“Unless anyone else has something, we’ll adjourn,” the president said.
The group stood as one and walked toward the door.
“Oh, Jim,” the president said, “I think we’d better keep the existence of this website quiet for the moment-at least until we have protection for these people in place.”
Heller winced. “Ah, Mr. President, I’m afraid…” He stopped.
“Jim, have you already released this to the press?”
Heller whipped out his cell phone. “I’ll cancel the press release,” he said, and he kept walking, not waiting for the president’s response.
BOB KINNEY LOOKED at the material his secretary had just handed him.
“I got it from the director’s secretary,” Helen said. “It’s already gone out.”
Kinney groaned. The phone on his desk rang, and Helen picked it up.
“Deputy Director Kinney’s office,” she said. She listened then pressed the hold button. “It’s the director,” she said, handing Kinney the phone.
“Yes?” Kinney said into the phone.
“Good morning, Bob,” Heller said. He sounded as if he were on a cell phone.
“Good morning, Director.”
“I’ve got some great news.”
“I’ve just seen it. Did you really release this to the press?”
“I’ve put out word to cancel the release.”
“Good.”
“Now, Bob, I want you to call Ed Levy at the Secret Service and coordinate protection for all the people whose pictures are on that website.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but my function on this case is to supervise the investigation, not to guard bodies. I believe you want to speak to personnel about that. Good morning, sir.” He hung up.
Helen, who had been listening on an extension, hung up, too. “Are you trying to hurry along your retirement?” she asked Kinney.
“Helen, I don’t much care if he fires me or not, and I’ve already told him that. Until he does, I’m going to run this case as I see fit, and I’m not going to be sidetracked by having to round up two hundred agents to act as bodyguards for”-he ran his finger down the rows of photographs-“conservative columnists and TV preachers.”
“As you wish.”
“He said he’d canceled the press release.”
“He was too late. It had already been emailed to the whole media list.”
“Where the hell did he come up with this website?” Kinney asked. “Who told him about it?”
“His fifteen-year-old son,” Helen replied. “He’s apparently a computer whiz.”
Kinny began to laugh; he couldn’t help himself. Helen laughed, too.
16
TED PARKED THE RV near a commuter bus stop in New Jersey and walked toward the waiting bus, swinging his umbrella. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
He rode into Manhattan and got off at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. From there, he walked to the New York headquarters of CNN, near Penn Station. It was getting dark outside.
He checked out the lobby and noted the security guard; no good, he didn’t want to be inside. He crossed the street and walked into a bar facing the CNN building. “Gimme a beer,” he said, glancing at his watch. There was a tennis tournament on the TV over the bar, and nobody was watching it.
The bartender set the beer on the bar, and Ted put a twenty beside it. “Start me a tab,” he said. “You mind if we put the TV on CNN? Broadside is on.”
“Yeah, sure,” the bartender said, switching channels and turning up the sound.
“I love this guy Brennan,” Ted said. “He makes mincemeat of that liberal schmuck every night.”
“Yeah, me, too,” the bartender said.
Tim Brenan, a voluble right-winger, shared the platform each evening with Evan Turner, a bespectacled, bow-tied, tweed-jacketed example of the liberal breed.
“Tell me something, Tim,” Turner was saying.
“I’d love to, Evan,” Brennan replied. “There’s so much you need to know.”
“We’ve got the best fighter planes in the world, right?”
“Right, Evan. I’m surprised you knew that.”
“And nobody is even trying to build a better one-not the Russians, not the Chinese, not anybody-right?”
“They couldn’t even come close.”
“Then maybe you can explain to me why we need a brand-new, twenty-first-century fighter plane to replace the terrific planes we already have-and at a cost of more than a hundred billion dollars.”
“Sure, I can, Evan. We need that new plane so that we can keep our edge in the world of military aviation.”
“But we already have that edge, and you’ve just admitted that it’s not even threatened. Why can’t we spend that hundred billion on a national health insurance initiative, on education, on cleaning up our environment.”
“The usual litany of liberal sinkholes for cash, right? You think the Chinese are going to be impressed by national health insurance, or another round of tree hugging? Nothing impresses those people but hardware-military hardware-the sort of hardware that can send nuclear missiles right down their throats at the press of a button. That’s what will keep the peace, and the new fighter is an integral part of that plan.”
“That’s telling him, Tim,” Ted shouted, banging his hand on the bar. “Nuke the bastards!”
“Well, that’s all we have time for tonight, folks,” Brennan was saying. “Evan and I will see you tomorrow evening, same time.”
The theme music came up, and the two men began freeing themselves from their microphones.
Ted paid his bill, pocketed his change, and, swinging his umbrella, went outside, keeping an eye on the CNN entrance. He watched as Brennan and his cohost signed out of the building and left. They paused out front, shook hands, and departed in opposite directions, which seemed appropriate to Ted.
Ted crossed the street and fell in a dozen paces behind Brennan. He kept pace with the man until he was sure there were no guards watching him, then followed him into Penn Station, where Brennan headed for the New Jersey trains.
Ted caught up with him on an escalator, and as he walked past the man, he aimed the umbrella at his calf muscle and jabbed quickly.
“Ow!” Brennan yelled.
“Gosh, I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Brennan,” Ted said. “The thing just got away from me.”
“That hurt like hell,” Brennan said, massaging his leg.
“I’m really sorry. The tip of the umbrella got caught in the escalator tread, and when I yanked it out, it hit you.”
“It’s okay,” Brennan said. “Forget it.”
“Great show tonight!” Ted said.
Brennan beamed. “Thanks.”
“You take care now.”
Brennan peeled off toward the trains, and Ted turned and found an up escalator. Half an hour later, he was on a bus back to New Jersey.
TIM BRENNAN let himself into his house and dumped his briefcase on the hall table. “Anybody home?” he yelled.
“Back here,” his wife called.
He went into the kitchen and sat down at the little dining table in the corner. “Man, I’m beat,” he said.
“That’s unusual for you,” his wife replied. “You usually get home full of piss and vinegar, ready to jump me.”
“I think I’m coming down with some sort of bug, or something. I really feel rotten.”
She set a plate of hot food before him. “Eat your dinner and go straight to bed,” she said. “If you’re not feeling better in the morning, I’ll take you to the doctor.”
Brennan nodded and began to eat. He had taken only a few bites when he suddenly vomited into his plate.
The doctor came through a swinging door and walked up to her. “Mrs. Brennan?”
“Yes.” She stood up.
“Your husband seems to be suffering from some sort of bacterial infection. We haven’t been able to identify it yet, so we’re treating him with broad-spectrum antibiotics.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so. We’ve given him something to help with the vomiting, and he’s resting more comfortably now.”