Authors: Jack Quinn
Washington Post.”
“I don’t think we’re ready yet. A news outlet could dismiss or run with it, and we’d lose control. If we go public now, the army might be able to prove statistical error, or just verify the data we couldn’t dispute.”
A frowned puckered Andrea’s forehead as she squinted at the sheets of paper spread out on the table. “Troopers listed as deceased or missing were excluded from the MI artifact theft inquiry, certainly not suspects, nobody looking for them.”
“The only way we’re going to find these guys is tag every man on the Second Platoon roster, confirm who’s alive or dead, and circumstances for guys gone missing. Then blow the whistle.”
“Track and interview what, sixty, seventy soldiers in and associated with the Second? I’d be in my box before I interviewed half those guys.”
Sammy’s compressed lips reflected his determination. “I’ll take you in to get prepped on Wednesday. Ten a.m. Thursday you’re on the table. No argument.”
Andrea sighed in resignation with the knowledge that Sammy was right.
“Narrow it down to what, thirty soldiers in one of those aviation platoons,” she mused. “That’s a lot of guys to stay in agreement on a couple of hundred million, billion dollar treasure.”
“Could mean serious dissention. Especially if Mitchell was killed during Dark Dawn, the
entire platoon on their own until his replacement showed up.”
Andrea leaned back, crossing her arms across her chest. “Why do I have the unequivocal feeling that Callaghan is in this up to his steely blue eyes? Who is he covering for? The government? The thieves? Why?”
“Risking everything, his entire army career, promotion to general officer--to cover up for half a dozen grunts doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless he was in on the theft,” Andrea persisted. “We know his buddy Geoff flew him all over the area.”
“If he’s shielding this for some higher-ups,” Sammy said, “that could account for his fast-track promotion from bird colonel to general.”
“A reward for covering up for the government, some agency in it.”
“To what end?” Andrea asked. “The government wouldn’t hide the treasure, they’d return it. We’re the bad guys to half the world as it is.”
“Maybe. Or some administration clique is keeping it under wraps to cash in on it.”
* * * * * *
The sixth-floor newsrooms and studios were brightly lit and bustling as usual, but the executive offices and staff cubicles on the eighth floor of Watergate Towers occupied by NNC on Massachusetts Avenue in downtown Washington had been vacated hours ago; the cleaning crew had come and gone; and with the exception of dimly lit hallways and a single suite, the entire floor was suffused in darkness.
Rand Duncan sat on the edge of the circular couch, behind the locked door of his corner office, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves buttoned, necktie snug to the collar, a nearby table lamp casting the only light on the lines of white powder neatly arranged on the glass top of the low table before him. He inserted the crisp, tightly-rolled hundred dollar bill into a nostril, bent forward, sniffed up all three lines in rapid succession, then leaned back into the soft pillows behind him, eyes closed, his brow damp with perspiration.
It had not been a good day for the young ‘B’ School graduate. In fact, it had been one of the worst days he had experienced since beginning his corporate life just seven short years ago. As a universally proclaimed nerd in high school he had borne harassment and derision from jocks and giggling cliques of post-pubescent girls with grudging acceptance. Until his sophomore year at Northwestern where he had assumed what he secretly believed was his natural role of leader by launching a scathingly negative campaign for class president against a gay young man who was not yet ready to emerge from his closet. Having found what worked in life, Duncan began to seek out and exploit whatever weaknesses he could discover in perceived competitors as he began climbing the corporate ladder on the body-rungs of peer candidates for positions he sought.
That morning, Duncan had summoned his news director to a one-on-one meeting behind the closed door of his office. “Madigan has stolen proprietary information on the artifact story from our network. I want it back.”
information to competitors.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, arms propped on the edge of his desk. “Your job is to do what I tell you to do. You know her and her habits better than anyone else in the station, certainly have the contacts and wherewithal to accomplish the tasks, from your wide ranging investigative snooping in the District. Do it, or your so-called job description will include packing your personal items and joining Madigan and her gay compatriot on the cold cement sidewalks of Washington, DC.”
T.P. turned abruptly and left the office.
That afternoon, Duncan had experienced one of the few instances where neither threat, pressure, nor promised destruction had worked in his favor. Viola had been waiting unbidden in his office when Duncan had returned from lunch. The smiling news director rose as Duncan brushed by him with a grunt of acknowledgement to sit behind his desk, expecting either capitulation to his order to retract the artifact reward or an initial report on his acquisition of private investigators to shadow Andrea Madigan.
T.P. stood there grinning for several moments apparently prepared to enjoy whatever statement he was about to make, until Rand prodded his remarks. “Well, get it out, man, I haven’t got all day.”
T.P reached out to press the ‘play’ button on the mini recorder he had placed on Duncan’s
desk, and the tape he had borrowed from his son’s bedroom began to spin, emitting the ’80’s hit song, “You Can Take This Job and Shove It.” He had watched Duncan’s face turn crimson, hold his breath as though he would explode, grope for the ‘stop’ button to turn the music off, as T.P. strode out of the office, laughing.
The diminutive CEO finally silenced the tape recorder and flopped back in his chair. Now what? Corporate had been on the phone twice a day lately, first demanding to know why he had allowed their best investigative reporter to walk out of the station after the incredible interview she had achieved with the Preacher Lady, and the potential scoop she had begun on the Iraq treasure theft. They were pressuring him to develop both stories further, so NNC could keep them alive among viewers, get their audience share back to where it had surged after Andy’s initial artifact report and continue their lead over competitive news organizations.
The call late that afternoon from corporate Robert Brightman had announced that the corporate Vice President himself would arrive the following week from their Dallas headquarters to learn precisely what Duncan was doing to achieve these objectives. He would probably relieve Duncan of his duties when he heard that Viola had quit, and found out that Duncan didn’t have a clue what to do next. All because of that goddamned woman!
Now, with T.P. gone, he didn’t know of anyone in the station with the caliber news savvy to pull this fiasco out of the fire. On the other hand, neither did any of their competitors, which was not what Brightman was coming up to hear. Could he get Madigan and Viola back? Unlikely, considering their acrimonious parting. Or they would insist on reinstatement terms so humiliating and punitive that he’d seem like a complete jackass to corporate and the industry at large.
If she suddenly came up with the thieves and the treasure he..NNC would look like a bunch of idiots, and his head will be the first one rolling down Capitol hill. The old bitch was out there on her own with a bum leg and all the info she had collected while she was on his payroll. Maybe something had to happen to Andrea so she couldn’t break this story...at least slow her down until he caught up.
Andrea had come out of the ICU the previous evening and was now propped up by the elevated hospital bed and pillows, leaning forward cautiously in the surgical collar to sip ginger ale through an angled straw held by a nurse assistant.
“I feel like a turtle,” she said, as the candy striper replaced the glass on the rollaway table positioned over her waist.
Sammy Simkowski stuck his head around the privacy curtain at the foot of her bed. “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
She shifted her entire body in order to look at him. “That’s all I need,” Andrea said, as Sammy moved to the plastic chair beside her bed. He appeared invigorated, as though his weight trainer’s body contained secret elements attempting to escape.
“I flew up to Boston to see my bud at the Museum of Fine Arts who put out feelers to a bunch of art guys across the country. None of them had direct inquiries regarding an ancient treasure with suspect provenance.”
“But a couple of these guys have picked up second-hand rumors going around among less legitimate factions in the rarefied echelons of pricey
objets d’art
.”
“Specifically?” Sammy asked. “No idea. Best guess is marginally respectable art dealers, private collectors, shady opportunists out for a quick hit.”
“If those offers to buy are current,” Andrea said, “they probably mean the treasure is still in the hands of the original thieves.”
“Timmy says there something else going on. During the past year or so, some of the consultants he uses to validate olden items have been unavailable for new projects.”
“Yeah, but why several of these guys?” Sammy wondered. “The objects are evidently all of a package, validate a couple and the entire treasure is authenticated. One or two experts ought to be able to do that.”
Andy shifted her gaze to the window, contemplating the possibilities this information might present, or if it had anything to do with their artifact search at all. “Unless the so-called treasure trove was an ossuary containing some old relic, the bones of some ancient traveler, along with his precious worldly possessions, a lot of different stuff. Or has nothing to do with our stolen artifact at all.”
“I asked Timmy to let me know if anything more definitive came up.”
“We can’t afford another goose chase right now. If he does learn something more specific, see if he can get the names of a few of the professors involved.”
“In the meantime….” Sammy pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of his red windbreaker with ‘Silver’s Gym’ across the back. “Ex-trooper Sergeant Calvin Stubbs, Bravo Company HQ chief clerk, according to your friend William Carr. I was able to fake a few exchanges with a couple of 3
rd
Battalion troopers on the Internet; black man, supposed to be bright as hell, harbored scuttlebutt to use against offensive whites, his personal advancement.”
Andrea said, “Did you find out where he is now?”
“Durham, North Carolina.”
“Damn!” Andrea’s fist pounded the mattress. “Lawton wants me to rest at home for a week before resuming normal activities, whatever they are. I lost my balance after the operation and have to use a walker to go to the bathroom, and Lawton wants me to use a wheelchair until I regain full stability.”
When Sammy had called the neurosurgeon to learn Andy’s post-operative condition, the physician seemed concerned about her loss of balance and the progressive weakening of her right leg. He advised Sam to be prepared with a basic wheelchair and even consider a motorized version if they couldn’t arrest her decline soon.
She brought him back to the present with an assertion tinged with regret. “I’ll probably have to wait until next month to see Stubbs.”
Sammy stood and turned, hands on hips to gaze out the window that overlooked the flat rooftops of lesser structures in the Georgetown Medical Complex and tightly packed three, four-level residential buildings beyond. “Can we wait that long?”