“Christopher Goldberg has put in more than one and a half million dollars over the past year and a half. I can’t afford to lose that kind of support, especially not if I’m going to run for president in four years. Just as important, Christopher’s business is on a knife edge right now. The loans could get called in any day, the bankers are getting mightily twitchy. He’s had the toughest of years. This interview is going to be a big payday for him. I cancel, and I guarantee you that’s the end for him. So, sorry, no way.”
Watson picked up a baseball that was lying on his desk and threw it so hard against the opposite wall in his study it rebounded at head-high level. He ducked out of the way, but caught his injured left wrist on the side of the desk as he did so. A spasm of pain shot through him.
“Sonofabitch,” Watson said. “Boris is saying he can’t back out. You’re saying you can’t either.”
He stood up and paced across the room, thinking furiously. “Okay, we’re going to have to rig the interview, then. He’s going to have to spoon-feed you questions. If he goes all guns blazing on this Iran arms thing and who knows what else, then we’re all going to come across as utter assholes and wind up in the slammer.”
Watson shut his eyes, propped the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and ran his hands through his white hair. “Oh, and that’s not all. That idiot Johnson is on Boris’s trail and mine as well. He’s likely to come in and try to have him arrested or something tomorrow either before or after the interview. Then you’ll be next, eventually, when they figure all of us out, and where does that leave you and your campaign?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
Eventually Spencer spoke. “I just can’t back out of this. There’s too much at stake. It’s down to you now. You got us into this mess. You can get us out. Do what you have to, Robert, but fix this.”
Before Watson could reply, Spencer hung up.
Chapter Forty-Four
Friday, July 27, 2012
Manhattan
Johnson was up and dressed by quarter past six in the morning, having slept little. He was about to call the concierge at his hotel, the Pennsylvania, to check when breakfast was served when Vic called.
“Sorry, Doc, it’s early, but you have to listen to this. Alex Goode at the NSA’s just sent it to me. It’s a call last night between Watto and someone else. You’ll know straightaway who it is.”
Johnson groaned. His shoulder was still a little sore. “Hang on a minute.” He sat in an armchair and sipped some water. “Okay, go on then.”
“Here you go. First voice you’ll hear is Watto,” Vic said. A somewhat crackly recording began to play.
“EDISON, you fucking asshole. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be interviewed by Boris Wolff?”
Johnson jerked forward, feeling as though he’d just had a double espresso.
“Shit, Vic. It can’t be, surely?”
“EDISON is Spencer.”
“Unbelievable,” Johnson said. “So—”
“Wait, you need to hear the rest.”
The recording came back on and Johnson heard it all the way through.
“So Spencer’s the third man in all this, the Pentagon adviser, in for a cut of the arms deals,” Johnson said. “He must have been in it all along. You heard what he said—twenty years.”
“He’s finished. He’s toast,” Vic said.
“I agree, Vic, he is. But what do we do now? We could wade in and have both him and Franjo arrested before this interview, but it would look ham-fisted. They could play it that way with their media friends as well, given we’re still building evidence. That’d be a big call. I’m happy to play a slightly longer game. Right now I’m more worried about Franjo being snuffed out by Aisha. Any word on where she is?”
“No. She didn’t go home last night which is seriously worrisome,” Vic said. “We checked out her mosque, but no sign of her there. She must be at a friend’s place, but no idea whose. The police are doing everything to track her down. She’s due at work at half past seven for the interview, so let’s see if she turns up. There’s also been no sign of Franjo. He definitely didn’t check into a hotel last night, so he must be with a friend or something as well.”
“We’ve got to go over that studio with a fine-tooth comb,” Johnson said. “Can we get sniffer dogs down there and say we’re worried about security at Spencer’s interview given all his anti-Muslim comments?”
“Yep, I’ll get onto it.”
“Okay, I want to get to the studio as soon as possible, so I’m going to have a very quick breakfast and hoof it. It’s only a few blocks away on the other side of Penn Station. The TV studio’s bound to be open. You can meet me there. Okay?”
“Yes, fine, but be careful,” Vic said. “You’re pissing off some powerful people here.”
“I’ve already been shot at about three or four times on this job. What else is new? But I hear you.”
“Okay. I’ll see you outside the West Side Jewish Center. It’s an old stone synagogue in front of the TV studio entrance. Forty-five minutes, right?”
“Okay. See you then.”
Johnson grabbed his jacket, his wallet, and two spare magazines for his Glock. Then he pulled on a baseball cap and sunglasses and headed for the elevators.
Two New York Police Department cars, sirens wailing, screeched past Johnson as he made his way along Seventh Avenue after leaving the Pennsylvania.
He crossed 33rd Street, breaking into a run briefly to avoid a yellow cab, then continued past the melee of people that were swarming into the subway, the deli shops, offices, and banks.
At the junction of Seventh Avenue and West 34th Street, opposite Macy’s department store, he turned left, the Empire State Building behind him.
Now the CBA TV studios were only two blocks away. Johnson continued past the array of glass and steel offices and shops until he reached the West Side Jewish Center on his right, next to an open-air parking lot.
There he paused. He checked the map on his phone. CBA was in a gray and glass six-story building right behind the synagogue.
It was now almost quarter past seven, but there was no sign of Vic. Johnson pulled his baseball cap further down, leaned against the old wooden door, and waited.
After ten minutes, Johnson saw him. Vic strode across the parking lot and pointed urgently to his left, toward the TV studios. “The two sniffer dogs have just arrived. They brought them straight here from JFK. There was a bomb scare there during the night.”
They crossed the lot toward the rear entrance of the TV studio in the corner. The huge doorway of the studio’s loading bay was on the left, leading off the parking lot, and a pedestrian entrance, heavily branded with CBA logos, was on the right.
Outside the loading bay stood an unmarked white van, out of which climbed a woman and a man with two black Labradors, both wearing harnesses. The handlers took the dogs into the building, accompanied by two policemen.
“I’ve had a chat with the dog handlers already,” Vic said. “They’re going to comb the place. We’ve got a bit of time before the production team arrives. The lighting, sound, and camera crews are already there, doing their final checks. I gather Franjo is due here a bit later. But—”
“Is she there? Aisha, I mean?” Johnson interrupted.
“No. That’s what I was coming to. She phoned in sick. Apparently it was a short call. She didn’t speak to her manager, just left a message with a girl in the office. And we still haven’t traced where she is. She’s not at home, and her phone’s now switched off.”
Johnson grimaced. “Shit.”
Vic led the way into the building. “They’re going to be in Studio One, the largest one.” He nodded at the reception desk and produced his CIA identification. “Can you sign this man in, please. Joe Johnson’s his name. I’m vouching for him.”
The security man took Johnson’s proffered passport, photographed his face, and produced a visitor’s badge.
Three
other men approached. They were tall, heavily muscled guys who wore long-sleeved black shirts.
“My staff,” Vic said. He beckoned them over. “You guys, just make sure nobody else comes in here without my say-so, okay? No CIA, no police, nobody. All right?” The three men nodded. “No problem boss,” one of them said.
“Okay, let’s see what the dogs do,” Vic said to Johnson. He led the way through the lobby and across a corridor toward a door marked Studio One.
Inside the studio, the dogs were already hard at it with their handlers, who were systematically working their way around the set. Johnson watched as the woman handler steered her dog around two black armchairs that were placed at right angles to each other, a coffee table in the center, and four TV cameras that stood on the floor.
The other dog handler was working his way up and down the rows of audience seats.
Johnson stared up into the ceiling of the cavernous studio, which housed a crisscross maze of rails, cables, and lights. The room was already busy. Cameramen and sound crew were performing checks on the cameras that stood on the studio floor and at the rear of the room, while some of the lighting crew were on ladders, making adjustments to the overhead rig.
Johnson looked at a team of men who were busy working on a lighting bar. He approached them.
“Sorry, but can I interrupt you for a moment?” Johnson asked the lighting team. “I’m Joe Johnson, an investigator working alongside a colleague of mine from the CIA over there, Vic Walter.” He pointed to Vic, who was standing a few yards away. “We’re just a little concerned about a couple of security issues, given we’re going to have Spencer in here and the tone of what he’s been saying about Muslims in recent weeks.”
“Not now, buddy, not now,” one of them said. “Can’t you see we’re trying to get this finished? We’re behind with this already.”
“It is urgent.”
“Right,” the man said, visibly struggling to quell his irritation. “I’m the lighting director, Tim Burroughs. What do you want?”
“I’m just interested in the role Aisha Delić plays in the team here: what she does and her part in preparations for today’s production, for instance. I know she’s out sick today, but over recent weeks?” Johnson asked.
“There’s no problem with Aisha. Her job has different parts to it—some planning, some technical and some creative. She normally programs the lighting desk that controls all the lights in the studio,” Tim said. “She also stood in for me yesterday and set all the lighting during rehearsals because I wasn’t around. She did a decent job. Now, I really need to get a move on. Is that okay?” He turned his back on Johnson without waiting for an answer.
Johnson walked up to the dog handler in the seating area and introduced himself. “You’re obviously not finding anything?” he asked.
“Nothing so far,” the handler said. “We’ll give these two dogs a while, then do the technical storerooms and production galleries as well if nothing shows up.” He strode away, leading the dog to the rear of the studio.
Twenty minutes later the woman handler strolled up to Vic and Johnson. “It’s clean,” she said. “These dogs have found nothing at all. We’ve been over it twice.”
“Okay, good. Let’s hope we have nothing else to worry about,” Johnson muttered. He felt slightly relieved.
Friday, July 27, 2012
New York City
Franjo’s head felt dense and heavy under the weight of the previous night’s champagne, not to mention the lines of cocaine, which he didn’t often partake in.
He put his hand on his forehead, which felt clammy to the touch.
Despite declining the invitation from Sabrina, it had been a very long way from the normal, professional, sober routine he followed prior to big interviews.
He knew where it was all headed. He knew he’d have to disappear again.
Screw it, this is the last one. I’ll go out with a bang.
Franjo stared at the ceiling, then climbed out of bed and stepped into the bathroom. There was still plenty of time. He could get into the studio by ten o’clock and the interview would start at half past twelve.
For months he’d planned and plotted to get this interview in the bag, then he’d been completely pumped when he finally landed it.
Then came the American, Joe Johnson, dragging up the dirt from his past.
Now he just wanted it to be over.
Edvin’s right. I should just get out, get on the plane, and go . . . Screw the career, screw the TV company, screw them all.
Franjo rummaged in his toilet bag until he found a pack of painkillers. He removed two, filled a glass with water from the tap, and swallowed them.
Then he wandered back into the bedroom and picked up his phone, which he had turned off the previous evening. He turned it back on.
That was when he remembered the text messages the previous night from Watson, telling him to cancel the interview. What was that all about?
Franjo noticed five lines of cocaine remained on the silver tray on the table. He picked up one of the rolled-up hundred dollar bills that also lay on the tray and stood staring at the white powder, wondering if he should.
Then the phone rang. It was Watson.
“RUNNER, it’s SILVER. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to call, but your phone’s been switched off.”
Franjo paused. “It’s all under control, don’t worry.”
“No, it’s not,” Watson said, his voice low and monotonic, but with a threatening edge. “It’s a very long way from being under control. Listen to me. I wanted to explain to you last night, but you wouldn’t speak to me. Patrick Spencer, who you’re interviewing today, is the other man in our arms ring.”
Franjo furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
“He was the Pentagon military adviser in Sarajevo, in the early ’90s. He’s been in it all along. I should have told you but—”
Franjo always felt irritable after drinking alcohol. Now, as he fully took on board what Watson was saying, he could feel the underlying rage building up through his neck, into his head, until he exploded. “You sonofabitch. What the hell are you playing at? It’s too late to cancel it! It’s my biggest interview, and tens of millions are riding on it.”
“I know, I know . . . Listen, I’m apologizing. It’s my fault, I tried to keep you all separate on a need-to-know basis,” Watson said. “We’ll just have to manage it—”
“Manage it? How do you mean, manage it?”
“You’ll have to rig the questions, go easy on him, keep to his strengths; immigration, Muslims, that lot. Keep it domestic, keep it US-focused. Don’t ask anything about Iran, nothing about Bosnia, nothing about arms to Syria, nothing about foreign policy. Keep it simple.” Watson stumbled over his words.
Franjo snorted. “You’ve no idea, have you? Absolutely no idea. I’m going to have my editor talking in my ear feeding me questions for the whole of the interview, all forty-five minutes of it. And you’re telling me to completely ignore him. You idiot.”
“Pretend the earpiece doesn’t work or something,” Watson said. “I don’t know. You don’t have an option. If it’s a disaster, it’s a disaster—but that’s better than landing us all in the shit. I’ve spoken to Spencer, and I’ve told him that’s what you’ll do, so you’ll just have to do it, okay? Then get out as soon as the interview’s over. Can you talk to him before the interview? Give him a call now.”
“Watson, you’re history if I ever catch up with you. You might think you’re a CIA hard-ass. You might have helped me make money in the past, but you’ve screwed up big time now. Send me Spencer’s phone number. I’ll call him.”
Franjo hung up. Suddenly, he felt sober again. His phone beeped with a text message from Watson, containing Spencer’s phone number.
He decided to ignore it for now.
Instead, he took his time with his morning routine, showering and dressing at leisure. He watched the news and greeted Edvin. Only
then did he pick up his leather briefcase and leave. He’d get some breakfast and then on the way to the studio, he’d call Spencer.
Chapter Forty-Five
Friday, July 27, 2012
Manhattan
There was still an hour to go before the interview began when Franjo strode into the CBA TV studios green room, the usual preshow lounge area for participants. He knew from his earlier, very brief phone call with Spencer that he would be waiting for him.
There he was at the other end of the long room. Franjo watched the speaker of the House for a second. He was taller than he appeared on television—probably six feet—and had square shoulders. He was sipping an orange juice, flanked by two uniformed officers and two other men who Franjo guessed were probably PR flunkies. Spencer’s neatly coiffured gray hair and pristine white collar and charcoal suit gave him an elegant, old-worldly aspect.
Speaker of the House today, maybe president-in-waiting in a few years, or so he doubtless thought.
Franjo grimaced, then walked up to Spencer and quickly introduced himself. He noticed that the uniformed officers with Spencer were from the United States Capitol Police.
The two men eyed each other silently for a second.
“Let’s get this over with . . . in private,” Franjo said.
Spencer nodded and glanced at his colleagues, one of whom, sure enough, wore a badge identifying him as head of communications. Then he turned to Franjo and pointed toward the corner of the room. “We’ll go over there. Come.”
One of the Capitol Police officers stepped forward and spoke to Spencer. “Would you like me to come with you, sir?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Spencer said.
The two men began to walk toward the other side of the room.
The head of communications took off after them, but Spencer put his hands on his hips and said, as if admonishing a schoolboy, “No. This is a private chat; you don’t need to be involved. Go and wait over there.”
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