The Newsmakers (12 page)

It's a terrible way to achieve her dream. But the undeniable fact is she
has
achieved it. She knows the old adage to beware of answered prayers. She must consider her next steps carefully.
Very
carefully. In fact, she feels like she's already in a minefield with her information about the hacking of the Staten Island ferry—navigating it is going to take some delicate and cunning footwork.

Erica looks over at the bounteous room service cart and thinks,
But right now, it's time to indulge.

CHAPTER 22

JUST AS ERICA IS POLISHING
off a morning glory muffin—good thing it's not frosted or she'd swear it was a cupcake—there's a knock on her door.

“Erica, it's Greg.”

She lets him in. He looks like he hasn't slept, his jaw is stubbly, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes sunken. Does he look a little haunted? She reaches up and touches his cheek. Erica realizes how
comfortable
she feels around him. Their history may be short but it's dense, and he has proved his friendship and loyalty again and again.

“Have you been up all night? How about a cup of coffee?” she asks.

“I think my blood must be three-quarters caffeine right now. How are you?”

“Dazed.”

“Not surprising.”

“Was it a heart attack?”

“They're almost certain, but they've scheduled an autopsy. You were incredible last night.”

“If only it hadn't been under such terrible circumstances.”

Greg nods, and there's a moment of silence between them. Punch-
drunk, frazzled, fried—he has never looked more attractive to Erica. She has a sudden urge to kiss him. Instead she says, “I should get out of this robe.”

She goes into the bedroom and slips into jeans and a T-shirt. She gives herself a quick check in the mirror. She stretches her arms over her head, arches her back. Her body feels so relaxed—in a way it hasn't in a long time. She looks over at that huge welcoming bed and imagines . . . making it, hospital corners and all!

Tempting as the bed may be, today, the first day of her new life, is not the time to take that kind of emotional and professional risk. She grabs a dark blazer, puts it on, and walks into the living room. She has an agenda, an important agenda. Greg is sitting in a chair, working on his blood-coffee level, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Erica, I'd like to talk seriously for a moment.”

She sits on the sofa across from him. “Go ahead.”

“Kay Barrish's death was sad and traumatic, but it happened. And because it happened, your life is about to change dramatically. Do you think you're ready for it?”

“I do. It's what I want.”

“That's what I hoped you would say. There's really no limit to how high you can go. Our ratings last night were among the best in cable history. GNN's whole profile has changed. We're now firmly on the map. Nylan is over the moon, and when I spoke to him this morning, he said it's time to think about giving you your own show.”

Erica feels a surge of triumphant euphoria—which she disguises by reaching for her coffee cup and taking a sip. “I don't want to rush into anything. We've all seen what happens when someone is given a show before they're ready. It's not pretty.”

Greg nods. “More immediately, I've been fielding calls all morning from shows that want you on—everyone from
Good Morning America
to
E! News
to
60 Minutes
to Stephen Colbert.”

“I'm going to be very selective. As I've said, I'm in this for the long haul. I don't want to be known as a one-trick pony—the blonde who
tried to save Barrish. I also don't want to spread myself too thin, and I don't want to wear out my welcome before I've arrived. I'll do
60 Minutes
. Nix the others.”

Greg nods. “It carries the most weight.”

Erica feels it, the subtle shift in power—the network needs her as much as she needs them. It's a nice feeling. She hopes Kay Barrish would be proud of her. And maybe now Nylan will back off.

“Now, Greg, there's something serious I want to discuss with you.”

“Shoot.”

“A source I trust explicitly has contacted me regarding the Staten Island ferry crash.”

Greg leans forward, elbows on knees.

“This source was able to get into the ferry's computer system. The system was hacked. The crash was an act of terrorism.”

“Whoa.” Greg stands up, paces. “Erica, do you know what you're saying? The NTSB said it was a computer malfunction, an accident. Who is this source?”

“I can't reveal that, Greg.”

“Is it Mark Benton?”

“I said I'm not saying. But they know their stuff. Well.”

“Do they know who's responsible?”

“They're working on that.”

“When did the source contact you?”

“Night before last.”

“You should have told me immediately.”

“We were consumed with Barrish.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“Just you.”

Greg rubs the back of his neck, exhales. “You know this is a
major
story?”

Erica nods.

“We have to handle it
very
carefully. This is information that was obtained illegally.”

“We're dealing with
terrorists
here,” Erica says. “People who want to kill us and maim us, destabilize our society, destroy the United States of America. No, this wasn't on the scale of 9/11, but it was a warning shot about the power of cyberterrorism. I don't care
how
my source got this information, we have it and we have a responsibility to act on it. Which probably means sharing it with the National Security Agency.”

Greg goes still for a second. Then he nods, almost to himself. “You're right, of course. We're dealing with evil here, and we have to do everything we can to find them. We have a responsibility to the nation.”

“To the world. Cyberterrorism makes borders obsolete.”

Greg runs his fingers through his hair. “We have to think through contacting the NSA. The Feds can be very ham-handed. They'll demand the name of your source and immediately want to take over. Which may well short-circuit the source's work on finding the location and identity of the terrorists.”

“Good point.”

“How much time does your source need?”

“I haven't gotten a timetable. They're working around the clock.”

“Let's give them forty-eight hours before we go to the NSA.” He stops pacing and gives her a sympathetic smile. “Talk about out of the frying pan.”

“I grew up with Maine winters. I can handle the heat.”

CHAPTER 23

ERICA AND GREG ARE IN
the car heading to LAX for their flight back to New York. They've only been on the freeway for a couple of minutes when the driver exits.

“Aren't we going to LAX?” Erica asks.

Greg smiles. “We have a little surprise for you.”

Within minutes they've pulled into Santa Monica Airport, past the terminal, onto the tarmac, and then up to a large private jet with
Universe
written on its nose. A steward stands at the foot of the air-stairs. “Nylan sent this for you,” Greg says.

Wow
. How many times has Erica suffered through the indignities of teeming airports, glacial security checks, jammed flights filled with screaming babies, and seatmates with questionable personal hygiene habits. And now this—drive up and you're on board.

Erica and Greg get out.

“Welcome. The
Universe
is yours,” the steward says before retrieving their bags from the back of the SUV.

Erica walks up the steps and into the cabin. And there sits Nylan Hastings. Surrounded by two men and one woman.

“There she is!” Nylan says, standing, and they all break into applause.

Erica has never been fond of surprises, and she turns to Greg. “Did you know about this?”

“I swear I had no idea.”

“You were breathtaking last night,” Nylan says, smiling at her in a proprietary way.

“I was just doing my job.”

“I'd like you to meet Margaret Dempsey, GNN's lead counsel; George Wilkins, our chief financial officer; and Fred Wilmot, our chief visionary officer.”

In contrast to Nylan, who is his usual study in faux casual, the others are all dressed in dark suits and perfectly groomed, with erect posture and too-bright smiles—the Stepford execs.

A second steward appears with six flutes of champagne. Erica accepts one.

“To our future together,” Nylan toasts.

Erica pretends to take a sip—the dry, fruity effervescence tickles her nostrils, and she feels a split second of seductive nostalgia. Then she puts the flute down.

The captain appears. “Welcome to the
Universe
. I'm Captain Sutter. Our estimated flying time to New York this afternoon is five hours and eleven minutes. We've been cleared for takeoff, so I'd ask you to please sit down and fasten your seat belts.”

He returns to the cockpit and the plane begins to taxi. Erica sits in one of the impossibly comfortable leather seats—which are arranged in a circle around a large coffee table—and gets her first good look around. The plane is decorated like the lobby of a hip luxury hotel, all clean lines and soothing hues punctuated with bold pops of color and arresting art, including a Jeff Koons dog sculpture, which sits between the seating area and the dining table. Past that, Erica gets a peek into the kitchen, where a female chef is hard at work.

“There are two bedroom suites in the back if you'd like to take a nice, hot shower,” Nylan says as the stewards bring out hot towels and take drink orders.

Erica notices that no one, except Greg, who asks for a beer, orders alcohol. Nylan runs a sober ship. And a tight one. All three of his deputies have that same laser focus, that intensity that Nylan tries—with limited success—to disguise.

Takeoff goes as smoothly as whipped butter on warm bread. As they glide through the ether, Nylan plays host, keeping the focus squarely on Erica. New ratings numbers have come in—the Barrish interview is the fifth highest-rated program in cable news history. But it goes way beyond that—hits on YouTube have passed a hundred million worldwide, GNN's website has experienced a fifteenfold jump in visitors, Erica is approaching half a million Twitter followers, and all of GNN's programming has experienced a surge in viewership.

“Erica, overnight you have become the global face of GNN,” Nylan announces. “I want to give you your own daytime show.”

Erica skips a breath. “Thank you, I'm honored. I'll do my very best.”

Her own show! Erica can almost feel her head expanding.
Cool it, kid! The day before yesterday you were just one more hardworking reporter. What goes up can come down—and just as quickly.
Shooting stars burn out. We live in a fickle culture that has collective ADD, is always looking for the next hot thing, and loves to turn on its celebrities. Can online haters and tabloid and TMZ headlines be far behind? Keep things in perspective.

What Erica is most excited about is her new power. Power to uncover the truth, to report on important stories, to help drive a national, even global, dialogue on the future of our dangerously divided nation and our imperiled, war-riven planet. And, on a personal level, the power to take charge of her destiny, to make some kind of uneasy peace with her past, both her miserable childhood and the terrible mistakes she's made as an adult. The power to give Jenny the life she deserves. She wants her daughter living with her in New York, going to one of the city's best private schools, having advantages that she could only dream of in St. Albans, Maine. Advantages that, Erica will stress, come with responsibility. Most of all, she wants Jenny to be happy. She suffers from bouts
of moodiness and her grades are erratic. The divorce was hard on her; she was exposed to some real ugliness. Erica wants to make amends. She wants to be a wonderful mother.

Somewhere over the Midwest one of the stewards announces, “Dinner is served.”

As they move to the table, Erica gets a text message. She takes out her phone—it's from Mark and reads: G
ETTING CLOSER
. “It's from my daughter,” Erica says, before answering: S
EE YOU TOMORROW
. And then she flashes to the black glasses placed so carefully in front of her computer screen. She puts her phone on the table facedown and glances at the implacable faces of Nylan's aides—they're all looking at her with identical inscrutable expressions. Let them look. Erica has a lot more power at GNN than she did yesterday. She just has to learn how to handle it.

Once everyone is seated, the chef comes out from the kitchen; she's dark-haired, slender, and polished.

“This is Rebecca Atkins,” Nylan says. “Rebecca's London restaurant Beside the Point received two Michelin stars this year. I've hired her just for this flight.”

Atkins smiles becomingly and says in a crisp British accent, “We will be starting this evening with artichoke bisque infused with lemon-apricot oil and topped with sheep-milk sour cream and Scottish caviar. After a sedum and baby beet green salad, our main course is pumpkin-seed-and-truffle-crusted tuna served with a grilled-grape- and-baby-pea ragout.”

Listening to this lavish litany—which the others are absorbing with studied nonchalance—Erica has a sudden flash of insecurity: she doesn't belong in a private jet with a private chef, eating food like this. And there are so many utensils, what if she uses the wrong one? Everyone is smiling at her, but what are they thinking? Can they tell she grew up on canned stew and Little Debbie? Erica pushes the thoughts away—something she's trained her mind to do since those first excruciating days at Yale. She exhales and picks up the fat soup
spoon, thankful that it's the obvious choice. Greg, who is sitting next to her, gives her a wry don't-worry-about-it smile, almost as if he knows what she's thinking.