Nowhere to Run (4 page)

Linus Nazareth leaned back in his chair and tossed his football into the air, catching it as it came spiraling downward. FBI Agents Leo McGillicuddy and Mary Lyons sat across from him, unamused.

“No, Special Agents, I didn’t know. I had no idea that Dr. Lee was going to produce that vial of anthrax on the set this morning. But I can’t say I am dismayed that he did. The public has a right to know the state of the nation’s security on this.” The atmosphere in the room was tense at the implicit accusation in the executive producer’s statement.

Agent Lyons felt like smacking this obnoxious ass for the sneer in his voice when he said “Special Agents,” but she kept her tone even. “We want to know how Dr. Lee got the anthrax. We want a detailed account of where and how Dr. Lee’s story was produced, where he went, and who talked to him.”

The football flew into the air again. “I don’t have to give you that information and I won’t.”

“We’re talking about a weapon of mass destruction here, Mr. Nazareth.”

“That’s your problem, not mine. Mine is protecting the public’s right to know and making sure that my correspondents and producers can do their jobs. They can’t do their jobs if they can’t guarantee that they won’t reveal their sources.”

The agents looked at each other. Blah, blah, blah. They had heard this liberal jive before. It was clear that they weren’t going to get anywhere with the arrogant jerk. They were wasting their time here. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.

They could get a tape of the broadcast and work backwards from there. Once they determined the lab where the story was taped, polygraph tests could be administered to the employees.

The post–September 11 cases at CBS, NBC, and ABC had been harder to solve; it had been next to impossible to trace the anthrax-laced missives among the millions and millions of letters that flowed through the U.S. mail. This time the chain of evidence should be much easier to follow.

“Good, morning, Edgar. How are you today?” Annabelle smiled at the tall man pushing a stainless-steel service trolley down the carpeted hallway.

“Just fine, ma’am, I’m just fine. Thank you for asking.”

In his starched white shirt, crisply pressed black trousers, and spit-polished shoes, Edgar took great pride in his appearance and in the Employee of the Month pin that he wore on his breast pocket. In his eight years of employment at KEY’s Station Break cafeteria, he had never missed a day of work, always shown up for his shift when he was supposed to, many times even early. Edgar’s supervisors loved him, and so did the
KEY to America
staffers as he delivered their coffee, bagels, and donuts each morning along with a warm, genuine smile.

We could all take a page from Edgar’s book,
thought Annabelle as she deposited her tote bag on her desk. He does his job well, with a quiet dignity, and he doesn’t wear his troubles on his sleeve. Actually, she didn’t know for certain if Edgar had troubles or not, but he couldn’t be making a big salary and, for that reason alone, life in the New York metropolitan area had to be a struggle for him. But you’d never know it from the pleasant demeanor he always projected. There were those in the hallowed halls of the Broadcast Center who certainly made scads more money, enjoyed far more creature comforts, and would be considered much more “successful” than Edgar, yet they complained incessantly.

This thing has seen better days,
she observed as she hung her navy wool coat on the hook on the back of her office door. Politically incorrect or not, tomorrow she was going to start wearing the fur jacket her aunt Florence had given her when she left for Florida. It had been hanging in the closet for years now, unworn. The poor animals had given their lives and pelts over fifteen years ago. The jacket would just have to do for now. Maybe after Christmas she could get something else on sale. Until then, the beaver jacket would keep her warm.

Annabelle picked up the telephone to retrieve her voice-mail messages. She tensed as she heard Yelena Gregory’s voice. “Annabelle. It’s Yelena. Call me, immediately.”

Taking a deep breath, Annabelle called the president’s office. Yelena’s assistant answered. “Yes, Annabelle. Yelena does want to talk with you, but she’s in a meeting with the health department right now. Can you come to the office at ten forty-five?”

Of course she would come to the office. She had to let Yelena know she had nothing to do with this. She had to keep her job.

Dr. John Lee’s office door was closed but, through the window, Annabelle could see an orange-suited HAZMAT worker inside. Lee was in the screening room down the hall, talking on the telephone. He waved to her to come in. She didn’t take a seat but stood, folding her arms across the yellow cashmere sweater Mike had splurged on two Christmases ago, as she waited.

“So let me get this straight.” Lee scribbled across a yellow legal pad. “Either they will charge me with possession of a weapon of mass destruction or, more likely, they will haul me before a grand jury and try to make me tell where I got the stuff. And what happens if I refuse to talk?”

Annabelle watched as Lee listened to the response.

“And if the judge finds me in contempt, I go to jail until I give it up, right?” There was excitement but no worry in Lee’s tone or facial expression.
He’s actually enjoying this,
thought Annabelle with disbelief.

“Okay, Chris, call me after you talk to the federal prosecutor.” Lee hung up the phone.

Until that moment, Annabelle hadn’t been sure what tack she was going to take with her correspondent. Professionally, she was angry as hell that Lee had pulled this stunt without telling her. At the same time, she was glad she hadn’t known anything about it. She could truthfully tell the FBI and Yelena as much, and only hope they believed her. She decided to stay calm, or at least appear calm, while inside she was seething.

“Your lawyer?” she asked.

“Yep. Christopher Neuman, one of the best in New York.”

“You’re gonna need him.”

Lee shrugged and sat back in his chair. “I’m not particularly worried.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Chris tells me that the prosecutor’s office is probably not going to want to make a martyr out of me by prosecuting me. I’d be perceived as a brave journalist, doing my job by exposing the chinks in the armor of national security. They’ll look bad if they prosecute a hero.”

“So they’ll go the grand jury route?”

Lee nodded. “Probably. And, of course, I’ll refuse to reveal my sources,” he declared smugly.

And you’ll love the publicity generated by that, won’t you? Ever the principled newsman. Just think how that will ratchet up your exposure and credibility as your agent negotiates your future contracts.

“And you’re willing to go to jail?”

“If I have to, yes.”

If she had thought for one minute that Dr. John Lee’s motives were truly what he said they were, Annabelle would have admired him for his stance. But she knew him too well. Every fiber of her being told her that this was a calculated plan designed to help Lee get to his greater professional ambitions.

The idea of John Lee, M.D., behind bars wasn’t all that upsetting as far as Annabelle was concerned.

The group assembled around the conference table knew they were in for one of those meetings that would provide lots of material for later conversation at lunches and coffee breaks. As they sipped their java and picked at their corn muffins, the producers and correspondents waited for the executive producer, speculating on what Linus Nazareth’s reaction would be to the events on this morning’s show.

“I think it was deplorable,” huffed Gavin Winston. “Lee had no right taking a risk like that. He should be fired immediately.”

“I don’t know, Gavin.” Russ Parrish shrugged, twirling a strand of his curly, dark hair. “It sure was great television.”

“You
would
think that,” the business correspondent sniffed. “Everything has to have entertainment value to you.”

“That’s my job, Gavin, remember?”

Gavin tightened the knot of his silk tie. “Well, this isn’t one of those movies you review, Russ. This is real life and anthrax is real stuff. Deadly stuff. Lee had one hell of a nerve. What do you think, Dominick?”

All eyes turned to the senior producer. Dominick O’Donnell was Nazareth’s right-hand man.

“I, for one, am not particularly surprised, and I don’t see why any of you are so shocked. When John floated his anthrax idea at the meeting last week, it must have crossed some minds here that he’d already obtained the anthrax from the lab.”

No one at the conference table volunteered a response.

“Anyway,” Dominick continued, “I think that the publicity on this is going to be great for ratings, and since we’re in a sweeps period, Linus is going to be especially thrilled.”

“The ratings, the ratings.” Gavin’s fist hit the table. “Damn the ratings.”

“What sacrilege am I hearing?” Linus Nazareth stood in the doorway. The conference room fell instantly silent as the executive producer took his place at the table and fixed his gaze on the business correspondent.

“Come now, Gavin. Let’s get off our high horse, shall we? Those ratings are what decide our advertising rates, and those ratings are what decide how much money we make, and that money, as you know, dear finance whiz, pays your extremely generous salary. So let’s not pooh-pooh the importance of ratings. Remember, Gavin, winning isn’t everything. It’s the
only
thing.”

Gavin’s face colored while the others sat with eyes cast downward, suddenly immersed in the importance of their notes.

“Okay. Before we go any further, let me tell you that the anthrax container was completely sealed and there is no danger that any of the spores escaped. No one has to be worried about exposure. Having said that, if any of you want to get a prophylactic antibiotic, that’s your prerogative. You can ask your doctor for a prescription for Cipro.”

“Are you going to get some, Linus?” asked the weather forecaster, Caridad Vega.

“I have some that I stockpiled after the episodes at the other nets but, no, Carrie. I’m not going to take it. That’s how confident I am that there is nothing to worry about here.” Linus sat back in his chair and looked around the conference table, his expression defying anyone to question him further.

“All right,” he continued, “now that we have that out of the way, I want you to know that, as of now, this broadcast and KEY News stand behind Dr. Lee and the public service he performed here. That is our official position. Personally, I did not know that John was going to do this, and I don’t encourage any of you ever to make such an arbitrary decision. I must be informed of
every
important element of our broadcast. There are no exceptions to this rule.”

“Except for Lee, I guess,” Jerome Henning whispered to Annabelle.

Nazareth’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the book segment producer. “Do you have something to say, Jerome?”

“Sorry, Linus. I was just telling Annabelle how lousy I feel.”

“I see. Well, why don’t you go first this morning so we can let you out of here and spare us the golden opportunity of catching whatever you’ve got?”

Trying to ignore the comment, Jerome rattled off the list of authors who would be available for the remainder of the week, giving quick synopses of the books they were promoting. The last on the list was a much-anticipated tell-all written by the mistress of a well-known politician.

“Who’s the publisher on that one?” asked Nazareth.

“Ephesus.” Jerome coughed.

Nazareth nodded. “Good. Book it.”

Jerome didn’t bother to mention that he already had. Ephesus was publishing Linus Nazareth’s book as well, and Jerome knew that the “coach” might want to keep his publisher happy. The publishing company had paid a handsome advance for an insider’s view of the top-rated morning show written by the flamboyant broadcasting executive with the agreement that Linus Nazareth write every word himself. But Linus had quickly realized it wasn’t so easy to pump out a book. It took a patience he did not have, and he had turned to Jerome for help with
The “Only” Thing: Winning the TV News Game.

With carefully concealed contempt, Jerome watched as the executive producer turned his embarrassing vitriol on his next victim. After writing all that self-aggrandizing clap-trap for Linus, Jerome had seen his chance to set the record straight by telling the real story and, at the same time, claiming some fame and fortune for himself. He may have signed a confidentiality agreement swearing not to reveal that he had ghostwritten his boss’s book, but nothing said he couldn’t write one of his own.

When his own manuscript was sold and published, Jerome knew he’d have burned his bridges. But he planned to get in a stinging parting shot. In his mind, he’d already fashioned the dedication.

For “Coach” Nazareth…

If not for you, I wouldn’t have had the impetus to write this.