The Journalist (35 page)

“Zackary.” She shook it. “You look, ah,
frazzled.”

“Whose limo is this?”

“My friend’s.”

Zack wiped his face and turned to look out
the rear window.

“Looking for somebody.”

“You notice anybody following you?”

“Not that I know of. Mr. Stearn, I
must

”

“Call me Zack.” He looked her in the eye.
“Senator, we are in deep doo-dah-day.”

“These are momentous times, indeed,
but

”

“Senator, do you have a drink in this
wagon?”

“Ah, well, yes, I think, in there.” She
indicated a small compartment. Zack slid it open and looked at the
four bottles of liquor.

“No Glenlivet?”

She raised her hands. “Sorry.”

Zack snatched a bottle of Dewars and poured
half a glass. “You may need one of these after you hear the
recording I have.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.” He put the bottle back.

“Why so?”

He pulled a long drink from the glass.
“Senator, do you realize our President is planning a military
attack on several nations, even as we speak?”

“Mr. Stearn, perhaps you had better go easy
on that scotch.”

“A coup d'état is taking place.”

“I think you may be over-reacting. This is a
tragic situation we are witnessing, but

”

“Senator, there is a plot to overthrow the
government, believe me.”

“How do you know that?” she said.

“I know.” He took out a Camel. “Mind if I
smoke?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, but go ahead.” She
looked at him. “Mr. Stearn

”

“What happened to Zack?” He lit his
cigarette.

Beno said, “You know, this is really
extraordinary, meeting like this.”

“Senator, that may be the understatement of
the century. Listen to this recording, you’ll recognize the voices
of Armstrong’s brain trust—Babs Lande, Leo Novak and General
MacCallister.”

He opened his briefcase, removed the CD
player and started the recording. As they listened, the faint sound
of the limo’s soft rubber tires thumped in the background along
some unknown road.

When the CD finished Zack looked for Beno’s
face but she was staring out the opposite window. He caught a
reflection of her sad expression in the darkened glass.

Lightning illuminated night. Water droplets
began hitting the windows. Thunder followed, then silence. Only the
tire sounds, flowing now over concrete. A hard rain began.

Zack finished his drink in one long belt then
spoke. “Fun stuff, huh.”

“That was

”

“Right. Armstrong’s Elite Inner Circle:
Cerebrum, Cerebellum and Medulla Oblongata. Lande,
Novak

”

“And General MacCallister.” She touched her
lips. “Mr. Stearn, where did you get that recording?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Somehow, I don’t know how, this was recorded
aboard Armstrong’s yacht three months ago.”

“This is an egregious allegation. How do you
know this recording is authentic?”

“You tell me. Those voices are
undeniable

the events of the past few
days

everything fits.”

She sat in silence for several minutes then
said, “I would say we have much work to do before Benjamin’s
address to the nation tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t we just take this CD over to the
White House and shove it up his Southern-fried ass?”

She paused, looked at him. “The President is
at Camp David.”

“Wanna bet he’s back in DC, getting his hair
tinted for tomorrow’s televised speech to the world?”

“Even if he is, if this is true

if we got into the White House

we would never get out.”

“True. So, what’s your suggestion?”

“Leave that to me.” She looked at the time,
“Twelve-thirty. Let’s just say I’m going to have a very full night
and Monday morning.”

“Forgive me, Senator, but the reporter in me
would like to know what ‘full’ means.”

“I have to knock on some Congressional doors.
I think a few Senators are in town. I know the Chief Justice is.
Then, I think, a public forum

I know
someone at a TV network.”

“I tried that TV business, laid an egg.”

“I know someone personally at a network.”

“But

”

“Trust me.”

“Whatever you think, I hope you impeach that
sorry Armstrong bastard,” he wiped his face with a palm, “I have to
get back to Miami.”

“You don’t think you’re going back to Miami
tonight, do you?”

“Yes” He stumped his cigarette out in the
armrest ashtray.

“How?”

“I was going to

”

“Why don’t you stay here tonight, just in
case, you know? There’s a Doubletree Suites not far.” She took the
bottle of Dewars and handed it to him. “Here, take this with you.
You look like you need it.”

“Probably a good idea.”

She picked up the intercom, spoke to the
driver then to Zack. “We’ll drop you off.”

Zack handed her the CD player. “Here, you’ll
need this.”

Chapter Fifty Seven

Dr. Barbara Lande cleared her desk and locked
up a little after twelve-forty five a.m. The rain heavy, lightning
and thunder intense, she drove her red BMW coupe past the security
gate of the White House. Feeling like she needed to unwind, she
headed out Pennsylvania Avenue to her favorite bar at the
Georgetown Four Seasons. She needed to get home, get a little
sleep, get ready for tomorrow’s excitement; but a nightcap to
settle down the many things on her mind seemed logical.

At the bar, thinking how smooth this
morning’s
Meet The Press
had gone, the ease of implementing
the entire plan, she sat alone and savored a vodka martini. In just
a few hours, she would be at Armstrong’s side as he entered the
White House Press Room to deliver his message to the world. From
there she had visions of a glorious and unprecedented future. She
had a second martini, smoked a cigar and planned the international
expansion of her department.

Buoyed as she drove home in a steady rain
along Potomac Parkway, she noticed a black Humvee approach from the
rear. She thought it too close, tapped her brakes; the Humvee
swerved, began to pass then slowed.

The movement was swift. In a moment, Lande
was upside down in Rock Creek, her BMW filling with water. She
pounded on the windshield; she saw the stopped Humvee’s headlights
shining on the roadside. Two people, in silhouette, watching as she
sucked a last small air bubble.

Chapter Fifty Eight

1:30 a.m.
EST

Monday, September
1

Labor
Day

The thunderstorm pummeling the DC area, Zack
had checked into the Doubletree using his favorite alias, Joe
‘Jocko’ Lewis. He paid cash, found his second-floor suite, went in,
surveyed the suite, sat on the sofa, retrieved the bottle of Dewars
from his briefcase, said, “Thank you God for good companions in the
night,” took a swig, drained himself of the events of the past few
hours, then left the room and went down the hall to get a bucket of
ice. Returned, he stripped naked, poured a stiff Dewars on the
rocks, drank and out of somewhere, thoughts of Mary_what she was
doing, where she was, twenty guys in line_he glanced at the
time—1:35 a.m., smelled himself, finished his drink, went to the
bathroom and took a fifteen-minute very hot shower.Drying off, he
talked to Jocko. “I don’t believe any of this. How many times have
you heard that in the past two days? Plenty. Still don’t believe
it. But here we are, Jocko, the wee hours of Monday, September 1,
2020, Labor Day, and I have a feeling this night is going to be
like listening to a long confession on a hot summer afternoon, sans
air conditioning, as some joker tries to escape the Christian
version of the never-ending story.”

Then it was there again, that anxiety thing
with the dank smell, peeking in the window.

“Go find somebody else to play with,” he said
and pulled the drapes. He looked at the video phone. Thought again
of calling Mary. He reached to turn on the phone then stopped.
“Can’t do that, Jocko, you have to get past that. I think the
current phrase is ‘get a grip.’”

He topped off his drink, went to the bedroom,
sat on the bed, opened the night stand drawer and took out a red
soft cover book version of the hard cover edition in his office. He
read the title,
Great Religions of the World
—Catholicism,
Protestantism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, and Islam.

“If you lump the Christian two together,
five. Count all the splinter groups, another twenty or so. Put in
the nuts, kooks and cults, you got—what?—five thousand? Amazing
what human beings can do with a simple concept.”

He realized he was saying what he was always
saying. He put the book down and took a drink.

“Now I lay me down to sleep.” He looked up.
“Why so much confusion?” He drank. “When in doubt, write.”

He went back to the living room, took his
wrinkled yellow pad and a pencil from his briefcase, sat on the
sofa, flipped several pages and read the draft of something, he
wasn’t sure what, once an editorial, now perhaps a book, he had
been working on for, it seemed forever. He began to read a recently
revised draft:

An Deus sit? (Does God Exist?)

It’s all fairly simple. Except for greed, ego
and organized religion. Amazing what the human mind can do with a
simple concept. Then there is reality and how did humans get here.
And then there is the insanity of how people carved the world up
into small pieces.

He dropped down several lines.

In the beginning, so the story goes, there
was darkness upon the face of the deep. From there the tale gets
complicated. One supposition suggests a


He skimmed the rest of the creation part:
Big Bang

evolved many mysterious
things

ordered course around the
sun

time moved
forward

then came upon Planet Earth
living forms

one, Homo sapiens,
multiplied, subdued the earth and everything in it


He said as he read, “Then came capitalism.
Then came journalism. Then came television news, then
came

”

He paused, thought then flipped a page and
read a draft of something he had begun while waiting on Senator
Beno under a tree in that park:

The events of the past week would seem to
bugle that Planet Earth and her society are in deep doo-dah-day. We
live in an age of instant communication when the thoughts of a few
become words and the words of a few become meaning and the meaning
of a few becomes truth handed down as myth and the myths spawn
deeds put down between people and the deeds end one reality and
begin another toward the history of man, (storia di uomo). Problem
is, who controls the few who may or may not be well-intentioned?
And the problem there is the definition of “well-intentioned.” What
it comes down to is the basic question: An Deus sit? If so, then
there is hope, good, and we should go forward. If He doesn’t exist,
well, Tweedledee, Tweedledum logic, if it is, it is; if it isn’t,
it ain’t. Done deal. There are no flying saucers. There is nobody
out there

we’re it, get what and
all you can and who will say the eulogy at that
funeral


Jocko said, “Somebody said that.”

“Me. Think about it. If there is anything
remotely intelligent out there, half as advanced as we are, would
not they be sending out signals, too? If there are those as bright
or brighter, would not they have found us by now

and where is HE in all the razzmatazz HE supposedly
started?”

He put the yellow pad down and sucked his ice
cubes. Maybe tomorrow they will find us. In the meantime the earth
is Eden and there are three kinds of people—Negroid, Mongoloid and
Caucasian

what’s the big deal?

Pretty much drunk, the uncanniness on hold,
he picked up the TV clicker. “Wonder what the boob tube is saying
now.”

He rested back on the sofa, and as images of
burning cars, talking head, and police lobbing tear gas filled the
screen, dead tired from the day’s event, his eyes closing closing
closing, he dreamed.


a knock on the door. Afraid to answer, he
went and peered through the peephole. Mary. He opened the door and
she stood barefoot, dressed in a sheer black see-through lace
nighty, she held a basket of grapes.

What are you doing here?

Hanging around.

Did you doze off?

Just taking a catnap.

How’s that ear?

Good.

May I come in?

Sure, sure. He returned to the sofa and
sat.

She followed and sat beside him. Want some
grapes? I’ll peel them for you.

I don’t think so.

Let’s go for a swim.

You have a suit?

No. She smiled, stepped to Veracity’s
cabin door and dropped her nighty to the floor. Come on,
chicken
.

Chapter Fifty Nine

Awakened by blaring sound from the TV, Zack
blinked and saw on the screen an upbeat TV morning program showing
giddy Labor Day New York visitors holding cardboard signs from
Davenport, Poughkeepsie, Amarillo.

Zack glanced at his wristwatch—7:01 A.M.

His head pounding, he recalled the Mary
dream. Same version, how many times?
It’s the booze, fat
chance.