by HN Wake
He nodded, it made sense.
“One particular regulation—the 1949 Fairness Doctrine—required broadcasters to devote some of their airtime to controversial matters of public interest and that they air contrasting views on those issues.” She looked up. “News corporations were required to provide contrasting views. As a public service.”
“Uh, not exactly news today.”
The water boiled, and Isaac stood to drop in a new round of pasta.
“Exactly.” She read from her notes, “But then under Reagan in 1987, the FCC chairman eliminates this doctrine. He said that the public could get their news from anywhere so no need to regulate.” Joyce set down her notes. “Senator Gillis wants to reinstate the Fairness Doctrine, particularly on 24-hour cable news networks. She thinks they have gone off the rails, that they are no longer reporting fairly. What she’s proposing would dramatically overhaul the cable news industry.”
“How?”
“News is big money.” She picked up her notes. “Fox News profits are up to $1.2 billion. CNN at $327 million, and MSNBC at $206 million. All three are hugely profitable. Like bonkers profitable. We’re talking double-digit profit margins: 61% at Fox, 41% at MSNBC and 29% at CNN.” She paused. “And add to the mix the recent consolidation of the sector. As recently as 1983, we had 50 media companies. That’s all consolidated in the past few years. Now, we have six. Six! Time Warner, Walt Disney, Viacom, News Corp, CBS Corporation, and NBC Universal.”
“Okay?” he said as he sat back down.
“So when you have cable news companies that are hugely profitable and controlled by a few people, guess what this recipe makes?”
“What?”
“Consumer products.”
“Huh?”
“Like a freaking widget.”
“What are you talking about?”
She nodded dramatically. “Those conditions are ripe for making money. And how do you make money if you’re shilling the news?”
“I’m pretty sure my girlfriend is gonna tell me.”
She nodded vigorously. “Media corporations get their money from subscribers and advertising. Monthly cable subscribers. And marketing to consumers. It all boils down to the viewer. The more viewers, the more money.”
“And?”
“How do you keep those viewers tuned in?”
He shrugged.
“You feed them only what they want to hear. No contrasting views, no controversial subjects they don’t want to hear about, nothing to risk them changing the channel. Keep ‘em glued, feed ‘em ads, boom, money. You know what keeps ‘em glued in the most?”
“Tell me.”
“Fear mongering.”
“Huh?”
“What if I were a media corporation, what do I do to keep you watching my shows? I play to irrational fear. I relentlessly hype fear about a ‘single news’ story—like a mass shooting, or a terrorist bomb--in an endless loop. You’re afraid. You feel you have to stay informed. You stay glued to my channel because I’ve convinced you we have the same perspective.”
“Fox,” he said definitively.
She held up a finger. “Not so fast. All sides are guilty of the endless loop of fear and the single-sided story. And our little ole Patriot News may be a small outlier, but it’s growing fast and it’s using the same tactics.”
“How come we don’t know all this about media?”
“Because the 1% top wealthiest in this country own those six media companies.”
He stared at her in silent contemplation, adjusting to the new information.
She took a gulp of wine. “No way is that 1% gonna let anyone do investigative reporting.” She downed the rest of the wine like a vodka shot and smacked her lips. “Cable news is just one big fat-fear-cashier.”
He chuckled at the term.
“I’m telling you.” She leaned back, pulled an imaginary cashier arm. “Ka-ching ka-ching!”
“And this is Gillis’ single issue?”
“She’s bringing back the Fairness Doctrine. The bitch is taking on the big guys.”
20
New York, NY
The five-star Bowery Hotel on the edge of Alphabet City was glamorously decorated as a traditional English manor replete with a wood paneled lobby and red velvet curtains. As the choice of celebrities, it was a great place to go unnoticed. The rooms had big windows and were very quiet. It was a good safe haven, a good place to decompress. The white walls were calming.
She sat down on the corner of the bed, dropping her courier bag next to her hip. She couldn’t ignore the decision she had to make about this operation. On the one hand, she was fairly confident she could get into Patriot and release 89’s virus. But it meant a much higher risk than they had originally estimated.
Later that night, he had taken her hand and led her up to the bedroom. Their first kiss was gentle, soft. Then it turned heated. The passion sparked between them. He pulled her tight against his chest. She clung to his neck, letting his strength hold her.
They tumbled down onto cool sheets, he rolled up on her, rested his full weight on her length, paused and looked into her eyes. “Welcome home, Mac.”
It was suddenly too much, the intimacy too frightening. It ripped through her chest. She couldn’t breathe. Tears slid down the creases from the corners of her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he leaned up to get a better view of her.
She stared at the ceiling, caught in the fear. The tears were streaming now. She shook her head.
“Mac, what’s the matter?”
“I don’t know…it’s…too much.” She felt childlike. The tears wouldn’t stop.
He pushed his face into her neck, held her tightly, “Mac, we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do. We’ve got plenty of time to figure this all out.”
They held each other in silence. It took time, but her heart rate slowed.
She felt a drip on her own shoulder. “Are you crying?” she whispered.
He nodded against her neck.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you are.”
He said it like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was a big deal. It was a huge deal. His admission stunned her. A warmth swelled through her.
He said, “You know you are the only thing I have ever actually longed for.”
Her tears had stopped.
The bed was soft. Her back sunk down into the thick comforter, and she placed her arm over her eyes. How do you make decisions when you’ve got baggage? Relationships slow you down, create unnecessary risks. This is exactly why the Agency warned against personal intimacy.
Her cell phone pinged.
89 had sent a message. “I’ve got the analyst’s report on Gillis. Sending as attachment to your email. Found the connect to Patriot News.”
She sat up, opened the file on her laptop, and skimmed it. Resentment rose as she read about Patriot News and the cable news industry, the fear mongering, the purely commercial intent. Gillis was trying to clean this up and she was getting blackmailed for it.
The first blush of anger passed through her.
She flipped on the television. Fox News was replaying a scene from a Republican primary debate the night before. On stage, two presenters were hosting ten candidates. A blustery, doughy older candidate finished a tirade to the camera. “Immigrants need to be rounded up and sent home. They are murderers, rapists. This country will not open our doors to these thugs.”
Mac paused, her eyes glued to the screen. What did he just say?
On stage the nine other candidates shook their heads to varying degrees of discomfort, but no one said anything. No one said anything. Not a single person defended the constitution of the United States, or referenced the Statue of Liberty, or spoke to the long cultural diversity of the country. Why did the candidates remain mute? Why were there no leaders on that stage, willing to take a stand? Disbelief layered on top of her growing anger.
The image flipped to the Fox studio and a
host said, “That was the statement that worked up everybody in the liberal media.”
A second host shrugged. “There is a legitimate fear about what’s happening around the world. The world is a dangerous place. I mean, look at Syria, ISIS, the exodus of refugees. We don’t want this violence, this devastation entering our borders. It seems to me that what he’s saying has appeal. Here at home, Americans are afraid. Rightly so. We don’t want these radical extremists coming in here. We need to lock down our borders to Muslims.”
Mac stared at the television. Did he just suggest banning an entire religion from America? Did they seriously not understand what was happening beyond our borders?
After years defending the ideals of this country and the international human right to practice any religion, here she was, just returning home, to find blustery jackasses willing to trample all those principles. Her anger at the candidates mushroomed. Had all her years of work been in vain? Twenty years of service in the name of democracy, for what—to come home to fascism?
She mashed the button on the remote and found CNN. They were discussing another incendiary statement by a different candidate. “All our jobs are being exported to China. We need to do something and fast.” CNN came up with a graphic that showed the export of jobs to China and the newscaster looked into the camera. “He was telling the truth last night. Our truth-oh-meter gave this statement an 85. We are rapidly losing ground with trade to China. It’s a real threat.”
She mashed the remote again. Her anger wouldn’t subside.
Patriot News replayed the one candidate’s line about immigrants. The newscaster, a pretty redheaded woman with heavy make up looked into the camera. “It was certainly the most controversial statement of the night. But the country responded. His poll numbers coming in this evening have him pulling ahead of the pack. Respondents say they like his tough talk, they believe he will…” she read off a cue card in her hand, “take the fight on.” She looked up. “What we’re seeing here, folks, is a real appetite for a candidate who is tough on immigration and who isn’t afraid to send in the troops. It’s a refreshing take. The scenes out of Syria are extremely disturbing.”
Mac shut off the television and stared out the window. Without any stars, the sky was ominously dark. Twenty years was a long time to be away from this country and clearly a lot had changed. She felt foreign. The scene on the street below was the same as it always had been, but now if felt different. Who were those people walking around down there? Were they the ones responding to this hyperbole? How could these themes of isolationism, nationalistic jingo, and anger be so popular?
A taxi discharged four young people heading out to drinks. Did they know what was happening to their country?
She didn’t recognize her homeland. She pulled the curtain shut trying to stifle the anger.
In the bathroom she rinsed off her face, letting the cold water clear her head.
Then she called Joe.
“Hi. How’s it going?” he asked.
“Okay,” she didn’t let on.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s not great.
There was a long pause. “Tell me.”
“I can’t get what I need from video feed alone. My tech guy wasn’t able to locate who sent the email.”
“Okay?”
“If we’re going to get him, we need to access their server. I have to breach Patriot.”
“You mean you have to go inside?” His tone rose an octave.
“Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.”
They both stayed on the line, the silence growing between them.
She took a deep breath and began to explain the report from the analyst. She glanced to the black television screen and tried to put words to the urgent, inescapable obligation to set democracy on fair footing again. “I’ve just watched the news.”
“Why?”
“Exactly. Have you watched it lately?”
“Hell no.”
“That’s exactly the point. What the fuck has happened to this country?”
He was silent for a moment. “I see where you’re going with this.”
How could she explain that seeing this operation through was just the next step toward her new freedom? It felt imperative. “I’ve already lifted an ID. I could get inside, plant the virus and get out. It doesn’t have to be risky.”
“If Senator Gillis wanted to take on the media in this country, she probably should have kept her pants on.”
“Agreed.”
“You want to give her a fighting chance.”
She wanted to do something worthwhile, something valuable with this new freedom. “Yes.”
Finally he said, “Okay. I mean, what can I say? You clearly feel you have to do this. But, Mac, this is a lot for me to take in.”
Her heart pounded and her stomach clenched. For the second time in two days, she felt orphaned and vulnerable. “I know.”
“We’ll talk later. Be careful.” He hung up.
She stared around the hotel room. Air from the overhead vent, frigid and dry, hissed. She turned off the bedside lamp, climbed onto the cold sheets, and sat in the dark.
She would deal with Joe’s disappointment after the operation. One step at a time. When in doubt, keep moving.
Tomorrow, after the run into Patriot was over, she would clear up the distance with Joe. When she had time to figure out how to fix it, she would fix it.
Now she needed to compartmentalize. Now she had an operation to run.
She concentrated on steady breathing, pushing away all pesky thoughts other than the sound of air filling and exiting her lungs.
When she felt centered and her mind was clear, she slid down into the bed and fell asleep.
THURSDAY
Journalism as theater is what TV news is.
— Thomas Griffith
The world has thought up to now in “male” vocabulary. Now I think the door has opened. The level of awareness has increased in woman so naturally she will have to, by her very nature, hit heights of creativity that have been closed to her before.
— Louise Nevelson, “Do Your Work” in “Eight Artists Reply: Why Have There Been No Great Women Artists?” Artnews, Retrospective, June 2015.
21
Langley, VA
It was very early morning when Herbie stepped into the personnel office on the second floor of the CIA building. It was a long, white walled place with row upon row of cubicles under bright lighting. After the gloom of the basement hallway yesterday, it was downright cheery. He plopped into a spare seat by one of the desks by the windows.
An older black woman looked up and gave him a startled grin. “Herbie Linen, how the hell are you?”
Noelle Stuart was one of the good ones. She did her job, didn’t angle for promotions unnecessarily, and was reliable to deliver. She’d been his point person for all things human resources for years. They had a solid working relationship, mostly because she enjoyed his brazen approach.
“You know,” he gave her a huge shrug. “I’m here in HQ so it can’t be all good.”
“I heard they got you guys out of Beijing. Scary shit.”
“What can I say?”
“Chinese skunk you out?” she asked.
“Nah, we got out as a precaution.”
She leaned back in her chair, clasped her hands just below her breasts. “What can I do for you?”
He clocked the room. It was fairly empty and they were a distance from any eavesdropping. He lowered his voice nonetheless, to give his request some gravitas. “I need some HR deets on a fellow operative.”
Noelle whistled. “You better have some air tight authorization.”
He unfolded Odom’s memo from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She looked quickly to the signature as only a lifelong bureaucrat would, raised her eyebrows and clicked her tongue. “Shame when we do this to one of our own.”
“Agreed.” But what could he do? Hawkinson had demanded it, Odom had
shifted it.
She clacked away on her keyboard then waited for a file to appear on her screen. “I’d rather tell you than print this out.”
He pulled out a pen and a small notebook.
She read off the screen. “Her real, civilian name is Mac Huntington. She changed to Ambrose on her first day. Never looked back.” Which meant she was especially deep cover, because Herbie had never heard Huntington before. He liked her choice, Ambrose had a certain ring to it.
Noelle continued reading. “Born Philadelphia Metro Hospital. Last known family address: 605 Greaves Lane, Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia. Graduated University of Michigan 1990. One sibling, a sister. ” She shook her head and clicked her tongue again.
He closed the notebook. “Thanks, Noelle.”
“Whatever.” Her look was harsh.
“I didn’t ask for this,” he appealed. I’m between a rock and a hard place and all I want is the beach.
“But you’re doing it,” she said with a shake of her head.
She was right. Herbie was a survivor, not a martyr.
Herbie found Rocky the analyst on the third floor. A chunky kid with spiky hair, Rocky was good but he was impertinent. Herbie had used him in the past but didn’t necessarily like him.
Herbie sat down quickly. He pulled out the Director’s memo and let the kid scan it. Rocky shrugged.
Herbie looked around and said softly, “I need you to find a cable with these key words. Anything you can find in the system.” He handed Rocky a scrap of paper with handwriting that read “Thai, consolidated, and Ambrose.”
Rocky gave him a semi-interested, questioning look.
Herbie waggled the memo. “You read it right? It’s got the Director’s John Hancock. Now stop questioning me, kid.”
Rocky reluctantly typed in the keywords. Two seconds later he said, “Got it.”