The Journalist (27 page)

(static)

Novak: “You understand, Ms. Babs, if this
doesn’t work we will all be hanged.”

MacCallister: “By the nuts.”

Lande: “Maybe you guys.

(Laughter)

Joe turned the machine off.

Zack sat in silence for a minute.

Jim fidgeted.

Zack stood. “When did you say this was
taped?”

“Three months ago, May twenty-fifth.”

Jim smirked. “Three months ago

Why’d it take so long for you to get this so-called
bombshell out?”

Joe said, “You heard it—all the pieces fit
now, long weekend, Labor Day, the Miami cops

the video

what do you
need?”

Zack said, “Funny thing about deceit, once
it’s put into words it has a sweet stink about it.” His shoulders
slumped, he didn’t know what to do. Rage would be futile, fear
would be stupid, pity was more like it.
It’s a dream.
He
pinched his wrist.
Nope.
Pinched again.
Fiction.
Nope.
He looked up to the ceiling.
You writing this
stuff?

Still doubting, Jim said to Joe, “Where did
you get that recording? I demand to know where it came from.”

Zack shook his head and whispered, “They made
it up.”

“We have sources,” Joe said.

“Who is we?” Jim said.

“I can’t go into that now.”

“Oh, wow

how do we
know you’re not a fake?” Jim said.

“How do we know?” Joe turned to the lady
escort at the door. “Please.”

She stepped to another door, opened it, and
Kim entered the room. Joe held his hand out. “Zackary, you remember
Kim.”

She extended a hand, “Hello, Zackary.”

“Kim

how are you?”
Zack stood and embraced her. “Meet Jim Roberts.”

Case said, “Tell them, Kim, where you got the
audio tape.”

“A Pi sister, Ensign Kelly, taped this
meeting aboard the President’s yacht.”

“Wait a minute

I
don’t believe that,” Jim said.

Joe leaned back, pointed his cigar at Jim and
jokingly said to Zack, “Who is this guy?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jim shot back.

Joe said, “Okay, hotshot, we got three people
doing dandy good impressions of Armstrong’s brain goons. I wrote a
script, recorded it and all so Zack here could take you on a
midnight cruise to Bimini, just to fool you. Makes a lot of sense,
don’t it, boy.”

“What

Wait a minute
you big-foot fruitcake, don’t call me boy

”

Zack touched Jim’s arm. “Do you really want
to quibble the matter, right now, in light of what is happening in
the universe?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“But I still don’t believe it,” Jim said.

Zack puffed his cigar. “Mr. Roberts, your
objection is noted. Now please, shut up.”

Kim added, “Why would we go to the bother?
Ask yourself that.”

Joe moistened his cigar with his tongue,
opened a drawer, removed several glossy black-and-white photographs
and threw them on the desktop.

“Look at the pictures we took just today.” He
stood and began to pace. “Why are the Seabees building all those
barrack like structures, hundreds of them, at Guantanamo?”

Zack glanced at the pictures, “You tell
me.”

“Ten to one, they’re expecting a few of
Benny’s opposition.”

Zack studied the pictures. “Look at these,
Jim.” His mind moved ahead in megabytes. He looked at Joe. “Who are
you, anyway?”

Jim studied the photographs. “How do I know
this is Guantanamo?”

“Ever been there?” Joe said.

“Well, no, but I’ve been to Puerto Rico.”

Joe said, “Believe me, that’s
Guantanamo.”

Zack sputtered, “I don’t know what to say. I
have never not known what to say in my entire life.” He looked at
Jim. “Have I?”

“Not that I know.” Jim shook his head. “This
is preposterous.”

Zack looked at Case then Kim then Case. “Are
you sure

I mean

”

“No,” Joe, agitated, said. “We made all this
up to play a trick on you.” He held his hands out and shrugged his
shoulders. “For what? Gimme a break, Zack, I have better things to
do with my time.”

Lightning illuminated the night, the
lightbulb over Joe’s desk dimmed; in the distance it thundered.

Zack nodded. “We have to get back. I’m
assuming you have a copy of this recording.”

“Yes, this one is yours, you better
hurry.”

Joe took the disc from the machine and handed
it to Zack.

Tucking the disc in his breast pocket, Zack
said to Joe, “One thing’s bothering me.”

“Name it.”

“Why me?”

Joe smiled. “Cause I like you, booby.”

“Booby

” Jim shot
up.

Zack paused then said, “We need a lift back
to our boat.”

Kim said, “We’ll get you back

but there’s a pot full of U.S. Navy in the Atlantic,
and

” She pointed out the window.
“

the storm coming up. Be careful.”

Zack nodded. “Let’s go, Jimbo. This may be
the biggest journalism day in your young life, mine, too, let’s go
for a boat ride.”

Chapter Forty Three

2:30 a.m.
EST

Churning clouds obscuring the moon, the
pending storm drew close and the sea whipped three-foot black
waves. Gusts of wind swept sea spray over the bow. The engines of
Top Gun
echoed pulsating whines.

Gripping the craft’s wheel, Zack called over
the din to Jim who stood to the left clutching a handrail, “Jimbo,
how you feeling?”

“Super.”

“Think of it this way, we’re challenging the
Bermuda Triangle.”

“Triangle’s winning.”

“I knew this thing went straight to the
top.”

Jim called, “I still think crazy Joe’s tape
is a fake.” He wiped a spray of salt water from his face.

“Jimbo, you’re a journalist, put it
together_feed the media unconfirmed reports, stir up some racial
stuff, add a trumped-up story about fighting terrorism to protect
freedom, motherhood, apple pie, the children

and, oh, by the way, temporarily suspend the
Constitution. Vintage Lande media manipulation; she’s a genius at
it.”

Jim clutched the railing. “I think I’m going
to throw up.”

“Go over the side.”

Jim heaved over the side.

“Don’t fall overboard,” Zack said.

Jim leaned back. “Where’s that bottle?”

“Here.” Zack handed him the bottle of
Glenlivet and picked up where he left off about Armstrong. “Then
Armstrong goes to Camp David to make it look good.”

“Going to Camp David just made sense.”

“Why are you defending that sack of spineless
jackass?”

Jim wiped his mouth. “Why are you defending
that phony nut case, Joe Case?”

“It’s a matter of which nut you choose to
believe.”

“And I’m dealing with three.”

“You talking about me?”

“Yes

”

“Jimbo, after all we been through

”

“I don’t care

I’m

” He heaved over the side
again.

“Take another drink, settles the inner
ear.”

“That’s not true.”

Zack checked his heading—west-southwest.
“Don’t you see a pattern in all this?”

“No.”

“I do.”

“I knew you would.” Jim wiped his face.

“Each event seems simple enough, but when you
put everything together you get a whole that is brilliant.” Zack
adjusted course to due west.

Jim slugged the bottle again and steadied
himself as the craft skimmed a cross-swell. “Bwana, what if you’re
wrong?”

“When is the last time I was wrong?”

“Right.” Jim called over the smack of hull
against waves. “If you’re right, if we don’t get shot, if your loco
friend is telling the truth, got a recording from some Super Fly,
the question is, what are we going to do about it after we both get
dead?”

“You really are a pessimist at heart, aren’t
you?”

Lightning cracked just off starboard.

Zack gripped the wheel. “You better put your
life jacket on.”

“For what?” Jim said. “To drown more
slowly.”

“Jimbo, trust me.”

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“About what?”

“If Case is right, what are you going to do
about it?”

“We’re going to print it.”

“No, we’re not.” Jim slugged the bottle
again. “We’re going to die in the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Luck, fate, heaven, hell.”

“Ohhh.” Jim steadied himself as
Top
Gun
skimmed yet another swell. “My luck, your fate.”

“If you only knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Nothing.” They rolled forty-five degrees to
port, Zack struggled with the wheel. “You know who we haven’t heard
from in any of this?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Our Congressional leaders.”

A five-foot wave doused the cockpit. Jim’s
knees buckled, “We’re going to die

”

Zack called over the chaos, “Armstrong’s
goons planned this thing perfectly. Congress back home on Labor Day
break, eating corn on the cob with their constituents.”

“Ooooh.

Jim heaved
over the side.

“Watching the same TV doo-dah-day we’ve all
been watching on the boob tube for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Ooooh.” Jim hung on as the craft yawed
sideways.

“You okay?”

Out of the water, the twin props whined as
Top Gun
slammed into another series of surging waves. Rain
began to spit.

“We’re going to drown

” Jim said.

“Little swells. Nothing to worry about.
Listen, we have to contact Beno when we get back.” Zack swung the
wheel heading due north.

“Why are we changing direction?”

“Relax.”

“Why are we turning?”

“Somebody up there where they shouldn’t
be.”

“Again?”

“Anyway, we need to contact Beno when we get
back.”

“If we get back.”

“We’ll get back. We have to.”

Jim wiped saltwater spray from his forehead.
“I could have been a lawyer.”

“If anyone can derail this thing, Beno can.
She’s got to KO that son of a bitch Armstrong in
November

she has to

if there is an election.”

“If there is an election? Zackary, you simply
have to get to a shrink.”

Lightning illuminated the blackness in front
of them. Splitting thunder cracked the air. A drenching squall
began.

Zack, over the chaos: “Beno is right.”

Jim yelled, “You’re crazy. You’re crazy.”

“Do you grasp what Beno has been saying?”
Zack braced himself as they shot off a wave at twenty degrees.

Jim clutched the railing.

I don’t care.


“She’s talking beyond any system of economics
we now have

but greed stands in the way, a
select few now control roughly ninety-five percent of the world’s
wealth. Too many are getting the short end of the stick. ‘Silver
and gold shall not deliver them in the day of the wrath.’ Ezekiel
seven-something.”

Jim mumbled, “Oh, my God, he’s quoting the
Bible.” He shouted over the torrential rain, “Zackary, your Jesuit
slips are showing.”

“Take another slug.”

Jim hit the bottle again.

“Better?”

“No

”

They smacked a five-foot wave and pitched
thirty-five degrees.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Jim prayed.

The boat righted itself. Lightning struck ten
feet astern.

Jim crossed himself. “I just hope you can
walk on water.”

“Call it what you like, the proof is in the
pudding.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“What you said.”

“Pudding?”

“Yes.” Jim slugged the bottle and gave it to
Zack.

A swell jolted
Top Gun
and she swung
ninety degrees.

“What was that?”

“Not to worry, Jimbo, Bermuda Triangle,
probably ghosts from missing Flight 19.”

“You think that’s funny, don’t you, real
funny. Gimme that bottle back.”

Zack looked at his compass and wiped
saltwater from his face. He turned back to a heading due west.
“Should be seeing the night lights of Miami in fifteen minutes.
Keep an eye out.”

“Zackary, you’re insane.”

Zack glanced at the raging fury of water all
around. “You know, Jimbo, I agree, but sometimes I think I’d rather
be insane than what is currently being offered as the other
option

n either case, I’d give it all away
to be out of here and over there

to know
for sure, know once and for all what’s over there.”

Jim heaved over the side.

Chapter Forty Four

Sunday, August
31

9:00 a.m.
EST

Camp
David

Rays of morning sun light streaking through
the dense evergreen and deciduous tree canopy, the crisp air
yielding a hint of an early winter, President Armstrong, Professor
Novak, and General MacCallister strolled a Camp David trail.

Skipping alternate steps to keep up with the
long strides of Armstrong. Novak wore his favorite brown tweed
jacket, while the President perspired inside his red-white-and-blue
warm-up suit. MacCallister, in full dress uniform—hat, medals, five
stars—exuded confidence.

Hands clasped behind his back, Novak beamed.
“Well, Mr. President, are you pleased with our progress so
far?”

The President flicked a twig with his hickory
walking stick, “Yes, yes, but I’m baffled at the ease of it all.
This media thing

” He paused a moment to
think. “It’s like that big buck rhino I shot—remember, Mac?—on that
trip to Africa. Damn thing was a giant, awesome, and at the same
time so doll-gone stupid.” He scratched his groin. “You know those
damn things mate for an hour.”