Senator Davis was in an icy rage. How could I have been
so stupid? I
picked the wrong man. He's trying to destroy everything
I've worked for. I'll teach him what happens to people
who try to
double-cross me. The Senator sat at his desk for a long
time, deciding
what he was going to do. Then he picked up a telephone
and dialed.
"Miss Stewart, you told me to call you when I had
something more for
you."
"Yes, Senator?"
"Let me tell you what I want. From now on, I'll expect
the full
support of the Tribune campaign contributions, glowing
editorials, the
works."
"And what do I get in exchange for all this?" Leslie
asked.
"The President of the United States. The attorney general
has just
sworn out a warrant for his arrest for a series of
murders."
There was a sharp intake of breath. "Keep talking."
Leslie Stewart was speaking so fast that Matt Baker could
not
understand a word. "For God's sake, calm down," he said.
"What are
you trying to say?" "The president! We've got him, Matt!
I just
talked to Senator Todd Davis. The chief justice of the
Supreme Court,
the chief of police, the director of the FBI, and the U.S.
attorney
general are in the president's office now with a warrant
for his arrest
on charges of murder. There's a pile of evidence against
him, Matt,
and he has no alibi. It's the story of the goddam
century!"
"You can't print it." She looked at him in surprise.
"What do you
mean?" "Leslie, a story like this is too big to just I
mean the facts
have to be checked and rechecked " "And rechecked again
until it
becomes a headline in The Washington Post? No, thank you.
I'm not
going to lose this one." "You can't accuse the President
of the United
States of murder without " Leslie smiled. "I'm not going
to, Matt. All
we have to do is print the fact that there is a warrant
for his arrest.
That's enough to destroy him." "Senator Davis " " is
turning in his
own son-in-law. He believes the president is guilty. He
told me so."
"That's not enough. We'll verify it first, and " "With
whom Katharine
Graham? Are you out of your mind? We run this right now,
or we lose
it." "I can't let you do this, not without verifying
everything that "
"Who do you think you're talking to? This is my paper,
and I'll do
anything I like with it." Matt Baker rose. "This is
irresponsible. I
won't let any of my people write this story." "They don't
have to.
I'll write it myself." "Leslie, if you do this, I'm
leaving. For
good." "No, you're not, Matt. You and I are going to
share a
Pulitzer Prize." She watched him turn and walk out of the
office.
"You'll be back."
Leslie pressed down the intercom button. "Have Zoltaire
come in
here."
She looked at him and said, "I want to know my horoscope
for the next
twenty-four hours." "Yes, Miss Stewart. I'll be happy to
do that."
From his pocket, Zoltaire took a small ephemeris, the
astrological
bible, and opened it. He studied the positions of the
stars and the
planets for a moment, and his eyes widened. "What is it?"
Zoltaire
looked up. "I something very important seems to be
happening." He
pointed to the ephemeris. "Look. Transiting Mars is
going over your
ninth house Pluto for three days, setting off a square to
your " "Never
mind that," Leslie said impatiently. "Cut to the chase."
He blinked.
"The chase? Ah, yes." He looked at the book again.
"There is some
kind of major event happening. You are in the middle of
it. You're
going to be even more famous than you are now, Miss
Stewart. The whole
world is going to know your name." Leslie was filled with
a feeling of
intense euphoria. The whole world was going to know her
name. She was
at the awards ceremonies and the speaker was saying, "And
now, the
recipient of this year's Pulitzer Prize for the most
important story in
newspaper history. I give you Miss Leslie Stewart."
There was a
standing ovation, and the roar was deafening.
"Miss Stewart..."
Leslie shook away the dream.
"Will there be anything else?"
No," Leslie said. "Thank you, Zoltaire. That's enough."
At seven o'clock that evening, Leslie was looking at a
proof of the
story she had written. The headline read: MURDER WARRANT
SERVED ON PRESIDENT RUSSELL. PRESIDENT ALSO TO BE
QUESTIONED IN
INVESTIGATION OF SIX DEATHS.
Leslie skimmed her story under it and turned to Lyle
Bannister, her
managing editor. "Run it," she said. "Put it out as an
extra. I want
it to hit the streets in an hour, and WTE can broadcast
the story at
the same time."
Lyle Bannister hesitated. "You don't think Matt Baker
should take a
look at ?"
"This isn't his paper, it's mine. Run it. Now."
"Yes, ma'am." He reached for the telephone on Leslie's
desk and dialed
a number. "We're going with it."
At seven-thirty that evening, Barbara Gatlin and the
others in the
group were preparing to return to the White House.
Barbara Gatlin said
heavily, "I hope to God it isn't going to be necessary to
use it, but
just to be prepared, I'm bringing the warrant for the
president's
arrest."
Thirty minutes later, Oliver's secretary said, "Attorney
General Gatlin
and the others are here." "Send them in." Oliver
watched, pale-faced,
as they walked into the Oval Office. Jan was at his side,
holding his
hand tightly. Barbara Gatlin said, "Are you prepared to
answer our
questions now, Mr. President?" Oliver nodded. "I am."
"Mr.
President, did Chloe Houston have an appointment to see
you on October
fifteenth?" "She did." "And did you see her?" "No. I
had to
cancel." The call had come in just before three o'clock.
"Darling,
it's me. I'm lonely for you. I'm at the lodge in
Maryland. I'm
sitting by the pool, naked." "We'll have to do something
about that."
"When can you get away?" "I'll be there in an hour."
Oliver turned to
face the group. "If what I'm about to tell you should ever
leave this
office, it would do irreparable damage to the presidency
and to our
relations with another country.
I'm doing this with the greatest reluctance, but you leave
me no
choice." As the group watched in wonder, Oliver walked
over to a side
door leading to a den and opened it. Sylva Picone stepped
into the
room. "This is Sylva Picone, the wife of the Italian
ambassador. On
the fifteenth, Mrs. Picone and I were together at her
lodge in
Maryland from four o'clock in the afternoon until two
o'clock in the
morning. I know absolutely nothing about the murder of
Chloe Houston,
or any of the other deaths."
Twenty-One.
Dana walked into Tom Hawkins's office. "Tom, I'm on to
something
interesting. Before Frank Lonergan was murdered, he went
to the home
of Carl Gorman, a clerk who worked at the Monroe Arms.
Gorman was
killed in a supposed boating accident. He lived with his
sister. I'd
like to take a crew over there to do a taped segment for
the
ten-o'clock news tonight." "You don't think it was a
boating
accident?" "No. Too many coincidences." Tom Hawkins was
thoughtful
for a moment. "Okay. I'll set it up." "Thanks. Here's
the address.
I'll meet the camera crew there. I'm going home to
change."
When Dana walked into her apartment, she had a sudden
feeling that
something was wrong. It was a sense she had developed in
Sarajevo, a
warning of danger. Somebody had been here. She walked
through the
apartment slowly, warily checking the closets. Nothing
was amiss. It's
my imagination, Dana told herself. But she did not
believe it.
When Dana arrived at the house that Carl Gorman's sister
lived in, the
electronic news-gathering vehicle had arrived and was
parked down the
street. The ENG was an enormous van with a large antenna
on the roof
and sophisticated electronic equipment inside. Waiting
for Dana were
Andrew Wright, the sound man and Vernon Mills, the
cameraman. "Where
are we doing the interview?" Mills asked. "I want to do
it inside the
house. I'll call you when we're ready." "Right." Dana
went up to the
front door and knocked. Marianne Gorman opened the door.
"Yes?" "I'm
" "Oh! I know who you are. I've seen you on television."
"Right,"
Dana said. "Could we talk for a minute?" Marianne Gorman
hesitated.
"Yes. Come in." Dana followed her into the living room.
Marianne Gorman offered Dana a chair. "It's about my
brother, isn't
it? He was murdered. I know it." "Who killed him?"
Marianne Gorman
looked away. "I don't know." "Did Frank Longergan come
here to see
you?" The woman's eyes narrowed. "He tricked me. I told
him where he
could find my brother and " Her eyes filled with tears.
"Now Carl is
dead." "What did Lonergan want to talk to your brother
about?" "He
said he was from the IRS." Dana sat there watching her.
"Would you
mind if I did a brief television interview with you? You
can just say
a few words about your brother's murder and how you feel
about the
crime in this city." Marianne Gorman nodded. "I guess
that will be
all right." "Thank you." Dana went to the front door,
opened it, and
waved to Vernon Mills. He picked up his camera equipment
and started
toward the house, followed by Andrew Wright. "I've never
done this
kind of thing before," Marianne said. "There's nothing to
be nervous
about. It will only take a few minutes." Vernon entered
the living
room with the camera. "Where do you want to shoot this?"
"We'll do it
here, in the living room." She nodded toward a corner.
"You can put
the camera there." Vernon placed the camera, then walked
back to Dana.
He pinned a lavaliere microphone on each woman's jacket.
"You can
turn it on whenever you're ready." He set it down on a
table.
Marianne Gorman said, "No! Wait a minute! I'm sorry. I
I can't do
this." "Why?" Dana asked. "It's ... it's dangerous.
Could could I
talk to you alone?" "Yes." Dana looked at Vernon and
Wright. "Leave
the camera where it is. I'll call you." Vernon nodded,
"We'll be in
the van." Dana turned to Marianne Gorman. "Why is it
dangerous for you
to be on television?" Marianne said reluctantly, "I don't
want them to
see me." "You don't want who to see you?" Marianne
swallowed. "Carl
did something he... he shouldn't have done. He was killed
because of
it. And the men who killed him will try to kill me." She
was
trembling. "What did Carl do?" "Oh, my God," Marianne
moaned. "I
begged him not to." "Not to what?" Dana persisted. "He
he wrote a
blackmail letter." Dana looked at her in surprise. "A
blackmail
letter?" "Yes. Believe me, Carl was a good man. It's
just that he
liked he had expensive tastes, and on his salary, he
couldn't afford to
live the way he wanted to. I couldn't stop him. He was
murdered
because of that letter. I know it. They found him, and
now they know
where I am. I'm going to be killed." She was sobbing.
"I I don't
know what to do."
"Tell me about the letter." Marianne Gorman took a deep
breath. "My
brother was going away on a vacation. He had forgotten a
jacket that
he wanted to take with him, and he went back to the hotel.
He got his
jacket and was back in his car in the garage when the
private elevator
door to the Imperial Suite opened. Carl told me he saw a
man get out.
He was surprised to see him there. He was even more
surprised when the
man walked back to the elevator and wiped off his
fingerprints. Carl
couldn't figure out what was going on. Then the the next
day, he read
about that poor girl's murder, and he knew that this man
had killed
her." She hesitated. "That's when he sent the letter to
the White
House." Dana said slowly, "The White House?" "Yes."
"Who did he send
the letter to?" "The man he saw in the garage. You know
the one with
the eye patch. Peter Tager."
Twenty-Two.
Through the walls of the office, he could hear the sound
of traffic on
Pennsylvania Avenue, outside the White House, and he
became aware again
of his surroundings. He reviewed everything that was
happening, and he
was satisfied that he was safe. Oliver Russell was going
to be
arrested for murders he hadn't committed, and Melvin
Wicks, the vice
president, would become president. Senator Davis would
have no problem
controlling Vice President Wicks. And there's nothing to
link me to
any of the deaths, Tager thought. There was a prayer
meeting that
evening, and Peter Tager was looking forward to it. The
group enjoyed
hearing him talk about religion and power.
Peter Tager had become interested in girls when he was
fourteen. God
had given him an extraordinarily strong libido, and Peter
had thought
that the loss of his eye would make him unattractive to
the opposite
sex. Instead, girls found his eye patch intriguing. In
addition, God
had given Peter the gift of persuasion, and he was able to
charm
diffident young girls into the backseats of cars, into
barns, and into
beds. Unfortunately, he had gotten one of them pregnant
and had been
forced to marry her. She bore him two children. His
family could have
become an onerous burden, tying him down. But it turned
out to be a
marvelous cover for his extracurricular activities. He
had seriously
thought of going into the ministry, but then he had met
Senator Todd
Davis, and his life had changed. He had found a new and
bigger forum.
Politics.
In the beginning, there had been no problems with his
secret
relationships. Then a friend had given him a drug called
Ecstasy, and
Peter had shared it with Lisa Burnette, a fellow church
member in
Frankfort. Something had gone wrong, and she had died.
They found her
body in the Kentucky River. The next unfortunate incident
had occurred
when Miriam Friedland, Oliver Russell's secretary, had had
a bad
reaction and lapsed into a coma. Not my fault, Peter
Tager thought. It
had not harmed him. Miriam had obviously been on too many
other drugs.
Then, of course, there was poor Chloe Houston. He had run
into her in
a corridor of the White House where she was looking for a
rest room.
She had recognized him instantly and was impressed.
"You're Peter
Tager! I see you on television all the time." "Well, I'm
delighted.
Can I help you with something?" "I was looking for a
ladies' room."
She was young and very pretty. "There are no public rest
rooms in the
White House, miss." "Oh, dear." He said
conspiratorially, "I think I
can help you out. Come with me." He had led her upstairs
to a private
bathroom and waited outside for her. When she came out, he
asked, "Are
you just visiting Washington?" "Yes." "Why don't you let
me show you
the real Washington? Would you like that?" He could feel
that she was
attracted to him. "I I certainly would if it isn't too
much trouble."
"For someone as pretty as you? No trouble at all. We'll
start with
dinner tonight." She smiled. "That sounds exciting." "I
promise you
it will be. Now, you mustn't tell anyone we're meeting.
It's our
secret." "I won't. I promise." "I have a high-level
meeting with the
Russian government at the Monroe Arms Hotel tonight." He
could see
that she was impressed. "We can have dinner at the
Imperial Suite
there,
afterward. Why don't you meet me there about seven
o'clock?" She
looked at him and nodded excitedly. "All right." He had
explained to
her what she had to do to get inside the suite. "There
won't be any
problem. Just call me to let me know you're there." And
she had.
In the beginning, Chloe Houston had been reluctant. When
Peter took
her in his arms, she said, "Don't. I I'm a virgin." That
made him all
the more excited. "I don't want you to do anything you
don't want to
do," he assured her. "We'll just sit and talk." "Are you
disappointed?" He squeezed her hand. "Not at all, my
dear." He took
out a bottle of liquid Ecstasy and poured some into two
glasses. "What
is that?" Chloe asked. "It's an energy booster.
Cheers." He raised
his glass in a toast and watched as she finished the
liquid in her
glass. "It's good," Chloe said. They had spent the next
half hour
talking, and Peter had waited as the drug began to work.
Finally, he
moved next to Chloe and put his arms around her, and this
time there
was no resistance. "Get undressed," he said. "Yes."
Peter's eyes followed her into the bathroom, and he began
to undress.
Chloe came out a few minutes later, naked, and he became
excited at the
sight of her young, nubile body. She was beautiful.
Chloe got into
bed beside him, and they made love. She was
inexperienced, but the
fact that she was a virgin gave Peter the extra excitement
that he
needed. In the middle of a sentence, Chloe had sat up in
bed, suddenly
dizzy. "Are you all right, my dear?" "I I'm fine. I
just feel a
little " She held on to the side of the bed for a moment.
"I'll be
right back." She got up. And as Peter watched, Chloe
stumbled, fell,
and smashed her head against the sharp corner of the iron
table.
"Chloe!" He leaped out of bed and hurried to her side.
"Chloe!" He
could feel no pulse. Oh, God, he thought. How could you
do this to
me? It wasn't my fault. She slipped. He looked around.
They mustn't
trace me to this suite. He had quickly gotten dressed,
gone into the
bathroom, moistened a towel, and begun polishing the
surfaces of every
place he might have touched. He picked up Chloe's purse,
looked around
to make sure there were no signs that he had been there,
and took the
elevator down to the garage. The last thing he had done
was to wipe
his fingerprints off the elevator buttons. When Paul
Yerby had
surfaced as a threat, Tager had used his connections to
dispose of him.
There was no way anyone could connect Tager to Chloe's
death.
And then the blackmail letter had come. Carl Gorman, the
hotel clerk,
had seen him. Peter had sent Sime to get rid of Gorman,
telling him
that it was to protect the president. That should have
been the end of
the problem. But Frank Lonergan had started asking
questions, and it
had been necessary to dispose of him, too. Now there was
another nosy
reporter to deal with. So there were only two threats
left: Marianne
Gorman and Dana Evans. And Sime was on his way to kill
them both.
Twenty-Three.
Marianne Gorman repeated, "You know the one with the eye
patch. Peter
Tager." Dana was stunned. "Are you sure?" "Well, it's
hard not to
recognize someone who looks like that, isn't it?" "I need
to use your
phone." Dana hurried over to the telephone and dialed
Matt Baker's
number. His secretary answered. "Mr. Baker's office."
"It's Dana.
I have to talk to him. It's urgent." "Hold on, please."
A moment
later, Matt Baker was on the line. "Dana is anything
wrong?"
She took a deep breath. "Matt, I just found out who was
with Chloe
Houston when she died." "We know who it was. It was "
"Peter Tager."
"What?" It was a shout. "I'm with the sister of Carl
Gorman, the
hotel clerk who was murdered. Carl Gorman saw Tager
wiping his
fingerprints off the elevator in the hotel garage the
night Chloe
Houston died. Gorman sent Tager a blackmail letter, and I
think Tager
had him murdered. I have a camera crew here. Do you want
me to go on
the air with this?" "Don't do anything right now!" Matt
ordered.
"I'll handle it. Call me back in ten minutes." He
slammed down the
receiver and headed for the White Tower. Leslie was in
her office.
"Leslie, you can't print " She turned and held up the
mock-up of the
headline: MURDER WARRANT SERVED ON PRESIDENT RUSSELL.
"Look at this,
Matt." Her voice was filled with exaltation. "Leslie I
have news for
you. There's " "This is all the news I need." She nodded
smugly. "I
told you you'd come back. You couldn't stay away, could
you? This was
just too big to walk away from, wasn't it, Matt? You need
me. You'll
always need me." He stood there, looking at her,
wondering: What
happened to turn her into this kind of woman? It's still
not too late
to save her. "Leslie "
"Don't be embarrassed because you made a mistake," Leslie
said
complacently. "What did you want to say?" Matt Baker
looked at her
for a long time. "I wanted to say goodbye, Leslie." She
watched him
turn and walk out the door.
Twenty-Three.
Wlat's going to happen to me?" Marianne Gorman asked.
"Don't worry,"
Dana told her. "You'll be protected." She made a quick
decision.
"Marianne, we're going to do a live interview, and I'll
turn the tape
of it over to the FBI. As soon as we finish the
interview, I'll get
you away from here." Outside, there was the sound of a
car screaming
to a stop. Marianne hurried over to the window. "Oh, my
God!" Dana
moved to her side. "What is it?" Sime Lombardo was
getting out of the
car. He looked at the house, then headed toward the door.
Marianne
stammered, "That's the the other man who was here asking
about Carl,
the day Carl was killed. I'm sure he had something to do
with his
murder."
Dana picked up the phone and hastily dialed a number.
"Mr. Hawkins's office."
"Nadine, I have to talk to him right away."
"He's not in. He should be back in about "
"Let me talk to Nate Erickson."
Nate Erickson, Hawkins's assistant, came on the phone.
"Dana?"
"Nate I need help fast. I have a breaking news story. I
want you to
put me on live, immediately."
"I can't do that," Erickson protested. "Tom would have to
authorize
it."
"There's no time for that," Dana exploded.
Outside the window, Dana saw Sime Lombardo moving toward
the front
door.
In the news van, Vernon Mills looked at his watch. "Are
we going to do
this interview or not? I have a date."
Inside the house, Dana was saying, "It's a matter of life
and death,
Nate. You've got to put me on live. For God's sake, do
it now!" She
slammed the receiver down, stepped over to the television
set, and
turned it on Channel Six. A soap opera was in progress.
An older man
was talking to a young woman.
"You never really understood me, did you, Kristen?" "The
truth is that
I understand you too well. That's why I want a divorce,
George." "Is
there someone else?" Dana hurried into the bedroom and
turned on the
set there. Sime Lombardo was at the front door. He
knocked. "Don't
open it," Dana warned Marianne. Dana checked to make sure
that her
microphone was live. The knocking at the door became
louder. "Let's
get out of here," Marianne whispered. "The back " At that
moment, the
front door splintered open and Sime charged into the room.
He closed
the door behind him and looked at the two women. "Ladies.
I see that
I have both of you." Desperately, Dana glanced toward the
television
set. "If there is someone else, it's your fault, George."
"Perhaps I
am at fault, Kristen." Sime Lombardo took a .22 caliber
semiautomatic
pistol out of his pocket and started screwing a silencer
onto the
barrel. "No!" Dana said. "You can't " Sime raised the
gun. "Shut
up. Into the bedroom go on." Marianne mumbled, "Oh, my
God!" "Listen
..." Dana said. "We can " "I told you to shut up. Now
move." Dana
looked at the television set.
"I've always believed in second chances, Kristen. I don't
want to lose
what we had what we could have again." The same voices
echoed from the
television set in the bedroom. Sime commanded, "I told
you two to
move! Let's get this over with." As the two panicky women
took a
tentative step toward the bedroom, the red light on the
camera in the
corner suddenly turned on. The images of Kristen and
George faded from
the screen and an announcer's voice said, "We interrupt
this program to
take you now live to a breaking story in the Whea-ton
area." As the
soap opera faded, the Gorman living room suddenly appeared
on the
screen. Dana and Marianne were in the foreground, Sime in
the
background. Sime stopped, confused, as he saw himself on
the
television set. "What what the hell is this?" In the
van, the
technicians watched the new image flash on the screen.
"My God,"
Vernon Mills said. "We're live!" Dana glanced at the
screen and
breathed a silent prayer. She turned to face the camera.
"This is
Dana Evans coming to you live from the home of Carl
Gorman, who was
murdered a few days ago. We're interviewing a man who has
some
information about his murder." She turned to face him.
"So would you
like to tell us exactly what happened?" Lombardo stood
there,
paralyzed, watching himself on the screen, licking his
lips. "Hey!"
From the television set, he heard himself say, "Hey!"
and he saw his image move, as he swung toward Dana. "What
what the
hell are you doing? What kind of trick is this?"
"It's not a trick. We're on the air, live. There are two
million
people watching us."
Lombardo saw his image on the screen and hastily put the
gun back into
his pocket.
Dana glanced at Marianne Gorman, then looked Sime Lombardo
square in
the eye. "Peter Tager is behind the murder of Carl
Gorman, isn't
he?"
In the Daly Building, Nick Reese was in his office when an
assistant
rushed in. "Quick! Take a look at this! They're at
Gorman's house."
He turned the television set to Channel Six, and the
picture flashed on
the screen.
"Did Peter Tager tell you to kill Carl Gorman?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. Turn that damned
television
set off before I "
"Before you what? Are you going to kill us in front of
two million
people?"
"Jesus!" Nick Reese shouted. "Get some patrol cars out
there,
fast!"
In the Blue Room in the White House, Oliver and Jan were
watching
station WTE, stunned. "Peter?" Oliver said slowly. "I
can't believe
it!"
Peter Tager's secretary hurried into his office. "Mr.
Tager, I think
you had better turn on Channel Six." She gave him a
nervous look and
hurried out again. Peter Tager looked after her, puzzled.
He picked
up the remote and pressed a button, and the television set
came to
life.
Dana was saying, "... and was Peter Tager also responsible
for the
death of Chloe Houston?"
"I don't know anything about that. You'll have to ask
Tager."
Peter Tager looked at the television set unbelievingly.
This can't be
happening! God wouldn't do this to me! He sprang to his
feet and
hurried toward the door. I'm not going to let them get
me. I'll hide!
And then he stopped. Where? Where can I hide? He walked
slowly back
to his desk and sank into a chair. Waiting.
In her office, Leslie Stewart was watching the interview,
in shock.
Peter Tager? No! No! No! No! Leslie snatched up the
phone and
pressed a number. "Lyle, stop that story! It must not go
out! Do you
hear me? It " Over the phone she heard him say, "Miss
Stewart, the
papers hit the streets half an hour ago. You said..."
Slowly, Leslie
replaced the receiver. She looked at the headline of the
Washington
Tribune: MURDER WARRANT SERVED
ON PRESIDENT RUSSELL.
Then she looked up at the framed front page on the wall:
DEWEY DEFEATS TRUMAN.
"You're going to be even more famous than you are now,
Miss Stewart.
The whole world is going to know your name."
Tomorrow she would be the laughingstock of the world.
At the Gorman home, Sime Lombardo took one last, frantic
look at
himself on the television screen and said, "I'm getting
out of here."
He hurried to the front door and opened it. Half a dozen
squad cars
were screaming to a stop outside.
Twenty-Four.
Jeff Connors was at Dulles International Airport with
Dana, waiting for
Kemal's plane to arrive. "He's been through hell," Dana
explained
nervously. "He he's not like other little boys. I mean
don't be
surprised if he doesn't show any emotion." She
desperately wanted Jeff
to like Kemal. Jeff sensed her anxiety. "Don't worry,
darling. I'm
sure he's a wonderful boy." "Here it comes!" They looked
up and
watched the small speck in the sky grow larger and larger
until it
became a shining 747. Dana squeezed Jeffs hand tightly.
"He's
here."
The passengers were deplaning. Dana watched anxiously as
they exited
one by one. "Where's ?"
And there he was. He was dressed in the outfit that Dana
had bought
him in Sarajevo, and his face was freshly washed. He came
down the
ramp slowly, and when he saw Dana, he stopped. The two of
them stood
there, motionless, staring at each other. And then they
were running
toward each other, and Dana was holding him, and his good
arm was
squeezing her tightly, and they were both crying.
When Dana found her voice, she said, "Welcome to America,
Kemal."
He nodded. He could not speak.
"Kemal, I want you to meet my friend. This is Jeff
Connors."
Jeff leaned down. "Hello, Kemal. I've been hearing a lot
about
you."
Kemal clung to Dana fiercely.
"You'll be coming to live with me," Dana said. "Would you
like
that?"
Kemal nodded. He would not let go of her.
Dana looked at her watch. "We have to leave. I'm
covering a speech at
the White House."
It was a perfect day. The sky was a deep, clear blue, and
a cooling
breeze was blowing in from the Potomac River. They stood
in the Rose
Garden, with three dozen other television and newspaper
reporters.
Dana's camera was focused on the president, who stood on a
podium with
Jan at his side. President Oliver Russell was saying, "I
have an
important announcement to make. At this moment, there is
a meeting of
the heads of state of the United Arab Emirates, Libya,
Iran, and Syria,
to discuss a lasting peace treaty with Israel. I received
word this
morning that the meeting is going extremely well and that
the treaty
should be signed within the next day or two. It is of the
utmost
importance that the Congress of the United States solidly
support us in
helping this vital effort." Oliver turned to the man
standing next to
him. "Senator Todd Davis." Senator Davis stepped up to
the
microphone, wearing his trademark white suit and white,
broad-brimmed
leghorn hat, beaming at the crowd. "This is truly a
historic moment in
the history of our great country. For many years, as you
know, I have
been striving to bring about peace between Israel and the
Arab
countries. It has been a long and difficult task, but now,
at last,
with the help and guidance of our wonderful president, I
am happy to
say that our efforts are finally coming to fruition." He
turned to
Oliver. "We should all congratulate our great president
on the
magnificent part he has played in helping us to bring this
about...."
Dana was thinking, One war is coming to an end. Perhaps
this is a
beginning. Maybe one day we'll have a world where adults
learn to
settle their probkms with love instead of hate, a world
where children
can grow up without ever hearing the obscene sounds of
bombs and
machine-gunfire, without fear of their limbs being torn
apart by
faceless strangers. She turned to look at Kemal, who was
excitedly
whispering to Jeff. Dana smiled. Jeff had proposed to
her. Kemal
would have a father. They were going to be a family. How
did I get so
lucky? Dana wondered. The speeches were winding down.
The cameraman
swung the camera away from the podium and moved into a
close-up of
Dana. She looked into the lens. "This is Dana Evans,
reporting for
WTE, Washington, D.C."
SIDNEY SHELDON is the author of The Other Side of
Midnight, A Stranger
in the Mirror, Bloodline, Rage of Angels, Master of the
Game, If
Tomorrow Comes, Windmills of the Gods, The Sands of Time,
Memories of
Midnight, The Doomsday Conspiracy, The Stars Shine Down,
Nothing Lasts
Forever and Morning, Noon & Night, all international
bestsellers. His
first book, The Naked Face, was acclaimed by the New York
Times as 'the
best first mystery novel of the year'. Mr. Sheldon has
won a Tony
Award for Broadway's Redhead and an Academy Award for The
Bachelor and
the Bobby Soxer. Most of his number one bestsellers have
been made
into highly successful theatrical films or television mini
series.
He has written the screenplays for twenty-three motion
pictures,
including Easter Parade (with Judy Garland) and Annie Get
Your Gun. He
also created four long-running television series,
including Hart to
Hart and I Dream ofJeannie, which he produced. In 1993 he
was awarded
the Prix Litteraire de Deauville, from the Deauville Film
Festival, and
he is now in the Guinness Book of Records as "The Most
Translated
Author'. Mr. Sheldon and his wife live in southern
California.