A Matter of Degrees

by Alex Marcoux

  “Too short, Clark, and your Thanksgiving?”

  “Fine.” Coburn closed the office door behind him. “I have a special assignment for you. I need an editorial on Michael Whitman, endorsing him for the senate race.” Coburn dropped a file on Brennan’s desk. “All the information you’ll need is right here.”

  “When do you want the article?”

  “A week from today.

  “Consider it done.”

  Coburn moved to the door. “I knew I could count on you.”

  * * *

  With her fork, Jessie scraped the crumbs of her TV dinner from the bottom of its plastic container. Hardly enough, she thought as she ate the last bite. She set the empty plate on the coffee table beside her. From the nearby attaché case, she retrieved the Whitman file. She fluffed the throw pillow on the couch behind her, nestled into it, and opened the manila folder.

  Jessie scanned through the documents. There were numerous editorials on Whitman’s humanitarian works, which highlighted generous donations to hospitals, homeless shelters, and schools. Apparently, he had taken over the family business when he was in his mid-thirties and built Whitman Industries into a thriving empire. At the age of forty-five, he was listed as one of the top ten wealthiest men in the world. Now, according to the articles, he intended to step away from his empire to become a public servant.

  The information was presented in such a manner that most would easily endorse the man. But Jessie was unlike most reporters. She set the file folder down. “This is just too squeaky clean,” she concluded.

  Thoughtful, she moved into her home office and sat at her computer. Maxwell jumped on her lap and rubbed his chin up against Jessie’s arm. He settled down and lay purring on Jessie’s legs.

  She typed Michael Whitman at the search engine prompt, modified her criteria to remove duplicate URLs and clicked go. There were hundreds of references were listed. For hours, Jessie skimmed the material. Most of the information was similar to what she had already read. She was just about ready to call it quits when she saw the hyperlink “Billionaire Sues Ex-Wife for Custody of Son.” Here, she learned that in the 1990s Whitman had sued for full custody of his son, alleging his wife was unfit to raise their child because she was gay. “My kind of guy!”

  Jessie read the article aloud: “Behind closed doors, Michael Whitman and his former wife, Sidney Marcum, agreed…” Jessie stopped. Sidney Marcum? Could it be? She returned to the article. “…agreed upon a settlement regarding the custodial arrangement of their twelve-year-old son. Ms. Marcum is an entertainment manager; her clients have included Anastasia—”

  “Sidney Marcum is Taylor’s new manager.” Jessie pondered the connection. “What a coincidence.”

  “Jessie, you know there’s no such thing as a coincidence.”

  Jessie ignored the faint voice in her head. After another five minutes of searching, she came across, “Whitman Loses the Governor Race.” Jessie clicked the hyperlink, The article indicated that in the early 1980s Whitman ran for New York governor, and lost.

  “My God, how old is this guy?”

  Jessie read aloud: “Whitman’s failure to hold his marriage together with Marcum crippled his chances of winning this election—” Jessie whispered, “Marcum strikes again!” It was getting late and she was tired. Her mouse pointer approached the X to exit.

  “Jessie, keep going,” that little voice pestered her.

  Jessie stopped from exiting. “Where have you been?” she asked out loud. “I don’t hear from you often anymore.”

  “I’m here, you just haven’t been listening.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  For a moment, Jessie wondered if she was going crazy. “Do you have a name?”

  “You can call me Charlie.”

  “Are you a ghost, Charlie?”

  “I am a spirit.”

  “Why are you with me?”

  “I told you…I am a friend.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “You know me very well. We have known each other in many other lifetimes, Jessie. We were supposed to know each other here, but my life was taken prematurely.”

  “Why are you with me, Charlie?”

  “To finish our business together.”

  “What business?”

  “It is not time for it to come to fruition.”

  Jessie’s vision returned to the monitor, “What should I be looking for?”

  “Patience and you will find it.”

  In the early morning hours, Jessie found one more article of interest. The title of the commentary said it all, “Whitman Industries Acquires The Empire.” Jessie learned that Whitman had purchased the newspaper five years earlier.

  * * *

  Jessie knew how to play the game. Within a week she had her article finished and on Coburn’s desk. The article summarized the information in Whitman’s original file, excluding the extras Jessie had learned.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jessie was typing in Brennan’s office when the phone rang. “Hello,” she answered in her masculine voice.

  “Hi, Brennan,” a familiar voice said. “This is Rachel Addison. How are you?”

  “Hi, Rach—”’ she started in her normal voice. She coughed. Rachel’s call to Brennan’s phone confused her. “Excuse me. I’m fine, and how are you, Rachel?”

  “I was wondering if you wanted to join me for lunch, sometime.”

  “Lunch would be nice.” Jessie was taken aback by the call. Why are you calling, Rachel? “But I’m swamped this week for lunch. Would you consider dinner, instead?”

  * * *

  It was seven o’clock when Rachel neared the hostess station at the Half Moon. Brennan greeted her. “Good evening, Rachel.” Brennan was dressed handsomely in a tailored Calvin Klein suit. Jessie’s tinted blue eyes searched Rachel’s as she drew near. Awkwardly, Rachel extended her hand, and Jessie shook it.

  The hostess led the couple to a table with a view of the Hudson River. But nearby parties were too close for comfort.

  “Excuse me, Miss? May we sit over there?” Jessie pointed at a vacant table across the room.

  “Of course.” She left them with menus.

  “You do realize that my office phone is probably tapped,” Jessie started.

  Rachel nodded. “I didn’t think there would be anything wrong with a single woman asking a single man to lunch.”

  “Aren’t you seeing Chancellor?”

  “I haven’t since our first couple of dates. He travels a lot…He’s guarded about developing a relationship, so I’ve backed away.”

  “That’s probably best.” Jessie glanced around, making a mental note of the parties.

  Rachel changed the subject. “I saw your commentary on Whitman, and wanted to talk with you about it. Whitman is a Bilderberger.” A waiter greeted them. They ordered a bottle of wine, and he disappeared.

  “That’s interesting. My article didn’t say this, but Whitman owns The Empire.”

  “I know,” Rachel said. “That’s not all he owns. He’s the controlling stockholder of WABS. The network that carries Over the Edge.”

  Jessie pondered the new information. “He must be a Mason.”

  A waiter brought a bottle of wine. He displayed the label to Brennan, uncorked it, and poured a splash for Brennan to sample. Jessie sipped, nodded at the waiter, and he poured two glasses. The waiter took their orders and left.

  “How was France?”

  A smile came to Jessie’s lips, and her eyes lit up. “Too short.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m back earning my degrees. I’m on schedule for the thirty-second in mid-January. Taylor comes back to the states shortly after that. I’m not sure what I’ll I do…What have you been up to?” Jessie changed the subject.

  “I did this incredible piece on the Merovingian Dynasty. It’s great, Jes—.” She corrected herself. “Brennan.” She shook her head. “It went to Neil for review last week.
I learned yesterday that he won’t air it. He said it was too controversial.”

  “What was in your project?”

  “It was about the theory that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had children and how the church was not only aware of the lineage, but how they supported the assassination of two of the last Merovingian kings. I showed that there exist today endless manuscripts that suggest the Church misled us about the virgin birth and resurrection. I documented the rise and fall of the Knights Templar and how the Knights Malta took over their military orders after the Templars were destroyed.”

  “The Knights Malta?”

  “While Freemasonry is one descendent of the Knights Templar, others are the Hospitallers, Knights of St. John, the Rosicrucians, and the Knights of Malta. The Knights Malta watched the demise of, and in some cases even contributed to the Templars’ destruction, and then they took over their military orders. Today, they’re supervised by the Vatican and are the primary contact between the Vatican and the CIA. Some believe the Knights of Malta are involved with the Bilderbergers.”

  “Well, if what you said is true, they wouldn’t air it. Think about it. Whitman is one of the owners of WABS—he’s a Bilderberger, which means he has indirect ties to the Vatican—and he can dictate what can be aired at the network.”

  “Of course! And the last group that would want this to be aired is the Vatican.” Rachel took a sip of her wine. “Sometimes I’m so close to something I can’t see it…If what you’re suggesting is true, it would be a losing battle to fight him to air it.”

  “That would be correct.”

  “And if he’s not going to show this piece, he’s certainly not going to air my new project. I’m exploring the angle that Freemasonry is devil worship.”

  “And?” Jessie’s curiosity was piqued.

  “I’ve learned about this ancient civilization known as the Sumerians.”

  “I’m a little familiar with the Sumerians. But I didn’t think they were connected to Freemasonry.”

  “Indirectly they are. Apparently, the Sumerians were a polytheistic society and one of the gods, named Enki, chose to give the first man and woman the ability to seek their spiritual freedom. This pissed off the other gods; they banished him to earth and called him Abaddon or the Prince of Darkness. According to Egyptian lore, Enki or Abaddon, formed the Brotherhood of the Snake, the group that formed the mason guilds and taught the mysteries.”

  Jessie listened intently to Rachel, and when she finished, she didn’t know what to say. “I assure you, if Neil objected to your Merovingian piece, he’s going to object to that one.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why I’m a reporter. My work is always edited and, in some cases, censored. And yet, the network has always been patient with me. What am I going to tell West?”

  “West?”

  “West Kerry, the professor from NYU.” There was a sparkle in Rachel’s eyes. “He was instrumental on the Merovingian piece and the devil-worship project. How can I tell him the network isn’t going to air it? He put in so much energy into it.”

  Rachel and Jessie finished their dinner. They had been at the restaurant for over two hours. Jessie, on the alert, had watched all the tables in the room turn over, all except for one. At that table sat two men. They each appeared to be in their early thirties. Both were dressed in black suits with white shirts and conservative ties. They were attractive and clean-shaven. Silently, they sat, each nursing a cup of coffee.

  Jessie casually sipped her coffee. “I think we’re being watched.”

  “Really?” Rachel sipped her after-dinner drink. “Where?”

  “There are two men sitting behind you. They’ve been here since we arrived.”

  “What makes you think they’re watching us?”

  “Two men, dressed in business suits, having a very leisurely dinner, and not talking with each other?”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re watching us. Perhaps you’re just being paranoid.”

  Jessie paid for their dinner and claimed their coats near the front door. She caught Rachel by surprise when she helped her into her coat. Jessie slipped on the Ralph Lauren trench coat and held the door for Rachel. As Rachel passed through, Jessie’s eyes darted to the table where the men had sat at. It was vacant.

  Still not accustomed to short hair, Jessie pulled the wool collar around her neck. “Brr,” she rubbed her hands together to warm them. “Where’d you park?”

  Rachel’s head nodded toward the end of a dark parking lot, where a streetlamp was mysteriously unlit. The couple made their way across the pavement, passing Brennan’s Mustang. They were three parking spots from Rachel’s car when the sound of footsteps alerted them.

  “Keep your eyes open.” Her breath in the moonlight exposed Jessie’s whisper. Casually, Jessie glanced behind. Without the light from the streetlamp, she could see only two dark silhouettes approach a car on the other side of the pathway.

  “Is it them?” Rachel whispered.

  “I think so.”

  An interior car light lit, revealing that the men sat in a car across from them. The light dimmed when both doors slammed shut. Jessie escorted Rachel to her Saab where they stood awkwardly, knowing that they were being watched.

  “Rachel, get in your car and leave.”

  “I’m not leaving you here, alone. You better come up with a better plan than that.” Her eyes revealed her stubborn side.

  “Drive over to my car, then park.” Jessie whispered. “When I’ve started my car, leave, and I’ll follow you out.”

  Rachel hesitated. She took a step forward closing the gap between the two. She whispered, “Kiss me.”

  “Excuse me?” Jessie was taken back by the suggestion.

  “You heard me. We’re supposed to be on a date. It’ll look suspicious if you don’t at least kiss me goodnight,” Rachel whispered.

  Kissing Rachel was the furthest thing from Jessie’s mind. It’s wasn’t that Rachel was unattractive, because she was a knockout. And it wasn’t because she didn’t like her, because she did. But Jessie was committed to Taylor’s lips. And here, in the cold, dark parking lot along the Hudson River, she was torn. In the end, she realized that Rachel’s safety was more important than her discomfort, and Jessie approached Rachel’s moist lips. Then she withdrew. “Get in your car,” Jessie whispered.

  Rachel opened the door, started the ignition, and put the Saab in drive. Abruptly though, she slammed the car into park, and hopped out of the car. She threw her arms around Jessie. While Rachel pressed her shapely body against Jessie, giving the appearance that she wanted Brennan, Rachel’s lips moved to Jessie’s ear. “Get in the car,” she whispered. “It’s safer that we leave together.”

  “Fine,” Jessie succumbed. She walked around the car and got into the Saab.

  As Rachel drove slowly through the parking lot, Jessie’s eyes were fixed on the side-view mirror. They were just about to the road when Jessie saw headlights. “Here they come.”

  “What should I do?” Rachel asked.

  “Head north, stay within the speed limit. I don’t want to tip them off.” Rachel complied, and the shadowing car maintained an inconspicuous tail.

  “Who would be following us?” Rachel asked. “What’s wrong with me asking you out?”

  “Nothing. Unless they’re onto one of us.”

  Now in Tarrytown, the car approached the entrance to the Cross Westchester Expressway. “What do I do?”

  “Take 287 and see if the car follows.”

  As suggested, Rachel merged onto the highway, and the other car followed. “Where’s your apartment? I’m not going to spend all night driving around.”

  * * *

  “That’s my spot over there,” Jessie pointed to the assigned parking space.

  Rachel cut the engine. “Do you see them yet?” Their pursuer had fallen out of sight after they turned off the main road.

  “No. Not yet. Let’s get inside.”

  Jessie led Rachel down the walkway to the ligh
ted apartment entrance. As they climbed the exterior stairs, she spied the parking lot. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She opened the door and cut the entry light. Jessie permitted Rachel to enter but something caught Jessie’s eye as she closed the door. The dark sedan was making its way toward the apartment with headlights off.

  “They’ve arrived,” Jessie shut the door and dead-bolted it.

  Jessie knew that their pursuers had seen them enter the apartment. She hit the light switches for the kitchen and living room. Rachel was on Jessie’s heels as she moved into her dark bedroom. At the window she searched for the car. “There they are,” Jessie pointed at the dark car parked outside the apartment.

  “Now what?” Rachel asked.

  “Let’s wait and see.”

  The women waited. But the car wasn’t leaving anytime soon, so just after midnight Jessie suggested that Rachel spend the night. When Jessie undressed for bed that night, she didn’t remove the body suit or facial hair. She wanted to be prepared. While she tossed and turned uncomfortably in her bed, Rachel remained restless on the sofa.

  In the morning the car was gone. It had left sometime in the early morning hours. Rachel drove Jessie to her car, then headed for her own apartment for a change of clothes.

  * * *

  The abrupt rap on Brennan’s door diverted Jessie’s eyes from the monitor. Without giving her a chance to respond, Coburn stuck his head in Brennan’s office.

  “Brennan, we need to talk.”

  Jessie knew something had gone amiss; the man was pale. “Come in, Clark.”

  Coburn closed the door behind him. “Brennan,” his eyes on the floor, “it’s been brought to my attention that you have been seeing Rachel Addison.”

  Jessie knew it would be pointless to deny it. “We saw each other last night.”

  Clark’s eyes finally met Brennan’s. “You must stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Why isn’t important. It’s just important that you stop seeing her.”

  Jessie was curious and pressed him. “If you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you be unsatisfied with that answer?”