Noah flipped on the blower over the range, lit the cooktop in back, and followed the final instruction on his list of things to do.
Destroy this paper; be certain to watch it burn.
CHAPTER 5
His errand complete, Noah resumed his drift through the halls. It was hard to say how much time had passed since he’d been ordered out of the remainder of that meeting. No clocks were allowed on the walls or the wrists at Doyle & Merchant.
It was one of the many quirks meant to remind everyone that this wasn’t just another workplace. Over the decades this office had morphed into a science-fair diorama of the inside of the old man’s brain, furnished with everything he liked and nothing that he didn’t. Sometimes these oddities arose from an impulse or an outburst, other times from long deliberation, but once King Arthur had passed final judgment on a thing he never, ever changed his mind. The clock business happened a few years before Noah was born.
In 1978 an account executive had checked her watch during Arthur Gardner’s heartwarming remarks at the company Christmas party. She’d looked up when the room got quiet and had seen in Noah’s father’s eyes what time it really was: time for her to find another job, in another city, in another industry. By the following Monday the unwritten no-timepiece rule was in full and permanent effect. It was only by His grace that windows were still tolerated, though access to any view of the outside world was strictly confined to the executive offices.
Noah resumed his stroll and took a meandering right turn, still without a clear destination. There wasn’t a soul in the place, though some would say that in the PR business that phrase always applies.
This particular corridor was the company’s walk-through résumé, a gallery of framed and mounted achievements, past to present. Press clippings, puff pieces, planted news items and advertorials, slick, crafted cover stories dating back to the 1950s, digitized video highlights running silently in their flat-screen displays. It was a hall of fame unparalleled in the industry and the envy of all competitors.
No trophy case, though; you’d never see a flashy award show for outstanding PR campaigns, God no, not for the serious stuff. It’s the first rule, and one of the only: The best work is never even noticed. If the public ever sees your hand in it, you failed.
Near the beginning of the walk were the relatively small potatoes: crazy Pet Rock-style fads that had inexplicably swept the country, the yearly conjuring of must-have Christmas toys (murders had been committed for a spot in line to buy some of these), a series of manufactured boy bands and teen pop music stars, most of whom could neither carry a tune nor play an instrument. On a dare, Noah’s father had once boasted that he could transform some of the century’s most brutal killers into fashion statements among the peace-loving American counterculture. And he’d done it; here were pictures of clueless college students, rock stars, and Hollywood icons proudly wearing T-shirts featuring the romanticized images of Chairman Mao and Che Guevara.
Last in this section were a few recently developed pharmaceuticals that had required some imaginative new diseases to match them. Drugs weren’t so very different from other products; it was all just a matter of creating the need. If you hear about restless-leg syndrome often enough, one day soon you might start to believe that you’ve got it. Cha-ching; another job well done.
Farther along, just past Big Tobacco, was a small exhibit devoted to the poster-child client in the world of public relations: the lottery. Fun fact: as a naïve youngster during a rare family chat at the Gardner dinner table, Noah had come up with the tagline displayed in this frame. It had been the first time he’d ever earned a pat on the head from the old man: You can’t win if you don’t play. Sure, kid. And you can’t fly if you don’t flap your arms.
No other product could demonstrate the essence of their work as perfectly as the lottery. The ads and jingles might remind all the suckers to play, but it was the PR hocus-pocus that kept them believing in the impossible, year after year. A fifth-grade math student could seemingly blow the lid off the whole scam: to reach even a fifty-fifty chance of winning you’d have to buy a hundred million Powerball tickets. Everybody knows that, but still they dream on. Take their money and give them nothing but a scrap of paper and disappointment in return, and then— and this is the key—make them line up every week to do it again. If you can pull that much wool over the eyes of the public and still sleep at night, you’ve got a long and rewarding career ahead of you.
Each of these PR triumphs represented a defeat for someone else, of course. That was simply the nature of the business, of all business really. The whole concept of winning requires that others lose, and sometimes they lose everything. That’s just the way it had to be. A person could waste his whole life trying to work out the right and wrong of it all.
Case in point: Noah had a friend in college, not a close friend, but a self-described bleeding-heart lefty tree-hugging do-gooder friend who’d gone to work for an African aid organization after graduation. She’d kept in touch only casually, but her last sad letter had been one for the scrapbook. It turned out that after all the fund-raising and banquets and concerts and phone banks, all the food and clothing and medical supplies they’d shipped over had been instantly hijacked and sold on the black market, either by the corrupt provisional government, the corrupt rebel militias, or both. Most of the proceeds bought a Viking V58 cruiser for the yacht-deprived son of a parliament member. The rest of the money went for weapons and ammunition. That arsenal, in turn, fueled a series of sectarian genocidal massacres targeting the very starving men, women, and children whom the aid was meant for.
Back in his younger days, Noah had been quick to snatch a moral from this story: You can’t fix everything, and maybe you can’t fix anything at all. It’s all too big, and too broken. So don’t rock the boat, kid. Just count your blessings, keep your head down, and play the lucky hand that’s been dealt to you. This had come as a welcome vindication for a young man who’d given up early on his own high ideals and drifted into the safe though stormy harbor of his father’s business. It was a comforting answer, so long as you didn’t think too hard about the questions.
And what had that woman said today? All you PR people do is lie for a living.
That’s right, sweetheart. Well, Miss Holier-than-thou, to paraphrase the artful response of a prominent client of the firm, I guess that all depends on what the definition of lie is, now doesn’t it? And while you’re looking that up in the dictionary under L, run your uppity little finger down the column to the last word of your indictment: living. We all have to make one, and unless I’m mistaken, you and I both get paid with the same dirty money. The difference is, one of us isn’t kidding himself.
By now he’d arrived at an alcove that showcased the truly world-class events and power players, political and otherwise, that the company had helped to invent.
A number of U.S. presidents were on display here, a nearly unbroken succession from the present and upcoming administrations all the way back to JFK. To hear the old man tell of the only two holdouts, Jimmy Carter had been too high-and-mighty to accept this sort of assistance, and Nixon had been too cheap. Republican or Democrat, it didn’t matter; to the realists of modern politics, ideology was just another interchangeable means to an end.
Noah was nearly to the end of the hall when a small, unassuming case study caught his attention. There was no title or description on this one, just a silent running video, the testimony before Congress of a volunteer nurse named Nayirah al-Sabah. She was the fifteen-year-old Kuwaiti girl whose tearful story of infants being thrown from their incubators by Iraqi soldiers became a podium-pounding rallying cry in the final run-up to the 1991 Gulf War.
Undeniably moving, highly effective, and entirely fictional.
The client for this one had been a thinly veiled pro-invasion front group called Citizens for a Free Kuwait. The girl wasn’t a nurse at all; she was the photogenic daughter of the Kuwaiti ambassador to the United States. The testi
mony had been written, produced, and directed by Arthur Isaiah Gardner, the distinguished gentleman sitting just behind her in the video.
A dull headache had begun to pound at his temple, and Noah abruptly remembered where he’d been meaning to go: the bulletin board in the break room. He had to grab the address of that meeting of flag-waving wackos, and then finish his conversation with an attractive but naïve young woman who might need to be straightened out on a thing or two.
CHAPTER 6
“Aw, come on, man, what are we doing on Park Avenue?”
Over the years Noah had confirmed many times that there truly is such a thing as a bad night. When these doomed evenings arrive you can’t avoid them. The jinx comes at you like a freight train, and by the time you’re caught in the glare of those oncoming lights it’s far too late to avoid the disaster. The best you can do is make your peace with doom and ride out the curse until sunrise.
If there’s a bright side to all this, it’s that bad nights that don’t kill you can sometimes make you a little bit smarter. For instance, he’d learned that when the situation starts to go downhill it’s often due to avoidable errors in judgment, always involving things you should have foreseen but didn’t, and that those errors usually come in threes. A pilot will tell you the same thing; a plane crash is rarely the result of a single failure. It starts small, an innocent mistake or a bad decision that leads to another one, and then another, and before you know it you’re at the bottom of a smoking hole wondering what in the hell just happened.
Take this night, for example: Noah’s first mistake had been opting to hail a cab instead of waiting a few minutes for a limo from the company motor pool. Then he’d become immersed in his BlackBerry just after the ride got under way. Minutes later when he looked up, the road ahead was a sea of twinkling red brake lights. The pre-weekend traffic was stacked bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see. That was his second mistake.
As the windshield wipers slapped in and out of sync with the beat of some atonal Middle Eastern music blaring from the radio, the man at the wheel launched into an animated flurry of colorful epithets in his native tongue. He seemed to be deflecting all blame for the gridlock onto his GPS unit, the dispatcher, the rain, the car ahead, and especially the yellowed ivory statuette of St. Christopher glued cockeyed to the dash.
“Look, forget it, just head west.” Noah rapped on the cloudy Plexiglas and caught the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “West.” He pointed that way, assuming a serious language barrier, and spoke with exaggerated clarity. “Get us off Park Avenue, shoot crosstown to the West Side Highway, then just take it south all the way down to Chambers Street.” To ward off any protest he took a twenty from his money clip and passed it through the flip-door in the bulletproof divider. “I’m late already. Let’s go now, okay? Step on it”
Those last three magic words were his third mistake.
The shifter slammed into reverse, the steering wheel cranked to its stop, and the engine roared. On instinct Noah turned to look behind, so it was the side of his head instead of his face that thumped into the divider as the cab lurched backward. The Lexus to the rear somehow squeaked out of harm’s way with maybe an inch to spare.
They were nearly a full city block from the intersection in a solid traffic jam and there was absolutely nowhere to go, but that couldn’t limit a man with this kind of automotive imagination. Apparently at whatever driving school he’d graduated from there was only one rule of the road: Anything goes, as long as you keep at least two tires on the pavement.
Noah braced himself against the roof and the door as the cab mounted the curb and surged forward at a twenty-degree tilt, half on and half off the street, threading the needle between a hot-dog cart and a candied-nut wagon on the sidewalk and the line of incredulous fellow drivers to the left. The right-side mirror clipped a corner bus shelter as the driver pulled a full-throttle, fishtailing turn onto East Twenty-third.
And then he slammed on the brakes and everything screeched to a stop.
A soldier in desert camouflage and a rain slicker was standing right in front of the cab, his left hand thrust out flat in an unambiguous command to halt. His other arm was cradling an assault rifle, which, while not exactly aimed at the cab and its innocent passenger, wasn’t exactly pointed elsewhere, either. Other men in uniform came up beside the first and were directed with a muzzle-gesture to positions on either side of the taxi.
It immediately became obvious that this cabdriver had seen a military checkpoint or two in his former homeland. With no hesitation the ignition was killed and both his hands were raised where the armed men outside could see them. Noah had no such prior experience to guide him. All he felt was the Lenny’s hot pastrami sandwich he’d enjoyed at lunch suddenly threatening to disembark from the nearest available exit.
Two sharp taps on the window, and through the glass he heard a single stern word.
“Out.”
Noah laid his umbrella on the seat, took a deep breath, and got out.
Though the soldier he faced looked to be all of nineteen years old, his bearing was far more mature. He had a command in his eyes that made his rifle and sidearm seem completely redundant. It wasn’t just the steely calm, it was readiness, a bedrock certainty that whatever might happen next in this encounter, from a perfectly civil exchange to a full-on gunfight, he and his men would be the ones still standing when all the smoke had cleared.
“Sir, I need to see your ID.” The words themselves were courteous but spoken with a flat efficiency that made it clear there would be no discussion of the matter.
“Sure.” Despite his earnest desire to cooperate, for several tense seconds Noah’s driver’s license refused to slide out of its transparent sleeve. Another man in uniform had come near and, after watching the struggle for a while, he stepped up, held open a clear plastic pouch, and gave an impatient nod. Noah dropped the entire wallet into the bag, and after another wordless prompt from the man with the rifle, emptied his remaining pockets as well. The bag was zipped closed and passed to a nearby runner, who trotted off toward an unmarked truck parked up the block.
The rain had been light and sporadic but as if on cue, now that he was outside the shelter of the car, a downpour began.
The young soldier across from him didn’t seem to take any notice of the deteriorating weather. He was watching Noah’s face. It wasn’t a macho stare-down, nothing of the kind. There really wasn’t any engagement at all on a man-to-man level. The soldier kept his cool, stoic attention where he’d been trained to keep it, on the eyes, where the changing intentions of another first tend to show themselves.
A low roll of thunder made itself heard over the city sounds, not close by, just a deep tympani rumble off in the distance. Noah pulled his coat together, one hand clenched at the collar.
“How about this rain, huh?” he said idiotically, as if blowing some small talk was the perfect way to play this out.
No answer. Not a twitch.
He heard a whump and a scuffle behind and to his left. When he looked that way he saw his cabdriver being forcibly subdued with his hands held behind him, bent over the hood of the car. He started yelling a plea of some kind over and over, held facedown by one uniformed man as a second went through his pockets and two more set about searching the trunk and interior of his car.
There was a faraway siren somewhere to the south, then more of them, and soon up the street a few blocks away a noisy line of police cruisers sped through the intersection headed uptown, followed by a series of stretch SUVs, all black, late-model, identical.
Of course, that was it—both presidential candidates had flown into town today for a full weekend of campaigning in the run-up to the November election. That meant hundreds of politicians, bigwigs, and assorted hangers-on from both parties were here, too. On top of that, he seemed to recall that some emergency faction of the G-20 was meeting downtown in response to the various calamities boiling over in the financial district. Along with all t
hose high-rollers comes high security; all the cops and evidently some division of the armed forces must be out combing the streets looking for trouble.
Times had certainly changed, seemingly overnight, though Noah hadn’t yet seen anything quite as intense as this. Fourth Amendment or not, with all the fears of terrorism in recent years, the definition of probable cause could become pretty blurred around the edges. People were getting used to it by now; a law-abiding citizen could easily get stopped and frisked for taking a cell-phone video of the Brooklyn Bridge or the Empire State Building, never mind riding in a high-speed taxicab that had just jumped the curb to avoid a roadblock.
The soldier on his right touched a free hand to the side of his helmet, squinting as though listening to a weak incoming communication, and then looked up and motioned for Noah to walk with him toward the truck where his pouch of belongings had been taken earlier.
This vehicle was the size and shape of a generic UPS truck but instead of dark brown it was matte black with deep-tinted windows. At a glance the logo on the side looked official, though he didn’t immediately recall any government agency to which it might belong.
Inside it was warm and dry, the interior dimly lit only by a desk lamp and the glow of computer screens arrayed around a central workstation. The man who’d escorted him left, the side panel door slid shut with a clank, and Noah was alone with a woman sitting behind a metal desk in front of him.
“Have a seat, Mr. Gardner.” She was fortyish, stocky, severe, and clearly wrapped too tight, with prematurely gray hair trimmed like a motel lampshade. Some people just seem like they hatched from a pod at a certain drab midlife age and have never been a single minute younger. Sitting there was a textbook example. Her suit was dark and from the ultraconservative bargain bin, and while it wasn’t a uniform, her manner suggested there might be some military discipline in her background. “I just need to ask you a few questions, and then I’m sure you can be on your way.”