The Newsmakers (6 page)
Erica thinks,
This isn't a story about boat safety. It's about what caused the ferry's computer system to freeze up.
But she doesn't say a peep.
“Are you going to use my live footage of the crash?”
“It's not
your
footage, Erica. It belongs to the network. Of course I'm going to use
pieces
of it. The visuals in particular are very strong.”
“And
The View
?”
“I've spoken to Nan Sterling, the lead producer over there, and she insists that I do the show. Nan and I were at Stanford together,” Claire says, letting a little country club seep into her inflections. “But the decision was
purely
a professional one.”
“No doubt.”
“Well. There we have it.” There's an awkward moment. Claire looks around the office, spies Erica's array of earrings. She reaches up and casually fingers the fat diamond stud in her right ear. “Those earrings are
so
darling. Target?”
And then she's gone, leaving behind a whiff of some perfume Erica can't afford.
Erica gets up, crosses the office, and shuts the door. The blood is pulsing in her temples so fast and hard she thinks she might faint. Or throw up.
That witch!
“I'm just much better equipped.”
“It's not
your
footage, Erica.”
“The decision was
purely
a professional one.”
Suddenly Erica is back in that dark-paneled freshman dining hall at Yale, afraid to open her mouth, ashamed of her broad Maine accent, slumping further and further down in her chair, hoping her classmates will forget she's there. They even hold their knives and forks differently. Did their parents
buy
their social ease, their casual confidence, all the talk of horses and Vail and the school their family is funding in “Boliviaâor is it Namibia? Ha-ha!”
Erica leans against her desk and sucks air. She closes her eyes and recites the Serenity Prayer, repeating the second phrase three times.
Courage!
She strides into the hall, turns left, and heads toward Greg's office.
“
WHAT
'
S UP
?”
GREG ASKS IN
alarm, looking up from his computer.
“Claire Wilcox stole my ferry story!”
There's a pause, and then Greg nods in resignation and looks down at his desk. Why isn't he more upset? Why isn't he outraged?
“Did you know?” Erica demands.
“No, I did
not
know. But to be honest, Erica, I'm not surprised.” He looks her in the eye. “Why don't you sit down a minute.”
Erica fights the urge to rant. She knows from experience that impulse comes before error. She sits and crosses her legs, tries to compose herself, but her top leg is bouncing.
Greg sits back at his desk, gives her a rueful look, and runs his fingers through his thick black mop. “I'm very sorry this has happened.” His soulful green eyes are so sympathetic that for a moment Erica is afraid she'll burst into tears. Like tears ever got her anywhere.
Greg leans across the desk toward her. She smells his piney soap. “You have a lot of talent, Erica. I
believe
in you. I think you can make it to the top in this business, and I want to do everything in my power to help make that happen.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “But Claire Wilcox has some clout at GNN. A chunk of the network's revenues
come from advertising sold on her show. Yes, your ferry coverage did well, and that's been noted by Nylanâyou're firmly on his radar.”
“Can we take this up with him?”
Greg gets up, closes his office door, sits back down at his desk, and lowers his voice. “Claire wouldn't have pulled this without his okay. Nylan is a shrewd bird, Erica. He likes to pit people against each other. And even play mind games. He's a little perverse.”
“Do you think he put Claire up to it?”
“That's not something I want to get into here and now.” He gives Erica a meaningful look and switches gears. “I think we have to be very smart and very strategic. We're in the news
business.
”
Erica tries to push Greg's words about Nylan out of her mind. “Greg, Claire is going at the story the wrong way. I believe we have to look into the possibility of cyberterrorism.”
“Say more.”
“What if someone hacked into the ferry's computer system and shut down the controls?”
Greg drums the desktop with his fingertips, wheels turning. “Cyberterrorism
is
the twenty-first century's battlefield. And there's so much hacking going on these days. But terrorists are usually eager to take credit, and no one has.”
“Yet.”
Greg is silent for a moment. “I think you should write Claire a memo and copy it to me and Nylan, laying out your theory.”
“She just stole my story and you want me to hand her a promising lead?”
“Absolutely. If it does turn out to be cyberterrorism, you'll look like the brilliant reporter you are. And there will be a record of it. Plus you'll earn points for being a team player.”
Erica knows he's right, but it's a hard pill to swallow.
“The best thing we can do is accept what's happened, keep our heads down, work like dogs, and find a story Claire Wilcox
can't
steal.”
Greg's voice is so calm, so reasonable, and there's no sugarcoating.
He's speaking the simple truth. And presenting a way forward. Erica lets out a deep exhale and feels herself relax. She has an ally. Someone she can trust.
Greg smiles at her. She looks at his hands, the dusting of hair, the prominent veins, the long, supple fingersâand has a sudden urge to be held by those hands, cared for, caressed.
Alarmed by her desire, Erica stands up, paces a moment, and then stops. “You're right, of course. Thanks for talking me down. Any promising stories on the horizon?”
“Kay Barrish's plans are
the
hot topic these days.” The former movie star and California governor is considering a run for the presidency, a race she would enter as the clear favorite.
“She's said she'll announce her decision on a White House run in the next couple of weeks. Landing an interview with her would be a big coup.”
Erica nods. “I'll work on that.”
“It won't be easy. Everyone in the business is trying to snag her.” Greg smiles at her. “Of course you're not everyone.”
“I appreciate your support and sound advice.” Erica heads toward the door.
“Erica?”
She turns.
“Any chance we could continue our discussion over dinner?”
Greg looks so hopeful, both strong and vulnerable. Erica swore to herself that romance was off the table for her first year. But this isn't romance. It's just two colleagues having a casual dinner. Right?
He holds up his palms in surrender. “We'll go Dutch,” he says with a smile.
“Out of the question,” Erica says. And then she returns his smile. “
I'm
paying.”
ERICA STEPS INTO THE ELEVATOR
and presses 3. Sure, she'll write Claire a memo raising the possibility that the ferry crash was an act of cyberterrorism. When she's good and ready.
The doors open on the third floor, and Erica walks down the hall toward GNN's IT department. It's a large, open space split into cubicles. There's a single private office at the far end of the room with its door open. It must be Mark Benton's. Erica walks past the cubiclesâsome of the employees look like they were bused in from a Star Wars convention: geeky, goofy, gender-indeterminate, sporting a rainbow of hair colors. Others are wearing bland clothes and don't have a hair out of place. Both camps are focused on their computer screens with the maniacal intensity of obsessive-compulsives. The room is eerily silent except for the click of fingers on keyboards, a disembodied, malevolent sound.
Erica reaches the office. Inside, a man of about thirty is sitting in front of a huge computer screen with several other large screens nearby. The main screen is filled with a diagram of mathematical symbolsâat least Erica thinks that's what they are. Each time he hits the keyboard, the configuration of the diagram changes.
“Mark Benton?”
“Not now!” he barks, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“When?”
“Later.”
“That's not very specific.”
“Can't you see I'm working?”
“Well, I'm not exactly on the beach in Cabo.”
He turns and looks at her, his mouth twisted in annoyance.
“Erica Sparks. Sorry to interrupt your work. Can you give me a good time to come back?”
Mark looks from the screen to Erica and back. He sighs. “Fine. Go ahead. What's up?”
“I have a few questions.”
“About?”
“The computer systems on the Staten Island ferry.”
“I'm not paid to help reporters conduct research.” He has a roundish face that still seems to hold traces of baby fat, pale skin, and curly brown hair. He's wearing black-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face and give him a buglike look, a wrinkled work shirt, and baggy black cords. In spite of his best efforts, he's attractive in a nerdy sort of way.
“Can you make an exception?”
“Doubtful.”
“Could the Staten Island ferry crash have been an act of cyberterrorism?”
That grabs himâhis expression goes from aggrieved to engaged. “That was
my
first thought.”
“Seriously?”
“No, I just said it to prove what a genius I am.” He blows air out through his mouth, his lips whinnying like a horse, then reaches up and scratches his scalp. “I'm sorry I'm being such a jerk. We had a software glitch yesterday and I pulled an all-nighter. It's almost resolved but not quite.”
“Gotcha. This is a bad time. But you think cyberterrorism is a possibility?”
“Absolutely. It would be a tough system to hack into, but once you were in, you could control that ferry from the Kremlin.”
“Can you back up a little? How would that work?”
Mark's eyes light up with techy enthusiasm. “Transportation systemsâstarting with airlines, of courseâare high security risks. They're protected by a lot of firewallsâboth software programs and hardware that identify and block hackers. So getting in would take time and skill. But it's certainly doable. Look at North Korea and Sony. ISIL shut down the French television network TV5 Monde and took over its website and social media. North Korea got into Sony by stealing the credentials and assuming the identity of a Sony IT systems manager. Once they were in, they could inflict damage at any time. It's really the equivalent of getting behind enemy lines. North Korea's initial salvos were phishingâe-mails that put malicious code into a computer system if the recipient unknowingly clicks on a link. The phishing started two months before they took total control of Sony's systems. With the ferry, I would guess that the hackers had been in the system for a while, waiting for the optimal time to freeze up the navigational controls.”
“And the Kate Middleton lunch was the perfect moment to gain maximum media coverage.”
“Exactly. You know GNN has a whole cybersecurity department.”
“I had no idea.” How come no one has mentioned this to her?
“Oh yeah. It's located on the sixth floor. It's run by a guy named Dave Mullen. For obvious reasons, it's a locked ward.”
“But you're in IT here.”
“I take care of our internal functions. I'm basically a glorified repairman. Dave Mullen protects us from the big bad world. He used to work for the Pentagon and then for a big defense contractor. Won't give me the time of day.”
“How do I contact Mullen?”
“Through your executive producer. But I doubt he'll talk to you. Like I said, they lie low. Nylan has a paranoid streak, but you know what they say: just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't after you. There's North Korea, ISIL, the Kremlin, rogue hackers. Imagine the panic a terrorist group could create if it simultaneously shut down all four cable news networks, the East Coast power grid, and the national air traffic control system.”
“Terrifying thought.”
“We're living in a brave new world, Erica. You know what I call anyone who claims to know where it will all lead?”
“What?”
“A fool.”
TO WEAR OR NOT TO
wear, that is the question. Erica is at home, standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring the beautiful blue dress that she was going to wear on
The View.
Nancy Huffman returned it to her, perfectly altered. She's meeting Greg in twenty minutes at a restaurant two blocks away. It's Italian, unpretentious and well lit. She didn't want some romantic place filled with candlelight and cozy corners. She's nervous enough as it is.
Yes, the dress is a dream, but does it send the wrong message? Would she be better off going simpleâjeans and a white oxford, maybe, with the collar up? As soon as she got home, she washed the spray paint off her face, so maybe she can get away with the dress. It does make her feel . . . desirable. But is she comfortable with that?
She picks up her phone, takes a selfie, and texts it to Moira: I
S THIS DRESS TOO MUCH FOR A BUSINESS DINNER
?
Within seconds she gets an answer: W
ITH A MAN
?
Y
ES
.
H
OW ATTRACTIVE IS HE
,
ON A SCALE OF
1
TO
10?
I
DON
'
T WANT TO GO ON RECORD
.
W
HICH MEANS HE
'
S AT LEAST AN EIGHT
.