Katie had to keep wiping bunches of tears from her eyes as she watched with Frank.
He finally whispered, “I can’t take this anymore. I’m no good with the emotional stuff, Katie. Give me a nine-millimeter Glock stuffed down my throat over this crap any day.” He turned and left, but not before Katie thought she heard a tiny sob escape his lips.
Nearly an hour later Wolfgang and Natascha took their leave.
Katie slowly walked over to Shaw as he stood by the grave.
“Thanks for what you did,” he said, his gaze on the mound of dirt.
“How are you holding up?”
“Part of me knows that Anna is dead. The other part… just can’t accept it.”
“Grieving is an odd thing. They say it’s a process with discrete phases. But it seems so different for everybody. And you feel so alone, that I don’t see how they can call it anything other than a random sort of… personalized hell.”
He turned to look at her. “You lost someone?”
She shrugged. “Anyone who’s lived has lost somebody.”
“I meant someone in particular.”
Katie opened her mouth but just as quickly closed it.
“Is that why you drink too much?” he said slowly, his gaze now on the colorful trees.
Katie dug her hands in her coat pockets and stabbed at the earth with her toe. “His name was Behnam. He was a little boy who should have grown up to be a fine man, but he didn’t. And it was my fault. I won my second Pulitzer and he ended up in a hole outside of Kandahar.” She took a deep breath. “And, yeah, that’s why I drink too much.”
“You’ll never forget him, will you?”
She shook her head. “Never. Can’t.” She choked back a sob.
“I know just how you feel,” he said. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Good-bye, Katie. Take care of yourself.”
He turned and walked off. In a few seconds, Katie could no longer see him.
She stood there by herself among the dead. Glancing at Anna’s grave, she bent down and moved the flowers Shaw had placed there closer to the headstone. In the few words carved in granite Katie saw the life and memory of a remarkable woman, and the haunting image of the man who had loved her in life, and still clearly loved her in death.
She finally rose from the consecrated ground, turned, and slowly walked back into the world of the living.
And then Katie started to run.
The sounds of the footsteps approached him from the rear. He turned, his face registering surprise when she came into view.
Shaw said, “What is it? Are you okay?”
“I just realized I don’t have a way out of here.”
“I can give you a ride somewhere.” He checked his watch. “We can be in Frankfurt in about ninety minutes. You can catch a flight to New York from there. Maybe be home in time for a midnight dinner at your favorite dive.”
“I don’t want to go to New York.”
“It’s where you live, isn’t it?”
“I’ve lived out of a suitcase my entire adult life. And I don’t have a job.”
“You probably could get Amanpour’s CNN gig now.”
“Don’t want it.”
“So what do you want?”
“A ride from you.”
“Okay, but where?”
“We’ll talk about it on the way.”
They stared at each other. Her eyes were glistening and Shaw’s gaze drifted to the sidewalk. He said hesitantly, “Katie, I can’t-”
She put a hand up to his mouth. “I know you can’t, Shaw. And if you’d said anything else other than that, I would’ve already walked away. That’s not what I want.”
“So what do you want?”
She glanced off into the darkness of the Wisbach night before looking back at him. When she spoke her voice seemed to buckle with the weight of her words.
“I’m an alcoholic. I’m unemployed. I don’t have many friends. In fact, I don’t think I have any friends. And I’m terrified, Shaw. I’m scared to death that this is it for me. And if you tell me to go to hell, I’ll tell you that we’ve both been there and it’s just as bad as everyone thinks it is.”
As the wind rustled the leaves on the trees and all around them the good folks of Wisbach settled in for a pleasant night’s sleep, Shaw and Katie stared at each other in silence. It was as though neither had the courage, the breath, or the heart to speak.
Finally, Shaw murmured, “Let’s go.”
The two of them turned and walked down the quiet street.
Exactly to where, it was certain, neither of them knew.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The term “perception management” has firmly entered the public lexicon. The Department of Defense even defines perception management in one of its manuals, so the military folks obviously take it very seriously. Many public relations firms now offer perception management, or “PM,” as one of their services. However, it seems that not many of them do it very well. Apparently, if you want to be exceptional at creating the Big Lie, you really need to specialize in it.
PMs are not spin doctors because they don’t spin facts. They create facts and then sell them to the world as the truth. And that, to quote the venerable Mark Twain (who would’ve had a field day with the PM guys), is the difference between the lightning bug and lightning.
Many of the techniques outlined in the story are standard operating procedures for these folks, even if I give them a different rubric. And by using these methods, a major untruth can be established so quickly and overwhelmingly across the world that no digging by anyone after the fact can make a dent in the public consciousness that it actually isn’t true at all.
And that’s precisely what makes it so dangerous.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Michelle, your early comments really paid off with this one. Without them I might have lost the readers at the first chapter.
To Mitch Hoffman, great editing job. Your advice and gentle prodding really helped the book realize its potential.
To Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, Lisa Erbach Vance, and Nicole Kenealy, for allowing me to focus on the books.
To David Young, Jamie Raab, Emi Battaglia, Tom Maciag, Jennifer Romanello, Martha Otis, and all the folks at Grand Central Publishing, for helping to turbocharge my career.
To David North, Maria Rejt, and Katie James at Pan Macmillan. David, you’re a true visionary but, better still, a helluva guy to drink a pint with. Maria, your comments were rock solid as usual. Katie, I hope I did your name justice. Guys, it was cool to finally place a thriller across the pond.
To Steven Maat at Bruna, thanks for a great tour and for helping me polish the Dutch points.
To Stefan Lubbe, Helmut Pesch, and Barbara Fischer at Lubbe. Stefan, thanks for being a book lover and a publisher who really understands both the business and writers. Helmut, thanks for the German insights and careful critique. Barbara, a long overdue thank you for all you’ve done for me over the years and for the use of your last name for a fabulous character.
To Luigi Bernado, for your help on the Italian piece.
To the Richter Family, for the use of your names.
To Eliane Benisti, for the use of your name. I made you president of France! I hope you wanted the job.
To Leona Jennings, finally – finally – you made it in. It only took fifteen books, but I hope it was worth the wait.
To Bob Castillo and Roland Ottewell, for superb copyediting.
To Grace McQuade and Lynn Goldberg, for really getting my name out there.
To Deborah and Lynette, for somehow keeping me straight.
