Michael Walsh Bundle (39 page)

That was one of the things that still made New York New York, thought Byrne as he spied the building: not making eye contact with neighbors was still considered a virtue.

They pulled up in front of the building. “Mother Cabrini—Frances Xavier Cabrini—is the patron saint of immigrants,” said Byrne. His cell phone was buzzing now, too.

Lannie beat him to the punch. “We're here, right in front of the building,” he said softly.

Byrne watched his younger colleague's face fall. “What is it?” he asked, but Lannie was already sprinting through the front door.

New Orleans

“Archibald Grant” had a choice: to finish his speech or to react to the urgent message now coming across the face of his wristwatch.

This was no ordinary watch he wore, but then nothing about Mr. Grant was ordinary. As one of the RAND Corporation's leading experts on international terrorism, he was in great demand, not only back at the home office in Santa Monica, California, but worldwide. RAND maintained divisions in Boston, Pittsburgh, Washington, D.C., Jackson, Mississippi; Cambridge, England; Brussels; and Doha, Qatar.

His attention from the message was distracted by the blonde in the front row. She was a reporter, one of the few the RAND Corporation allowed into policy addresses such as this. Most of the time, RAND hid its global activities behind its anonymous name, Research ANd Development.

This was a special occasion: a conference organized by RAND's Gulf States Policy Institute, which had been formed post-Katrina to aid three of the most benighted states in the union, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama. The topic of his lecture was: “Terrorist Opportunities in a Devastated Environment: Some Thoughts on Media Responsibility,” but the reporter seemed more interested in him than in the subject of his remarks. Even in his guise of “Mr. Grant,” he hated inquisitive people, and blonde network reporters were right up there with the worst of them.

It wasn't that Grant was so good-looking: balding, over-weight, slightly buck-toothed, he was no woman's idea of a prize. But he was brilliant, and a compelling speaker, which in his experience was more than enough to interest a certain class of women. Luckily for men, brains often counted more than looks when it came to the fair sex.

“…and so, ladies and gentlemen, let me conclude with this thought…” His mind raced, trying to finish his remarks and at the same time process the information he was reading surreptitiously. Silently, he cursed himself for taking this gig, for being so far away from Washington and New York at a time like this. Maybe it was just an early yellow flag, but in his experience the National Security Agency didn't issue SCI alerts—Sensitive Compartmented Information—on a whim. And besides, these days, there were no yellow flags, only red ones. He'd have to wrap it up and leave as quickly as possible, without incurring suspicion. Especially from the blonde.

“The days of so-called ‘separation of church and state,' whether we want to admit it, are over. A new media environment, brought on first by the emergence, and by the dominance, of the Internet, coupled with the severe economic downturn of the past 48 months, has finally brought the relationship of the press and the government into a new era of cooperation and, dare I suggest, symbiosis: no longer natural adversaries, but partners in the brave new world of the 21st century. Our shared land, our common patriotism, demands no less.

“America is unique among the world's nations in more ways than simply the political, the military, or the economic. Three other countries—Russia, Canada, China—may be larger, territorially speaking, but none is subject to the kinds of climatological and ecological disruption. Blizzards, earthquakes, wildfires, floods, tornadoes, hurricanes; had civilization tried to arise here, rather than the Indus Valley, it surely would have perished in short order. Far from being a land of milk and honey, America has always demanded the survival of the fittest. Lest we forget, the ‘shining city on a hill' was bought with the blood of patriots.”

There was a slight stir in the audience; nobody used the word “patriots” anymore, nor referenced Jefferson's famous Tree of Liberty, however obliquely. What they usually forgot, of course, was Jefferson's exact formulation in his 1787 letter to William Smith, written from Paris, of which Mr. Grant now reminded them:

“Or, to quote Jefferson directly, ‘the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and
tyrants
.'”

The buzz grew louder as he entered his peroration: “Against all odds, America defeated the world's other superpower through a combination of willpower, tactical superiority, and a consummate knowledge of the battlefield—virtues we sorely lacked on September 11, 2001, and in its aftermath, and in many ways continue to lack. When the next terrorist attack comes—notice I said when, not if—our first line of defense will not be the government, or even the first responders, but will be the media. How the attack is framed, and explained, will determine in large part the will of this nation to fight back. In a sense, we were lucky on 9/11. The attack came so suddenly, and without warning, that the usual collection of nervous nellies, naysayers, National Public Radio eunuchs, and nabobs in the ‘loyal opposition' took several months before they were able to regroup and begin the counterattack. But when the next blow comes, they will be ready, appeasement on their lips and terms of surrender already signed and sealed in their pockets. I just hope that we—the tip of the tip of the spear—will be ready, too.”

There was a smattering of weak applause, which is about what Mr. Grant had expected. He let it almost subside before finishing.

“Of the abilities of the men and women employed by our counterterrorism agencies I have no doubt. Nothing the media says or writes or broadcasts can or should or will affect them. Rather, I am thinking of the civilian population, the people who get their news from the networks and the cables and from what few newspapers and magazines anyone still takes seriously. I am thinking, in short, of ordinary, average Americans. People who once knew how to deal with extraordinary events and overcome them or endure them, secure in the knowledge that
Der Wille zur Macht
would see them through adversity. The very people whose will to fight has been eroded by half a century of guilt, defeatism, analysis, and Hollywood. For, when the time comes—and come it will—it is they who, more than anyone else, must once again summon the courage of their forebears and seize the day.”

He paused and looked out over the sea of faces. It was time to go. “Thank you for your kind attention.”

Through the perfunctory applause, a question: “So you're advocating vigilantism?” It was the blonde. “And a follow-up—if so, then why do the American taxpayers spend billions of dollars each year on the military and the intelligence services? Are you saying that, in the end, all of our vaunted technology and martial prowess can't guarantee our safety? And finally—”

“Would you kindly identify yourself, please, Miss?” Mr. Grant asked.

“Principessa Stanley. National-security correspondent, People's News Network.”

There were a couple of titters in the audience from the Europeans. That was to be expected. The Americans were too ignorant and uneducated to get the operatic reference, while the Europeans got it at once. She had spent most of her life trying to live up to the implications of her name, to be as regal and beautiful and as cold as her namesake, the Princess Turandot. She turned briefly and flashed her famously telegenic smile: “My father was a big Puccini fan,” she explained.

“You understand, Ms. Stanley, that we are on Chatham House rules. Off the record, on deep background, however you care to phrase it. In any case, not for attribution.” He took a small sip of water to delay her answer, giving him time to glance down at his watch once more. The news had not gotten any better. Luckily, she was waiting for him just outside, and they would be at the airport in short order.

Principessa smiled her famous network smile again. A cable network smile, but still a network smile, and one that had, along with her pretty face and killer figure, taken her a long way from Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. If she played her cards right, pretty soon she'd move up from the mid-morning slot to the late-afternoon slot and after that, there was no telling what might happen when one of the prized evening gabfests suddenly found itself in need of a host. She had been hearing rumors, and doing her best to spread of few of her own, and in her opinion a couple of the anchors were only in need of a little push—or a gossip item dropped in the right place at the right time—and the way would be open to her. Besides, Jake Sinclair liked her, a lot.

“Yes, I do.” She rose, letting everyone in the audience get a good look at her. Like all the interchangeable blondes on the cable newscasts, she was leggy, bosomy, brash, and the proud possessor of a law degree. One more button on her blouse was unbuttoned than absolutely necessary. “And finally…what do you have against the news media? Wasn't it also Jefferson who also said that given a choice between a government without newspapers and newspapers without government, he would happily choose the latter?”

Mr. Grant smiled; she had walked right into his trap. “Yes, Ms. Stanley. To which George Washington replied, ‘I consider such vehicles of knowledge'—that's newspapers to you—‘more happily calculated than any other to preserve the liberty, stimulate the industry, and ameliorate the morals of a free and enlightened people.' And by ‘industry,' of course, he meant—”

“I know what he meant by ‘industry,' Mr. Grant,” she retorted.

His return glance indicated that he very much doubted that. “What Washington meant, Ms. Stanley, was that vigorous political opposition was a good thing, but that a news media, to give it its current favored term, that saps the will of the people, that reduces them to pleading, whining petitioners and diminishes the morals of the public is not one to be admired. The First Amendment does not protect sedition.”

“But it sounds to me like you're arguing in favor of American exceptionalism. Isn't that a form of elitism?”

“On the contrary. I'm arguing in favor of results. Which, in my world, are the only things that count.” He shuffled his papers, reassembling in an unmistakable sign that the talk was over. These days, all of the reporters' questions emanated from a mountain of moral certitude, which crumbled the second it was assailed.

Principessa reddened, sat down, seethed. “This all sounds rather jingoistic to me,” she said.

Mr. Grant looked at her with all the pity in world. “Who cares what it sounds like to you?” he said, and left the stage.

That went well
he thought to himself as he stepped into the wings, to the sound of applause. He moved swiftly, glancing down at his secure BlackBerry. A quick glance at the screen caused him to double his speed. He exited by an emergency door.

There was a car waiting, a nondescript black sedan with four tinted windows. He got into the back seat, closed the door and hit: AUTO-START.

Driverless, the car started up and moved forward. He could control the steering from a console on the back of the driver's seat. He wasn't going far.

He glanced in the rearview mirror: a door was opening, and he could see a woman's head peeking out. It was Ms. Stanley, eyeballing the car and talking into her cell phone. It was too bad he couldn't treat reporters the way he treated enemies of the Republic…

As the car moved, Mr. Grant underwent a remarkable transformation. His teeth fell out of his head; his midsection slid away, a hairpiece came off. And all the while he was wondering whether the raw data he was receiving was as sinister as it seemed, or worse.

The car reached the far end of the parking lot and slid into a reserved, covered space. He ran a brush through his hair, popped a pair of brown contact lenses from his eyes. He had to hurry.

He opened the door and, keeping low, slid into the adjoining Mercedes, its engine purring, as the front passenger door opened.

“Not bad,” came a voice from the driver's seat. He didn't turn to look at her, but he didn't have to. He knew every line of her lovely face. “But that reporter sure was a bitch.”

“You were watching?”

“And listening. Every word, every gesture…”

Jealous. He liked that in a woman. Especially one he hardly knew, but trusted with his life. “You know there's—”

She turned toward him and, as usual, he fell in love with her all over again. His mouth covered hers.

“Really, Frank, I think you're slipping,” she said, breaking away. “Why put yourself in—”

He reclined and, for the first time in two hours, stretched. They both knew the answer to that question, which was: there was no answer. “My name's not Frank.”

“You're telling me.” She pulled the car out of the lot and into traffic. “How bad is it?”

“Hard to say. Cyber attack, maybe a security breach.”

“Against us?”

Mr. Grant shook his head. “Worse—NYPD. Fort Meade is still monitoring, but the situation is unclear. And you know how tough it is to get any information out of the cops. They'd rather see the city nuked than share anything with us. We need to get to Teterboro A-sap.”

“So I guess Arnaud's is out of the question.”

He smiled. “Arnaud's, Galatoire's Brennan's, Congo Square, Exchange Alley—the whole nine yards.”

Maryam hit the radio button twice and nodded to Devlin. He took the cigarette lighter out of its holder and pressed it against his thumb. The biometric reader vetted him, and suddenly the navigator screen leaped to life. He punched in his instructions.

“Go.”

The car leaped forward, speeding west out of town and toward Louis Armstrong Airport. There would be a private plane there, fully equipped, on the director's orders. In no time, he and Maryam would be fully up to speed and, if possible, already fighting back. There were contingency plans for something like this, but plans went out the window as soon as the first shots were fired, and from the looks of this…

No matter. He was doing what he was born to do. He was himself again.

He was Devlin.