He approached his desk, where the glowing computer screen awaited him. Even after all this time, he still hated the things. Baumann had come up through the ranks as a typewriter jockey. To him a newsroom was the clattering of keys and the dinging of teletype every time something major happened. It would have been dinging like a squad of ice cream trucks last night in city rooms throughout the country if it was still done that way. But no, not anymore. File rooms were referred to as “morgues,” but that could easily have applied to city rooms these days, considering how quiet they now seemed compared to Fred’s heyday.
At first Baumann had strenuously resisted the advent of computers, but eventually even he had to give in to the inevitable, and had forced himself to master—albeit reluctantly—the ins and outs of writing stories on computer. Now he tapped a key at random (that day when he had, in confusion, scoured the newly alien keyboard for the “Any key” so he could press it and continue—and the snickers he’d gotten from other reporters when he’d asked for assistance—still rankled after all this time) and his boringly old screen saver of flying toasters vanished. He saw that he had e-mail waiting for him. He scanned the incoming names. Some assorted people in government, his editor, his ex-wife, one from . . . ah, he recognized that next one, all right. “LuvUMadly” was the sender, and there was an attachment. He’d been warned about it: one of those umptyump computer viruses going around. Download it and kiss your hard drive good-bye. Well, he’d delete that one without reading it, and that would take care of it, and the rest could wait a few minutes until he completed his morning sit-down.
He picked up the Daily News, seeing on the front page what he knew would be there: Arthur addressing Congress, with the words “I QUIT” blazoned across the top. Baumann hadn’t been a headline writer in years, but even he had known a mile off what the headline would say this time around. As he started to head for the bathroom, nodding “Good morning” to other reporters already at their work stations, he turned to page three to read his story.
His lead sentence was gone.
Much of his story was gone, in fact. And what there was of it had been heavily rewritten.
He slowed in his steps, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What the hell . . . ?” he muttered under his breath, and automatically his gaze flicked to his byline. It was still there . . . but there was another name next to it. David Jackson. And Jackson’s name was first.
He knew Jackson. Jackson was a new guy, sent up by the News a few weeks ago to aid Baumann in covering the Hill. But Baumann was the main man, the go-to guy. Hell, Jackson hadn’t even been at the speech! “What the hell?!” he said again, this time loudly enough to attract the attention and curiosity of the other reporters nearby . . . not that it took a great deal to attract the curiosity of a reporter in any event.
The needs of his bowels suddenly forgotten, Baumann spun and headed back to his desk. He sped through the e-mail messages waiting for him and stopped on the one from his boss, Hugh Weaver on the national desk.
He punched it up, still standing, and he felt the blood draining from his face as he read it. Someone from nearby called, “Fred? You okay?” and he realized that he must have looked as if he were having a heart attack or something similarly calamitous. Nevertheless, he didn’t reply. Instead he sank into his chair and dialed a phone number from memory.
It was picked up on the second ring, a tired voice saying, “Yeah?”
“You son of a bitch,” Baumann growled.
“Oh . . . hi, Fred,” said Weaver with a significant lack of enthusiasm. It was possible that Baumann was getting him out of bed and he was trying to shake off the cobwebs even as he spoke. “Look . . .”
“No, you look! You can’t be serious about this! After all this time, after—”
But Weaver’s voice cut through. “Look, Fred, I can’t cover for you anymore, okay?”
Baumann stopped talking, confused, even a bit frightened. “Cover? What the hell do you mean, ‘cover’?”
“ ‘The bad guys won one’?” Weaver said with incredulity. “How the hell could you possibly have thought that was any kind of good writing, much less news writing?”
“You’re letting me go because you didn’t like my lead?” His voice had carried more than he would have liked, and now eyes from all over were upon him. He ignored them. He couldn’t stand the thought of looking in their faces, seeing contempt or—even worse—pity. “Hugh, for God’s sake—!”
“It’s not just that. We’re cutting back, Fred. You must’ve known that. Circ is down, profits are down, CNN and AOL and all of them are killing us. We have to trim back.”
“And seniority doesn’t mean a goddamn thing, does it?”
“Yes, it means you’re highly paid and therefore a target.”
Fred was clutching the phone so tightly to the side of his face that it was leaving an imprint against his ear. “If you think my shit salary somehow qualifies as ‘highly paid’ . . .”
“You’re being offered a great retirement package, Fred. I suggest you take it.”
“Retire and do what? Sit around and wait to die? This is nuts!” Fred was shaking his head in denial. “And what’s supposed to happen? There’s a press conference, for chrissakes! Who’s gonna cover it? Jackson?”
There was a pause. And that’s when Fred really, truly understood. His voice a whisper, he said, “This was already in the pipeline, wasn’t it? That’s why you sent him here. I show him around, then get shoved aside, he steps in. Right? And you didn’t warn me.”
“Fred, I’m your friend,” said Weaver sadly. “How would you suggest that I have told you . . . ?”
“Oh, I dunno. How about, ‘Fred, heads up, we’re planning to screw you over.’ ” Hugh started to talk, but Fred overspoke him. “This is about ageism, pure and simple. I get old, you shove me out to pasture. I’m a sixty-two-year-old reporter. Who the hell is going to hire me?”
“Fred, rest assured, you can come to me for a referral if it will—”
“Fuck you and your referral, and fuck you for thinking you’re my friend!” And with that he slammed the phone down.
His heart was pounding in his chest, his temples throbbing, and he became aware of someone standing behind him. He knew without even turning. “Hello, David,” he grunted.
Sure enough, Jackson’s voice came from behind him. “Fred . . . I . . .”
“Save it. Fact is, I was a young punk once. They probably shoved some old guy aside for me.” His fists tightened on the edge of the desk. “This is just payback, that’s all. Goes around, comes around. You know the drill.” He turned and looked at Jackson, so young, so eager. “Give me five minutes to finish off some e-mail and I’ll get out of your way.”
“Fred, you’re . . . you’re taking this rather well. Do you . . . do you need help getting your stuff together . . . ?”
Baumann was already seated at the computer going through the e-mail. He snorted disdainfully. “If you think I’m gonna be so pathetic to walk outta here with a cardboard box filled with possessions, you can forget it. Got some notebooks in the drawer there. Pull ’em out for me, would ya? Thanks.”
He shot through the e-mail while Jackson gathered the notebooks he had requested. He got a large padded envelope, slid the notebooks in, and placed them on the edge of the desk.
“File is downloaded,” the computer voice said, and Baumann rolled back from the desk and looked up at Jackson, smiling thinly. He stood, took the envelope, and tucked it under his arm. Then he held up the newspaper.
“Taking the copy. Last one. For a souvenir,” he said.
“You’re . . . you’re handling this like a pro, Fred,” said Jackson with as much sincerity as he could muster, and he stuck out a hand. Baumann shook it firmly. “I learned a hell of a lot from you in our short time together.”
“And the lessons will just keep coming,” said Baumann as he turned and walked out, ignoring the outstretched hands or words of consolation from other reporters.
&n
bsp; Jackson didn’t understand what he meant by that remark until a few minutes later when he tried to reboot the computer with his own password . . . only to discover the image of huge, kissing lips appearing on the monitor, and the words “LuvUMadly” running across the top.
Then he realized.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted as the virus ate the entire hard drive.
CHAPTRE THE THIRTEENTH
IT TOOK A while for Arnim Sandoval to realize that the missiles had stopped dropping. He had been in a drunken haze for a time, only partly paying attention to the world around him. It was understandable. The world around him had consisted of cave walls for, it seemed, as long as he could remember. He felt like some vampiric creature of myth, or perhaps a science fictional mole person, confined to subterranean haunts lest the rays of sunlight sear the skin from his skeleton and leave him nothing but bleached bones toasting in the noonday sun.
The cessation of the barrage, however, slowly penetrated his consciousness, and he began to sober up slowly, by degrees. His lieutenants had stayed away from him during his latest binge, because they had known that there was simply no talking to him or reasoning with him when he was in this condition. But they were most pleased to see the turnaround in his deportment and demeanor.
Bit by bit, Arnim Sandoval climbed out of the bottle that had been his home away from home for what seemed like days. With the halting of the bombardment, his people were able to restore electricity and running water to the intricate network of caves that constituted his organization’s hideout. Sandoval was able to bathe for the first time in days, and it was a gloriously refreshing feeling.
And once he was bathed, and dressed in clothes that did not reek of liquor, his lieutenants sat him down and told him the news.
Sandoval’s eyes, still a bit bloodshot, widened as he took in what they were telling him. Four of his top men were with him, but the one who had told him the developments in the United States was Muelle, a strong-featured, dark-skinned man who had been Sandoval’s friend and confidant since they were children. Muelle, even at a young age, had borne the twin attributes of being well-muscled and stubborn, and Sandoval had nicknamed him “the Mule,” a moniker that had followed him even into adulthood. The Mule had never minded. He was entirely loyal to Sandoval, and if it was something that amused his good and great friend, then that was enough for him.
“When . . . did this happen?” Sandoval asked, running his fingers through his tangle of unruly hair.
“Two weeks ago.”
“Two . . . weeks?” Sandoval could scarcely believe it. He was seated at his desk in the barely functional cavern that served as his office, and now he rose so quickly that he nearly banged his skull on the low overhead. He caught himself at the last moment and only grazed his scalp. “And you only thought to tell me now?”
The lieutenants looked at one another sheepishly, and again it was the Mule who was the spokesman. “No, Arnim,” he said gently. “We told you when it happened. And several times thereafter. You were not capable of . . . retaining the knowledge.”
Sandoval stared at the Mule with open incredulity, and then to the others for confirmation. They nodded almost in unison. Sandoval glanced over at a half-filled bottle of wine that was situated on the far end of his desk. He reached across, picked it up, and then upended it. The contents splattered onto the floor and he held the bottle rigidly as the liquid glug-glugged its way to freedom. Within moments it was empty.
“I appreciate the symbolism,” the Mule commented straight-faced, “but I would have appreciated the offer of the liquor much more, if you weren’t going to have it.”
Sandoval laughed at that. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. It felt good. “Two weeks, you say.” He shook his head in wonderment.
“We have it on tape,” said one of the lieutenants, a dyspeptic older man named Gregor.
Sandoval could barely retain his excitement upon hearing that. “Where?” he said eagerly. “Show me. Show me!”
This in turn caused much laughter among his lieutenants, who thought his almost childlike enthusiasm to be most amusing and certainly not at all in keeping with the image of the terrorizing Arnim Sandoval that the rest of the world knew. In short order, they had set up the videotape machine, and Sandoval was front and center as they watched the departure of President Arthur Penn from the White House.
A helicopter was situated on the great lawn in the back of the White House, and the place was wall-to-wall bodies . . . press, presumably, although there were clearly White House staffers in evidence. The Vice President was nowhere to be seen, which was certainly standard operating procedure. Sandoval couldn’t help but think what cowards the Americans were, that the two most powerful men in the country were never allowed to make any sort of public appearance together lest they fall prey to terrorist attack. Here the Americans told themselves that they were carrying on with business as usual, and yet even the most heavily guarded people in the entire country allowed Sandoval and others like him to dictate where they went and what they did. It filled him with a swelling sense of pride and accomplishment. It made him feel powerful. It made him want to have sex. He glanced for a moment at the urn across the way and put such thoughts out of his head.
The sky above the White House was charcoal gray, and a few snowflakes were falling lightly. “Tell me he crashed in a blizzard,” Sandoval commented.
The Mule shook his head. “One must not ask for too much, my friend, or God will become most ungenerous.”
“True. True,” agreed Sandoval, and kept watching.
There came the wife on some sort of large rolling bed device. She was held completely immobilized within a metal structure, and Sandoval could see tubes and whatnot attached that were serving to keep her alive. Her eyes were closed as one dead. For a moment Sandoval couldn’t help but wonder if she truly was already dead, and this was all some great show to try and convince the American people that she was still alive. It was certainly possible. Americans believed just about any damned thing that their leaders or their beloved Madison Avenue commercial agencies told them.
He was surprised to hear Gregor say, quite softly, “She . . . was a beautiful thing, wasn’t she?”
Sandoval turned and stared at Gregor. “You are not sympathetic for these people, are you?” There was no hint of warning or threat in his tone. He simply seemed a bit surprised.
“I have as much for them as they have for us,” replied Gregor, watching as the immobilized Gwendolyn Penn was hoisted up into the bowels of the waiting helicopter. “It is simply an observation.”
Sandoval nodded slowly and turned back to watch. And then a broad smile broke across his face. Because there he was on the screen, the ex-president himself. Arthur Penn, wearing a long black coat that whipped around in the wind. His shoulders were squared, but his head was down, and Sandoval couldn’t tell for sure if it was in shame or if he was simply lowering his head and soldiering on against a brisk wind. The crowd was pressed in on their side, although Secret Service men were clearly in evidence, taking nothing for granted as they provided a human shield between themselves and their former chieftain. And as Penn walked the long path between the back of the White House and the helicopter that would take him on his way, the people he passed—one by one—saluted. He did not seem to acknowledge them. Sandoval wondered if Penn was fully aware of where he was or what was happening. He wondered if Penn had spent his last days getting drunk. We all have our own caves, Sandoval thought bleakly. For perhaps a microsecond he actually felt a smattering of sympathy for Penn. How inappropriate. He was almost embarrassed to feel that way.
Penn kept going, and the people along the way held their salutes. When he had gotten all the way to the stairs of the helicopter, he turned with one foot upon the bottommost stair and faced the people who had come out to see him off. He brought his right hand up and snapped off a brisk and efficient salute in response to those who were facing him. Then he smiled, but he looked pal
lid and world-weary. Now you know how I feel, you bastard. Now you know how I feel.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” the Mule said as Arthur took the final, long walk up the stairs to the helicopter.
“Remarkable . . . what?” asked Sandoval.
Mule shifted in his chair. “Here we are . . . we with our network, our organization, we ‘little men,’ as someone once called us. And we have caused an American president to step down. We,” and he thumped his chest with obvious self-satisfaction, “have unveiled, for all the world to see, the fundamental weakness of the so-called leader of the free world. No one will ever look at such a man again without having doubts as to his courage or his spiritual endurance.”
“Yes . . . yes, you’re right!” Sandoval said with growing excitement. On the TV screen, the helicopter was preparing to lift off the pad, but Sandoval already wasn’t paying any attention to it. “And that’s going to be the point of our next tape!” He was on his feet, pacing in that way he had when seized with some sort of new enthusiasm. “We’re going to drive home to them that American leaders are so weak, so unable to stand up to us, that they depart when terrorism strikes home.”
“And not only that,” the Mule spoke up, “but we can say that the American leaders obviously don’t care when other citizens are killed. You never saw Penn offering up his resignation when strangers were blown up. Clearly he didn’t give a damn about them. Only his precious wife.”
“I don’t know, that might be pushing the point,” Gregor said doubtfully.
But Sandoval was shaking his head. “No. No, that’s not pushing it at all. That’s exactly on target.”
As was always the case when Sandoval’s organization was preparing another media assault, there was much eager discussion about exactly what to say and how to say it. It was a given that nothing would be written down. Without exception, Sandoval never worked off any prepared text. He wanted his comments to look spontaneous and unrehearsed, in order to distinguish himself from the meticulously prepared, painfully affected manner in which so many other heads of state chose to present themselves to the world.