Deadly Untruths
by P.J. Allen
Published by CyPress Publications
Tallahassee, Florida
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2008 P.J. Allen
Cover art copyright © 2008 Doell West
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except for brief quotations contained in critical articles and reviews.
All characters and events in this novel are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events, is purely coincidental.
Inquiries should be addressed to:
CyPress Publications
P.O. Box 2636
Tallahassee, Florida 32316-2636
http://cypresspublications.com
lraymond@nettally.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allen, Pamela J., 1955— Deadly untruths / Pamela J. Allen. — 1st ed.
p. cm. ISBN 978-1-935083-01-6 (trade paper)
1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Women journalists—Crimes against—Fiction.
3. Investigative reporting—Fiction. 4. Iraq War, 2003—–Atrocities—Fiction.
5. Political fiction. I. Title. PS3601.L4338D43 2008 813'.6—dc22
2008027694
ISBN: 978-1-935083-26-9
First Edition
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * * * *
Dedication
To C.H.W.
* * * * *
Prologue
The two men, one short and stubby, one tall, hovered over the handsome but meek man sitting at the aristocratic desk. The room was rich, masculine. The dark mahogany bookshelves, matching the desk, were filled with volumes of history and other non-fiction. The paintings on the walls were oils, portraits and scenes of people and places from long ago. The old Persian rug remained remarkably thick and plush, resilient and robust. As the day waned, the lighting was subtle, adding to the false atmosphere of coziness, warmth, and general sense of well-being. Ghosts, victims of previous wars unable to find rest, thus attaching themselves to items of familiarity that allowed them a sense of belonging, lurked among the ancient artifacts comprising the room and watched with apprehension.
"You'll have to sign. We can't move forward without it. It will be missed if we do," the pudgy man said, gently but authoritatively.
"I'm not sure what it's suggesting. What does 'consequences' mean?"
The tall man sighed, slightly.
"There will be consequences. It's not complicated," the short man said, holding out the pen.
The other man, the one who sighed, subtly looked at his watch. "I remember hearing your discussion with each other, the other day, about annihilation."
"Shhhh . . . that word must never, ever, be mentioned by any of us. Can you imagine what kind of reaction that will elicit? Please, don't say that again."
"So . . . once I sign, we can move on, things will get better? They're pretty bad right now. Even I know that. I can tell by the way the staff looks at me, the way you look at me," he said, rather apprehensively.
"It's going to get a whole lot better. Trust us." The short man jabbed the pen at the hesitant man once again.
This time, he took it. He looked up at them both and quickly scratched his signature.
The Ghosts recoiled.
The tall man looked at his watch again.
At that moment, on the other side of the world, bombs began raining down on a town in the Middle East. Buildings crashed, people—men, women, children, the elderly—all ran. But there was no place to run. The bombardment was fierce and abundant. It lasted for hours. Once it stopped, not even a barking dog could be heard. While few had escaped, many had left earlier, suspecting they were going to be a target. They would all come back soon, to bury the dead and to try to start over. When they did, they would be confronted with the collection of tens of thousands of small, missile-like objects, some of them still not activated. But accidental activation would be the least of their problems. Their nightmare had just begun.
The Ghosts wept.
* * * * *
1
"Hello?" she inquired breathlessly, quickly clicking on the cell, hoping the caller had not hung up. The time was 3:40 a.m.
"Andie? It's Deidre."
"Who?"
"I feel trapped. I don't know how I got here." The woman's crackly voice sounded muted and distant. "Andie, I'm in a cement room, alone. I don't know why."
Andie felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She began walking through the den, toward the sliding glass doors to her balcony, as she tightened the robe's belt around her body. Later, she thought it must have been intuitive. She thought she needed to hear Deidre's voice more clearly. What she was being told didn't make sense.
"What can you remember?" Andie asked, innocently enough. "Who put you there?"
"I couldn't tell. I don't know," Deidre responded, a little more frantically. "I don't think I'm going to make it, Andie."
"How long have you been there?" was Andie's next question, and a logical one.
"Hello?" she asked. "Hello?" The phone had gone dead, but not before she heard a truly mournful sob.
Andie hadn't realized it, but she was now standing on the balcony, staring into the night lights of the city as the snowflakes floated silently through the air all around her. Her feet were bare, but she didn't notice that they were also freezing. She sat down on the cold, hard, metal chair. Well, that was bizarre.
Andie didn't know a Deidre.
* * * * *
2
The newsroom was chaotic as usual. Though she tried to concentrate, she had never been able to get back to sleep after the phone call the night before, so Andie couldn't think clearly now. Tired, grouchy, hungry, and a bit on edge, she was dreading her upcoming meeting with someone she'd never met, only to verify a source. Why he couldn't give it over the phone she didn't understand. If she didn't have the two o'clock deadline, she would have gone to the gym and then home. Instead she was gulping cold coffee. Ugh. She couldn't even remember when she had prepared it. She kept thinking back to the incident that had occurred earlier, the phone call from Deidre. Christ, now she was actually attaching the name to the voice, as though she knew her. But then, how had Deidre known her? Perhaps it was a fluke, a one in a million chance that it was a coincidental mistaken identity. That could be, Andie mused. A freaky coincidence.
"Andie!" Andie jumped as her thoughts were harshly interrupted by her boss, Simon Feldman. Jeez, he was practically standing on top of her. "Are you deaf? I've been calling you for the past twenty minutes," he barked.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't hear you," she stated, wondering how she could have been that engrossed; but noting how noisy it was with the constant buzzing of cell phones and the accompanying loud conversations, she guessed it hadn't been that hard. This floor alone contained over thirty cubicles. There were at least as many employees working the phones, their cell phones, and faxes throughout the day. It was the busiest floor of the entire company, which consisted of six floors altogether. The building also housed a real estate office, two law firms, and a dingy coffee shop. It was relatively low rent for the D.C. area, and it was obvious why. The building had not been updated over the past twenty years. Hence, there were window unit air conditioners and wall heating radiators, fluorescent lighting, no carpet, dark halls, a really pathetic basement that had low-water-pressure showers for the exercise buffs and the oldest, most rickety elevators in the entire town. Every year, when they received a clean bill of health from the building code authority, Andie figured someone must have taken a bribe. It's why she always took the stairs.
"Yeah, you better be sorry. I had to get out of my chair, get on the elevator, and walk all the way over here. It's not easy, you know." Andie did feel badly that he had to go to such trouble. Simon had been in a bad accident as a teenager, and the vertebrae in his lower back were permanently damaged to the degree that he could not walk fully upright. His walk accentuated what had become over time a rather contorted body. Without proper exercise and rehab, he had learned to swing his legs from side to side as he progressed forward. The effect on his physique was to create huge shoulders, which provided an umbrella for the rest of his body. His neck was almost non-existent. A few months ago he grew his thinning hair out to cover this flaw, or because he wanted to appear younger; Andie didn't know which reason was the major impetus, but in either case she felt it had failed. Add about thirty extra pounds to a man who measured only five feet, ten inches tall, and he was not all that attractive. "I'm really sorry, Simon," Andie said sincerely.
"I know you are. Forget it. I needed to get some exercise. But where have you been? Did you confirm that source? It's almost 11:00."
"Oh my God," Andie exclaimed, realizing that she'd lost all sense of time. "I've got to go, Simon. I'll have the piece completed by deadline. I promise."
"But . . . I thought you . . ."
"No . . . I'm going now," she interrupted, and with that she threw her cape over her shoulders, shaking her long black hair out from under it, and ran for the stairs. She had an appointment, and she was going to be late. "Go, go, go,"' she muttered under her breath, skipping every other step down the three flights to the ground level, where she made a beeline for the bar several blocks away. Well, if he wanted to meet in a bar, he must be busy having a drink, she reasoned. Don't worry. Just get there, she told herself, barely avoiding a collision with an elderly man rounding the corner at the Farragut North Metro entrance. Just get there.
The snow was melted and the sky was overcast, making the slush look more dismal than usual. Andie dodged the puddles and the occasional ice patch, in between the other pedestrians. As she approached the bar, Norman's 18th Hole, a man was exiting. She hoped it wasn't her guy. She greeted him with a smile as she was entering, but he didn't even make eye contact. Guess not.
Wow! Even with overcast sky outside, Andie's eyes could not adjust to the darkness fast enough. She was literally blinded for several seconds after entering. Once she could make out her surroundings, she realized there were only three people in the establishment: the barkeeper and a man at the bar, and another man sitting in a booth smoking a cigarette. She noticed he had what looked to be tomato juice. He was reading a newspaper. She decided to hedge her bet on the guy with the newspaper. She hung up her cape on a loose hook by the door and walked across the very worn wooden floor to him. He glanced up. She smiled, trying to gauge whether he was irritated that she was late.
"Hi, Elliot," she started. "I'm Andie."
The man glared. "Do I look like an Elliot?" he inquired rudely. Andie wondered how she was supposed to know what an Elliot should or shouldn't look like, but that was beside the point. "Listen, Andie, beat it. I've got a hell of a hangover," he said, as he inhaled deeply on the cigarette and resumed reading the paper. Andie glanced over her shoulder. The customer at the bar was grinning at her. He motioned for her to join him there.
Andie didn't consider this to be funny. She walked over as the man was pulling out the rickety stool next to him. "Hi, Andie," he said, as she reached the bar. "I'm Elliot," he gestured by offering to shake her hand. She took it, grudgingly, and squeezed hard. He grinned slightly when she did so. She decided to ignore it, knowing it was her own fault for guessing, but more importantly, she had to get this guy to talk so she could meet her deadline. "Do you want to sit in a booth?" he asked, still grinning.
"No, this is fine," Andie laughed slightly, appreciating the irony in the offer.
"What do you want?" the bartender muttered, without taking his eyes from the talk show on the TV above the bar.
"I'll have coffee," Andie said.
"Fresh out." he replied, still not looking at her.
"I'll have a Coke," she responded. He moved like a robot, reaching for the glass, scooping the ice, and depressing the nozzle on the soda machine; all the while his head was cocked up, apparently in total rapture with the shouting audience and pitiful person being jeered at by the very unsympathetic TV audience. He set it down with a thump, turned on his heel, and went back to watch, leaning against the prep counter.
Andie picked up the drink and for the first time turned to look at Elliot.
He was a nice looking guy from what she could see in the dreary lighting. Sandy hair, nice countenance. Nice enough build. She guessed he was in his early forties, but who knew these days?
"You called to say you had some information for me?"
"That's why you're here, right?" he said, smiling slightly.
"Yeah, that's right."
"Well, ask away."
Andie looked over at the bartender, concerned about eavesdropping. She didn't need to worry, apparently; he was literally glued to the raunchy show. She could see him grinning and shaking his head in agreement with the crowd. Nonetheless, she felt extremely uncomfortable talking within range of his hearing.
"Let's move over to the window," she suggested. "I'd like a little more light."
"Sure," he agreed.
They both took their drinks and walked over to the small café table next to the only window in the place. He actually pulled the chair out for Andie. Once they were seated, they both found themselves looking out the window at the passersby. Virtually everyone was walking briskly, head down, and weaving in and out of the pedestrian traffic. Cars appeared stalled.
"It's supposed to be a harsh winter," Andie said, as she turned to begin their conversation again.
Elliot was still staring out the window. It looked like he was a million miles away. She had a chance to observe him more closely now. He was really very nice looking. He looked like he worked out, or ran, or did something to keep trim. He suddenly turned, seemingly returning to the present. "Go ahead," he said. "You were going to ask me some questions."
Andie took a deep breath and began. "You said over the phone you had some very interesting information about a leak from the White House."
"Well, actually I said from this administration, which could be from any department."
"Oh. Well then, from this administration. Can you tell me the nature of the leak?"
"The nature of the leak is the leak itself."
Andie was irritated by this response. "I don't understand. Am I missing something here?"
"The leak is a plant, and it's intentional."
"Leaks are usually intentional."
"True, but this plant is physical, in a passive way."
"This administration? The most hawkish administration in the history of this nation?" Andie admonished, sarcastically incredulous. Elliot said nothing. He simply continued to look at her, nodding his head in agreement, ever so slightly.
Andie looked back out the window, barely noticing that it was sleeting now. She began to think that her "source" was a nut. She decided to speak her mind. She had nothing to lose. The story she thought she was going to submit today hinged on a name, which she thought she was going to get from this guy. In fact, she had been sure she was going to get the name of a White House staff member who was deliberately feeding untruths to a complacent media outlet, calling itself a news station. But instead she was getting . . . perhaps the runaround? Perhaps her story about bad reporting would have to be scrapped, at least for the foreseeable future.
"Do I have to continue to guess, or will you tell me what you mean? This is not helpful. It's just frustrating. Why'd you call me?" she added, not being able to control her irritation.
"I can't tell you more. It would be unwise. If you really are interested in pursuing a career in investigative journalism, I suggest you start your research today." He smiled wanly and stood up. "I promise you, you do not want to learn what I know through me. It won't be safe. You've already been given three clues; you are on your own now," he said quietly, as he held out his hand to shake hers. Andie looked up and saw that the expression on his face was one of great concern.
"Will I hear from you again?"
"Maybe. It all depends on you."
She reached out and shook his hand. They exited the bar together, after Elliot paid for the drinks. He was going in the opposite direction, so they said another good-bye. "Elliot," Andie spoke just as he was about to walk off.
"Yes?"
"How did you get my name?"
"One of your colleagues told me to contact you; a good friend to both you and me," was all he said as he pulled up his collar and headed off.
Andie walked slowly back to the newsroom. The sleet was heavy, just hard ice pouring down on her.
She felt let down and depressed. No story for now. No winning article. No exposure of the yellow journalism practiced more and more boldly by the "RW&B," short for the Red, White and Blue news agency. Damn. Sometimes she wished she had pursued a different career. At one point, in fact, she had thought about being an entomologist. Then, however, she realized she liked studying people more than bugs. Bugs were just too predictable. But now, looking at the breeding practices of butterflies seemed to be a more rewarding endeavor than trying to figure out some cryptic comment from a person with no last name. "Three clues, give me a break," she muttered to herself. A gust of wind blew just as she reached the door to her building, momentarily preventing her from opening it. As she struggled to do so nonetheless, she saw a man in the reflection staring at her from across the street. She turned to look at him, but at that moment someone came out, causing her to turn back to avoid being hit by the door. Once the person exited she turned to look again, but the man was gone. She quickly entered the building to get out of the storm and looked back once again, just in case. No one.
Now, for the big problem. She headed up the stairs to talk with Simon.
* * * * *
3
Reflecting later upon that scene, now several hours past, she had to admit it had not been a pleasant one. She still could hear Simon yelling at her. "Where am I supposed to get an article in less than an hour?" "What the hell were you thinking, not having more than a first name?" "I asked you: Are you sure?" "Do you have this nailed down?" "Why would he call you?" "What is his angle?" Blah, blah, blah. Simon's scolding had lasted for at least five minutes. She had just stood there. She knew she deserved the dressing down. It was so embarrassing. At least she felt better that he might have felt better, and at least he had not used the word fired.
She actually wasn't really afraid of him firing her. Their relationship was too intertwined to allow for that, although she made sure she never exploited it. It so happened that Simon and her mother had been dating when he had the accident that had crippled him. They were both only sixteen, so it wasn't a serious relationship at the time, but nonetheless, her mother had stuck by him during the long healing process and had remained his friend when others had distanced themselves because they felt uncomfortable. Coincidentally, Simon and his mother also had attended the same college. Their friendship was firmly cemented by the time they graduated. They remained very close as time passed, and her mom had asked Simon to be her daughter's godfather when the time came.
Yes, it was true. She had gotten the job with a little help from their relationship, but Andie believed she was an even better employee because of it—although sometimes she wondered if that was just a rationalization on her part because she hated any kind of cronyism. But she and Simon had never really discussed it. Andie liked it best this way and had decided that he must, too.
Returning to the present, Andie heard herself promising Simon that she would make up for it, although in fact, she didn't have any idea how she was going to do it. Simon had countered that hesitancy or delays on their part just gave the bloggers scoops as gifts and built their growing credibility. But tomorrow was another day. She needed to get some sleep.
As she prepared for bed, Andie thought again about her meeting with Elliot. How strange. What was it he said? A leak, but not just any leak, a physical leak, in fact he had used the word plant to be more specific. What was all of that about? It really made her angry. Why wouldn't the guy just tell her what he meant? What was that nonsense about three clues? So what? He'd given her two . . . an intentional leak that was a physical plant. Why couldn't he have given her the third one? She shook her head as she picked up her book to read, hoping that she would fall asleep quickly. She did. She was dead tired.
* * * * *
4
The bunker was not so much unknown as known not to be in use. At least that is what Agent Ingram had been told. He knew that the fewer questions he asked and the less he knew, the happier and perhaps safer he would be. The activities occurring down here are not legal, he thought.
The woman with the hypodermic and stethoscope, the small rooms, and the immense silence unnerved him. Again, he told himself, it's none of my business. He had prepared the "conference room" as requested, and now he stood outside waiting, for what he did not know. Suddenly, his cell phone began to ring. Oh my God, he thought. He shut it off, but not before noticing that the call was from his buddy, who was definitely not in the bunker. Wow, he thought, I had no idea that they would work down here. He made sure he switched it to vibrate so it would not happen again.
An hour and a half later he began to hear voices. Male voices. The footsteps that matched the voices now rounded the brightly lit hall. Three men. Agent Ingram tried not to gasp. The Vice President was in the middle. His Chief of Staff was next to him. He didn't recognize the third man. He opened the door as they approached. No one even acknowledged him. The door shut and locked automatically after they entered. Agent Ingram had been ordered to stand guard until "the persons attending the meeting departed."
Once inside and seated at the table, the pasty-faced VP gave a barely perceptible nod to the third man, known simply as Jones. Jones cleared his throat and began. "It's true we've had a few hiccups, and admittedly it's been a tough ride."
The VP said in an even, but obviously menacing tone, "What do you mean a few hiccups? They have been monumental failures."
"With all due respect, sir, I believe that's an exaggeration," Jones said as a matter of fact. The VP said nothing. Instead he held out his hand to his Chief of Staff, who responded by immediately handing him a folder. The VP nodded for the third man to continue, as he began flipping through the folder. "We believe we have ironed out all the wrinkles and are now on schedule."
The VP's face started to turn a darker shade of putty as he raised his hand with the folder in it and slammed it down on the table. "Cut the crap. You know it's been a miserable performance. Now, what are you going to do about it?" he shouted, noting the diamond earring in the man's ear with disgust. Pussy, he thought.
If Jones was intimidated or frightened by this behavior, he didn't show it. He didn't even flinch. Actually, he could not help being distracted by the very unattractiveness of the VP. It was no accident that this public servant was shown on TV as rarely as possible. He was downright ugly. But it didn't matter because he was so indispensable to the administration. He could have been a green being from the bowels of the sea, for all this government cared. His institutional memory was known to be idolized by his followers. Christ, it seemed as though he'd been around for most of the Twentieth Century. And ruthless, Jones thought. But he could care less, which is why he hadn't flinched. He, Jones, had something this man needed. "We have infiltrated two of the three departments. Our mistake was the prioritization. We have reversed our emphasis at this point in order to address this oversight. The problem is now being addressed with a two-pronged approach so we can change and eliminate targets, if necessary. And I would like to gently remind you that this prioritization was determined by consensus, so the 'failure,' as you refer to it, is shared."
At this point the VP stood up and leaned toward Jones, so as to physically intimidate him this time around. "Don't you ever contradict me again. The fault lies with you and your stupid, third-rate minions. If you can't get this on track within the week, you're toast, and that's not a euphemism," he growled, as perspiration gathered at his temple.
"Sir, we'll do our best, but if you continue to threaten me or if you fulfill your threat, then you'll be nowhere," Jones said confidently.
"You make me sick," the VP growled. "I'll expect an update within forty-eight hours and a demonstration. Now get out!"
Jones simply stood up and walked out.
Agent Ingram was startled when the door opened, noting that only the third man was leaving. He watched him as he ambled away, whistling of all things. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't place it. The lanky man appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. Not a word had been exchanged between them.
Inside the room, the VP said, "Get someone to watch him as best you can, and make sure the Secretary of Defense doesn't find out. He still considers him to be a loyal servant."
"You don't think he is?" the Chief of Staff asked, surprised.
"Are you kidding?" the VP scoffed. "I don't trust anyone, including you. Now, let's get out of here."
After the two left, Agent Ingram exhaled a sigh of relief. He went into the room and looked around. Nothing. He turned off the light and exited. Just when the door slammed behind him, Agent Ingram recalled the tune the thin man was whistling. It was Brown Eyed Girl.
Though Agent Ingram felt better having remembered the tune, Andie was not having similar luck discerning the third clue. And besides, she thought as she jogged, once she had figured it out, then what? Elliot had acted so mysteriously, as though he knew of some nefarious action taking place. Would the third clue allow her into his world? Her ringing cell phone brought her out of her reverie. She slowed to a little more than a walk to answer.
"Andie, I'm still here," a crackly voice indicated. Andie stopped cold. No! It couldn't be. It just couldn't. She looked for the number on the cell. It just showed "01." Just like last time.
"No one has visited me. It's dark and it's cold. Andie?"
"Deidre?"
"Yes, I'm still here. Can you help me?"
"Deidre, you must have the wrong number. I don't know you."
"Yes. You must. You're on the List."
"What list? What are you talking about?"
"The J . . . ist." The connection was beginning to break up.
"What list?" Andie shouted, as though the problem was simply a matter of raising her voice.
Then, it was gone. Andie stood for a few more moments, staring intently at the phone as if it was supposed to provide her with information. "Damn!" She was so mad she hurled it through the trees, barely missing a young man walking. He turned to look at her and then walked gingerly in his good dress shoes onto the damp, muddy ground, picked up the phone and walked back to hand it to her. "I think this belongs to you," he said politely, handing it to her. "If I can make a suggestion," he continued, "it's not good to blame the messenger." Andie nodded, knowing that she was turning red, as she took back the phone. "Thank you," was all she could think to say. That was when it dawned on her . . . the third clue. It had to be.
Andie half loped and half jogged to the basement showers. She continued to muse about the events that had just transpired as she waited for the hot water to kick in. What the hell was going on? If she was right, what did it mean? Why did Deidre continue to call her? Who was she? What was the reason for her distress? What was the woman trying to say to her? She said Andie was on some kind of list? What list? Was it a hoax? Andie began to think about her contacts over the past six months. Had she pissed anyone off? Was it supposed to be a joke? Whatever the cause for the phone calls, the spooky factor had clearly just been ratcheted up a notch. Finally, the water temperature was good enough. She showered quickly and dressed even faster, shivering due to the dribbling water and the cold basement.
Climbing the stairs to the newsroom, feeling very melancholy about her screw-up from the day before but somewhat encouraged that she might have a handle on the third clue, Andie noticed a fellow newspaper colleague coming toward her who was clearly upset.
"What's wrong? Jane, what's wrong?" Andie inquired with concern. Jane just shook her tear-stained face and kept going down the stairs.
Andie picked up her step, quickly reaching the entrance to the newsroom's hallway. Now she heard sobbing. A couple of women were hugging each other as they entered the bathroom, holding onto each other. Andie entered the large newsroom only to see that everyone, absolutely everyone, was crying or looking teary-eyed. She rushed over to Simon, who was holding a piece of paper and looking out over the room. "What's wrong, Simon?"
"Oh, Andie," he said, obviously choked up, "I just announced the heartbreaking news. Claire was killed a couple of hours ago. We just received the information by fax. I don't even know if her family has been notified; and so soon after Michael's death. I don't think anyone is going to be able to take this, it's too much," he added, looking out over the room at the weeping staff. Michael had been a stellar investigative journalist working for WSSN, too. He had died in Iraq, just over three months ago.
"Oh my God." Andie sat down on the nearest chair. "How did it happen?"
"I spoke briefly with Nathan. He said she was shot. He was standing right in front of her." Nathan McCabe was the cameraman.
"Where was she?" Andie could not believe this had happened.
Simon tossed the fax to her and slowly made his way over to console Ellen, or Miss Ellie as she was commonly called, who was the oldest person working at WSSN and assumed the mother role for almost anyone under the age of sixty. She was unable to sustain that role at the moment however. Andie saw that she could not contain her grief as her shoulders shook beneath Simon's hug.
The fax was notably uninformative and rather crass, Andie immediately observed.
FACSIMILE
U.S. Department of Defense
TO: WSSN
FROM: PENTAGON
DATE: DECEMBER 2005
RE: Claire Thompson, accidental death
Claire Thompson, age 32, investigative reporter for World Space Satellite News, WSSN, was killed accidentally when a random bullet from an as yet unknown source struck her. It appeared that she was in the process of preparing to deliver her daily report from the front of the hotel in Baghdad where she and other reporters are staying. Ms. Thompson was not embedded, which leads to the speculation that she or her company have accepted undue risk and hence the occasional fatality that occurs without having previously accepted military protection.
Andie read it again, becoming increasingly angry with the content and tone. No one had even had the decency to put his or her name on it. The "Pentagon" was not a sufficient contact for follow-up questions. And wait a second. What daily report? That was an obvious contradiction to the investigative reporter title, which had been stated correctly. Claire never provided daily reports. She "sleuthed," as she referred to her working technique. Sometimes, Andie thought, Claire fancied herself more of a PI than a reporter. She even dressed the part, wearing black everything. In fact, she had eagerly adopted the burka dress in Iraq for that very reason. It was black and kept her "sleuthing" image current, and in this case, culturally fitting.
Andie looked around at the room and decided she was going to pursue this faxed notice. This is exactly what happened when Michael died, Andie recalled, but no one had any experience with it so, somehow, with all of the grief and sadness experienced by the newspaper and its close-knit staff, it had just been accepted. Not this time, though, she thought determinedly. This time, someone was going to have to provide a better explanation than accidental death by bullet.
As she slipped out of the room, she thought about the paper's position in terms of its relationship to the government. WSSN was not their favorite news agency—in fact, quite the contrary. Of the dozen or so US global news agencies, Andie was proud that she worked for the only one not beholden to the government for funding in any form, be it corporate or the supposed public broadcast. All the rest of the news agencies had become businesses first, and responsible journalism second. It was the main reason for her interest in implicating RW&B through her informant. RW&B was the most egregious of them all. People not swept over by their faux homey-like discussions and quick news bites called the station Racist, Whacko, and Biased. In reality, however, the name originated from the owner's initials: Richard Wilson Bozman, a very big contributor to the administration's political machine. His total MO was to support the powers that be and their agendas. WSSN, on the other hand, was proudly a pain in the ass to this administration. Many a journalist had desired working for it before they realized they would not get the glamorized treatment the government afforded those who kowtowed. At WSSN, the pay was minimal and the roadblocks to visibility numerous. It was only from a sense of intense public service that people worked here. Nonetheless, most of the Pulitzer prizes for informative journalism were still awarded to the hardworking, dedicated WSSN staff. It was what kept Andie going, as well as most of her colleagues.
She climbed determinedly up the stairs to Simon's floor where she could concentrate. She suspected no one would be here. She was right, she thought, as she sat down at Simon's old, beat-up desk, noting the disgusting array of fast food containers, some empty, some not. Hmmm, looks like he likes Chic-Fil-A best, she surmised, counting six of those snack boxes. Oh well, everyone had their vices, she thought. She decided she would start by trying to contact Nathan. Poor Nathan. He had been there when Michael was killed, too. What an unlucky coincidence, Andie reflected.
As she tried to contact Nathan, Andie began to feel guilty. She hadn't thought about Michael at all this week. And yet, for the past several weeks, since his untimely death, she had awakened every morning feeling sad that she would not be receiving his reports. He had been providing a touching insight into the people of Iraq. He had been fortunate enough to speak the languages, so his reports were speedier and more factual than had he been using a translator. And, more importantly, he had been able to live with families there, getting to know them, their celebrations, the nuances of their religions, their wants and needs, and their struggles and pain both under Saddam and now under the US led occupation. What a tragic loss Michael's death had been.
She could hear Nathan clearly when he answered. WSSN might have shabby environs, but its technology was state-of-the-art. It was as if Nathan was standing right next to her.
"Nathan, this is Andie."
"Andie, hello. I guess you've heard the news."
"Yes, that's why I'm calling. How are you doing?"
"As good as can be expected, I guess. First Michael and now Claire. Jesus." Andie thought she could detect his voice catching in his throat. She was surprised he wasn't bawling, actually. He was only twenty-one.
"Nathan, where are you now?"
"Back in Baghdad now, back at the hotel. Drinking. Jack and Sam are with me."
Good, thought Andie, at least he's not alone and drinking, although she didn't know who Jack and Sam were.
"Okay, Nathan. Listen, can you describe what happened? I think Simon couldn't concentrate. You know how sensitive he can be and now he's trying to console the entire press corps, and the fax we received doesn't shed any light on the event, either. Just tell me where you were in proximity to Claire and what you saw and heard."
"Oh, Andie, it was so awful," Nathan started. "We were standing about two hundred yards from where a blast had occurred, just five minutes before. Our troops were there already, they were shooting at Iraqis in a blazing car, as they were trying to get out of it, and then the helicopter showed up. It started to buzz the crowd. I was filming Claire, who was standing in front of the scene, so I could get both her and the bomb blast in, which is what she asked me to do. I swear she asked me to, Andie, she wanted to be in the scene."
"I'm sure she did," Andie said soothingly. She was so shaken by what she was hearing, but she didn't want him to freak out because of her shock. She needed time with him to find out more. "Then what happened?"
"Andie, I swear to God, the next thing I knew, her head had been blown clear off. Then her body just collapsed. I ran toward her, and at the same time two or three contractors rushed toward me waving their guns, yelling at me. One of them got right in my face, grabbed my camera, and threw it to the ground, shouting 'Get out of here,' saliva was spewing from his mouth. He acted like he was rabid."
Andie grimaced as she heard Nathan's description of the rapidly unfolding events that had just taken place not even ten hours ago. She looked around for a remote control to check the TV news channels. Every office in the agency had at least one TV monitor attached to the wall. She aimed it and started channel surfing. Nothing. No bad Baghdad blast, no military scuffle, no dead female reporter; just news as usual. Today, the news amounted to a scene where police cars were chasing an apparent felon along a freeway in San Francisco. The ticker tape reported to all those who could read fast enough, "We don't know what this means, we are waiting for additional information." The two news "personalities" were grinning as they, too, were shown to be observing the scene on the ground through the same helicopter webcam as the viewers; other webcams were capturing the same scene, unbeknownst to most. It was simply disgusting. The dumbing down of American news coverage was truly startling. Andie shook her head, quickly returning to the conversation at hand.
"Nathan, how are you holding up? I have just a couple of more questions. Are you still there?" She knew she should let him go, but she needed to know. "Nathan, was Claire wearing the burka?"
"Yeah, of course. I think she really liked them. She said she felt like she blended with them on."
"Okay, Nathan. Was the mike on her, or was she holding it? How was she standing?"
"Naw, the mike was clipped to her. She was just standing there talking. There was so much chaos. Fallujah is in ruins. You'd think they'd just abandon it."
"You and Claire were in Fallujah?" Andie asked, confused, as she suddenly recalled that Nathan had said "Back in Baghdad." "The fax indicated that she was accidentally killed in Baghdad."
"No. Not true," Nathan replied. "We were in Fallujah."
"But, Nathan, you know you're not supposed to be there, why would you go there? Did Claire insist on it?"
"Very funny, Andie." Nathan was sounding pissed off. "WSSN ordered us to go there."
"What? Who?"
"I don't know. Claire took the call. I remember when she told me that she was very excited. She said she'd gotten a driver, and we needed to get to Fallujah, ASAP, the newspaper said there was a story there."
Andie couldn't believe what Nathan was telling her. Whenever there was danger, Simon, in particular, told his staff not to take chances. And besides, Fallujah, like so many other parts of Iraq, had simply become off limits to non-military until things cooled down. She knew it to be policy.
"Nathan, when did Claire get the call?" Andie was trying to backtrack to find out how this tragic miscommunication had occurred.
She could hear him take a gulp, and then she heard a man's voice say, "Just hang up."
"I gotta go, Andie, I need to quit talking. I'm feeling sick. Call me later." And then he was gone.
Andie clicked off the phone and just sat there staring. He hadn't said it, but Nathan had seen it. She knew he knew that Claire's death might not have been purely accidental. But why would anyone want Claire dead? Was it really possible? She felt concerned for Nathan suddenly. Was he in danger? She tried calling back, but he must have turned off his phone. There was no response.
Considering what she had just learned, Andie tried to think back to Michael's death and how it had been reported. "Accidental," that was for sure. But what were the extenuating circumstances? No one knew except Nathan, and who had he talked to? No one, Andie figured. No one had followed up. The death was so shocking, no one had any desire to take a hard look at the circumstances. It had all been an experience in shock and sadness. But now this. How bad had it gotten there? she wondered. "Who is doing this to us?" she asked out loud. What she really needed to find out though, and she knew it, was who was making these decisions? Who was wiping out their reporters, and why? That was the question du jour. Andie had a sneaking suspicion, but needed some evidence.
Just as she was standing up to leave, Andie noticed the address of a thick letter in Simon's OUT box. It was to the DoD. Why would he be writing to the Department of Defense? Andie wondered. She looked around, suddenly nervous that she may not be alone, although she knew most assuredly that she was. Nonetheless, she couldn't bring herself to even touch it. She had been taught by well respecting parents that mail was private. Still . . . and then she figured it out. Of course, Michael had been KIA, so it was understandable that Simon would still be communicating with them about it. It probably was information needed to provide full disclosure so his widow could claim compensation, if that was ever possible, she thought glumly. Killed in Action was difficult to document when the country was so hostile.
With that, she walked out, noting that no one had returned to the floor yet. Given that it was for the executives' offices and their secretaries, and conference rooms, it wasn't so surprising. Simon was the only one who showed up regularly. He was the Chief Operating Officer. The others on this floor were primarily board members.
As the staff moped about the rest of the day, many of them leaving early, Andie sat at her computer and reread Michael's stories from Iraq. He had been everywhere. He did not mention the specifics of the violence, however, so it was unclear what kind of take he had on who was doing what to whom. He concentrated on the effect it had on the families and family members. Boy, he was good, Andie thought, sadly. She had tried Nathan again, but to no avail. She was worried about him, and wanted to warn him not to discuss what he'd seen with anyone else. He must know it, she thought. News folks, like those in the hotel, were okay, but not outsiders, not news folks from unknown agencies. It just wasn't safe.
Finally, as the afternoon started to move into evening, she decided she'd had enough as well. She thought about going to the gym, then reversed her thinking totally and thought about going for a drink. Maybe Craig, her buddy from Commerce, was in the same mood. He usually was. She gave him a call, and yes, indeed, he was ready.
"What have you been up to?" he asked. Andie could tell he was smiling.
When she told him what had happened to Claire, deciding not to mention the Fallujah connection over the phone, he was crestfallen. Craig had met her a couple of times. "That lady was crazy, but in a good way," he said. "What a senseless waste. Yes, let's definitely go for a drink. We need to toast one to her for sure."
Andie had known Craig since college. They had both attended the University of Virginia and had stayed in touch throughout the years, given that they both worked in D.C. Craig had been engaged at one point, Andie recalled, but the woman was an IT specialist and had wanted to transfer to the West Coast. Since Craig was brought up on the East Coast, the idea of moving to the other side of the country was too troubling. Plus, he had moved up quite nicely in the Department of Commerce and enjoyed his work.
They agreed to meet around the corner from Craig's office, on 12th Street, around 6:00. She arrived late because of a Metro delay. She knew better, she thought, entering the establishment. She should have walked. It would have been faster.
Except for Craig, the bar was empty. There were a lot more people sitting in the booths, Andie noticed. The background music was Steely Dan, and the two TVs were airing sports programs. No war going on here, she thought cynically. Craig was already nursing a beer as she approached. She immediately recognized the sporty outdoor clothes he liked to wear, including the longish brown hair he wore in a pony tail. He gave her a peck on her cheek when she reached him. "How are you holding up, sport?" he asked.
"Okay, I guess. It's nice to see you, Craig," she said, and it was. He looked at her intently and gave her a big hug. She could feel his strong arms even beneath the bulky ski sweater.
"I'm so sorry. First Michael and now Claire. Reporting is definitely one of those dangerous jobs that doesn't get the full recognition it deserves," Craig noted somberly.
Andie could only shake her head in agreement. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh, Craig," she said softly, "you have no idea. I can't believe this is happening."
"Well, they are in war zones. It's not like it's just Michael and Claire. It is truly dangerous."
Again, Andie shook her head in agreement. She looked around to see who else was sitting near them. No one.
"Yeah, but it just seems so unfair. Something's not right," she whispered.
Craig simply raised an eyebrow in response.
"Yeah, strange things are going on."
Craig looked up and motioned to the bartender. "Could we get another draft?" he asked. The bartender who was quite busy rushed to provide it and returned to what appeared to be an order for a batch of mixed drinks. The waiter paced anxiously as he waited for them, at the other end of the bar.
Andie held up her beer and Craig did the same. "To Claire," they said in unison. For a few minutes they just sat there. Silence had overtaken their discussion.
Craig finally broke the stillness. "Now, what do you mean 'strange'?" he asked with a concerned look.
"Just not right. Too many fishy things are happening. There are strange phone calls and strange contacts, and well, it's fishy, it's the only way I know to describe it."
Craig sighed and faced the bar, looking down at his beer as if it were a magic witch's ball. "Andie, I know you have a lot going on and you're privy to a lot of information, but I just want to mention that you do have an obsessive compulsive tendency. I mean . . ."
"Craig, please don't start," Andie interrupted. "Let's not even go there, and besides, you should use the past tense, had, not have," she said, emphasizing the two words to make the distinction. "Besides, this is nothing like that. You know I haven't been behaving like that since, well, since college."
"Yeah, but I thought you said that your shrink said it could crop up anytime."
"Jesus, it's not like I was hitting the light switch forty times before I could leave a room. I just had a bit of a crazed desire to be perfect. It led to over-studying and a few other things."
"Yeah, like trying to make sure you aced all tests, exercised every day, and ate exactly correctly, based on some metabolism assessment you paid big bucks for."
"Okay, okay," Andie was getting exasperated. "That was over ten years ago. I'm finished with all that nonsense. I'm not OC. It's not in my repertoire, believe me. This is different."
"What then, tell me all that's been happening," Craig insisted. Andie could tell he was not totally convinced.
Andie looked around the bar. "I actually don't feel good talking about it here," she said. "Let's change the subject."
Craig took another drink, finishing off his beer. "I've got an idea," he said suddenly. "After you finish your beer, lets get a six pack and go to my office. We can talk there."
"No . . . that's okay," Andie replied, hesitating ever so slightly.
"No, it's not okay. Come on, finish it and let's go," Craig said as he stood up, putting money on the bar.
Andie downed her beer and they left.
After walking a few blocks, Craig and Andie entered the RRB. "No one is supposed to be here after hours," Craig told Andie over his shoulder, "but that just applies to the majority below a certain GS level, the ones in the cubicles. Those below it don't know about this privilege, and those above it don't tell."
"Why is it called the RRB?" Andie asked, obviously not knowing the origination of the building.
"As in the Ronald Reagan Building," was all Craig said.
"Oh."
He opened his office door with a swipe of a card that hung from his lanyard. Andie entered, gazing around the spacious office. Craig pulled out a plush chair for her to sit in, across from his executive's desk. He sat on the other side, in a large, leather-upholstered, high-back office chair. "Boy, what did you do to deserve such fancy digs?" she asked, after putting her feet up on the other side of his desk, trying to get a rise out of him. "So, do you have important people come in here to sit and talk to you to get your advice?" she asked mockingly.
"Sometimes," Craig replied, as he sat down again. He had just walked over to open his closet door in order to expose a basketball hoop. He threw a miniature basketball into it just then. "Sometimes they just want to be close and marvel at the great ideas that come out of my mouth."
"Ha ha," Andie said, laughing for the first time all day. "Very funny." Craig was a good guy, she thought. Decent, smart, and funny. Funny was important.
"So, Andie, what's up really," Craig asked, as he turned around to look at her while his ball bounced off the rim and then hit the window, landing in the chair opposite Andie.
The look on her face made him follow her gaze. She was staring at what appeared to be an electronic white board where a light orange iridescent diagram was presented. In a couple of places blue dots were moving, in many places green dots were rapidly blinking. "What is that?" Andie asked, rather apprehensively.
"Oh, it's there from a three-day conference we've had about GPS guidelines. It's not a big deal."
"How does it work? I must be way ignorant, but I haven't ever seen GPS being used. What's it stand for?"
"You're not alone," Craig said, as he made his way to the six pack. "Hold on to your seat. You're in for a quick GPS 101 lesson that will be enough for you to talk as if you invented it."
Craig popped a beer, leaned back in his chair with his feet on his desk, like Andie was doing, and grinned before beginning his short dissertation. "GPS or Global Positioning System is not new. It's based on a constellation of twenty-four solar-powered orbital satellites about twelve thousand miles above the Earth. A GPS receiver on the ground looks for tracking signals from at least three satellites, then interpolates the data to establish latitude and longitude. If a device can pick up four or more signals, it can also determine a user's altitude, for whatever that's worth. The first satellite was launched in 1974. Users can get accurate location information across the globe, and most equipment can interpret it to provide speed, distance to a destination, and even exact local sunrise and sunset times. The FAA uses it for obvious reasons, drivers can get it installed on their cars, which is becoming pretty standard in a lot of models, and there are handheld devices for hikers. Some cell phones are adding them to the package, for a price. Of course, the military uses it for a number of purposes. For example, it's adapted bombs with GPS receivers that can guide the weapons to targets."
"Wow," Andie exclaimed.
"Yeah, wow. It's pretty nifty," Craig replied. "This one is a new application. It's state-of-the-art. It's used to track business activity. We're working with DOT to assess where the Christmas and Chanukah holiday spending is occurring. This map here is a four-block quadrant in Bethesda. The blue spots indicate department store activity. Most of them are closed, or are closing, so there's not much movement. The green spots show restaurants. You can see there's a lot of activity."
"What are the red squiggly lines?" Andie asked curiously.
"It's airwave interference. Most of these are cell phones."
"Craig, I didn't know you were so knowledgeable about this technology and its use. You're in charge?" Andie asked suddenly.
Craig looked both proud and hurt. "Andie, I'm not twenty-one anymore. It's been over ten years for me, too, you know. This is my area of specialty. I was promoted because of it. So . . . yes, to answer your question, I am in charge. I do have higher-ups that I report to, but they mostly leave me alone since they don't know anything about technology. They always just want the bottom line, or should I say in this department, the bottom dollar. And . . . I must say with this new administration, their egos are so big, they don't want to be reminded that they don't understand it, so there's a lot less to answer for than in the previous administration. I'm my own boss in other words."
"I didn't mean to minimize your responsibilities," Andie protested. "Actually, just the opposite. I'm very impressed. It's just that you never mentioned exactly what you do, so I'm a bit taken aback, that's all. It's very interesting. It's almost like spying."
Craig laughed. "It's not almost like spying," he stated emphatically. "It is spying. We know a lot about people's movements, even though they have no idea we're around. But we gather information on people, not on one person, so there is a big difference."
"Craig, how far out can you go? I mean, what's your radius?" Andie asked tentatively.