by HN Wake
He turned and surveyed the loft. This had been Mac’s most recent safe house. Why on earth had she chosen this place?
He glanced again at the large desk and his gaze led back to the windows. Across the north boundary of the park was a row of town houses. Marching up the hill were more rows of neat, little houses.
Someone nearby was of interest to her. Mac Ambrose had spied on someone from this loft. Herbie’s mind flew through the possibilities. Was it an older person? Maybe a parent or a relative? Unlikely. He knew her parents were in a different neighborhood across town. So it was most likely a peer. Someone in her age range. Someone professional. Someone accomplished. Someone who owned their own house.
He pulled out his cell phone and called Rocky. “I need you to pull property records of houses in a four block radius of this location.” He read him the street names. “I want owner names and social security numbers and date of births.”
Silence.
“Rocky, did you get that?”
“Yeah,” Rocky said sullenly. “I got it.”
“You gonna be able to do that?”
“Of course.”
Herbie hung up with a snap, wiped down the stool, sat down, and stared out over the park.
Two hours later, an email arrived from the indifferent Rocky. On his cellphone, Herbie scanned the names. There were 125 properties within a short walking distance of the park. Of these, 90 of them had been purchased before 1980. This would have been far too early for a peer of Mac to have purchased.
No, he figured Mac was casing someone who was in their 30s or 40s and who probably purchased their house in the last ten years. Only twenty houses had been bought in the last ten years. He deleted all the names but the twenty and sent them back to Rocky. “Run these twenty names and get me what you can.”
An hour later, Rocky’s response arrived with a new list. Herbie scanned it, his eyes stopping on the seventh name: Joseph Severino.
Among other data the NSA kept on Mr. Severino was something of unique interest. Apparently, Joseph Severino had opened a Wells Fargo Account on July 15, 1987 - Haypenny Branch, San Francisco.
All you need are two data points.
Mac Ambrose had flown to San Francisco during college to carry on her contact with Joseph Severino. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that was some kind of romantic relationship.
Three data points sealed the deal.
Recently she had been here, in this loft, watching him.
A dog barked from the dog run in the park. Across the street, an older woman carrying a grocery bag disappeared into the front door of a townhouse.
Mac was reconnecting to her old life.
Herbie stood and gazed out over the park to the northwest corner, squinting his eye to read the street numbers.
Joseph Severino’s house was a big, old place behind a huge brick wall.
34
New York, NY
Through the travertine tiled lobby of the Seagram Building on Park Avenue just north of Grand Central, the Four Seasons restaurant had been the go-to spot for the rich and powerful of New York for over 40 years. White covered tables circled the square pool under a soaring ceiling in the Pool Room, the more formal of two rooms. Because it was the fall, four Japanese Maples stood sentry at each corner of the pool. At the far table beneath a wall of windows waited Emmerie Kugal, her bespectacled gaze following Fenton Warrick’s procession through the fashionable late breakfast crowd.
It’s as if she was examining me, critiquing me, he thought. It annoyed him immensely. He nodded to a few tycoons he knew. Snippets of conversations reached him as he passed. In his mind, the Four Seasons was past its prime, not the sort of place a vanguard, maverick television CEO frequented. Still, Fenton Warrick knew he was a fraud among this circle: he hadn’t been born into the rich crowd. He was only a smart kid that had made it out, made it up. Could they detect the earthy hint of his working class background? Self-loathing enveloped him. He grasped the knot of his tie, straightened it over his Adam’s apple, and was instantly angry with himself for she would have discerned this sign of insecurity.
The waiter delivered him to the table with a small, effete hand sweep.
Her smile was tight. “Fenton, dear. Right on time.”
He leaned in, softly touched his cheek to hers. Up close, her skin was paper thin and old. “Ms. Kugal, how are you? You look healthy.” The waiter held out his chair and he sat gently.
“Yes, quite fine, thank you, Fenton. I’ve ordered the salmon with eggs.”
Of course she has, he thought. No sense waiting for a flunky to get on with a meal. It annoyed him greatly. Everything about her these days annoyed him.
The waiter was standing over his right shoulder. “I’ll have the same.”
“Well, no sense wasting time, dear Fenton,” her tone was curt. “What are the latest numbers?”
“Overall, we’re running strong. We’ve got a number of issues that are resonating. Racism is still a big draw.”
“Yes, I saw the black incident down in New Orleans. How are we holding up?”
“Our numbers are far better on that topic than MSNBC. People want to watch the train wreck without intellectualism getting in the way.”
She sighed. This was not particularly interesting to her. Never had been. “What about the election? How are we faring?”
“Industry analysts are predicting campaign ad spends up to $5 billion. As you know, Citizens United has created a boon election year.”
“How much of that will be ours?”
“I’m not sure. That’s across all stations and networks—but it will be sizable, given our ratings.”
“You’ll send me more accurate numbers once you have them.” It was a command, not a suggestion.
His throat felt dry. “Of course.”
The waiter returned with two salmon plates, lined them up precisely, then backed away with an imperceptible bow.
She picked up her fork with a limp hand, the skin insubstantial over bone, and sneered around the room. “Silly families. Trying to secure their future by buying off the same old conservative politicians. Same old story over and over. So lacking in imagination.”
He knew what she meant. A recent newspaper investigation had uncovered that the wealthiest 160 families had spent nearly $200 million on early campaign donations, to support those predictable candidates that would secure their accumulated wealth—pare regulations, cut taxes on income, capital gains and inheritances, and shrink entitlement programs. Not since Watergate had so few spent so much on early campaigns.
She chewed slowly and methodically. “When will they learn that we need to divide and conquer? We need the blacks against the yellows against the browns. Only that will save us. Tsk, tsk.” Beady eyes examined his plate. “And the advertisers?”
“Still strong.”
“The candidates?”
“All candidates from both parties have lined up. Interviews have all been scheduled. Patriot News is indispensable.”
“Good,” she said curtly.
He set his fork down to indicate he wanted to broach a new topic. “I believe we need a tactical shift in some of our programming.”
She looked at him with disinterest. How is it that even her looks could annoy him?
He continued, “I think we should start to introduce a competing view on climate change.”
Now she set down her fork and wiped her thin lips with a white linen napkin, black eyes watching him through thick frames. Go ahead, she nodded.
“I think we may be losing some of our audience with our hard line against climate change.” He cleared his throat. “99% of all scientists and 99% of all governments believe we are on target to radically heat up the earth. I believe we need to get out in front of this groundswell. Before we are mocked.” He cleared his throat again. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“What are you on about, Fenton?” The disdain stung.
The din of the room had gone quieter and the ligh
t had dimmed. His salmon was dry, tasteless. It stuck to the inside of his mouth. “I believe we are running the risk of losing some of our demographics. The science and the public opinion are turning against our stance.”
“Have you run the numbers?”
He had and he didn’t want to admit it. “Our numbers say 47% among Republicans now admit climate change may be real.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That means a majority don’t.”
“Yes, but only barely.”
“I don’t care by how much. We hold our position. If our audience does not believe in climate change, then neither do we.”
He breathed in deeply. “My job is to advise on strategy. I believe the tide is turning on this and I believe we need to get out in front. Our audience, within a year, will predominantly believe in man made climate change.”
“Fenton, we run a business. If the numbers support a hoax, then we support a hoax. We’re a business, Fenton.” Her eyes were big and rheumy below pink, rumpled eyelids. Her blink was slow. The woman never even bothered with makeup. “Why all this pretentious nonsense?”
“You hired me to look out for our long term strategy.”
“Yes, but that is solely tied to our bottom line. Without sales, Patriot News is not worth running.”
He looked past her and attempted one last challenge. “There is a gap in cable news programming. What if we aimed to capture those who don’t like the East Coast intelligentsia on the one hand or the staunch conservatism of Fox on the other? What if the demographics are shifting toward the middle? We could be positioned to capture a new audience.”
“It sounds suspiciously like you’d like me to fund your little exercise to go middle of the road. How long would that take?”
“To build our credibility? A year.”
She gaped at him.
“I would suggest that the American public is beginning to recognize our fear baiting tactics.” It was the most outspoken he had ever been.
She recoiled.
“I just think we may have to pivot. The ways of delivering news is shifting.”
She placed both bony hands on the tablecloth. “No.” Her face was hard, conclusive. “We’ll shift when the market shifts. When the revenue comes from your middle of the road demographics, then we shift. Here and now, we have a business to run.” She nodded to the waiter for the check. “For God’s sake, Fenton, your coverage of this black thing down in New Orleans is pulling in the numbers. Keep it going. Do you hear me?”
He knew what she meant. Keep fueling the fears. Blacks against yellows against browns. It’s what kept the 1% safe.
Fenton Warrick strode back through the Seagram Building toward the car waiting by the curb.
Jackie Pomeranian was on the other end of the cell phone. “Fenton, I don’t know what to say. Underground didn’t find a thing on Alicia Cade.”
“No one is pure.”
“I think she may be.”
He seethed. “Underground didn’t dig hard enough.”
“Fenton, I’m telling you. This girl is clean.”
He stopped at the window, his face contorted into a sneer. “Then make something the hell up.”
“What?” Jackie’s voice cracked.
“You heard me.” He pulled his collar. “I need you to understand something. We need to sell her as unsavory. Now. The lazy, good for nothing who is starting riots.”
“What if she sues for defamation?”
“You said she was under the poverty line?”
Jackie whispered, “Yes.”
“She’ll never sue.”
“Southern Poverty Law Center? Anti-Defamation League?”
“They’ve lost every time.” His long limousine waited patiently by the curb. “I’m not afraid of those cunts.”
The silence grew on the phone until finally Jackie said, “I want this in writing.”
“What?” he bellowed. His voice ricocheted off the travertine floors and walls.
“I’m not going down for this,” she insisted.
“Jackie are you kidding?”
“In writing, Fenton.”
“Fine. I’ll send you an email now. Get it done.” He slapped his phone closed and pushed through the glass door. He wondered how long it would take HR to put her severance package together. Fenton Warrick did not need a flunky who questioned him.
35
New York, NY
In the hotel room, Mac and Joe watched the footage 89 had sent. There were three files, twenty minutes each, from different views of the hidden cameras around Patriot News. The first video frame was from a tight shot of a few feet of sidewalk outside Patriot News and a distant, but broad angle of the lobby through the wall of windows. As the time stamp started, a disguised blond Mac entered the frame and sauntered toward the outside of the revolving door. She pushed through the revolving door and stepped into the lobby.
“Wow,” Joe said next to her. “You look so alone.”
She shrugged. It was how she worked.
They watched as the blond Mac slowly paced the width of the lobby, her eyes on the turnstiles and a cup of coffee in her hand. She swiped as though she’d done it a million times and walked out of frame toward the elevator lobby.
They held their breath. 89 had edited out some dead time. The time stamp jumped forward twenty minutes. The next shot was of a blond Mac racing across the lobby, pushing through the revolving door, racing out of the camera’s angle.
They loaded up the second video. This one was a wide angle, also from the side, of all of Times Square. They watched as a smaller version of the blond Mac stepped across the sidewalk and entered Patriot News.
Joe leaned toward the screen, said, “Wait.”
He rewound a few seconds then watched the crowd in Times Square. He pointed to a large bald man in a blue windbreaker who was standing in the middle of the Square. “Watch this guy.”
On screen, the bald hulk walked up behind an older man and placed a hand on his shoulder. They saw the big, bald man’s mouth move, saying something. The older man grimaced, dropped his hands. The bald man slid the bag off the older man’s shoulder.
Mac whispered, “The big guy is law enforcement. Undercover. Fed maybe.”
On the screen the older man turned. They engaged in a testy exchange. Mac zoomed in on the Fed’s face. It was calm, rational. He appeared to be completely in control.
She said, “He’s good.”
“What are the odds that at the exact time you’re heading into Patriot News some guy is making an arrest?”
“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out. It’s too close for comfort.”
They let the footage roll. The next sequence of video was as the blond Mac was escaping Patriot News. She hit the pavement at a full run. She turned toward the hidden camera, raced across the sidewalk, weaving through the crowds. Behind her, a Patriot News security guard flew out of the revolving door, his hand raised, his mouth shouting something. Three seconds later, two police officers were giving chase to the blond Mac. They were shouting something.
She whispered, “They were NPYD, yelling at me.
The blond Mac raced by the camera, her hand outstretched.
In the hotel room, Mac grimaced in anticipation.
The blond Mac grabbed the rail, swung around and down into the stairs, out of frame.
“Is that when you fell?” Joe asked.
“Yes.”
They watched the third video. This time the angle was from the Walgreen’s door, straight into the Patriot News lobby. The sequence unfolded for a third time as she entered the lobby, swiped through the turnstiles, and stood in the elevator lobby. The time stamp moved ahead twenty minutes. On the screen, the blond Mac emerged from the elevators, turned toward the lobby, toward the camera. The security guard was walking quickly toward the turnstiles, but his trajectory is too slow. On screen, he said something as blond Mac passed him. She picked up her pace, sprinted toward the turnstiles, her blond hair flowing back behind he
r, her courier bag slapping against her hip. On the screen a tall slender Eurasian man in a suit rushed to the reception desk, a small modern walkie-talkie held close to his mouth.
Mac paused the video. “That’s gotta be somebody important. I’ve seen him before. He has to be Warrick’s head of security.”
Joe leaned up in his chair, close to the screen, and hit play. The blond Mac leapt and slid across the turnstile.
“No shit,” Joe said, his eyes wide on the footage playing out on the screen.
Next to him, Mac said nothing. She felt neither pride nor conceit; she was simply critiquing the escape.
The blond Mac’s feet landed on the lobby floor and she tore at full gait toward the heavy glass door. She hit the revolving door at top speed, pushed through, and leapt out onto the street.
“You didn’t even act scared,” he whispered.
But in the hotel room, Mac felt a cold wave of fear wash over her. “Shit.”
He turned to her, “What?”
She stared up at the ceiling, letting her mind form a conclusion. “They have my face. Not a lot, but enough.”
“What?” He rewound two seconds. Sure enough, one side of her face was turned up toward the ceiling just as she reached the revolving door.
She said, “They’ll have cameras in the lobby. They’ll have captured that shot, just like that. My head was turned up.”
He stared at the still image of the side of her face.
She stood, walked the perimeter of the room as she formed a conclusion. She stopped at the bed, turned and watched him, a sadness in her eyes.
He gave voice to her conclusion. “You think they’ll ID you? Even with your disguise? With your fake nose?”
“I think someone in Patriot News blackmailed a US Senator and shortly after, they were breached. I think they’ll connect the dots. I don’t think that image is enough to identify me, but if they run that through computers with facial recognition algorithms, they may be able to make a match. It will take the computers about 48 hours to ID me, if they have access to NSA or law enforcement.”