‘Now.’ Ribcoff says. ‘Zero minus thirty seconds.’ He nods at the screen of his laptop.
Rundle doesn’t understand. ‘What?’
‘There.’ Ribcoff points. ‘Asset number one.’
On the screen is a webcam feed from just around the corner, on Third Avenue. The man Ribcoff is pointing at is approaching the main entrance to the coffee shop. He’s of medium height, in jeans and a corduroy jacket, has longish hair, looks a little scruffy. A writer type, or an academic.
Looking to score some joe.
Surrounding him, flowing in both directions, are… people – woman with a buggy, two businessmen, a flock of Japanese tourists, others, random, nondescript, it’s all very quick, and as well, to the left, there is a blur of passing traffic.
Intermittent streaks of yellow.
Rundle’s stomach turns. Is this really happening?
The guy disappears in through the door.
Rundle lifts his head and glances across the street.
In the long side window of the coffee shop both men turn their heads for a moment, then turn back and continue talking.
‘OK,’ Ribcoff says, pointing, ‘here comes asset number two.’
Rundle looks back at the screen. From halfway along the block comes a second man. He’s of similar height to the first but is dressed all in black.
Baseball cap, shades.
Zero minus… what must it be now for this one? Twenty seconds? Fifteen?
Rundle stares intently at the screen.
But suddenly, his focus shifts – from the black-clad asset in the centre to a streak of yellow on the left, a streak that solidifies into a cab pulling up at the kerb.
Zero minus ten seconds.
The cab door opens. A man gets out, then a woman.
Seven.
Rundle lurches forward, almost vomits. ‘Stop.’
‘What?’
Five.
‘Abort.’ He elbows Ribcoff. ‘Abort. Stop.’
‘What?’
Three.
Moving across the sidewalk, striding with intent, the man and woman cut in front of the asset and get to the door of the coffee shop before him.
‘That’s Ellen Dorsey.’
‘Jesus.’
One.
Ribcoff raises a hand to his earpiece, squeezes it. ‘Abort,’ he says. ‘Repeat, abort.’
Jimmy stands up as Ellen Dorsey approaches. He extends a hand, whispering, ‘Shit, am I glad to see you.’
They shake. Dorsey has a laptop under her arm. She places it on the table. She turns to the man directly behind her.
He’s rugged and tanned, in his fifties.
Expensive-looking suit.
Something about him says lawyer.
‘Jimmy, this is Ned Goldstein. He’s with Reynolds, Fleischman & Brock.’ She pauses. ‘Attorneys.’
OK.
They shake, and then Jimmy introduces Tom Szymanski.
The next thirty minutes or so pass in a blur.
Dorsey sits opposite Jimmy, and Goldstein opposite Szymanski.
Goldstein, it turns out, specialises in whistleblower cases and has worked with Dorsey on several occasions in the past. The first thing he does is quiz Jimmy and Szymanski on what they perceive their current level of danger to be. Calmly and discreetly, Szymanski points out three parked vehicles in the vicinity that he judges to be Gideon surveillance units. He also outlines what he believes Gideon’s strategy would most likely be in circumstances such as these. Goldstein proceeds to grill Szymanski on his background, his history in the military and his subsequent employment record with Gideon.
While this is going on, Dorsey checks with Jimmy that he has prepped Szymanski for the interview, exactly as they’d agreed on the phone. Jimmy says he has but adds that Szymanski is adamant he doesn’t want to be filmed or photographed. Dorsey makes a face. OK. They go over the questions again and Jimmy outlines in general terms what Szymanski’s answers will be. When Goldstein has given the all-clear, Dorsey says, the interview should go ahead without delay. She will record it, simultaneously transcribing as much of it as she can, and will then immediately upload a text version onto her website and her Facebook page.
She says that given the incendiary nature of the central claim about Senator Rundle’s injury, the interview will be picked up straightaway and will go viral on Twitter in a matter of minutes. That level of public awareness will effectively provide cover for Jimmy and Szymanski, but she warns him that it will also be insane and unlike anything either of them has ever experienced before in their entire lives. Avoiding photographers and camera crews will not be easy.
Is he prepared for this?
Jimmy says yes. Nodding. He is. He also says he understands that the Senator Rundle aspect of the story will dominate at first, and probably for days, but that behind it is the even bigger story of BRX and Gideon Global, which is one he fully intends pursuing – all the way back to the hills of Buenke, and even further back, to the rugged coastline of Donegal.
‘Absolutely,’ Dorsey says, smiling, ‘I’d expect nothing less.’
‘And listen, thanks for everything you’re doing.’
‘Hey, this is your story, Jimmy, and I’m happy to help out – by doing this, by putting you in touch with people later if you want, whatever. These bastards deserve all they get.’ She pauses. ‘But remember one thing. If it all goes to hell for some reason, or turns out to be a crock of shit, it’ll still be your story.’
Jimmy says nothing, but acknowledges the point with a nod.
He looks at Tom Szymanski and wonders how he’s coping. This can’t be easy for him.
He seems to be coping fine.
Ellen Dorsey turns to Ned Goldstein. The lawyer shrugs his shoulders. ‘All looks kosher to me. I think we’re good to go.’
Dorsey opens her laptop. She takes a small recording device from her pocket, checks it and turns it on. She places it on the table between Jimmy and Szymanski.
She places her hands over the keyboard, poised. She looks up. ‘Gentlemen?’
Jimmy swallows.
As he is forming the first question in his mind, he notices the car across the street, the one with the tinted windows, starting up and pulling out of its place.
He closes his eyes. ‘Mr Szymanski, can you tell me first of all the exact date on which you started working as a private military contractor for Gideon Global?’
When Jimmy opens his eyes, the car has gone.
14
A FEW HOURS LATER – and a few blocks northwest of this Third Avenue coffee shop – James Vaughan opens his eyes and yawns. He takes an afternoon nap most days now. Doctor’s orders. It’s not the hardest thing in the world to do, an hour or so in bed after lunch, but he does find it interrupts his rhythm. Leaves him a little cranky.
He gets dressed and goes into the study.
There’d been no word from Clark by the time he was hitting the hay, and since his nap is sacrosanct, involving a complete communications blackout, Vaughan is anxious that he might have missed something. If there are any messages for him they’ll be here on his phone, but before checking he decides to go online first and see what developments there have been.
It’s pretty ugly.
On site after site, one story dominates.
Rise and fall, rise and fall…
When he heard that guy outside the hotel shout the word Buenke, Vaughan figured, at some level, that the game was up. Then when he heard the uncertainty in Clark’s voice a while later, he was left in little doubt.
He watches a couple of news clips, and winces more than once.
It’s not going to be easy for the Rundle boys, being hounded and savaged like this by reporters. But in a way they were asking for it.
Vaughan himself has never courted publicity. The very idea of it horrifies him, and always has. In fact – thinking about it – the first time he ever encountered the gentlemen of the press was at his grandfather’s funeral in the late 1930s, when he’d still only have been a small boy. He can see it now, the crowds on Fifth Avenue for the service, the carriage strewn with violets, the stiff collar and breeches he was made to wear and how uneasy he felt in the church having to file past the open casket. He clearly remembers the texture of his grandfather’s hands and face, too, bloodless and waxy.